Lord of the Changing Winds by Rachel Neumeier Page A

while it remains to us! But I fear, much as I might desire otherwise, we’ll have no time for either hunting or hawking this morning. One of my judges has appealed a case to me. No doubt it will be some strange, convoluted matter, or why else appeal to me?” He made a face, though to Bertaud it was clear he was actually looking forward to finding out what the problem involved.
    Iaor went on, “However, I have hope this judgment will not take long. Perhaps this afternoon there will be time to take the hawks out. You know the Linularinan ambassador just gave my lady one of those miniature falcons they are so proud of. A pretty little thing, though I have a certain doubt as to its ability to take anything so large as a rabbit.”
    Of course Iaor’s first thought was of Niethe. Bertaud would have died before allowing Iaor to glimpse any hint of jealousy, though sometimes he could not help but remember a time before the young queen had intruded into the closeness he had once shared with the king. He said smoothly, “I think they mostly hunt mice. Do you suppose the queen would like mice?”
    “She might, if it was her falcon caught them. She thinks the bird is charming—well, so it is. We shall have to try it on young rabbits and see how it does. Or persuade the cooks to try what they might do with mice, hah? See if the judge is here, will you? I gave him the third hour.”
    They had arrived at the king’s personal reception room, a small, cheerful chamber with broad windows, shutters thrown back this morning to let in the light and air. The king himself had a chair, set up on a low dais; there were no other furnishings.
    The judge was, of course, already present in the antechamber—it would not do to risk keeping the king waiting, so the judge had come early, bringing with him the principal from his case. That proved to be a young man, about Bertaud’s age, with bound wrists and—reasonably enough—a sober expression. The prisoner had a narrow face, brown hair, and long hands. From his dress, which was plain but good, he was likely the son of a tradesman or minor merchant. A guardsman was also present, standing behind the young man.
    The judge was Ferris son of Tohanis, a man Bertaud knew a little. He inclined his head to the judge and said, “Esteemed sir.” He did not glance at the other men, other than one swift look to be sure the guardsman looked professional and alert. The guardsman returned a small nod. The captain of the royal guards answered to Bertaud. That responsibility did not normally accrue to the Lord of the Delta, but so Iaor had granted it, despite Bertaud’s youth. Bertaud was fiercely proud of the honor and strove to be worthy of Iaor’s trust—though with the royal guard, his duty largely consisted of leaving Eles, their captain, a free hand.
    “My lord,” the judge answered formally. “If I may ask—”
    Bertaud smiled. “He is curious what you may have for him. He is, I believe, rather in the mood for tangled thoughts, and looks forward to finding out what you have brought him.”
    The judge nodded and sighed, not returning Bertaud’s smile. “I hope his majesty’s mood is still inclined that way after he hears me. This matter is not so much complicated as provoking—or so I have found it. Well… well, thank you, my lord, and is his majesty ready to see me, then?”
    “If you are ready to present your case, esteemed sir, his majesty is prepared to hear it.”
    The judge was, of course, ready. Bertaud let him lead the way down the hall and to the small reception room.
    The king nodded as they entered. The young man, guided by the guardsman, came forward to the foot of the dais and, pressed down by firm hands on his shoulders, went awkwardly to his knees. The guardsman stood behind him. The judge clasped his hands together before his chest and bowed.
    “Esteemed Ferris,” said the king. “What does your diligence bring me?”
    The judge bowed a second time and straightened. He