Gallel's Heir

Chapter 5.1: Galian Delicacy

The door burst open to laughing. Lianna and Ophia poured in with squirming sacks in their hands. “We found lots of ‘em, Canúden,” said Lianna. “We only brought four, though.” She stared at him and Dylin but didn’t seem to mind their closeness because she dropped into a chair at the table. Ophia knelt at the side. Dylin smiled nervously at the girls.

“What should we do with them?” said Ophia.

Canúden’s dizziness abated with the interruption, but not his happiness. “I’ll make sandwiches. Come to lunch tomorrow in Hammy’s room. Make sure Ambra’s there, too. And then when no one is looking, put those little delicacies onto their sandwiches.”

“Why would they want to eat lunch with me?” said Lianna.

He shrugged. “You’re the heir. You can pretty much do whatever you want.”

“I want to be there, too!” said Ophia.

“You can put on the black and help me serve. You’re supposed to be Lianna’s jen in waiting, aren’t you?”

“When they scream it’ll be their own fault ‘cause they don’t like frogs!” said Lianna.

***

Sunlight glared through the library’s huge windows onto Tutang’s stocking feet as he reclined on one of the squishy couches. How was he supposed to read anything, or even think, with all that light blasting in on him? He had dismissed his annoying guards so they wouldn’t stare at him as he attempted to read, so, grunting, he stood up and shoved the velvety curtains closed. Those servants of his really should know his preferences. Why hadn’t they already closed the curtains? But of course they could not have known just where he was to sit on this particular couch in the library. The thought slithered away as he reflected on more important matters.

The Turbians had taken Hittle Bottom Cove, his favorite hunting place. It had been a rather nice walled hamlet, almost a city of its own really, an important producer of yams. He had been so looking forward to hunting there in the spring, and now the place was overrun with Turbian scum. Tutang snapped a quill into several pieces, which he threw onto the rug.

What to do about the Turbians. They must not take what’s his by birthright — he’d suffered enough as his smiting father’s heir — and there must be a way to keep it. He stood again and peeked behind the curtain, out at Dylin’s garden bathed in light-induced redness. Would the Turbians destroy his gardens and terraces, transform them into some monstrosity?

He sat again in the shadow of the curtain; the light hurt his eyes, and he mustn’t waste time daydreaming about dreaded possibilities. He shouldn’t drink at night, especially not when he should be focused on smiting San Tamil, and how to give her as little as possible. He needed his head clear. Absently, he took a sip from a bottle of evergreen wine, a mild ale really, and he needed something to calm his nerves.

What had he been doing last night? Came back from the battle front near Hittle Bottom Cove. No fun at all. Something about a pretty girl at an inn — who was she? — so many pretty girls in the world, he could hardly keep track. Was it better with or without alcohol? Depends on the girl, he supposed. He wondered if he would see the girl again, whoever she was, and whether she were feeling any better than he was. Probably, as he didn’t recall her drinking. She had seemed kind of frightened, actually. Must be frightened of the Turbians overtaking Hittle Bottom Cove.

Well, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast the day before, either.

He shouldn’t drink while traveling; he may do something foolish one of these days. Plus, he always felt terrible the day after.