Maze of Moonlight, Gael Baudino [ebook reader screen TXT] 📗

bread; but in the wide space at the center of the baronial pavilions, the nobles of Adria, from the great lords of Maris and Hypprux down tot he barons of such small towns as Friex and Kirtel, were served at a long table set beneath a sky-blue canopy.

Today, it was Yvonnet's chef who was showing off: gilded meats, subtleties, nuts disguised as haslet, beef disguised as fish, fish disguised as beef. Servants in the livery of Hypprux milled, honey sauces and saffron were everywhere, and silver trumpets announced the appearance of the most splendid of the courses.

Ruprecht examined the girth of his fellow baron with a lifted eyebrow. “Yes, yes . . . I must say, he's more than likely a splendid beast.”

The small barons looked nervous. At the far end of the table, Pytor, seneschal of Aurverelle, commander of the forces of the estate and yet for all that a poor and despised relation at this commingling of nobility and display, fretted, picked at his food, watched the sun drop toward the burning forest. Furze was all but destroyed, Shrinerock was uninhabitable, the free companies were loose—somewhere—and Yvonnet and Ruprecht had passed three days in sparring and braggart revelry.

Now the daylight was reddening in preparation for yet another sunset the color of a bloody wound. “I wish that my master were here,” he said slowly.

Ruprecht stared at him. “I wish exactly the same, Pytor.” He insisted upon calling the seneschal by given name rather than by title. It was an insult, but having no illusions about his status, the good Russian peasant was immune to it. “If you think I enjoy living in these wretched surroundings, I would seek to correct you.”

At a gesture from Ruprecht, a servant ran up, his feet soundless on the thick carpet, and filled the baron's silver goblet from a brimming ewer.

“He's the best horse in the world,” Yvonnet insisted loudly.

“I will admit,” said Ruprecht, “that you're amply provided for.”

“As are the coffers of Avignon,” Yvonnet snapped. Ruprecht stiffened. Pytor winced: of all things to bring up, papal allegiance was undoubtedly the most idiotic. “But if those wretched brigands show their faces . . .”

Ruprecht's eyes narrowed. Pytor winced again. Wretched brigands! It was Yvonnet who had brought them into Adria in the first place!

“. . . I'd show you what a horse is made of. He bounds form the earth. He leaps about as though he had rabbit for guts! He trots . . . well . . . he trots . . .”

“Very well,” prompted one of the small barons.

“Well . . . yes,” said Yvonnet. “Very well.”

A cry of sentry in the distance, and a challenge. Pytor recognized the voice of one of the Aurverelle men, and he listened hopefully, but, no, nothing more.

A young page appeared at Pytor's elbow. “Is there anything I can get you, my lord seneschal?”

“Yes,” said the Russian heavily. “A monkey.”

The boy looked confused. “I'm . . . sorry, my lord. I don't think we have one of those.”

Pytor nodded, lifted his arms dramatically. “Then we are lost.”

Ruprecht glared at the seneschal. “See here, my man, I'm tired of your gloom. If you can't say pleasant things, then go and eat with the servants.”

A number of the small barons murmured. Pytor might not be noble, but he was still the seneschal of Aurverelle. Ruprecht was being deliberately rude.

But Pytor stood up. “I'm gloomy, lord baron of Maris, because I am Russian. We Russians are always gloomy . . . except when we are gay.”

Ruprecht flushed above his black beard. “You're being impertinent, Pytor. I don't like impertinence.”

Pytor kept wishing for monkeys and apples. “I am attempting to civilly remind the honored gentlemen that we have a purpose for gathering here.”

Ruprecht sat back, stuck his eating knife into the table. “What do you want, serf? Command of the army?”

Pytor was becoming a little angry. “I would remind the baron . . .”

“That you're seneschal of Aurverelle? I assure you, I know that.”

“. . . that I am not a serf. I am a slave.”

Ruprecht's eyes were the color of flint. “Yes, Pytor. I think we all know that. And I'm sure you know that Maris is a member of the Hansa. As is Novgorod. There's a price paid for escaped slaves, isn't there?”

Pytor felt his jaw tighten. It was true.

“Sit down, Pytor.”

But another voice, one that rose from beyond the canopy, called out: “No, Pytor, stay on your feet: Mirya here needs your chair.”

Pytor whirled to find Christopher approaching the table with a woman on his arm. His face was blistered and black with soot and dirt, his hair was charred in places, and his clothes had been half burnt off his back. The woman with him was like none that Pytor had seen before, for though her face was pale and gaunt, her eyes seemed overly bright, and she was dressed in some outlandish imitation of men's garb.

Pytor ran to Christopher, fell on his knees at his feet, kissed his hand. “Master!”

“Up, Pytor,” said the baron. “These . . .” He eyed the assembly in their silks and finery. “. . . gentlefolk don't know the intricacies of the Russian character. I'm afraid they'll think ill of you for being so steadfastly loyal.”

“But where has master been?”

“Running through forest fires,” said Christopher. “Where does it look like I've been?” Gently, he conducted the woman to Pytor's chair and eased her down. She nodded bleary thanks, and Christopher himself poured a cup of wine for her and put it into her hands. “My thanks, my dear Mirya. My infinite, infinite thanks.”

Pytor stared.

Mirya nodded mutely, drank. Christopher turned to Pytor. “You remember Mirya, don't you, Pytor? One of the kind . . . ah . . . physicians who healed Vanessa? Well, now she's saved my life, too.”

Ruprecht was on his feet. “What is the meaning of this, Christopher?”

Christopher patted Mirya's shoulder and strode alongside the table until he faced Ruprecht and Yvonnet across three feet of laden