The Firelord's Crown

To Catch A Knave

To Catch A Knave

Falath woke suddenly, jerked out of sleep by a resounding clang. He scrambled out of the entangling furs, reaching for a weapon, but collapsed to his knees with an embarrassed grunt. Jano peered back at him from the foot of the couch before picking up the offending goblet.

"A good morning to you, Lord Fal," chirruped his page, hiding the dented edge behind his back. "Did I startle you?" he appended, in wide-eyed innocence.

Falath raised an indignant eyebrow and clutched the bed-furs to his scrawny frame.

"Good morning?" he mocked, "Methinks it’s much too early to rise."

"Indeed not, my lord, it's well past the third bell already.” The boy slipped the cup onto a tray then crossed to the sill to throw back the shutters. The pure morning light flooded in.

Falath cradled his head. The blood pounded through his temples at a gallop and his mouth tasted of stable sweepings. When Jano dashed the remaining vessels onto the tray the din vibrated through his entire body.

"Do you have to make so much noise?" Falath pleaded. "I think I’ll have you beaten after all," he muttered when the boy grinned back, unsympathetic to his sufferings.

Falath stretched and, with considerable effort of will, clambered out of the furs. Jano handed him a woollen wrap and he tied it close as he wandered across to the casement. The sun was bright but too shallow to provide much heat and the rare Herlacian glass was still covered with ice-fronds. He breathed out stale wine-fumes and cleared a peephole with his fist.

The courtyard was buzzing with activity. The stable boys were vigorously brushing the snow aside, under the saturnine gaze of the Weapons Master. Lorbeck had been rostered for snow clearance duty for three consecutive mornings and was not one to suffer alone. His barking directions punctured the air with the force of hammers.

Falath pushed himself away from the sill, thanking the One he was not down there among them. Jano handed him a goblet of mead before sweeping out of the room in a clatter of metal. Falath winced; his head was very sensitive this morning.

Jano soon returned with a pitcher of hot water in one hand and a drying-cloth draped over the other shoulder. He set these down then moved to the couch to tidy it up. Falath watched, bemused. The day's routine had begun.

"Have you decided what you want to wear today, my lord?" the page inquired. Falath shook his head and immediately regretted the impulse.

"No,” he rasped. “Just match my wardrobe to my engagements."

It was a ritual question. Falath cared little for such things, unlike his pedantic kinsman.

Whilst Falath washed in the steaming water, Jano picked up the belt of silver plaques and gave it a quick polish with the hem of his tabard. Returning to his lord's side Jano waited whilst Falath smeared the worst of his cuts and bruises with healing salve. When Falath reached for a second jar, the boy bowed his head and would not look up.

"I know, lad," Falath said, a healthy bloom to his cheeks now, "but its better no-one guesses yet."

Falath was combing his hair to his satisfaction, and assiduously counting each hair left on the metal teeth, when a knock sounded at the outer door. Jano opened it to admit Giolas, page to Rollo. Waif-like, honey skinned, Giolas bowed and handed the prince a folded note. Falath put down his comb, scanned the missive then nodded his agreement.