King Javan’s Year by Katherine Kurtz Page A

several years older than either Charlan or Tomais.
    â€œSir Sorle,” Javan said, smiling, as the dark young knight sketched him an elegant bow. “Did you have a hand in this?” he asked, slightly lifting the documents in his hand. “I seem to recall a penchant for the law, back when you used to tutor us.”
    Sorle grinned and pulled another stool closer, settling on it as the other two did the same. Rhys Michael also joined them, pulling on a loose-fitting tunic of gauzy black linen.
    â€œI wish I could claim total credit, my prince,” Sorle said, “but several of your escort today had a hand in it—and some other gentlemen you probably won’t remember, but who remember you. Lord Jerowen Reynolds was one; and the de Courcys, father and son. Baron de Courcy was the one who spoke up for you when old Hubert got fuddled on who came next in the succession.”
    â€œYes. I asked Bertrand who he was,” Javan said. “The name’s familiar, but I didn’t recognize him. Have I met him before?”
    â€œYes, but he’s shaved off his beard and moustache since then,” Charlan said. “Nor was the occasion particularly auspicious. He gave you and Alroy a rather remarkable Cardounet board at your thirteenth birthday court—but I don’t think you ever got to play with it.”
    Javan closed his eyes briefly, trying not to remember that particular birthday. He remembered the board clearly—a splendid thing of ebony and olivewood, with inlays of mother-of-pearl and semiprecious stones set around the edges. The playing pieces had been lavish as well, with real gems set in the crowns of the priest-kings and the archbishops’ mitres.
    He also remembered the rest of that afternoon, though he wished he could not—when the regents had turned on Duke Ewan of Claibourne, and the Deryni Declan Carmody had broken under the strain—and paid for it with his life and the lives of his wife and two young sons.
    â€œI remember,” he said quietly. “You’re right; it was the missing beard. He’s one of the southern barons, isn’t he?”
    â€œAye, from down by Mooryn, where my family come from,” Charlan said. “As you may have gathered, he’s extremely well versed in the law, as is Lord Jerowen. They’ve both been functionaries in the chancellor’s office for several years. You’d be well advised to retain them—and these two rascals as well! Sir Jason? Sir Robear?”
    As he said the last names, two burly figures in the livery of the household garrison stepped into the room, one tall and fair, the other shorter and slightly darker, both of them bearded and going grey. Wide smiles split their beards as they made him respectful bows. The taller one, Sir Robear, had a mass of black fabric draped over one arm.
    â€œI’ve brought you something cooler to wear, Sire,” he said, bending a knee to lay it across Javan’s lap. “My wife cut it down from an old one of mine, when it became apparent there was going to be a need for it. The rest of the day will be difficult enough without sweltering in the tunic you wore here—and I don’t think you want to continue looking like a seminarian.”
    â€œNo, I don’t. Thank you, Robear,” Javan managed to murmur, touched by the man’s sensitivity to the situation and heartened by his presence—though not by the prospect of putting on black again. The short, loose-sleeved tunic he held up briefly was made of a nubbly, loosely woven linen, and undoubtedly as cool as anything he was likely to find, but it still was black.
    â€œI’ve brought you something as well, Sire,” the other knight said, dropping to one knee and fumbling in a pouch at his belt, which bore his coat of arms picked out in bright threads and dyes.
    All in a rush Javan realized that Robear was wearing a similar pouch and flashed back to the day he and Rhys