The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,84

'Wonder if the others feel like celebrating...'

Less than an hour later, Byren and half a dozen friends strode into the entrance of the Three Swans, calling for a private chamber, hot mead and food. Since the Three Swans was the second largest inn in Rolenton, it was their second stop. The delay had gnawed at Byren's composure, but he didn't want to arouse suspicion, not with Lence, not with Rejulas or any of the other warlords' spies.

'A private chamber,' Garzik insisted, enjoying himself. 'And be quick about it.'

The serving girl ran off, only to have the innkeeper bustle out, wiping her hands on her apron.

'Ah, Byren Kingson,' she greeted him. 'I don't have a chamber to spare. I've already had to turn out half a dozen merchants for warlord Rejulas and Lence Kingsheir -'

'Lence? My brother's here? Where is he?' Byren repeated. Pretending to be a trifle drunk he raised his voice. 'Lence?'

'Lensh?' Garzik echoed, not having to pretend.

'Hush, Garza,' Orrade warned. Only he knew the real reason for their roistering.

The innkeeper glanced to the second door of the private chambers. Garzik interpreted her look and weaved over before Orrade could stop him. Flinging the door, Garzik revealed a crowded private room. The solid oak door shuddered on its hinges. A sudden silence filled the room.

At a glance Byren saw that Lence and Cobalt were at a table with the warlord himself, while two dozen Cockatrice men cast dice with Lence's honour guard.

'There he izh!' Garzik announced. 'Hey, Byren. I found Lensh. Want to come drinking with us, Lensh?'

Lence muttered something under his breath and sprang to his feet, striding towards them.

The innkeeper wisely hurried off, leaving Byren to face his irate brother. There was nothing for it. He had to carry on now.

'Lence!' Byren swung a friendly arm around his shoulders, his new ceremonial knife digging into his ribs. He wouldn't be able to draw in a hurry. Pretending to lurch drunkenly, he shifted to give himself access to the weapon. If there was nothing wrong he would look a fool, but he didn't care as long as his twin got home safe.

'What are you doing here?' Lence demanded.

Byren glanced at his friends, who had wandered into the room and were laying bets on the outcome of the dice. Tankards were being passed around. Orrade tried to intercept Garzik before he took one, without success. Rejulas's men seemed to have overcome their enmity, though they were quick to raise a bet and mutter an oath. For all that it appeared a friendly scene, Byren could sense a lot of tension even from this quick jumble of impressions.

'What are you doing, Byren?' Lence repeated.

'Why, we're celebrating of course! Can't celebrate your betrothal without you.' Blinking owlishly, Byren fixed on Rejulas as he joined them. He went to pat Rejulas on the shoulder but missed and clutched at him to steady himself. Leaning closer, he spoke secretively. 'As for you, you made a lucky escape. Our sister's no angel, more like a cockatrice.All smiles one moment, spitting poison the next. But maybe that's the kind of woman you fancy, coming from Cockatrice Spar!' He went off into a peal of laughter.

Cobalt's eyes narrowed, but Rejulas obviously decided he was too drunk to take offence and laughed along with him.

Lence looked disgusted. Of them all, he should have known Byren would never jeopardise an alliance.

Byren sensed Cobalt watching him closely and was careful not to let his cousin catch his eye.

'So let's share a drink!' Byren linked an arm around Lence and Rejulas's shoulders and stumbled towards the small table, away from the dicers. A single lamp illuminated this end of the room. Three tankards and a scrap of scribbled paper lay on the table. 'What're you drinking?'

He swooped a hand down to grab the empty tankard and sniff it, while trying to see what was written on the back of a torn broadsheet, the sort that advertised minstrels. But before he could make sense of it, Cobalt swept the table clean as though the paper had only been rubbish and called for more hot mead.

Byren spun a tavern chair around and dropped his weight onto it, hearing it creak in protest. Even though he sprawled his forearms on the back of the chair, he made sure his knife was free of obstruction and his back was to the wall.

'Yes, a toast to your betrothal, Lence Kingsheir,' Rejulas said. 'Or would you prefer Rolencian red?'

'No more drinking,' Lence objected. 'Byren's had quite