moments ago eased slightly. A few weeks. He hoped that Bhakir would stick to his timetable.
"I had thought," he ventured, "that we should be going back to Jarmair for my coronation." Bhakir appeared unruffled. "Soon enough, duties shall be laid at your feet, Your Majesty. Enjoy the summer, while you may."
Innocent tone of voice; sinister words. "Who will be joining us, then?" he asked, as he bit into an apple. A man is known by the company he keeps, he thought. Who does Bhakir consider suitable dinner company?
"I thought you might like to meet your new Commander of the Navy, Lord Carroc Zhael," said Bhakir. Butter clung in a greasy glob to his mustache for an instant before the pudgy, beringed hands lifted a linen napkin and delicately patted the offensive matter away. "He is so anxious to meet you."
The new Commander. Castyll had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Lord Zhael, but he knew the name. Shahil had roared it angrily on more than a few nights. Zhael had marched swiftly up the ranks by legal but dishonorable means, stymied in his climbing only by the fact that the upper ranks of the military were staffed by men who were aware of Zhael's true nature. Now, with Shahil's death and the elimination of men who had been loyal to the crown, Zhael's way was clear. Castyll mentally filed the name away for information. How in Verold would he be able to tell Jemma about Zhael, using only herbs to convey the information?
"And Captain Porbrough is also invited." The brown eyes were intense, watching him with the coldness of a cat at a rat's hole. Castyll was instantly alert, though the name meant nothing to him. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the good captain," he hazarded.
A fat red smile appeared in the center of the beard. "You might know him better as Captain Cutter."
Castyll's eyes opened wide, and he was unable to disguise the horror in his voice as he gasped, "The pirate?"
Bhakir shook his head reprovingly. "Captain Porbrough has been the victim of vicious gossip. His deeds, while admittedly illegal, are hardly enough to classify him as a pirate! No, he came to me for clemency, and upon observing he was truly repentant, I granted it. Now he is eager to serve in Your Majesty's navy. I accepted the offer on your behalf." He cut a small, tidy piece of meat with his knife, speared it, and inserted it into his mouth.
So, Captain Porbrough's crimes didn't classify him as a pirate? Castyll knew the man had gotten the name "Captain Cutter" by his penchant for disfiguring anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The prince himself had been present when one of his father's spies, his face a horrible, noseless revulsion, had reported on Captain Cutter's atrocities.
You bastard, thought Castyll. You cunning old bastard. If I had my father's magical skills.. . Furiously the king concentrated on an image in his head, a shockingly violent image for a youth usually so calm and controlled. He envisioned Bhakir exploding, his body parts igniting and burning away as they hurtled in various directions. He saw the image in his mind's eye and focused his energy on it.
Nothing. Castyll had no magic. His thoughts fell upon his dreaded enemy with as little effect as the sheepherder's black thoughts upon the wolf raiding his flock.
He licked lips suddenly gone dry and took a sip of the rose-flavored wine. "You're too kind, Bhakir," he said, making his voice sound as sincere as possible. "People will take advantage of you."
For an instant, the counselor seemed to see through Castyll's false flattery. But then, perhaps because Castyll was good at fooling people when he chose, or perhaps a pliant king was something he wanted to see, Bhakir smiled and cut another slice of the meltingly tender venison.
Castyll stared at his plate, certain that if he forced food down it would come right back up. He would be dining with traitors and pirates over the next few weeks. Desperately he hoped that Jemma would read the
"I had thought," he ventured, "that we should be going back to Jarmair for my coronation." Bhakir appeared unruffled. "Soon enough, duties shall be laid at your feet, Your Majesty. Enjoy the summer, while you may."
Innocent tone of voice; sinister words. "Who will be joining us, then?" he asked, as he bit into an apple. A man is known by the company he keeps, he thought. Who does Bhakir consider suitable dinner company?
"I thought you might like to meet your new Commander of the Navy, Lord Carroc Zhael," said Bhakir. Butter clung in a greasy glob to his mustache for an instant before the pudgy, beringed hands lifted a linen napkin and delicately patted the offensive matter away. "He is so anxious to meet you."
The new Commander. Castyll had never had the dubious pleasure of meeting Lord Zhael, but he knew the name. Shahil had roared it angrily on more than a few nights. Zhael had marched swiftly up the ranks by legal but dishonorable means, stymied in his climbing only by the fact that the upper ranks of the military were staffed by men who were aware of Zhael's true nature. Now, with Shahil's death and the elimination of men who had been loyal to the crown, Zhael's way was clear. Castyll mentally filed the name away for information. How in Verold would he be able to tell Jemma about Zhael, using only herbs to convey the information?
"And Captain Porbrough is also invited." The brown eyes were intense, watching him with the coldness of a cat at a rat's hole. Castyll was instantly alert, though the name meant nothing to him. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the good captain," he hazarded.
A fat red smile appeared in the center of the beard. "You might know him better as Captain Cutter."
Castyll's eyes opened wide, and he was unable to disguise the horror in his voice as he gasped, "The pirate?"
Bhakir shook his head reprovingly. "Captain Porbrough has been the victim of vicious gossip. His deeds, while admittedly illegal, are hardly enough to classify him as a pirate! No, he came to me for clemency, and upon observing he was truly repentant, I granted it. Now he is eager to serve in Your Majesty's navy. I accepted the offer on your behalf." He cut a small, tidy piece of meat with his knife, speared it, and inserted it into his mouth.
So, Captain Porbrough's crimes didn't classify him as a pirate? Castyll knew the man had gotten the name "Captain Cutter" by his penchant for disfiguring anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. The prince himself had been present when one of his father's spies, his face a horrible, noseless revulsion, had reported on Captain Cutter's atrocities.
You bastard, thought Castyll. You cunning old bastard. If I had my father's magical skills.. . Furiously the king concentrated on an image in his head, a shockingly violent image for a youth usually so calm and controlled. He envisioned Bhakir exploding, his body parts igniting and burning away as they hurtled in various directions. He saw the image in his mind's eye and focused his energy on it.
Nothing. Castyll had no magic. His thoughts fell upon his dreaded enemy with as little effect as the sheepherder's black thoughts upon the wolf raiding his flock.
He licked lips suddenly gone dry and took a sip of the rose-flavored wine. "You're too kind, Bhakir," he said, making his voice sound as sincere as possible. "People will take advantage of you."
For an instant, the counselor seemed to see through Castyll's false flattery. But then, perhaps because Castyll was good at fooling people when he chose, or perhaps a pliant king was something he wanted to see, Bhakir smiled and cut another slice of the meltingly tender venison.
Castyll stared at his plate, certain that if he forced food down it would come right back up. He would be dining with traitors and pirates over the next few weeks. Desperately he hoped that Jemma would read the
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