again.
Psellos was not entertaining that evening, so they joined him for dinner on the balcony level of the Tower. Rol had counted eleven levels aboveground and seven below, but he knew there were yet more beneath those seven—seldom-visited caverns he would probably never see. Psellos had a laboratory somewhere below the training circles to which he would sometimes disappear for days at a time, and among the Tower servants there were rumors of secret strong-rooms stuffed with jewels, imprisoned demons festering in stone cells, forgotten prisoners eking out a starvation existence in the subterranean darkness. Sheer fancy, most of it, but if half the rumors and demi-legends could be proved true, Rol would not have been surprised. He had seen and done enough in his year within the Tower to know that anything was possible.
Psellos was in an expansive mood. He had bidden Rol and Rowen don their finest, and the long table was cluttered with crystal and silver, the centerpiece an exquisite rendition of a carrack in full sail crafted of thinnest gold plate. The model’s main-hatch was full of salt, and silver barrels that lined the little deck were full of other condiments and sauces. It was a long way from dried fish and brackish water upon the
Gannet.
Silent servants danced attendance on the trio, their comings and goings regulated by curt gestures, nods, and waves from Quare. They drank Armidian apple wine with fillets of Bank’s Monk stuffed with anchovies and capers, hooked snail-shrimp from their long whorled shells with silver picks, and sliced into cutlets of lamb rare and bloody and mouth-melting with wild garlic and thyme. Finally they pushed back their chairs, dismissed the servants, and sat while Psellos broke open a bottle of Cavaillic brandy, the glass encrusted with age. Gibble had surpassed himself. It was a meal a king could not have found fault with. Psellos was austere in many ways, but not when it came to his belly.
“A year and a day you have been under my roof,” Psellos said to Rol. “Doubtless, in your youth, it seems a long time. And yet your training has barely begun. Rol, your tutor tells me that you are close to besting her in combat, and you have no idea what praise that is.” He paused awhile and looked both Rol and Rowen up and down. He seemed to be savoring some secret knowledge as a miser will gloat over his hoarded gold.
“But fighting is not everything. There are other disciplines which are not so easily mastered. I want you to learn them all. I want to see what you can do.”
He was perhaps a little drunk, but not solely on wine. Psellos often slipped into moods like this. He would sit and plan their lives in vague terms which seemed nonetheless to please him inordinately, and sculpt visions of glorious futures. Sometimes Rol thought there were two natures warring within Psellos, one which was proud to teach, and another which was closed and ugly, hoarding its knowledge. One never knew which was strongest. Until one won out.
“My, what a handsome pair you are. What beauty sits at my table. Rol, you have the brow of a prince. Rowen, you are stainless, perfect. You shall remain with me. I wish to enjoy you tonight.”
Rowen inclined her head, expressionless. Rol knew her well now, and he could see the tiny flicker in her eye. For a long time now, Psellos had not called her to his bed, or sent her out to lie in others’. It had been a tacit hope of Rol’s that Psellos would hold to his word, and not do so again. He bowed his head. What was he to say, if Rowen said nothing?
Psellos had not missed the look in Rowen’s eye either. It seemed to heighten his good humor.
“Rol, doubtless you have a comely kitchen maid awaiting you downstairs, but before you leave us, there is something I wish to present you with.” Pushing back his chair, Psellos rose and from a nearby sideboard fetched a long, slim wooden case. He unlatched the lid and raised it. Whatever it contained flashed
Psellos was not entertaining that evening, so they joined him for dinner on the balcony level of the Tower. Rol had counted eleven levels aboveground and seven below, but he knew there were yet more beneath those seven—seldom-visited caverns he would probably never see. Psellos had a laboratory somewhere below the training circles to which he would sometimes disappear for days at a time, and among the Tower servants there were rumors of secret strong-rooms stuffed with jewels, imprisoned demons festering in stone cells, forgotten prisoners eking out a starvation existence in the subterranean darkness. Sheer fancy, most of it, but if half the rumors and demi-legends could be proved true, Rol would not have been surprised. He had seen and done enough in his year within the Tower to know that anything was possible.
Psellos was in an expansive mood. He had bidden Rol and Rowen don their finest, and the long table was cluttered with crystal and silver, the centerpiece an exquisite rendition of a carrack in full sail crafted of thinnest gold plate. The model’s main-hatch was full of salt, and silver barrels that lined the little deck were full of other condiments and sauces. It was a long way from dried fish and brackish water upon the
Gannet.
Silent servants danced attendance on the trio, their comings and goings regulated by curt gestures, nods, and waves from Quare. They drank Armidian apple wine with fillets of Bank’s Monk stuffed with anchovies and capers, hooked snail-shrimp from their long whorled shells with silver picks, and sliced into cutlets of lamb rare and bloody and mouth-melting with wild garlic and thyme. Finally they pushed back their chairs, dismissed the servants, and sat while Psellos broke open a bottle of Cavaillic brandy, the glass encrusted with age. Gibble had surpassed himself. It was a meal a king could not have found fault with. Psellos was austere in many ways, but not when it came to his belly.
“A year and a day you have been under my roof,” Psellos said to Rol. “Doubtless, in your youth, it seems a long time. And yet your training has barely begun. Rol, your tutor tells me that you are close to besting her in combat, and you have no idea what praise that is.” He paused awhile and looked both Rol and Rowen up and down. He seemed to be savoring some secret knowledge as a miser will gloat over his hoarded gold.
“But fighting is not everything. There are other disciplines which are not so easily mastered. I want you to learn them all. I want to see what you can do.”
He was perhaps a little drunk, but not solely on wine. Psellos often slipped into moods like this. He would sit and plan their lives in vague terms which seemed nonetheless to please him inordinately, and sculpt visions of glorious futures. Sometimes Rol thought there were two natures warring within Psellos, one which was proud to teach, and another which was closed and ugly, hoarding its knowledge. One never knew which was strongest. Until one won out.
“My, what a handsome pair you are. What beauty sits at my table. Rol, you have the brow of a prince. Rowen, you are stainless, perfect. You shall remain with me. I wish to enjoy you tonight.”
Rowen inclined her head, expressionless. Rol knew her well now, and he could see the tiny flicker in her eye. For a long time now, Psellos had not called her to his bed, or sent her out to lie in others’. It had been a tacit hope of Rol’s that Psellos would hold to his word, and not do so again. He bowed his head. What was he to say, if Rowen said nothing?
Psellos had not missed the look in Rowen’s eye either. It seemed to heighten his good humor.
“Rol, doubtless you have a comely kitchen maid awaiting you downstairs, but before you leave us, there is something I wish to present you with.” Pushing back his chair, Psellos rose and from a nearby sideboard fetched a long, slim wooden case. He unlatched the lid and raised it. Whatever it contained flashed
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