L. Modesitt: Ordermaster

A faint smile crossed his lips. A former cooper, being served by the servants of the Lord of Austra-that was something that Charee would never have believed. The pain he felt when he thought of his dead consort was not so much grief as a deep sadness over something that had never been quite right for years-and for the fact that she had been killed because Egen had wanted to punish Kharl. Her death had led to his losing both boys. Charee’s sister Merayni had claimed the younger Warrl just before Kharl had been forced into hiding. Arthal, bitter at his mother’s death, had signed on to the Fleuryl as a carpenter’s apprentice without even telling Kharl until the morning he had left.

Kharl could only hope that Warrl was doing well as a grower’s boy at Peachill. Once the rebel lords were subdued-if they were-then he could look into sending for Warrl. Going back to Brysta in person to get Warrl wasn’t a good idea, but if all else failed, he’d try that as well. As for Arthal … he didn’t even know where his older son was-or that Arthal would even talk to him if he could find the boy-except Arthal was a young man, an angry young man. Then, Arthal had always been angry, and Kharl had never understood why.

He shook his head and looked down at the breakfast tray. After a moment, he frowned.

There was something about the tray.

He studied it, both with his eyes and his order-senses. His eyes and nose insisted that everything was as it should be. His order-senses told him that there were pockets of reddish white spread through most of the food.

He left the tray on the table and went into the bath chamber.

In less than half a glass he was washed up and dressed. The tray and food remained untouched on the desk, and Kharl used the big brass key to lock the door behind him. He doubted that would stop whoever had poisoned the food.

He found the staircase down to the main level without any difficulty and made his way southward, toward what he thought was the center of the Great House. He stopped in a large hexagonal hallway, off which branched four corridors.

“Ser mage?” asked the guard in the yellow and black of Ghrant’s personal guard.

“I’m looking for the lord-chancellor. Lord-chancellor Hagen.”

The guard looked at Kharl’s face, then at his black garments-those of a mage-once more. “Ah … yes, ser. His chamber is this way. I’d best take you.”

Kharl studied the man with his order-senses, but the fellow seemed honest.

The guard turned down a narrower corridor that stretched a good fifty cubits, but he stopped after thirty at an unmarked ironbound door.

“The mage Kharl to see you, ser.”

“Have him come in.”

“Ser.” The guard nodded and stepped back.

Kharl found himself inside a small chamber, no more than ten cubits square, without even a window. There was a second door, also of golden oak, at the rear of the room. Wearing a black velvet jacket trimmed in gold, with a heavy gold chain with a gold medallion at the end around his neck, Hagen stood beside the small table desk.

“You look upset, Kharl. What is it?”

“I had a breakfast tray delivered. I’m fairly sure it’s poisoned. I just left it in the sitting room.”

Hagen walked to the wall and yanked on the yellow-and-black bellpull. “I’ll send Charsal up with you. He’ll bring back the tray, and we’ll feed it to the rats.”

“The rats?”

“Lord Estloch keeps them for just such purposes. Anything that kills a rat will certainly kill a person.”

Kharl hadn’t thought about the possibility of an organized system for dealing with poison, but the moment that Hagen had mentioned it, he realized that he should have.

Hagen fingered his chin. “I wouldn’t put it past Guillam. I can’t think of anyone else who would know-or want to-that you were coming-or what that might mean. But that doesn’t mean it was he.”

“There’s something he doesn’t want discovered,” Kharl suggested. “Why else …?”

Hagen laughed. “Were it only that simple. A mage reduces everyone’s influence with Lord Ghrant. Many will feel themselves threatened.” The lord-chancellor moved back toward the desk. “How did you sleep?”

“I must have slept. I don’t recall anything.”

“Good. It’s likely to be a long day. Lord Ghrant has confirmed that he expects Guillam at the second glass past noon.”

“Early afternoon,” Kharl mused. “Does Guillam have a dwelling near here in Valmurl?”

“Not that close. He has a country house fifteen kays west of Valmurl, and a small mansion off the Factors’ Square. That’s three kays from here-” Hagen broke off at the knock on the chamber door. “Yes?”

“Charsal, ser.”

“Come in.”

The door opened, and a trim young man, half a head shorter than Kharl, entered. He wore the yellow and black of the Ghrant’s personal guard.

“Undercaptain … this is ser Kharl of Cantyl, the mage. He believes that a breakfast tray that was delivered to his quarters may be poisoned. If you would take one of your serjeants …”

“The rats, ser?”

“Exactly, and have him watch them closely.”

“Ah … after that … where can I get breakfast?” Kharl asked sheepishly.

“Charsal will take you to the kitchen. It’s probably best if the cooks fix something for you while you’re there. I’ll send a messenger to find you before the audience. If you’d just stay somewhere in the Great House.” Hagen nodded to Charsal. “Undercaptain.”

“Yes, ser.”

Because Hagen was clearly preoccupied, Kharl inclined his head. “Until later, ser.”

Hagen offered a wry smile in return.

Charsal stepped back and opened the door, holding it for Kharl. Outside, an older armsman, with a short but grizzled beard, stood. Without a word, the serjeant followed the undercaptain and Kharl.

Kharl led the way back up the stairs. Outside the chamber, Kharl took out the heavy brass key and unlocked the door. His order-senses confirmed that the room was empty. The tray remained where he had left it and did not look as though it had been touched.

“Is this it, ser?” asked Charsal, gesturing toward the tray.

“That’s it.”

Charsal nodded to the serjeant. “Everything gets fed to the rats. You’re to watch them and report to me.”

“Yes, ser.” The serjeant lifted the tray and carried it out.

“Now for the kitchen.” Charsal smiled.

“I hope this isn’t too much of a problem.”

“No, ser. We can’t have people being poisoned here in the Great House.”

“I’m not sure it is poisoned, but there’s something not right about it.”

“When a mage says something’s not right, best to listen.” Charsal smiled. “You were asking about breakfast, I believe.”

“I had thought about it,” Kharl replied with a grin.

“This way, ser.”

The kitchen was on the lower level of the north side of the Great House, a large stone-walled room already uncomfortably warm even before mid-morning.

“The mage here needs some breakfast,” Charsal announced. “Prepared now.”

A round-faced woman looked up, then nodded. “Be right on it. We could have prepared a tray if we’d’a known.”

Kharl kept his frown to himself, but noted the slightest nod from Charsal.

“Anything you’d be liking, ser?” asked the cook.

“Whatever you do best, except I’d rather not have any fish.”

“We can do that. Egg toast, good ham, fresh bread, and cool cider? Jam, too.”

“That would be fine,” Kharl replied.

Both Charsal and Kharl stood against the stone wall and watched as the cooks bustled around the huge cast-iron stove.

Seemingly in moments, the cook had two heaping platters, pitcher and goblet, a basket of the black bread, and a pot of jam all set on a tray. She looked around, as if for a serving maid.