smiles. Soldiers patrolled in pairs as if the town was on a war footing. At the entrance to the castilyernov, Saxthor again stopped Tournak and Bodrin.
“More soldiers are milling around the entrance to the gatehouse; they must be there to intimidate petitioners, since no one is even attempting to cross the drawbridge. I still want to sense the mood inside the fortress. Tournak, would you go request an audience with the Prince of Hoya?”
“You sure about this?”
If I remember correctly, the local rulers have always allowed subjects to petition as an effort to retain popular support. I believe the prince is the provincial court of appeals. I’m sure.”
“This is a mistake, but I’ll go.”
The corporal at the gatepost looked askew at Tournak. “Go away, man,” he said when he realized Tournak was serious. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
“We must see the prince. We’re from the south and seek audience with his highness,” Tournak said.
“It’s your neck,” the corporal said.
Guards escorted the men to a granite reception room in the gatehouse overlooking the drawbridge. Saxthor looked around while they waited. Bronze rings protruded from high on the walls, holding great brass rods. They brought back memories of his Uncle Henri telling him of the tapestries those rods held to impress his wealth and power on visitors. Gone now, petitioners faced only cold granite walls. The men approached a sergeant with a gold tooth and sinister, wrinkled face, shuffling papers at a desk. The sergeant didn’t look up.
“Excuse me, Sir, we’re from the south and seek audience with the prince,” Tournak said.
The sergeant looked up, glaring. “I don’t get many requests for audiences these days. What drives you men to such foolishness, or are you just stupid?”
Saxthor stepped forward. “We seek an audience with the prince, nonetheless.”
“What you want with the prince?”
“We’re friends of the court,” Tournak said. His tone stiffened, reflecting his aroused stubborn streak.
“The prince isn’t granting audiences today. Come back another time.” The sergeant turned away handing some instruction to a waiting soldier.
Tournak slammed his hand on the papers. “We’ll see the prince, Sergeant.”
The sergeant’s head jerked up, his good eye bulging in his face red. “What’re your names? What’s your business with the court?” He grabbed a yellowed form, his thick guest book, and a quill.
“I am Tournak of Konnotan, and these are my friends. We came from the south and wish to extend greeting to the prince from the court at Konnotan.”
The sergeant scanned their faces.
Saxthor sensed he sought to know if they might have influence with the nobles. The man hadn’t risen to the rank of sergeant by offending the wrong people.
“Do you know the prince?”
“No, I don’t,” Tournak said. “Will you admit us to the court, or must I report this incident to Konnotan?”
“Tournak of Konnotan.” The sergeant wrote hastily on the stained guest book, then the form. On the form, he wrote the party of three was from the south and wished to extend the greetings and best wishes from the royal court to his highness. Staring at the men in front of him, his arm jerked the paper up to the aide waiting behind him. Without a word, the soldier took the document and raced across the drawbridge, where he disappeared into the massive frontal gatehouse.
While Tournak and the sergeant stared at each other, Saxthor and Bodrin looked around for a place to sit. There were no chairs, just half a dozen guards standing at attention around the room.
“Few visitors come here now,” Saxthor said.
When the guard returned to the room, he whispered in the sergeant’s ear. Frowning, the sergeant stood up and came around his desk, presenting a strained smile. He raised his hand to shake Tournak’s, but Tournak didn’t respond. The sergeant’s momentary frown reflected the rebuff, but the artificial
“More soldiers are milling around the entrance to the gatehouse; they must be there to intimidate petitioners, since no one is even attempting to cross the drawbridge. I still want to sense the mood inside the fortress. Tournak, would you go request an audience with the Prince of Hoya?”
“You sure about this?”
If I remember correctly, the local rulers have always allowed subjects to petition as an effort to retain popular support. I believe the prince is the provincial court of appeals. I’m sure.”
“This is a mistake, but I’ll go.”
The corporal at the gatepost looked askew at Tournak. “Go away, man,” he said when he realized Tournak was serious. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
“We must see the prince. We’re from the south and seek audience with his highness,” Tournak said.
“It’s your neck,” the corporal said.
Guards escorted the men to a granite reception room in the gatehouse overlooking the drawbridge. Saxthor looked around while they waited. Bronze rings protruded from high on the walls, holding great brass rods. They brought back memories of his Uncle Henri telling him of the tapestries those rods held to impress his wealth and power on visitors. Gone now, petitioners faced only cold granite walls. The men approached a sergeant with a gold tooth and sinister, wrinkled face, shuffling papers at a desk. The sergeant didn’t look up.
“Excuse me, Sir, we’re from the south and seek audience with the prince,” Tournak said.
The sergeant looked up, glaring. “I don’t get many requests for audiences these days. What drives you men to such foolishness, or are you just stupid?”
Saxthor stepped forward. “We seek an audience with the prince, nonetheless.”
“What you want with the prince?”
“We’re friends of the court,” Tournak said. His tone stiffened, reflecting his aroused stubborn streak.
“The prince isn’t granting audiences today. Come back another time.” The sergeant turned away handing some instruction to a waiting soldier.
Tournak slammed his hand on the papers. “We’ll see the prince, Sergeant.”
The sergeant’s head jerked up, his good eye bulging in his face red. “What’re your names? What’s your business with the court?” He grabbed a yellowed form, his thick guest book, and a quill.
“I am Tournak of Konnotan, and these are my friends. We came from the south and wish to extend greeting to the prince from the court at Konnotan.”
The sergeant scanned their faces.
Saxthor sensed he sought to know if they might have influence with the nobles. The man hadn’t risen to the rank of sergeant by offending the wrong people.
“Do you know the prince?”
“No, I don’t,” Tournak said. “Will you admit us to the court, or must I report this incident to Konnotan?”
“Tournak of Konnotan.” The sergeant wrote hastily on the stained guest book, then the form. On the form, he wrote the party of three was from the south and wished to extend the greetings and best wishes from the royal court to his highness. Staring at the men in front of him, his arm jerked the paper up to the aide waiting behind him. Without a word, the soldier took the document and raced across the drawbridge, where he disappeared into the massive frontal gatehouse.
While Tournak and the sergeant stared at each other, Saxthor and Bodrin looked around for a place to sit. There were no chairs, just half a dozen guards standing at attention around the room.
“Few visitors come here now,” Saxthor said.
When the guard returned to the room, he whispered in the sergeant’s ear. Frowning, the sergeant stood up and came around his desk, presenting a strained smile. He raised his hand to shake Tournak’s, but Tournak didn’t respond. The sergeant’s momentary frown reflected the rebuff, but the artificial
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