Too Many Princes (5 page)

“
What happened?
”
Lottres picked up the dagger, which Brastigan had left atop another chest.

Brastigan shrugged.
“
Nothing much. We were clinching hands, and a fight broke out at one of the gaming tables. Nothing I couldn't deal with,
”
he insisted, seeing Lottres's worried expression.
“
Then, in the middle of the fight, someone threw that at me. I couldn't see who it was. Let me tell you, it's a good thing Joal trained me. One of Tarther's whelps would've been dead for sure.
”

“
You never saw who threw it?
”

“
Habrok and his bully-boys showed up before I had a chance to ask any questions. As if I could have, with a brawl going on.
”
He dug deeper in the chest, this time bringing out a pair of dress boots.
“
I kept the knife, though. Eben might be able to learn something from it.
”

Lottres frowned slightly, leaning in the door.
“
Eben can't work miracles.
”

“
Well, we have to start somewhere. Be assured, I have no intention of ending up like Aric.
”
By this time Brastigan had found what he needed. He gathered the armload of clothing.
“
Come on. I just need a quick rub down, and then we'll go see what Father wants. Bring that, would you?
”
he added, meaning the dagger.

Lottres stuck it through his belt and stood aside to let Brastigan pass. Together they moved down the corridor and descended the stairs. The lower level was dimly lit by smoky candles set on wall brackets. Widely spaced doorways hinted at storage rooms beyond. The lower hall took a sharp turn and gave out into the main bath. Again, the room was nearly empty except for a single manservant who bowed at their approach. Arrel was a wizened little scrap of an old man: toothless, bald, and deaf as a post. He had worked in the baths as long as either of them could recall. Brastigan waved him away.

There was a main pool, rimmed with tile, and beyond it a row of partly enclosed stone basins. The pool was drawn directly from subterranean springs. Its water was cold at best. In the basins, one could draw hot water from a tank heated behind the main ovens in the kitchen. Queen Alustra had insisted on many innovations, when she was newly come from Tanix. Hot water for bathing was probably the only one that had been accepted gladly.

Brastigan set his clean clothes on a low bench, and quickly stripped to the waist. Arrel shuffled after them with towels and a bucket of cold water from the pool. This Brastigan accepted, motioning the man to leave. The servant bobbed his hairless skull several times before obeying. A smaller basin was cut into a rock ledge at the back of the cubicle. Brastigan drew hot water until it was half full, and added a dollop of cold. Lottres settled on the bench.

“
Your turn,
”
Brastigan told him.
“
Any idea what Father wants? I assume he sent for both of us, since you're all dressed up, too.
”

“
No and yes,
”
Lottres replied, examining his good clothing carefully. He wore traditional Crutham garb, that being a simple, long sleeved tunic over close fitting trews. The tunic was of finely made cloth, embroidered about the cuffs and t-slot collar. Polished boots gleamed softly. This particular shade of blue was one of the few that went well with his rusty hair. Lottres carefully straightened his belt.
“
Yes, he sent for both of us. No, I don't know why. I think there was an emissary of some kind. The men were telling me about it when you arrived.
”

Brastigan snorted as he washed.
“
I don't know why you waste your time with those fellows.
”

Lottres shrugged.
“
They like to gossip, and sometimes they know things. Rodrec said a falcon landed in the courtyard, calling Father's name. 'Uh-herh!'
“
he said in a shrill, high voice, trying to imitate the bird's speaking.
“
It sounded like that, Rodrec said. There was a message of some kind in its talons, but it wouldn't let anyone touch it. They took it in to Father and he read it. That's when he sent for us.
”

Brastigan stopped and twisted around to stare at Lottres.
“
That sounds like a winter tale,
”
he remarked, but he didn't feel sure. Magic was a force in the world, as real as the tides on the Great Bay
—
and potentially as dangerous.

“
I don't think they were joking.
”
Lottres shook his head soberly.

“
I don't like the sound of it.
”
Brastigan scrubbed his back with a long-handled brush, holding his hair aside to keep it dry.
“
Sounds like witch work.
”

“
It could be.
”
Lottres sounded interested.
“
I've never met a witch. I wonder what they're like.
”

“
Dangerous, if you listen to the tales.
”
Brastigan reached for a towel.
“
At least for normal folk like us. People who get involved with them come to bad ends.
”

“
Or become heroes,
”
Lottres argued.

“
Heroes!
”
Brastigan gave a bark of laughter.
“
I've been on raids, Pup, and let me tell you, it isn't as much fun as you think. Trust me—you don't want to be a hero.
”

“
That's easy for you to say,
”
Lottres murmured resentfully.

Startled, Brastigan twisted around to look at him. They traded stares for just a moment, Lottres's brown eyes betraying old hurt and resentment. Then the younger man looked away, shrugging uncomfortably. Brastigan shifted restlessly as the silence stretched between them. Despite their friendship, he knew Lottres must sometimes envy him, wishing he could be as handsome, as quick with a sword. Well, there was no way for either of them to change what they had been born with.

Brastigan reached to clap him on the shoulder.
“
Pup,
”
he said gruffly,
“
for every live hero, there's a dozen dead fools. I'd rather have you alive.
”

Lottres managed a smile in response.