Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

By the time he pulled on his clothes a breakfast tray had been sent up, but Rojer only snatched a roll on his way to the door.

“You must eat, husband,” Sikvah said.

Rojer waved the thought away. “Going hunting with Duke Rhinebeck. Believe me when I say there will be food aplenty. Odds are I’ll return with a few extra pounds, and not from the game.”

Sikvah looked at him curiously. “When Sharum hunt, they take only water with them. It is a test of survival.”

Rojer laughed. “For many in the North, as well. But Royals hunt for sport. If the duke’s attendants chase a stag before his bow—and he manages to shoot it and not them—the cooks will turn it into a royal feast, ay, but the lodge will be stocked to feed an army in any event.”

He kissed her, leaving Amanvah and Kendall to their beds as he headed toward the stables in search of Gared.

He was fortunate to hear Jasin before he saw him, ducking into an alcove and hiding in the shadow of a statue of Rhinebeck I while he waited for them to pass.

“You cannot mean that Milnese fop and ripping Halfgrip are invited, and I am not,” Jasin growled.

“Lower your voice, boy,” Janson snapped. Gone was the obsequious tone he took with Royals and visitors. Rojer hadn’t heard that tone in some time, but he knew it well. Janson had used it often in the last days of Arrick’s service to the duke. “Rhinebeck doesn’t want you on the hunt, and that’s all you need to know. You’ll be lucky to keep your post at all after the mess you’ve made of your trip south.”

“You’re the one who told me to have the soldiers drive the vagrants from the caravan grounds,” Jasin said, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper.

“I didn’t tell you to brag about it to the Hollowers,” Janson said, “and if you so much as breathe a word about my order again, the black dress I have tailored for my sister will be a small price to pay to be free of the headaches you cause me.”

Jasin wisely kept his reply to himself, and a moment later the minister was called away to attend some matter of the duke’s departure. Rojer strolled out into the hall, whistling a bright tune. Jasin looked up and scowled.

“Sorry you won’t be joining us,” Rojer said as he passed.

Jasin grabbed his arms, shoving him hard into the wall. He wasn’t a giant like Gared, but he was taller and stronger than Rojer. “I thought you’d learned not to cross me, cripple, but it seems you need a reminder of—”

Rojer stomped hard on Jasin’s instep, circling his forearms in a simple sharusahk move to break the herald’s hold. He flicked his wrist, catching a knife in his hand and putting the point to Jasin’s throat.

“Not afraid of you anymore, Nosong,” Rojer spat. He pressed the knife in, drawing a drop of blood.

Jasin’s face went from pink to snow white. “You wouldn’t dare …”

Rojer pressed harder, cutting off the words. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did to me? To Jaycob? Give me an excuse. I beg you.”

“What’s going on here?”

Rojer and Jasin turned as one to see the speaker, Rojer twisting to block the blade from sight as he made it disappear up his sleeve. Lord Janson stood in the hall, glaring at them both. Rojer didn’t think he had seen the knife, but there was no telling for sure. Not that it mattered, if Jasin were to accuse him and show the puncture at his throat.

But Jasin smiled, spreading his hands. “Nothing, Uncle. Simply an old disagreement.”

Janson’s eyes narrowed. “Settle it another time. His Grace awaits you, Master Halfgrip.”

Rojer bowed. “Of course, Minister.”

“Another time,” Jasin agreed, turning on his heel and stomping back into the palace proper.

“Halfgrip!” Rhinebeck called when Rojer made the stables. It was unclear if he were still drunk from the night before, or if this was a fresh inebriation, but it was barely dawn and already his words were slurred and the wineskin his page carried was only half full.

“You can’t mean to hunt in that,” Pether said, pointing to Rojer’s motley with a short crooked staff that doubled as a riding crop. The Shepherd had changed from his formal robes into brown and green riding gear, fine silk and suede, with the crooked staff embroidered in gold on his fine wool jacket.

Rojer looked down at his clothes, a bright patchwork of color that was perfect for performance, but less so for sneaking about the woods. He shrugged helplessly. “Apologies, my lords, but I had not packed for hunting.”

“No matter,” Prince Mickael said. “Goldentone has hunting motley. Janson! Send a boy up to fetch a set from the herald.”

Janson bowed. “Of course, Highness.” He glanced at Rojer, who was wise enough to swallow his grin and look at his feet.

The runner returned with a set of green and brown motley from Jasin, but when Rojer opened the package, it stank like Goldentone had emptied his chamber pot onto it.

Rojer smiled. Still a victory. If he could not easily kill the man, he would settle for a thousand tiny blows.

The royal hunting lodge was a full day’s ride east of the city. Keerin and Sament had been invited along, but it was the barest courtesy, and not a true welcome. They had their own entourage, and even on the next day’s hunt the two groups kept mostly to themselves.

They were hunting rockbirds, a large species of raptor common in the hills of Angiers. The birds were a slate color almost indistinguishable from the rocks where they made their nests.

The duke had split them into two groups. Rhinebeck, Thamos, Rojer, and Gared positioned themselves east above a cluster of nesting stones. Mickael, Pether, Sament, and Keerin had been sent to a similar position to the west. Servants led dogs quietly up the path to the stones. When they were ready, Rhinebeck would give the signal and they would loose the dogs, flushing the birds from concealment, right into the hunters’ sights.

Rojer and Gared carried conventional bows, arrows nocked at the ready. The duke and Thamos held loaded crank bows with ornate aiming lenses. Each had an attendant with two more, ready to hand off and reload while the Royals fired.

“He’s an embarrassment to the crown,” Thamos was saying to Rhinebeck. “Driving peasants into the night to save a few hours.”

“Rizonan peasants,” Rhinebeck said. “Squatters trespassing on ground cleared for Messengers and caravans. Most of them bandits who would as soon slit my men’s throats as not.”

“Nonsense,” Thamos said. “Those we encountered were too wretched to be a threat to anyone. Rizon is gone, brother. And Lakton soon enough, if we do not act. If we don’t want our lands teeming with bandits, we must absorb the refugees and offer them better. It is the only way. And we cannot do that if Goldentone has them cursing your name.”

Rhinebeck sighed, taking another long pull from his wineskin. He offered it to Thamos, who waved it away, and Gared, who accepted. The young baron was proving impressionable, and was nearly as drunk as Rhinebeck.

“Creator knows I’m not defending Goldentone,” Rhinebeck said. “That little pissant makes me long for the days of Sweetsong, before the drink turned him sour.” He glanced at Rojer, who kept his face expressionless. It was no secret much of the rift between Arrick and the duke had come after Sweetsong returned from the destruction of Riverbridge with Rojer in tow.

“What about you, Halfgrip?” Rhinebeck asked. “They say ask a Jongleur if you’re looking for gossip. What do they say on the streets about my half-witted herald?”

“He’s no more loved in the guildhouse than in the palace,” Rojer said. “Before Your Grace took him as herald, his patrons were more interested in doing his uncle a favor than they were in his singing. He was known for taking jobs my master turned down. It’s how he earned the nickname Secondsong.”