said nothing as she slipped out of the room.
He stared after her for a moment.
The switch from her role as exasperated jailer to one of deferential subordinate was curiously unnerving. He was not accustomed to having anyone defer to him. He had always settled for simple tolerance, which was all a tavern-gambler or street brat could reasonably ask.
There was something very seductive about the thought of a woman unable to leave his room until he granted permission. Admittedly, the aging and irritable Lady Kalira was not herself seductive in the least, but the idea of such power certainly had its appeal.
But it came with the job of warlord, with all the unknown hazards and duties that must surely imply. War meant swords and blood and death and killing, and he wanted no part of it.
But Semma had been at peace since twenty years before he was born. Maybe he could defend it without fighting any wars, as his immediate predecessor, the great-uncle he had never known, had.
“My lord,” Alder said, startling him from his muddled thoughts, “shall I hang this in the wardrobe?” He held up one of Sterren’s old tunics.
“Yes,” Sterren said. He took a sudden interest in his belongings, seeing that everything went somewhere appropriate, and that he knew how the room was arranged. It was becoming clear that, barring the unforeseen, he was going to be staying for quite some time.
He was unsure, now, whether that was good news or bad.
Chapter Six
He pushed away the plate and stood up.
Alder looked up, startled, and began, “My lord . . .”
“Oh, go ahead and eat,” Sterren said crossly. He was already getting tired of the strange new deference paid him. Alder had just started to eat, but he was obviously ready to leap up and follow orders, should his warlord care to give any.
His warlord did not. His warlord was feeling very much out of place. His moods kept swinging back and forth. This room, and title, and rank were all very well, and could be a lot of fun — but they also seemed to be permanent and involuntary, which could be tiresome, quite aside from the accompanying responsibilities and risks. It was clear, despite the submissive gestures from Alder and Lady Kalira, that he was still something of a prisoner; if he tried to just walk out of the castle, and head back toward Ethshar, he was quite sure that Alder or Dogal or both would follow him, and probably stop him before he got out of the village.
And he was tired of seeing Alder and Dogal, after several days spent traveling in their close — very close — company.
At least Lady Kalira was gone, and he would be meeting other people soon.
Of course, that, too, had both its appealing and frightening aspects. These people were barbarians, not Ethsharites; he was sure that he was not what anybody expected in a warlord, and he had no idea just how the Semmans might deal with his shortcomings. That mention of summary execution, back in the tavern on Bargain Street, had stayed with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.
Dogal and Alder had eaten in turns, and Dogal was now guarding the door, keeping Sterren’s officers, who had arrived a moment earlier, waiting in the hall.
“Dogal,” Sterren called, “send them in.”
Dogal said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed the three waiting men to enter.
Each in turn stepped into the chamber, bowed, spoke, and then stepped aside to make room for the next.
“Anduron of Semma, Lord Sterren,” said the first, with a graceful bow and a jingle of jewelry. He was tall and sturdy, richly dressed in blue silk, perhaps thirty years old — certainly much older than Sterren. Like every Semman Sterren had yet seen, he was dark-haired and deeply tanned. Sterren thought he detected a family resemblance to the king.
He also detected, more definitely, a trace of scent, something vaguely flowery.
“Arl of the Strong Arm,” said the next, bobbing his head. He was shorter, but Sterren guessed his weight
He stared after her for a moment.
The switch from her role as exasperated jailer to one of deferential subordinate was curiously unnerving. He was not accustomed to having anyone defer to him. He had always settled for simple tolerance, which was all a tavern-gambler or street brat could reasonably ask.
There was something very seductive about the thought of a woman unable to leave his room until he granted permission. Admittedly, the aging and irritable Lady Kalira was not herself seductive in the least, but the idea of such power certainly had its appeal.
But it came with the job of warlord, with all the unknown hazards and duties that must surely imply. War meant swords and blood and death and killing, and he wanted no part of it.
But Semma had been at peace since twenty years before he was born. Maybe he could defend it without fighting any wars, as his immediate predecessor, the great-uncle he had never known, had.
“My lord,” Alder said, startling him from his muddled thoughts, “shall I hang this in the wardrobe?” He held up one of Sterren’s old tunics.
“Yes,” Sterren said. He took a sudden interest in his belongings, seeing that everything went somewhere appropriate, and that he knew how the room was arranged. It was becoming clear that, barring the unforeseen, he was going to be staying for quite some time.
He was unsure, now, whether that was good news or bad.
Chapter Six
He pushed away the plate and stood up.
Alder looked up, startled, and began, “My lord . . .”
“Oh, go ahead and eat,” Sterren said crossly. He was already getting tired of the strange new deference paid him. Alder had just started to eat, but he was obviously ready to leap up and follow orders, should his warlord care to give any.
His warlord did not. His warlord was feeling very much out of place. His moods kept swinging back and forth. This room, and title, and rank were all very well, and could be a lot of fun — but they also seemed to be permanent and involuntary, which could be tiresome, quite aside from the accompanying responsibilities and risks. It was clear, despite the submissive gestures from Alder and Lady Kalira, that he was still something of a prisoner; if he tried to just walk out of the castle, and head back toward Ethshar, he was quite sure that Alder or Dogal or both would follow him, and probably stop him before he got out of the village.
And he was tired of seeing Alder and Dogal, after several days spent traveling in their close — very close — company.
At least Lady Kalira was gone, and he would be meeting other people soon.
Of course, that, too, had both its appealing and frightening aspects. These people were barbarians, not Ethsharites; he was sure that he was not what anybody expected in a warlord, and he had no idea just how the Semmans might deal with his shortcomings. That mention of summary execution, back in the tavern on Bargain Street, had stayed with him, always somewhere in the back of his mind.
Dogal and Alder had eaten in turns, and Dogal was now guarding the door, keeping Sterren’s officers, who had arrived a moment earlier, waiting in the hall.
“Dogal,” Sterren called, “send them in.”
Dogal said nothing, but stepped aside and allowed the three waiting men to enter.
Each in turn stepped into the chamber, bowed, spoke, and then stepped aside to make room for the next.
“Anduron of Semma, Lord Sterren,” said the first, with a graceful bow and a jingle of jewelry. He was tall and sturdy, richly dressed in blue silk, perhaps thirty years old — certainly much older than Sterren. Like every Semman Sterren had yet seen, he was dark-haired and deeply tanned. Sterren thought he detected a family resemblance to the king.
He also detected, more definitely, a trace of scent, something vaguely flowery.
“Arl of the Strong Arm,” said the next, bobbing his head. He was shorter, but Sterren guessed his weight
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