Va’s world am I supposed to answer that?
He decided not to say anything.
He’d expected to see someone of fifty or sixty, and was surprised to find Fox couldn’t have been much past forty. His habit was unadorned, but it was fine velvet; gold buckles shone on his shoes and the lace of his undershirt frilled at his wrists and neck. Two fingers on either hand were decorated with ornate rings. His Va medallion was gem-studded.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at Saker. “You’re not old enough to have suitable experience or maturity, and your family is of modest origin, yet you presume to be the spiritual adviser of the man who will one day be king?”
Oh, sweet swill in a trough. I think I loathe him already.
“I don’t presume anything, your eminence. Least of all to question the orders of her reverence the Pontifect.” He tried to sound respectful. “If I had to guess why she chose me over others more polished, I’d assume it is because of my university learning.”
Fox picked up a letter from the table and scanned it with a frown. The lascar’s dagger chose that moment to wriggle in the pocket of Saker’s robe. Surreptitiously he clamped a hand over it, jamming it against his thigh.
Pox on the damned thing!
“Yes,” Fox said, mercifully oblivious to his squirming, “she has listed your credentials here.” He shrugged and laid the letter back down. Then, with a charming smile, he added, “And of course you’re correct: neither of us should question the decisions of the Pontifect. A woman is entitled to her little foibles, is she not? Welcome to Throssel, Witan Rampion. My secretary has arranged your accommodation in Throssel Palace, rather than here in Faith House with my clerics and administrative staff, so you can be closer to your charges. You’ll report to me in person once a week, and supply a written report for the Pontifect once a month.”
The next half-hour was a tedious lecture on how to behave at court, covering everything from what was appropriate for him to discuss with the royal offspring, to the depth of his bow to the various levels of courtiers. The Prime remained seated while he had to stand uncomfortably, his stance made awkward by the need to press the dagger flat against his leg.
By the time he made his escape, he knew two things for sure: the Prime was a condescending pizzle of a man, and he – Saker – was going to buy a thicker leather sheath for that fobbing lascar blade.
As he looked about the crowded hall of Throssel Castle at his first official function, Saker felt a chill of isolation. He was surrounded by people, yet couldn’t see anyone he knew, not even the Prime. Valerian Fox had departed for the north, saying the Shenat Primordial heresy needed his attention, which had left Saker regretting he hadn’t told his father to discourage his half-brother from mixing with those muckle-headed zealots.
King Edwayn was present, sitting up on the dais with several of his councillors and courtiers while the remains of the meal were being cleared to make way for the entertainment, a troupe of itinerant tumblers.
I feel I’m dressed for a funeral while everyone else wants to look like a Pashali parrot
, Saker thought as his gaze swept the crowd of courtiers and liveried servants.
Loathsome, confining garb.
He was obliged to wear a cleric’s sombre dark green gown and matching velvet hat. The robe buttoned under his chin fell to precisely a thumb’s length above the floor, as dictated by the office of the Prime.
The only adornment a witan was permitted was the silver medallion, so the whole ensemble was definitely funereal, in stark contrast to the courtiers surrounding him. The array of colour and glitter within shouting distance would have cast even Pashali parrots into gloom, and left him with the feeling that the court of the King of Ardrone was more alien to him than the docks of Ustgrind. Among the women, feathers seemed to be in fashion, and each elaborate
He decided not to say anything.
He’d expected to see someone of fifty or sixty, and was surprised to find Fox couldn’t have been much past forty. His habit was unadorned, but it was fine velvet; gold buckles shone on his shoes and the lace of his undershirt frilled at his wrists and neck. Two fingers on either hand were decorated with ornate rings. His Va medallion was gem-studded.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at Saker. “You’re not old enough to have suitable experience or maturity, and your family is of modest origin, yet you presume to be the spiritual adviser of the man who will one day be king?”
Oh, sweet swill in a trough. I think I loathe him already.
“I don’t presume anything, your eminence. Least of all to question the orders of her reverence the Pontifect.” He tried to sound respectful. “If I had to guess why she chose me over others more polished, I’d assume it is because of my university learning.”
Fox picked up a letter from the table and scanned it with a frown. The lascar’s dagger chose that moment to wriggle in the pocket of Saker’s robe. Surreptitiously he clamped a hand over it, jamming it against his thigh.
Pox on the damned thing!
“Yes,” Fox said, mercifully oblivious to his squirming, “she has listed your credentials here.” He shrugged and laid the letter back down. Then, with a charming smile, he added, “And of course you’re correct: neither of us should question the decisions of the Pontifect. A woman is entitled to her little foibles, is she not? Welcome to Throssel, Witan Rampion. My secretary has arranged your accommodation in Throssel Palace, rather than here in Faith House with my clerics and administrative staff, so you can be closer to your charges. You’ll report to me in person once a week, and supply a written report for the Pontifect once a month.”
The next half-hour was a tedious lecture on how to behave at court, covering everything from what was appropriate for him to discuss with the royal offspring, to the depth of his bow to the various levels of courtiers. The Prime remained seated while he had to stand uncomfortably, his stance made awkward by the need to press the dagger flat against his leg.
By the time he made his escape, he knew two things for sure: the Prime was a condescending pizzle of a man, and he – Saker – was going to buy a thicker leather sheath for that fobbing lascar blade.
As he looked about the crowded hall of Throssel Castle at his first official function, Saker felt a chill of isolation. He was surrounded by people, yet couldn’t see anyone he knew, not even the Prime. Valerian Fox had departed for the north, saying the Shenat Primordial heresy needed his attention, which had left Saker regretting he hadn’t told his father to discourage his half-brother from mixing with those muckle-headed zealots.
King Edwayn was present, sitting up on the dais with several of his councillors and courtiers while the remains of the meal were being cleared to make way for the entertainment, a troupe of itinerant tumblers.
I feel I’m dressed for a funeral while everyone else wants to look like a Pashali parrot
, Saker thought as his gaze swept the crowd of courtiers and liveried servants.
Loathsome, confining garb.
He was obliged to wear a cleric’s sombre dark green gown and matching velvet hat. The robe buttoned under his chin fell to precisely a thumb’s length above the floor, as dictated by the office of the Prime.
The only adornment a witan was permitted was the silver medallion, so the whole ensemble was definitely funereal, in stark contrast to the courtiers surrounding him. The array of colour and glitter within shouting distance would have cast even Pashali parrots into gloom, and left him with the feeling that the court of the King of Ardrone was more alien to him than the docks of Ustgrind. Among the women, feathers seemed to be in fashion, and each elaborate
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