No one had replied to his comments, but Lord Golden appeared not to notice.
‘And this time has marked his longest absence of all!’ he enlarged. ‘That’s all we hear at the court these days. “Where is Prince Dutiful? What, still in seclusion? When will he return? What, no one can say?” Very dampening t’spirits at the court for our young ruler t’be absent so long. Wager that his cat hates it, too. What d’you think, Avoin? Does a hunting cat pine when his master’s away for long?’
Avoin appeared to consider it. ‘One devoted to his cat would not leave it long alone. A cat’s loyalty is not a thing to be taken for granted, but courted day by day.’
Avoin drew breath to continue but Lady Bresinga smoothly interrupted. ‘Well, our cats hunt best while dawn is still on the land. So if we are to show Lord Golden our beauties at their prime, we had all best retire so we may arise early.’ At a small sign from her, a servant moved forwards to draw back her chair. Everyone else came to his or her feet, though Lord Golden did so with a small lurch. I thought I heard a small titter of amusement from the Graylings’ daughter, but Sydel was none too steady herself. Knowing my role, I moved forwards to offer Lord Golden a firm arm. He disdained it loftily, waving me aside and scowling at my impertinence. I stood by stolidly as the nobility offered goodnights to one another, and then followed Lord Golden to his chambers.
I opened the door for him and saw him through it. Following him, I perceived that the household servants had been at work in our chambers. The bath-things were tidied away, fresh candles filled the holders, and the window was shut. A tray of cold meats, fruit and pastries rested on the table. My first act after closing the door was to open the window. It simply felt wrong to have a solid barrier between Nighteyes and me. I glanced out, but saw no sign of the wolf. Doubtless he was doing his own prowl of the premises, and I would not risk questing out towards him. I made a swift circuit of our rooms, checking for any signs of a search, and then looking under beds and within wardrobes for possible spies. The Bresinga household and their guests had been wary tonight. Either they knew why we had come, or they were expecting someone like us to come seeking the Prince. But I found no spies in the bedclothes, nor any sign that my carelessly-hung garments had been disturbed. I never left a room in perfect order. It is easy to return a searched room to perfect order, more difficult to recall exactly how both sleeves of the garment flung across the chair touched the floor.
I completed a similar perusal of Lord Golden’s chamber while he waited in silence. When I was finished, I turned back to my master. He dropped heavily into a chair and puffed out an immense sigh. His eyes drooped as his chin dropped to his chest. All of his features sagged with drink. I made a small sound of dismay. How could he have been so careless as to get drunk? As I watched him, he kicked out his feet one after the other so that his heels clonked against the floor. Obediently I went to draw his boots off and set them to one side. ‘Can you stand?’ I asked him.
‘Whsay?’
I glanced up from where I crouched by his feet. ‘I said, can you stand?’
He opened his eyes a slit, and then a slow smile stretched his mouth. ‘I am so good,’ he congratulated himself in a whisper. ‘And you are such a satisfactory audience, Fitz. Do you know how draining it can be, to strike poses when no one knows they are poses, to assume a whole different character when there is no one to appreciate how well I do it?’ A glint of the old Fool’s mischief shone in his golden eyes. Then it faded and his mouth became serious. He spoke very softly. ‘Of course I can stand. And dance and leap, if need be. But tonight is not for that. Tonight, you must go to the kitchens and complain of how hungry you are. Fetching as you look tonight, I don’t doubt you will be fed. And see where you can lead the conversation. Go ahead, go now, I am perfectly capable of getting myself to bed. Do you wish the window left open?’
‘I would prefer it so,’ I hedged.
And I. The confirming thought from Nighteyes was softer than a breath.
‘Then it shall be so,’ Lord Golden decreed.
The kitchen was still full of servants, for the end of the meal is not the end of the serving of it. Indeed, few folk work harder or longer hours than those who feed a keep, for usually just as the tidying and washing is done from the evening meal it is nearly time to set the bread rising for the next. This was as true at Galeton as it was at Buckkeep Castle. I came to the door and ventured to lean in with an inquisitive and hopeful look on my face.
Almost immediately one of the kitchen women took pity on me. I recognized her as one of the women who had waited on the table. Lady Bresinga had addressed her as Lebven. ‘You must be ravenous. There they all sat, eating and drinking, and treated you as if you were made of wood. Well, come in. As much as they ate, there is still plenty and to spare.’
In a short time, I was perched on a tall stool at a corner of the floury and scarred bread-table. Lebven set out an array of dishes within arm’s reach of me, and true to her telling, there was plenty and to spare. Slices of cold smoked venison still half filled a platter artfully ringed with little pickled apples. Sweetened apricots were fat golden cushions in little pastry squares so rich they crumbled away at one bite. Scores of tiny bird livers marinated with bits of garlic in an oily bath did not appeal to me, but beside those there were dark breasts of duck garnished with syrupy slices of sweet ginger root. I wallowed in culinary indulgence. There was good brown bread and a slab of butter to grease it down as well. Lebven brought a mug of cold ale and a pitcher to refill it. When she had set it down to my nodded thanks, she stood at the table across from me, sprinkled flour generously, and turned out onto it a risen sponge of bread. She commenced to thump and turn it, adding handfuls of flour as she worked at the dough until it was satiny.
For a time I simply ate and watched and listened. It was the usual kitchen talk, gossip and minor rivalries between servants, one spat over a bucket of milk left out to sour, and talk of the work to prepare for the morrow. The grand folk of the house would be up early, but they would expect the food to be ready when they were, and as lavish as tonight’s dinner. They’d want saddle-food to carry along as well, and this must charm the eye as much as fill the gut. I watched Lebven as she flattened the dough, spread it with butter, folded it, and then flattened it again, only to butter and fold it again. She became aware of me watching her and looked up with a smile. ‘It makes lots of layers in the rolls this way, all flaky and crisp. But it’s a lot of work for something that they’ll eat down in less than a minute.’
Behind her, a servant placed a covered basket on the counter. He opened it, spread a linen napkin to line it, and then began to place food in it: fresh rolls, a small pot of butter, a dish with slices of meat in it, and some of the pickled apples. I watched him from the corner of my eye, while nodding and replying to Lebven’s words. ‘It’s odd. Most of them don’t give half a thought to how much work goes into our making them comfortable.’
There was more than one muttered assent in the kitchen. ‘Well, look at you,’ Lebven returned the sympathy. ‘Kept on guard all through dinner, like someone might do your master a harm in a house where he’s guesting. Ridiculous Jamaillian way of thinking. But for that, you could have had a meal and some time to yourself tonight.’
‘I would have welcomed that,’ I returned honestly. ‘I’d have liked a look around. I’ve never been in a place where they kept cats instead of dogs.’
The other servant took the basket to the back door. A man waiting there took it from his hands. Something furry swung limp from his other hand. I had only a glimpse before the door was closed again. I longed to leap up and follow that food, but Lebven was still speaking.
‘Well. That’s only been in the last ten years or so, since the old master died. Before that, we had hounds for the most part, and only a cat or two for my lady’s hunting. But the young master prefers the cats to the dogs, and so he’s let the hounds die out. Not that I miss their barking and yammer, nor having them underfoot! The big cats are kept to their pens, save when they’re hunting. And as for the small ones, why, they’re darlings and no mistake. Not a river rat dares put his nose into this kitchen any more.’ She cast a fond look at a parti-coloured housecat on the hearth. Despite the mild evening,