Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (23 page)

Taran was pleased though surprised when his offer to accompany Bull to the cells was accepted. The big man regarded him for a moment, clearly in two minds, before nodding.

“Come on,” he said, “I might need you if I can’t talk some sense into him.”

Taran followed him through the Manor’s maze of corridors, down two sets of marble stairs and into the basement. This, Taran presumed, was where the servants lived before the place became a garrison. It was even plainer than the rest of the house, which had already been stripped of every luxury.

The rooms had solid wooden doors fastened with stout bolts. When the guardsman on duty opened one, Taran saw Robin sitting in a cell bare but for a wooden bench. He had his head in his hands.

Disinterestedly, the Captain glanced up. The guardsman rolled his eyes at Bull, muttered, “Good luck, mate,” and left them alone. Taran waited by the door as Bull went in to sit beside Robin.

“So,” said the Captain morosely, “when am I being transferred?”

“Don’t be such an ass,” snapped Bull. “I talked her out of it. Again. Don’t hold the wake before the bloody funeral, lad. She won’t lose you that easily.”

Robin shook his head. “No, Bull, I’ve really done it this time. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut and followed my own advice? Why did I have to backtalk her?”

“Why indeed? You’re such a lackwit, Robin. How many times have we told you there are powerful people at court just waiting for an Artesan to make a mistake like that? Some of Elias’ counselors would just love to pin a charge of serious misconduct on one of us.”

“But what about Parren’s misconduct? What about his foul mouth? Why is everyone so keen to protect him?”

Bull puffed his cheeks. “Why do you think Sully’s been at such pains to prevent you from doing exactly what you did today? Not from any love of Parren, believe me. Gods, Robin, your hot-headedness rules your better sense sometimes and now you’ve forced her to take action just to maintain her own position. It takes two to fight a duel, you know. Why on Earth didn’t you wait until you were off duty? Why fight him on Manor land? And why, for the gods’ sake, did you allow yourself, after all this time, to be goaded into dueling him anyway?”

“Why don’t I just go and fall on my own sword and remove the problem for her?” snapped Robin.

Bull glanced at Taran with a long-suffering look.

“If you’re going to go all maudlin on me, I’ll leave you here all night. Snap out of it, Robin. She’s going to need you in the next few days if this situation in the south gets any worse.”

Robin shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m finished here, Bull. So much for being made Master, eh?”

Dispiritedly, he left the cell, brushing past Taran as if he hadn’t even seen him. Bull pursed his lips and followed, the three of them walking silently back to their quarters. Word of his misdemeanor had obviously spread and the few men they passed glanced at the Captain sympathetically, or touched him on the shoulder. The support of his peers however, did nothing to lighten Robin’s mood and Taran felt guilty relief when they left him at his door.

“Don’t forget we’re due at Sullyan’s tonight,” warned Bull.

“Try and snap out of it by then, won’t you?”

“She won’t want me there,” said Robin, disappearing into his room.

Grunting in exasperation, Bull led Taran into his own suite. As they entered, Cal and Rienne glanced up.

“How is he?” asked the healer.

“Depressed,” said Bull. “This isn’t the first bollo … pardon me, dressing-down he’s received, but I’ve never seen him take one so badly. Mind you, Sully was furious and I’ve rarely seen her so angry. Never with Robin.”

“Poor Robin,” said Rienne. “Will she forgive him?”

“Almost certainly, provided word doesn’t spread farther than the Manor. She always has before. But will the General? And will Robin forgive himself, or is his self-confidence too badly damaged? At the moment, I really don’t know.”

It was past the hour of the evening meal, which Taran and his companions took in Bull’s rooms. They had no stomach for the commons that night, although Bull went for a while. When he returned, he reported, “Most people are supporting Robin. Glinn Parren is not widely liked, he’s too snide and self-serving for popularity and his few friends didn’t put in an appearance. The consensus is that Robin would have won eventually had Parren not cheated. We soldiers are a simple lot and we don’t like to see comrades taken advantage of. Parren will likely have some trouble from his own men over the next few days, provided he retains his rank.”

“Is there a chance he might lose it?” asked Cal. “He deserves to, in my opinion.”

“Yours and everyone else’s,” laughed Bull, his mood much improved by a full belly. “But that’ll be up to his commanding officer.”

“Not Major Sullyan?”

“No, luckily for him. Parren reports to Colonel Vassa, who looks very harshly on breaches of discipline. He’s in for a rough ride, though I doubt Vassa will strip him of rank. That would necessitate a report to the King and none of us wants that.”

He looked them over, visibly taking a steadying breath. “Are you ready? I don’t want to keep the Major waiting, not after the day she’s had. I warned you earlier to mind your manners and I’d encourage you to be especially careful now. Her temper might still be fragile, although she’s usually too controlled to let it show. Cal, my boy, bring that bottle, will you? Sullyan doesn’t drink but I fear we might need a drop later on. This could be a difficult meeting.”

Cal picked up the bottle of firewater and Bull grinned at Rienne’s wary expression.

“Medicinal purposes only, dear heart.”

They came out into the corridor and Bull rapped sharply on Robin’s door. There was no response.

“Oh, where did he go now?”

As Bull pushed the door open, Taran could see the Captain slouched in an easy chair, one leg hooked over its arm and a glass of something dark-brown in his hand. He looked up listlessly.

“Go away, Bull.”

Swearing, Bull crossed the room and took the glass out of the Captain’s hand. He sniffed its contents, his nose wrinkling.

“Give that back.”

Bull ignored him and went into a side room. Taran heard him pouring the liquor away. “How many of those have you had?” called Bull.

“Only one,” was the sullen reply.

“Good.” Bull came up behind the Captain and pushed at his shoulder. “Come on, get up or we’ll be late.”

“I already told you, she won’t want me there.”

“Oh yes? Did she say you were excused?” The younger man didn’t reply and avoided Bull’s eyes. “Well, did she?”

“No,” mumbled Robin.

“Then you have no choice. Let’s go.”

Bull pulled him up by the arm and marched him outside. Taran smiled and Rienne walked beside him, her hand on his forearm. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see,” she said.

All she received was a lukewarm glance.

When they reached the door to Sullyan’s office, Bull pushed it open without knocking. The room was devoid of life and no sound could be heard from the apartment beyond. Robin hung back, the last to enter. Bull looked pointedly at him, obviously expecting him to open the inner door, but he didn’t move. Instead, he stood with his eyes downcast, hearing, Taran supposed, echoes of his earlier dressing-down.

“Oh, bugger,” said Bull. Softly, he knocked on the door.

Sullyan’s lilting voice summoned them in. Bull ushered them inside and Taran looked around, interested despite his nervousness, fascinated as always by someone else’s personal space.

He saw a very comfortable living room, furnished with deeply upholstered chairs and a low couch. A fire burned cheerily in the hearth and the cream-colored walls were bright with tapestries. On one wall hung a fine-looking sword, its point wickedly sharp, its guard engraved with a crest. He thought it was the sun-circled crown emblem of the Rovannons, the ruling House of Albia. He couldn’t tell if it was the same weapon Sullyan had used that afternoon.

Low tables rested against two of the walls and two other doors led off into what he surmised were cooking and sleeping areas. Lamps glowed with amber radiance around the room, there was a faint fragrance to the air and the effect was welcoming and warm.

Sullyan emerged from another room and Taran stared in wonder.

She was dressed in a green silk shirt, open at the neck to show a fiery stone glinting at her throat. The shirt was loosely tucked into figure-hugging breeches of soft black linen. Her wondrous mane of hair was brushed and burnished, falling loose about her face. It flowed over her shoulders and back in rich tawny waves. Two more tiny fire stones gleamed in her ears, matching the one sparking from the gold ring on the middle finger of her right hand. She was stunning, Taran thought, quite unlike the fragile wraith she had seemed when he’d first seen her.

Her skin caught the amber firelight and her striking eyes were as gold as honey. She saw him staring and smiled, holding out her hand. Gallantly, Taran kissed it, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks that made her look very young.

“Welcome,” she said in her musical voice, “make yourselves comfortable. Can I offer anyone fellan?”

Robin moved toward one of the doors and Taran guessed that as her captain, this was his duty. However, she waved him away. “No, Robin, you sit with the others. I can do for myself for once.” She disappeared into the second room; they could hear the sound of cups being readied.

Robin looked at Bull, a stricken expression in his eyes. “You see? I told you she wouldn’t want me.”

“Shut up, you young fool. Can’t you see she’s trying to make amends?”

Morosely, Robin flopped onto the couch and Bull threw up his hands in despair.

Feeling awkward in the light of Robin’s mood, Taran also sat down. To take his mind off his own nervousness, he glanced around the room, hoping to gain an insight into Sullyan’s nature from her personal things. Only two objects seemed to convey any sense of her. One was the slender steel blade resting in its straps on the wall. The other was a beautifully tooled and inlaid lap harp sitting on one of the low tables, well away from the fire. He nudged Rienne, who was a musician, and drew her attention to it. Her eyes widened as she took in its craftsmanship and beauty.

Turning to Bull, Taran asked, “Does the Major play that?”

Bull glanced at the harp. “She does indeed and if you’re very lucky, you might hear her tonight. It’s one of her few pleasures.”

Sullyan returned carrying steaming, aromatic cups. “This will not be as good as Bulldog’s, I fear,” she apologized, “but it should suffice.”