Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

I showered, cleaning the pink skin on my side where Sam’s bullet had left a puckered scar, now bisected by a newer scar running down my side. The water allowed me to clean off the patches of dried blood. I was healing impressively fast now that the iron bullets were removed. I probed the new skin with my finger, finding it still tender.

I washed the rest of me, then dried and shaved, being careful to avoid the pattern of red marks that still covered one side of my face like a livid tattoo. I had to admit that I was starting to look like a patchwork — too many injuries, too quickly. Still, I was alive.

I rinsed my face and inspected the damage. With a shake of my head, my glamour concealed the mark, but almost invisibly slowly it began to creep back, rising like a pale shadow across my face. Was that because it had been caused by iron? I found myself rubbing the palm of my hand where I had once grasped a set of iron gates. The scars there had healed eventually, but in that case I had barely touched them. Resigning myself to the fact that there was nothing I could do about it either way, I pulled on my Warders greys, and went in search of my son and something to eat. I was suddenly ravenous.

I found him in his favourite place, in the high chair at the end of the big table in the old kitchen, a bread stick in one hand and his other hand in his mouth. There was a bowl of greenish goo in front of him, some of which he appeared to eaten while the rest was smeared across his face.

“Good morning,” said Lesley. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d sleep all day, weren’t we?” My son grinned at me — not a pretty sight with a mouth full of green goo. I attempted to take the bread stick from him, but he would not relinquish it. His grip was firm and his determination was greater than mine, so I let him keep it. He used his hand to scoop up some more from the bowl, pressing it against his lips so that the goo squeezed between his fingers.

“You’re enjoying that aren’t you?” I said to him.

“It’s one of his favourites,” said Lesley, “though what there is in peas, potato and sprouts that he likes is hard to fathom. Still, he shows his appreciation, don’t you, Sweet Pea?” She kissed him on the top of his head, and he craned his neck around to see what she was doing.

“How are you feeling? I understand it was a busy night?” she said.

“I missed most of it, but I’m doing OK, thanks. Surprisingly well, given that I was shot.”

“Are you up to breakfast?”

“I’d love some,” I said.

“I meant for him, rather than you, but I can arrange some for you too.” She passed me a plastic spoon so that my son and I could engage in the well-tried game of me trying to get the food inside him while he tried to spread it onto me.

“I don’t know which of us should have a bib,” I said. “Him or me.”

“I can get you one if you want,” said Lesley. “I have one that says Cute when Asleep.”

“It wouldn’t suit me,” I said.

“I’m not sure Blackbird would agree with that,” she said.

“Did she say anything this morning?” I asked.

“She said something about a theoretical rose,” said Lesley. “By the way, I wanted to ask you, have you thought about Stewards for the Eighth Court?”

“Sorry?” I was taken aback by this change in tack.

“All the courts have their own Stewards, but there isn’t a precedent for a new court. I wondered if you’d spoken with Blackbird about it?”

“I can’t say I have,” I said. “It’s not really my responsibility.”

“I took the liberty of mentioning it to Mullbrook, and he suggested I should talk to you.”

“To me?”

“You do have Blackbird’s ear,” she said, “and if you go and live somewhere else then I’d hardly ever see Sweet Pea here, and I get on so well with Blackbird, and you wouldn’t hardly know I was there…”

“Are you asking me for a job?” I asked her. She looked uncomfortable, busying herself with some paperwork spread across the other end of the big table. “Well, I’m flattered that you think I have that much influence, but I’m not even part of the Eighth Court. I’m a Warder. Next week I could be assigned some other duty.”

“Realistically, that’s not going to happen, though, is it?” she said, looking up from the papers.

“I’m not sure I can predict what will happen, Lesley, but for my part I would be honoured if you were to join the Eighth Court. Our son thinks the world of you, and he has few enough friends in the world that he can afford to lose any of them, can you son?” He grinned at me, which would have been more endearing without the green smears. “It really is up to Blackbird, though. I can speak to her about it if you want me to, but why don’t you just ask her?”

“It seems a little forward?” she said.

My son waved his breadstick at Lesley. “Eh! Eh!” She rose and went to take it from him, at which point he stuck it back in his mouth, grinning at her.

“Tease,” she admonished him.

One of the reasons he liked the old kitchen so much was that it was a centre for operations for the Stewards. People came and went, delivery drivers arrived with trays of vegetables or orders of meat. The High Court had to be ready to accommodate whoever arrived, at whatever time of day, and this room acted as an informal hub for the staff. Deliveries were signed for and stored away, while my son sat like a lord at his table and watched everyone with interest. I gave up trying to spoon-feed him and wiped his hands and face with a damp cloth that Lesley had passed to me. He settled into chewing the end of the breadstick. Once he was happy, she found me some fresh bread and golden yellow butter, and a jar of pale honey. I sat and ate, trying to avoid my son getting his fingers into any of it while I was not paying attention.

As Stewards came and went, many of them stopped to say hello to him or ask Lesley how he was. He rewarded those he favoured with a bread-covered smile. It pricked me slightly; they didn’t ask me, they asked her. I realised that I needed to spend more time with him, and resolved to do so as soon as the present crisis was over. The trouble was, there always seemed to be another crisis around the corner.

“Did Blackbird mention when she would be back?” I asked Lesley.

“She just said she hoped to return with good news. I don’t know any more than that. Angela was with her, if that helps?”

“I have something I need to do,” I said, pulling my side as I rose and earning a worried look from Lesley.

“Should you be going out so soon?” she asked.

“I promise I’ll take it gently,” I said. “Is it OK to leave him with you?”I was only too aware that I was prevailing upon Lesley’s good will once again to look after our son.

She just smiled. “We’ll be fine, won’t we, Sweet Pea? I’ll give him his bath in a while, but I need to make a few calls and check some things first.”

“You know,” I said, “It’s time that boy had a name, before he starts to believe he’s called Sweet Pea.”

Lesley looked hurt, “I have to call him something,” she said.

“That wasn’t a criticism,” I said. “Six months is a long time to wait for a name, and I think we’ve waited long enough. I’ll speak to Blackbird about naming him. I heard somewhere that they used to have name-days — a ceremony to welcome new children into the court. Maybe we should have some sort of get-together and make a thing of it?” I suggested.

“I think that’s a lovely idea,” said Lesley. “I’ll speak to Mullbrook and see what we can come up with.”

“Well, maybe I better speak with Blackbird about it first,” I said, in a moment of hesitation.

“Nonsense. She’ll be delighted that someone else has organised it, and you’re right, I can’t call him Sweet Pea all his life.” She ruffled his downy hair affectionately.