A Flight of Ravens by John Conroe (thriller books to read TXT) 📗

That was it.  Odd.  I had never been summoned by Cal before.  Requests for my presence had always been either overt or covert messages from Brona, or on several occasions, direct visits by royal guardsmen on behalf of the king.  This was extremely unusual and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up a little.

The king’s first court session of the day began at the tenth hour and ended by noon. I had a notion of waking to nine bells rung across the city, several hours past my normal time.

The only truly accurate clock in Haven was the church’s mechanical clock in the bell tower of the cathedral. Only the church could be trusted with a device that was clearly proscribed technology, and only because monks from the Brotherhood of the Apostle kept close watch over it.  The order, which consisted of perhaps seventy to eighty individuals, only existed to operate, regulate, and continually bless the six clocks that were distributed around Montshire.

The rest of us made do with sundials and sand clocks, constantly recalibrating them to the chimes of the church.

Tina pushed open my door, a plate of food in one hand and a cup of steaming caffe in the other.

“Has the tenth bell rung yet?” I asked.

“Not yet, but soon,” she said, glancing at my desktop where the message laid open.  “You likely have a quarter hour yet.”

“Thank you, Tina.  Would you ask whichever lad is on duty to saddle Tipton?”

“I will at that,” she agreed with a nod.

Breakfast consisted of oatmeal sweetened with maple syrup and a pat of melting butter, paired with an autumn apple that had not yet begun to wrinkle.  I shoveled in the thick porridge, gulped down the caffe, and took the apple with me.

Stopping by my rooms, I pulled out a better-quality cloak of dark gray trimmed with black fisher fur and changed my brown wool shirt for a deep blue tunic of a more formal nature.  My boots were muddy and scuffed so I took several minutes to brush them into a semblance of cleanliness.  The pants I had selected for the day were of good quality and clean, so they would have to do.  My time was short; the missive said end of session, but a king as mercurial as Helat might end it early.

The church bell rang ten times as Tipton clopped up the hill toward Havensheart and I arrived in the back of the crowded throne room about five minutes after the first petitioners had begun pleading their cases.  Standing near the back wall, my height allowed me to see over most of the heads in front of me.

King Helat listened intently as the first of two merchants described how he’d been cheated on an order of cloth by the other merchant.  At the king’s right hand, Princess Brona listened just as attentively.  That was also unusual these days, as Brona did not often attend morning court, being fully occupied with her duties running the kingdom’s charities, overseeing the directorate of agriculture, trade, and natural resources, running her own businesses, and, of course, directing the Shadows.  Something odd was up.

The next two hours dragged by as the king heard and passed judgement on disputes, welcomed foreign officials, heard from trade delegations (which he usually handed off to Brona), and listened and responded to complaints or concerns from citizens of Montshire.  The seneschal kept track of time by the simple expedient of looking out a strategic window in the throne room that gave a clear view of the church steeple.  I have a pretty good sense of time, but the long lines of supplicants had long ago confused my internal clock like a skilled street con running a shell game.  Suddenly I saw the seneschal turn from the window and raise his right hand to shoulder height. The king’s sharp eyes caught the motion before returning to the man in front of him who was going on about an uneven trade of cheese for beef.  The king raised his own hand, stopping the man in midsentence, and ruled that the terms of the deal had been clear to all parties before the transaction occurred and that he must abide by the results.

“And that will end our formal hearings for this morn,” Helat said.

“But Your Majesty, the clock…” The next person in line snapped his mouth shut at the ice-cold glare the king gave him and immediately dropped into a deep bow of acceptance.

“Now then, Savid DelaCrotia… Where are you?” King Helat asked the chamber.

“Here, Your Majesty,” I called, moving forward from my spot at the back of the room.   The lines of petitioners melted out of my path as I walked the full length of the room, all eyes on me.

“Step up here with us,” the king invited, a rare honor.

I climbed up on the dais as he stood up, Princess Brona at his side. Once in front of him, I dropped to one knee as protocol demanded.

“There has been some confusion across our great kingdom over the past few months concerning our regard for Montshire’s only living holder of the Kingdom Cross,” the king said in his deep voice.  “We regret the necessity of that confusion, but it served our kingdom well.  However, as Crown Princess Brona has reminded us, the time is past due to clear this matter up.  Captain Savid DelaCrotia has been and continues to be a patriot of our nation. Let it be known, now and forever, that his retired rank is hereby to be recorded in the kingdom’s archives as Captain, Retired, Ranged Reconnaissance Squadron.”

Then the king reached down and pinned a set of captain’s bars to the collar of my tunic.  “Rise, Captain,” he said.

I stood up and he gave me another honor—he gripped my forearm and I gripped his, causing the crowd to ooh.  Much as Lord Sampson’s kiss on Brona’s hand, the touch of arms and hands between men is only done with one’s most trusted