The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

The judge ordered, “Halt.”

Thistle bent over, hands on knees, panting. The blood-stained rope dragged in the dirt.

“Lord Maximus,” asked Stonefist, “is your household content that justice has been done?”

Hasty nods encouraged the head to say, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Then take him to the Chirurgeon.”

Maximus came forward to guide the boy away with a gentle hand on his arm.

Duke Stonefist took his seat again.

“Are there any others seeking justice of the Lord High Executioner?” called the herald.

No one moved. Stonefist had spotted a group in the crowd with the look of a lawsuit. Perhaps they’d changed their mind. Good. People working out their own problems found better results.

“This closes the court of the Lord High Executioner,” declared the herald.

Stonefist kept the judge face on. He was still being watched as the crowd dispersed.

“What do you want me to do with this?” asked Sharpedge, picking up the stained rope.

“Put it back on the pole.”

“Right there? Where everyone has to look at it?”

Stonefist said, “If they all see it and remember I’m hoping we’ll never have to use it again.”

***

The House Applesmile pavilion could be divided by a light canvas curtain. Master Sweetbread and Mistress Tightseam would put it up when they wanted some privacy from the younger members of the household.

Now Mistress Tightseam was sacrificing the curtain. Shellbutton’s fondness for light linen dresses hadn’t served her well in the disaster. Between kneeling in the dirt to gather plants and being washed on river rocks, they were tattered beyond patching. New clothes were needed. The curtain was the best fabric available.

Producing a dress was no test of Mistress Tightseam’s skill. The hard part was wasting as little fabric as possible. A few members of the Kingdom were spinning yarn from local plant fibers, but they were a long way from making enough for cloth. Fortunately she remembered some historic outfits designed more for thrifty production than a flattering appearance.

Thus when Lord Goldpen arrived at House Applesmile he saw Shellbutton lying contorted on the curtain as Redinkle marked where to cut with a bit of charcoal. This discomposed the voluble courtier enough he stood there in silence.

Mistress Tightseam eyed him warily. Goldpen was one of the late Queen Camellia’s favorites. No one wanted to punish him for his support of her, but Autocrat Sharpquill did stick him with delivering bad news.

“May I help you, my lord?” prompted Tightseam.

Goldpen started. “Oh, yes. We’re doing a roll call.” He checked his slate. “There are eight in your household, yes? Have you seen them all today?”

“We were all here at breakfast. Right?” Tightseam looked to her daughter.

Redinkle nodded. “Newman’s hunting, Goldenrod’s gathering, and the boys are at the charcoal pit. I don’t remember where Dad went.”

“He’s cooking at the common pavilion,” supplied Shellbutton.

“That’s all of us,” said Mistress Tightseam. “Why do you ask?”

Goldpen flinched. He carefully put a checkmark on his slate. “Um. A hunting party found a skeleton this morning.”

“A skeleton? Whoever it is must’ve been missing for a while.”

“Not decayed, Mistress. Eaten.”

Shellbutton said, “Ewww.”

“I must ask. Have any of you seen La—I mean, have you seen Stitches today?”

“I haven’t. Girls?”

The younger women shook their heads.

“Thank you. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

The courtier went into the lane and stood a moment studying his slate. Then he looked around, studying the people walking about and checking the slate again. His eyes locked on a woman in a dark brown dress and he strode down the lane toward her. “Lady Belladonna!”

Redinkle said, “They must be making him talk to everybody if he’s asking her about the roll call.”

Belladonna turned to look at the courtier, met his eyes with no change in her expression, then turned away. He caught up and tugged at her sleeve. They couldn’t hear what he said, but Belladonna stopped and listened to him.

“Is she pregnant?” asked Shellbutton.

“No way,” replied Redinkle. “No guy would put up with her long enough.”

Shellbutton looked hard. “That’s a distinct belly bulge.”

Mistress Tightseam turned to look. “Belly’s bulging but her tits are shrinking. Not pregnant. I’d bet she’s hiding a vineroot under her dress so she doesn’t have to share. Back in position, girl. Gossiping won’t get you a new dress.”

***

Autocrat Sharpquill looked up from his laptop. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

Everyone in the pavilion hastily stood.

“Good evening. May I have a moment of your time?” said King Estoc.

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal.” That might not be an expression given the look on the king’s face.

Estoc took a seat across the table from Sharpquill. He made a shooing gesture, sending the staffers out.

The Autocrat sat back down. Lady Cinnamon slid onto the bench beside him, her thigh against his. He felt strength flow into him from the connection. If the king wanted her to leave he’d have to ask, and give a reason, Sharpquill decided.

Her presence didn’t seem to bother the king. Something else did. He wasn’t eager to bring it up.

Master Sharpquill broke the silence. “Thank you for supporting the theft trial this afternoon, Your Majesty.”

King Estoc leaned forward. “You’re welcome. My authority was used to force a teenage boy to beat himself bloody. I’m glad you’re happy about it.”

“Duke Stonefist has taken on a difficult job. There’s no easy answers when we have people taking food from each other’s mouths.”

“Fine. It’s his job. Well, I’m here to tell you my job is expiring. There’s three weeks left in the reign. Then I’m going to go cut down trees and chase deer and someone else can take responsibility for all this horrible shit.”

Sharpquill’s shoulders hunched up. His neck tensed. He clamped his jaws shut to keep his initial response from escaping.

Cinnamon spoke first, her voice gentle. “Your Majesty, we need you.”