Peacefall: Book Two of The Fourpointe Chronicles

Chapter 23

"They grow restless. Are they almost through?"

Symon turned from Gerry to sign to the Voiceless at the entrance. Half a head taller than most, the knight - Sir Gylbarde of the Fourth Silent Order – peered into the shadowed corridor leading into the hall. He glanced back to Symon, using his hands to confirm the number left: five.

Five more lords. Entitled barons. And two guards apiece made for ten more on top of that. Fifteen men waiting to take their place. To sit among nearly a hundred others who came before. Lords and knights. Bishops and their brethren. All searched for weaponry, having endured the humiliation of their word meaning nothing, their honor impugned.

All manner of spirits waited for the barons at their tables. The lords drank heartily, consuming the darkest – and most potent – of ales and wines first. While intended to placate the nobility, the drinks managed to have the opposite effect. Murmurs unbecoming spilled forth, bouncing from table to table. A few barons shoved at one another, their near-fights stopped by guards, who stood in the dim light of perched torches and sconces.

Gerry watched the scene in stride, goblet in hand, as he paced before the tall chair set up for him. Symon stood at attention to the right of his seat, beside the side table where various pitchers and carafes sat, while Ely kept guard at his left. Beyond the platform supporting the three, their silent knights had fanned out, patrolling the Great Hall of Glic Anglisk.

Through the slit of his visor, Symon caught sight of Gerry again, just in time to find his little brother mid-gulp. He circled to the front of his chair, his back half-turned to the audience.

"Slow down, Gerry. That's your third goblet. You'll need your wits for this crowd."

Gerry tipped the goblet before his mouth, more to hide his lips than to drink. "I know, brother. I had my attendant fill my wares with unfermented drink."

He is learning. Smart lad.

From behind his visor, Ely scoffed. "Pity. You'll consume a week's worth of pitchers tonight, only to rob yourself of drunken joy while having to fight the urge to piss yourself."

"Ely!" Symon shushed.

"This lot can't hear us," Ely said a tad louder, though still in a somewhat hushed tone. "Our voices are nearly drowned, I tell you."

He had the right of it. Though wide and deep, the hall hardly stood tall by any standard, be it contemporary or ancient. At only a story and a half high, the vaulted ceiling and walls reverberated rather than absorbed the lamentations. Peculiar, considering the walls consisted of packed earth overgrown with moss, while above soft timber secured by petrified vines made for the roof. Even the ground beneath their boots cushioned their footfalls, suggesting yet another surface which should have tempered the discord.

Gerry swirled the remnants of his wine in his goblet, turning his back to the audience as he did so. "Where is he?" he asked Symon.

"You sent him to the perimeter," Symon answered.

"With the intention that he returns." Gerry downed the last of his drink. "You don't think –"

"Nonsense. The Voiceless gave a security report before we opened the doors. The grounds are secure, the soldiers at their posts, with all accounted for except those of patrol."

"Including Everitt."

"Aye."

"Perhaps he had the good sense to disguise himself as a mute," Ely uttered low, tilting his head toward the closest of their silent brethren.