detail, the pain, the stink of the unkempt palace,
remembered as if he were twelve again, chained in the cold stone
cellar. Remembered . . .
Chapter 2
He had been barely twelve years old, a
small, thin boy sleeping on the stone floor of a prison cell so
deep in the cellars of the palace you could not tell night from
day. It was near midnight when the guard’s boot nudged his ribs.
His eyes flew open; then he squeezed them closed in the bright
lantern light and curled tighter beneath the thin blanket he had
doubled and tucked around himself. When the boot nudged harder,
insistently, he scowled up into the light again and into Blaggen’s
sleep-puffy face, lit from beneath by the swinging flame. Blaggen
smelled of liquor, as usual, and of leather wet from his own urine,
for he had dirty ways. The two guard jackals pushed closer to Teb,
mixing their own rank smell, like spoiled meat, with Blaggen’s,
their little mean eyes red in the light and wings dragging the
floor with a dusty dry sound. They were heavier than Teb, and
pushy. They slept in his cell and followed him in all his serving
duties, their slavering grins eager for him to try escape.
Blaggen kicked him again, so hard it took
his breath. Teb squirmed out of the tangle of blanket, confused and
clumsy, but could not tear himself fully from sleep.
“Get up, son of pigs. Sivich wants you in
the hall. There are soldiers to serve, thirsty from a long ride.”
He emphasized thirsty with another nudge. Teb wanted to hit
him, but knew better. The welts on his back still pained him from
his last outburst of fury. Blaggen belched into his yellow beard
and, tired of watching the boy squirm under his boot, jerked him up
by the collar, jerked the cell door open with an echoing clang, and
shoved Teb before him down the narrow black passage. Up three
flights, Teb stumbling in darkness on the stone steps, the jackals
crowding close.
In the hall the torches were all ablaze, and
a great fire burned on the hearth. The room was filled with
warriors, shouting and arguing and laughing. Sivich paced before
the fire, his broad, black-bearded head jutting like a
mean-tempered bull’s. Weapons were piled beside the outer door that
led down to the courtyard: heavy swords; long, curved bows and
leather quivers filled with arrows; and the oak-shafted spears.
Teb crossed to the scullery at once. Old
Desma was there, yawning and pushing back her gray hair, doubtless
dragged from sleep in the servants’ quarters just as he had been
dragged from sleep in his cell. The deep window behind her was
black with night, but a wash of light shone from the courtyard
below, and he heard hooves clattering on stone and bridles jingling
as the warriors’ horses were tended, then the echo of a man
swearing; then a horse screamed. Desma glanced toward Blaggen and
saw he had turned away. She put her arm around Teb and drew him to
her comfortingly. Her old eyes were puffy from sleep. “I don’t like
this midnight riding, I don’t like their
talk. . . .” Then she broke off and pushed him away,
because Blaggen had turned to look. She shoved a tray into Teb’s
hands and began to pile on silver mugs, two and three to a stack,
and a heavy clay jug of mithnon. As she turned Teb toward the door,
she whispered, “Get away from the palace. Get away tonight if you
can.”
“But how? How can I? Will you
. . . ?”
She touched his face gently, her look was
sad and closed. “I don’t know how. There’s no way I can help; they
watch me too closely. He’s looking—pretend I’m scolding you.”
Teb left the pantry scowling and stumbling
as if the old lady had been chiding him, and moved out among the
elbowing men to serve up the dark, strong liquor.
He shuffled about holding the tray up to
whoever shouted for it, and no one paid him much more attention,
except to snatch up mugs and pour liquor, and berate him when the
jug was empty. It shamed him to serve his father’s
Inc The Staff of Entrepreneur Media