his eyes, he looked Christopher up and down in tolerant amusement and addressed Oliver in Southlandast.
‘Go easy on him, Sir Knight,’ he said. ‘These fellows have not the sense of propriety one might desire. The poor savage probably thinks he’s gaining favour by protecting Razi’s woman – forgive my crudeness, Wyn.’
‘Alberon . . .’ warned Razi.
‘Oliver, why don’t you take him out to those others,’ continued Alberon. ‘Get them something to gnaw on and somewhere to squat down until I am ready to deal with them.’
‘Alberon . . .’ said Wynter quietly.
‘Actually,’ interrupted Christopher, uncovering his face, ‘this savage would prefer to stay, until the Lord Razi tells him otherwise.’
There was a moment of strained silence as Alberon registered the fact that Christopher spoke perfect Southlandast.
‘Freeman Christopher Garron is my Second, your Highness,’ said Razi, ‘my bodyguard. As well as a very good friend.’
‘A friend,’ said Alberon. The Prince regarded Christopher coolly, his clothes, his bracelets. His eyes faltered on Christopher’s horribly mutilated hands, then rose smoothly to his face. ‘Your Southlandast is excellent, Freeman Garron.’
‘Thank you, your Highness,’ said Christopher flatly.
Bow, thought Wynter. Bow, damn it. But, of course, he didn’t.
‘Do the others speak Southlandast?’ asked Alberon. ‘It seems underhanded to conceal the fact if they do. I had expected to deal with the Princess’s messengers via Garmain; ’twas a surprise to find these folk speak only Hadrish, and so poorly at that. Though, perhaps . . . ?’ He looked uncertainly at Christopher, doubt evident in his expression. ‘Perhaps you are their translator?’
Christopher glared, that dangerous pride rising in his face. ‘I have no doubt that the Merron lords speak Garmain with every fluency,’ he said. ‘They chose to speak Hadrish out of deference to the Lord Razi. He speaks neither Garmain nor the Merron tongue, and the Merron would consider it below their dignity as noblemen to indulge in a conversation that one of their party could not understand.’
If Alberon felt the sting of that he did not let it show. ‘I see,’ he said. He glanced back at Razi, spent a brief moment in contemplation, then turned to Oliver. ‘Go out now and thank the Merron leader for his duty to my brother. Tell him that I am pleased. Find accommodation for him and for his entourage . . . make it good accommodation.’
Oliver hesitated. He glanced at Christopher, then murmured, ‘There are no accommodations, your Highness.’
Alberon sighed. ‘Just double up the men, somehow. Commandeer some tents. I want those people settled by nightfall, Oliver. I have no desire to set them above their station, but if they are to stay, I want them where I can see them. You, Freeman, go with Sir Oliver. Keep an eye on your people; report back to him if there is discontent.’
Christopher stiffened. ‘I ain’t no spy,’ he hissed.
‘Christopher.’ Razi’s quiet voice drew everyone’s attention to him. ‘It would probably be wise that you help the Merron get settled.’ Christopher held his eye. ‘The Protector Lady and I will be safe,’ said Razi, smiling gently. ‘Thank you, friend.’
Christopher flicked a glance at Wynter, and she nodded to let him know that she would be fine. She tried to soften her face, tried to smile and seem warmly grateful like Razi, but she had the horrible feeling that she looked as though she were haughtily dismissing a servant. Christopher compressed his mouth, staring at her. Then he gave Alberon one last suspicious glare, bowed stiffly and stalked out the door. Wynter did not turn her head to watch him exit the tent.
Oliver loitered unhappily, his eyes hopping from brother to brother.
‘Shoo!’ said Alberon with a smile. ‘Out! I shall write you a full report by morning.’
Oliver gave him a tight-jawed look, bowed and left, leaving Wynter, Razi and Alberon alone.
The three of them stood still for a moment as the light within the tent flickered and danced with the movement of the men outside. Dust filtered through the open door, hazing the air as the soldiers retreated. Two long shadows fell against the canvas as Alberon’s personal guard took position at the awning. It grew quiet.
The little boy-servant came and peeped in at the door. Alberon smiled at him.
‘Small-ale, Anthony, please. Some cheese and . . . is there bread?’
The boy nodded, and Alberon waved him away. They listened to him scamper off, then Alberon turned to his family. ‘How shall we do this?’ he asked softly. ‘So many things . . .’ He looked to Razi. ‘I should like