and to Imperial troops, an outpost didn’t get much more outlying than Barony Keranahan — but arrival by dragonback suggested that the new arrivals were of some great importance, and it never took even a new soldier long to learn that it was wisest to at least try to be in another place when something important was going on.
Pirojil wished he was in another place.
The front door of the keep stood open, cool, dark, and inviting. Normally, there should have been a pair of soldiers on guard, and Pirojil had been wondering whether they would be standing in the black leather corselets that would have them sweating like hogs in the hot sun. Pirojil had stood his share of watches in that leather armor, which never seemed to lose the reek of the boiling vinegar that had turned the leather stone-hard and solid black.
Not that you minded the smell when it caught the edge of an enemy’s blade.
He had silently bet with himself that the watchmen wouldn’t be in armor, that they would just be dressed in linen tunics and breeches, and he hadn’t decided whether that would mean that the discipline among the occupation troops was slack, or that Treseen was smart enough to insist that his men not suffer to no particular end.
It did mean, of course, that they weren’t of the elite Emperor’s Own, because then they would have been wearing their shiny steel breastplates — or, at least, having them nearby, where lesser men could admire them — although likely not armored head to toe.
Pirojil was beginning to be annoyed at the lack of reception.
Ellegon or no Ellegon, protocol would have called for somebody — somebody important — to come out and greet such visitors, and Pirojil was willing to wait for that to happen … until Kethol — until Forinel started to stoop to pick up his own rucksack.
Pirojil snatched it away from him.
Idiot.
“Allow me, Your Lordship,” he said, only the look in his eyes adding: You idiot — nobles don’t carry their own bags.
He forced himself not to shake his head in disgust. Leria had been trying to teach Kethol how to be a noble, but beyond getting him to learn how to use an eating prong with a proper flourish, and getting him to stop wiping his nose on his sleeve, she had been less than remarkably successful.
For the time being, his awkwardness could be explained away by Forinel’s long absence from Holtun and Bieme, but in the long run, it could easily get them all hanged.
Leria laid a gentle hand on Forinel’s arm, and he met her smile with an expression that reminded Pirojil of a well-trained dog waiting for permission to eat from its bowl.
“Bide a moment, please, Forinel,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just an oversight that you’ve yet to be greeted properly — do let us wait, and send … someone in to announce your presence.”
“A servant, perhaps?” Erenor asked. “It’s always so very pleasant to have a servant, I’ve found. And, well, since the closest thing we have to that is Pirojil, here, I guess he’ll have to do. You may have the honor of carrying the bags, good Pirojil.”
Erenor smiled as he handed his own rucksack to Pirojil, and then loaded Leria’s on top of the pile. Wizards didn’t carry their own gear, either, save for the small black leather bag that contained Erenor’s spell books, and which never seemed to leave his hands.
“I thank you for your help, good Pirojil. We shall meet you inside,” Erenor said.
Pirojil didn’t have to ask how Erenor felt about their roles having been reversed, about how it was Pirojil playing the servant — a captain of march, in theory, but a servant in practice, at least for the moment — instead of Erenor. Erenor visibly enjoyed it. Too much.
Pirojil would have enjoyed beating Erenor’s face into a bloody pulp, but that was not on today’s schedule, apparently.
Pirojil tried to act as though he didn’t much care, which would have been somewhat easier at the moment if he wasn’t
Pirojil wished he was in another place.
The front door of the keep stood open, cool, dark, and inviting. Normally, there should have been a pair of soldiers on guard, and Pirojil had been wondering whether they would be standing in the black leather corselets that would have them sweating like hogs in the hot sun. Pirojil had stood his share of watches in that leather armor, which never seemed to lose the reek of the boiling vinegar that had turned the leather stone-hard and solid black.
Not that you minded the smell when it caught the edge of an enemy’s blade.
He had silently bet with himself that the watchmen wouldn’t be in armor, that they would just be dressed in linen tunics and breeches, and he hadn’t decided whether that would mean that the discipline among the occupation troops was slack, or that Treseen was smart enough to insist that his men not suffer to no particular end.
It did mean, of course, that they weren’t of the elite Emperor’s Own, because then they would have been wearing their shiny steel breastplates — or, at least, having them nearby, where lesser men could admire them — although likely not armored head to toe.
Pirojil was beginning to be annoyed at the lack of reception.
Ellegon or no Ellegon, protocol would have called for somebody — somebody important — to come out and greet such visitors, and Pirojil was willing to wait for that to happen … until Kethol — until Forinel started to stoop to pick up his own rucksack.
Pirojil snatched it away from him.
Idiot.
“Allow me, Your Lordship,” he said, only the look in his eyes adding: You idiot — nobles don’t carry their own bags.
He forced himself not to shake his head in disgust. Leria had been trying to teach Kethol how to be a noble, but beyond getting him to learn how to use an eating prong with a proper flourish, and getting him to stop wiping his nose on his sleeve, she had been less than remarkably successful.
For the time being, his awkwardness could be explained away by Forinel’s long absence from Holtun and Bieme, but in the long run, it could easily get them all hanged.
Leria laid a gentle hand on Forinel’s arm, and he met her smile with an expression that reminded Pirojil of a well-trained dog waiting for permission to eat from its bowl.
“Bide a moment, please, Forinel,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just an oversight that you’ve yet to be greeted properly — do let us wait, and send … someone in to announce your presence.”
“A servant, perhaps?” Erenor asked. “It’s always so very pleasant to have a servant, I’ve found. And, well, since the closest thing we have to that is Pirojil, here, I guess he’ll have to do. You may have the honor of carrying the bags, good Pirojil.”
Erenor smiled as he handed his own rucksack to Pirojil, and then loaded Leria’s on top of the pile. Wizards didn’t carry their own gear, either, save for the small black leather bag that contained Erenor’s spell books, and which never seemed to leave his hands.
“I thank you for your help, good Pirojil. We shall meet you inside,” Erenor said.
Pirojil didn’t have to ask how Erenor felt about their roles having been reversed, about how it was Pirojil playing the servant — a captain of march, in theory, but a servant in practice, at least for the moment — instead of Erenor. Erenor visibly enjoyed it. Too much.
Pirojil would have enjoyed beating Erenor’s face into a bloody pulp, but that was not on today’s schedule, apparently.
Pirojil tried to act as though he didn’t much care, which would have been somewhat easier at the moment if he wasn’t
Similar Books
