The Blue Prince Chapter 7 - Inspection Day part 1
Title: The Blue Prince
Chapter 7Rating: NC-17 (for explicit sex, occasional violence and themes of prostitution)
Summary: A battle-scarred soldier, a lonely Prince and a magnificent painting are key to a conspiracy that could destroy a nation.
Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction and is not intended to bear resemblance to any actual events or people. All rights are owned by the author, please do not repost or otherwise use without explicit permission.
An odd metallic sound out in the corridor resolved itself into the unusual but inescapably distinctive sound of somebody hitting a saucepan with a wooden spoon.
Gerulf peeled his eyes open and sat up, reluctantly shaking off sleep. He'd gotten to bed rather later than usual last night and was paying the price for it now. There was a steaming basin of water on the rug by the fire, Zita having done her usual pixie-like job of whisking in and out of his room without him noticing. Surely he must have slept far longer than he intended, if she'd decided to bring it in rather than waiting for signs of life from his room, but the light through the curtains told him it was barely dawn.
He rose from his bed and stretched, then settled on the rug to do his exercises. As he did so, the odd sounds from the corridor increased in range and volume until he began to truly wonder if some terrible emergency was under way. No screams though, no sounds of panic. Although...it was surprising to realise how poorly he'd kept track of time since he'd been in the Prince's House, and wasn't it now Saturday?
The first Saturday of the month?
Inspection day, the very thing that Mrs Burry had gone to trouble to warn him about.
the maester, Master Rein, disapproves great strongly of the Prince’s men, her note had said. please to be aware that you should be wary of him, as he has been known by many to be much vengeful towards some as he disapproves of.
What should he expect though? It would be of little use to try to stay out of the building for the day, he considered, working through his daily regimen of press ups. Even if Maester Rein knew nothing of his existence, given his evident profound dislike of the 'Prince's men', he would likely check Gerulf's room and find it inhabited. Besides, the staff had little reason to go to any lengths to protect Gerulf, unless of course they disliked or feared Rein, which wouldn't be surprising given Mrs Burry's letter.
Mrs Burry; that was the very person to go to. Gerulf finished his exercises, washed and dressed, then opened the door just in time to hear a tremendous crash, followed shortly by a wail of abject horror. Peering into the corridor, he saw one of the maids standing, her hands clenched into her hair, over a shattered platter and some scraps of food scattered on the floor. Just as he opened his mouth to offer assistance, Zita flew out from another room and rapidly had the girl soothed, the remains of the platter scooped into her apron and another member of staff rushing towards them with a mop.
His unit of Brigadiers could have used a Zita.
“Good morning. Can I be of any help, there? It's the day for this inspection, is it not?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light and friendly. The other maids were staring at him, all wide eyed, but Zita looked quite relieved at his presence.
“I'm sure there's plenty of things you could help out with, if you don't mind it,” she replied cheerily. “Go and ask Mrs Burry what needs doing. I think she's in the kitchen. Was she still there when you left, Merry?”
This last was directed at the maid with the mop, who looked horrified at the prospect of having to speak in front of Gerulf. As if he'd suddenly notice she was there and go for her.
“Y-y-yes, Miss Zita,” the girl stuttered, then seemed at a loss.
“I shall go and ask her, then,” Gerulf responded, in what he thought was quite a gentle and unassuming tone. Yet it caused both of the younger maids to attempt to fit themselves behind Zita, peering at him from over her shoulders. As he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, he could vaguely hear Zita hissing at them both in annoyance:
“...not going to bite, you know...”
“...alia said...”
“...terrible gossip, don't even...”
“...but what if he hits...”
“He won't!”
Nice to know somebody had faith in him.
The kitchen door stood open, spilling warm air and the sounds of fervent cleaning into the corridor. Gerulf peered around the frame before going in, not a manoeuvre he was accustomed to, but a necessary one, if the quickly reigned in gasps were any measure. Mrs Burry stood at one end of the large, ruthlessly scrubbed table, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other. The latter was being used to point at people and waft them in the various directions she was telling them to go. Scurrying people filled the room, coming and going through the various doors into the scullery, the storerooms, the stable yard and...they would have been going out into the corridor too, but several had drawn to a halt upon seeing Gerulf standing there. Suddenly feeling awfully self-conscious, he stepped back, holding the door open further, trying with all his might to look harmless.
Two middle aged women and a teenage lad, all laden with piles of linen, shuffled warily past him, carefully avoiding eye contact. He grit his teeth and told himself he was not irritated.
In the sudden void of noise that his entrance had created, Mrs Burry turned to look up at him and smiled, brandishing the papers.
“I've told the lads in the stables you'll lend them your hands for the time being, if you don't mind that is,” she said, waving the spatula in the direction of the stable yard door. “Best you're out there than scaring all my girls.”
This raised a high pitched, nervousness titter from somebody in the room, the noise rapidly followed by an ominous clatter and a glare from Mrs Burry. Gerulf uttered a polite agreement an left.
The sun was out from behind the clouds, for the time being at least, and the day had the crisp, biting feel of that last, clinging part of autumn, before winter truly got it's teeth into the year. Frost gilded the grass and the moss that grew between the slabs in the yard. No snow yet, but Gerulf wouldn't be surprised when it came.
The large main doors of the stable were both wide open, and Gostislav emerged just as Gerulf entered, leading a stout, grey pony. Gerulf wished him a good morning, and rushed into the building before he could receive the reply, which doubtless would run to several minutes of verbal meandering that could have been summed up in three or four words. It was warm and pleasantly earthy smelling inside. Two stable lads were brushing down one of the coach horses in the open pen at the end of the building, and at the other end the door to Timur's small office stood open, the man himself sitting at the desk sorting papers into neat piles.
Gerulf climbed the two small steps that separated the office doorway from the rest of the stables and rapped on the open door.
“Just a moment, Gostislav. Bloody merchants...”
“It's me, Timur,” Gerulf said, and the older man turned and gave him a distracted smile.
“Ah, hello there lad. What can I do for you?”
“Mrs Burry suggested that I could help you out here, get me out of the way while the rest are getting ready for inspection.” He stepped into the office and leaned his hip against the edge of the dusty, cluttered desk. He'd no idea what had led him to put on his older clothes that morning, but he was glad he had done. Good to be back in something other than blue, at any rate.
Timur looked thoughtfully up at him for a moment, then rose from his chair. “I should have expected that, I suppose,” he said, half to himself. “Not surprised she wants to keep you tucked away. She's taken a shine to you.”
“What do you mean?” Gerulf asked, fairly sure he knew already.
“Mean that that Maester or whatever he wants to call himself isn't at all approving of His Majesty the Prince keeping fellows such as yourself around. Especially as he keeps you living in his little corner of the palace. S'true that most of the lads have been hired in your situation left because they got bored, or the Prince didn't get along with them...but more than one's been scared off by the Maester on inspection day.”
“What does he do to them?”
“Oh, nothing harmful. But he's a clever man. He knows just how to strike at a fellow to put him off balance. Mark my words, you're far better off out here. He's too good for the stables, always sends one of his guardsmen to make the inspection o' this place.”
Gerulf thought this over for a moment, then nodded, and accepted the scrap of paper Timur handed him. It wasn't in his nature to hide out like this; if this Maester Rein was likely to take exception to him, he'd rather know it right up front and deal with it. But...he'd been in the palace for a few days, while Timur and Mrs Burry had been there for years. If they both thought he was better off there, he was sure that he was.
He looked down at the note, which was in even worse handwriting than Zita's. Luckily, Timur began going through it with him.
“Ask the lads out there to show you where the tack room is. There's a rack of bridles on the wall that need a clean, they'll show you where everything can be found. When you're done with that, give the tack room a sweep and then come back here. You can give Guiscard a hand with the hay bales. Alright, lad?”
“Certainly,” Gerulf replied. “Nothing I've not done before.”
“Good. No questions?”
Gerulf's mouth started moving before he'd even thought about whether he wanted to ask the question or not. “You said more than one man was scared off by Maester Rein...How many exactly?”
Timur's mouth turned down in a worried grimace as he studied Gerulf's face, finally seeming to make a decision.
“All of the ones who lasted long enough to see an inspection day,” he said grimly.
*
The tack room was close and dusty, and smelled richly of leather and polish and horse, once again taking Gerulf's mind back to days long past at the army encampment. Many a day, when Captain Galen had run out of chores for him, he'd ended up doing odd jobs in the stables in return for a little riding practice on one of the horses, a habit that had served him well when he joined the army proper, as he'd needed far less training than many of the other new recruits.
The doors of the tack room opened onto the stable yard, and were drawn to rather than fully closed, to let a little fresh air in, and to allow Gerulf to hear some of the goings on outside. Every so often there was a flurry of motion from the direction of the house, as people rushed to and fro trying to get ready. Now and then a horse or pony was led across the yard on their way to the pasture, and once in a while it sounded like other animals were being brought from the main stables, no doubt to benefit from Timur's expertise as a blacksmith. Apart from the tightly controlled havoc in the Prince's House, the day could have been quite peaceful...and yet Gerulf could not shake of a sense of foreboding. Perhaps it was simply the worries of Mrs Burry and Timur, or perhaps it was something more.
Perhaps it was the distinctive sound of armed men, marching across the yard towards the very spot where he sat.
He set aside the cloth and tin of leather oil he'd been using, and hung the part-cleaned bridle that he'd been working on back on it's hook, then rose to his feet, half expecting the footsteps to veer away and for him to be left feeling like a fool.
But no, seconds after he'd risen, the door was opened by a guardsman. The man was a little older, and perhaps a little heavier set than most he'd seen around the palace, and as well as the usual blue and grey livery, he wore a white sash across his chest. A signifier of rank perhaps? The man looked Gerulf up and down, an unreadable expression on his face, then turned to two other figures and nodded, silently.
As the guardsman moved out of the door frame, Gerulf found himself the subject of great scrutiny by two other men; one was another guardsman, wearing the same white sash, while the third man on the party was something else all together.
He was tall and narrow bodied, dressed in a fussily neat suit over which flowed a knee length robe, similar to those worn by magistrates, all in shades of reddish brown and cream. His grey-speckled dark hair was oiled tidily back, showing pale, thin skin at his hair line. Of the appearance of his face, Gerulf could not say, for he was wearing the most curious thing, a dark fabric mask which covered his face from brow to chin and from ear to ear, held in place by sturdy strips of cloth.
The guardsman who had opened the door, in the seconds Gerulf had been allowed to take his visitors in, had snapped himself to strict attention and drew breath to speak, clearly and rather more loudly than was necessary.
“Maester Rein, may I present the servant of the Prince's House, Gerulf!” he boomed. The thin man, the Maester, nodded coolly, and seemed approving as Gerulf bowed.
The man wasn't supposed to come out here in person. His presence couldn't mean anything good.
He stepped forward. “I understand from his Majesty Prince Jaromil that you are here from the Provinces, Gerulf,” the Maester said smoothly, his tone making the statement not only a question but a demand.
“Yes, my Lord,” Gerulf replied, allowing a little of his old accent to slip into his voice. “I come from the village of Breant in the North Well province.”
The Maester nodded solemnly at this insignificant bit of news. “A mining region I understand?” he said, sounding barely interested. “I suppose it is a great deal different, living here.”
Gerulf sensed it was a leading question, but where it was intended to lead him to, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he should aim for appearing dim once again.
“It certainly is, my Lord. I've never seen anything as pretty as all these paintings and curtains and things!”
Maester Rein stared at him, his dark eyes piercing through the eye-holes of his mask, measuring...assessing...
Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to play stupid. This man was clearly more perceptive than Prince Jaromil.
“And how do you find your duties with the Prince, Gerulf?”
“I find them very agreeable, my Lord,” Gerulf replied cheerily. “He's a fine fellow to work for.”
Rein nodded. “You know Gerulf, I always take care to make sure that those who live in this palace and it's...outbuildings know their place. I trust you understand that you are rather low in the order of things here?”
“Oh yes my Lord, have no fear. I know what I've to do.”
“Do you, indeed?” Rein murmured. He stared evenly at Gerulf's face for a few moments more, and Gerulf could tell that he was studying the scar. Would he ask about it? Would he decide to use it as some kind of reason to get rid of him?
He felt a tension in his stomach that he couldn't discern the reason for, but should he be sent away from here now, should he be forced to leave...
“Good day, Gerulf,” said Rein imperiously, his robe fluttering as he turned away. “I trust you will keep your duties to our beloved Prince Mihai at the forefront of your mind.”
“Yes, my Lord, I shall!” Gerulf replied, as the guardsmen turned to follow their master. “I'm glad you have faith in me, my Lord!”
Something in the Maester's body flinched, just very slightly, and for an instant Gerulf thought he might turn back. But no, he kept going, across the yard and back into the kitchen of the Prince's House, the door of which was being held open for him by another white-sashed guard.
Gerulf was glad that that was over with. Now if only he had the slightest idea what it had been.
Chapter 7Rating: NC-17 (for explicit sex, occasional violence and themes of prostitution)
Summary: A battle-scarred soldier, a lonely Prince and a magnificent painting are key to a conspiracy that could destroy a nation.
Disclaimer: This is an original work of fiction and is not intended to bear resemblance to any actual events or people. All rights are owned by the author, please do not repost or otherwise use without explicit permission.
An odd metallic sound out in the corridor resolved itself into the unusual but inescapably distinctive sound of somebody hitting a saucepan with a wooden spoon.
Gerulf peeled his eyes open and sat up, reluctantly shaking off sleep. He'd gotten to bed rather later than usual last night and was paying the price for it now. There was a steaming basin of water on the rug by the fire, Zita having done her usual pixie-like job of whisking in and out of his room without him noticing. Surely he must have slept far longer than he intended, if she'd decided to bring it in rather than waiting for signs of life from his room, but the light through the curtains told him it was barely dawn.
He rose from his bed and stretched, then settled on the rug to do his exercises. As he did so, the odd sounds from the corridor increased in range and volume until he began to truly wonder if some terrible emergency was under way. No screams though, no sounds of panic. Although...it was surprising to realise how poorly he'd kept track of time since he'd been in the Prince's House, and wasn't it now Saturday?
The first Saturday of the month?
Inspection day, the very thing that Mrs Burry had gone to trouble to warn him about.
the maester, Master Rein, disapproves great strongly of the Prince’s men, her note had said. please to be aware that you should be wary of him, as he has been known by many to be much vengeful towards some as he disapproves of.
What should he expect though? It would be of little use to try to stay out of the building for the day, he considered, working through his daily regimen of press ups. Even if Maester Rein knew nothing of his existence, given his evident profound dislike of the 'Prince's men', he would likely check Gerulf's room and find it inhabited. Besides, the staff had little reason to go to any lengths to protect Gerulf, unless of course they disliked or feared Rein, which wouldn't be surprising given Mrs Burry's letter.
Mrs Burry; that was the very person to go to. Gerulf finished his exercises, washed and dressed, then opened the door just in time to hear a tremendous crash, followed shortly by a wail of abject horror. Peering into the corridor, he saw one of the maids standing, her hands clenched into her hair, over a shattered platter and some scraps of food scattered on the floor. Just as he opened his mouth to offer assistance, Zita flew out from another room and rapidly had the girl soothed, the remains of the platter scooped into her apron and another member of staff rushing towards them with a mop.
His unit of Brigadiers could have used a Zita.
“Good morning. Can I be of any help, there? It's the day for this inspection, is it not?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light and friendly. The other maids were staring at him, all wide eyed, but Zita looked quite relieved at his presence.
“I'm sure there's plenty of things you could help out with, if you don't mind it,” she replied cheerily. “Go and ask Mrs Burry what needs doing. I think she's in the kitchen. Was she still there when you left, Merry?”
This last was directed at the maid with the mop, who looked horrified at the prospect of having to speak in front of Gerulf. As if he'd suddenly notice she was there and go for her.
“Y-y-yes, Miss Zita,” the girl stuttered, then seemed at a loss.
“I shall go and ask her, then,” Gerulf responded, in what he thought was quite a gentle and unassuming tone. Yet it caused both of the younger maids to attempt to fit themselves behind Zita, peering at him from over her shoulders. As he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, he could vaguely hear Zita hissing at them both in annoyance:
“...not going to bite, you know...”
“...alia said...”
“...terrible gossip, don't even...”
“...but what if he hits...”
“He won't!”
Nice to know somebody had faith in him.
The kitchen door stood open, spilling warm air and the sounds of fervent cleaning into the corridor. Gerulf peered around the frame before going in, not a manoeuvre he was accustomed to, but a necessary one, if the quickly reigned in gasps were any measure. Mrs Burry stood at one end of the large, ruthlessly scrubbed table, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other. The latter was being used to point at people and waft them in the various directions she was telling them to go. Scurrying people filled the room, coming and going through the various doors into the scullery, the storerooms, the stable yard and...they would have been going out into the corridor too, but several had drawn to a halt upon seeing Gerulf standing there. Suddenly feeling awfully self-conscious, he stepped back, holding the door open further, trying with all his might to look harmless.
Two middle aged women and a teenage lad, all laden with piles of linen, shuffled warily past him, carefully avoiding eye contact. He grit his teeth and told himself he was not irritated.
In the sudden void of noise that his entrance had created, Mrs Burry turned to look up at him and smiled, brandishing the papers.
“I've told the lads in the stables you'll lend them your hands for the time being, if you don't mind that is,” she said, waving the spatula in the direction of the stable yard door. “Best you're out there than scaring all my girls.”
This raised a high pitched, nervousness titter from somebody in the room, the noise rapidly followed by an ominous clatter and a glare from Mrs Burry. Gerulf uttered a polite agreement an left.
The sun was out from behind the clouds, for the time being at least, and the day had the crisp, biting feel of that last, clinging part of autumn, before winter truly got it's teeth into the year. Frost gilded the grass and the moss that grew between the slabs in the yard. No snow yet, but Gerulf wouldn't be surprised when it came.
The large main doors of the stable were both wide open, and Gostislav emerged just as Gerulf entered, leading a stout, grey pony. Gerulf wished him a good morning, and rushed into the building before he could receive the reply, which doubtless would run to several minutes of verbal meandering that could have been summed up in three or four words. It was warm and pleasantly earthy smelling inside. Two stable lads were brushing down one of the coach horses in the open pen at the end of the building, and at the other end the door to Timur's small office stood open, the man himself sitting at the desk sorting papers into neat piles.
Gerulf climbed the two small steps that separated the office doorway from the rest of the stables and rapped on the open door.
“Just a moment, Gostislav. Bloody merchants...”
“It's me, Timur,” Gerulf said, and the older man turned and gave him a distracted smile.
“Ah, hello there lad. What can I do for you?”
“Mrs Burry suggested that I could help you out here, get me out of the way while the rest are getting ready for inspection.” He stepped into the office and leaned his hip against the edge of the dusty, cluttered desk. He'd no idea what had led him to put on his older clothes that morning, but he was glad he had done. Good to be back in something other than blue, at any rate.
Timur looked thoughtfully up at him for a moment, then rose from his chair. “I should have expected that, I suppose,” he said, half to himself. “Not surprised she wants to keep you tucked away. She's taken a shine to you.”
“What do you mean?” Gerulf asked, fairly sure he knew already.
“Mean that that Maester or whatever he wants to call himself isn't at all approving of His Majesty the Prince keeping fellows such as yourself around. Especially as he keeps you living in his little corner of the palace. S'true that most of the lads have been hired in your situation left because they got bored, or the Prince didn't get along with them...but more than one's been scared off by the Maester on inspection day.”
“What does he do to them?”
“Oh, nothing harmful. But he's a clever man. He knows just how to strike at a fellow to put him off balance. Mark my words, you're far better off out here. He's too good for the stables, always sends one of his guardsmen to make the inspection o' this place.”
Gerulf thought this over for a moment, then nodded, and accepted the scrap of paper Timur handed him. It wasn't in his nature to hide out like this; if this Maester Rein was likely to take exception to him, he'd rather know it right up front and deal with it. But...he'd been in the palace for a few days, while Timur and Mrs Burry had been there for years. If they both thought he was better off there, he was sure that he was.
He looked down at the note, which was in even worse handwriting than Zita's. Luckily, Timur began going through it with him.
“Ask the lads out there to show you where the tack room is. There's a rack of bridles on the wall that need a clean, they'll show you where everything can be found. When you're done with that, give the tack room a sweep and then come back here. You can give Guiscard a hand with the hay bales. Alright, lad?”
“Certainly,” Gerulf replied. “Nothing I've not done before.”
“Good. No questions?”
Gerulf's mouth started moving before he'd even thought about whether he wanted to ask the question or not. “You said more than one man was scared off by Maester Rein...How many exactly?”
Timur's mouth turned down in a worried grimace as he studied Gerulf's face, finally seeming to make a decision.
“All of the ones who lasted long enough to see an inspection day,” he said grimly.
*
The tack room was close and dusty, and smelled richly of leather and polish and horse, once again taking Gerulf's mind back to days long past at the army encampment. Many a day, when Captain Galen had run out of chores for him, he'd ended up doing odd jobs in the stables in return for a little riding practice on one of the horses, a habit that had served him well when he joined the army proper, as he'd needed far less training than many of the other new recruits.
The doors of the tack room opened onto the stable yard, and were drawn to rather than fully closed, to let a little fresh air in, and to allow Gerulf to hear some of the goings on outside. Every so often there was a flurry of motion from the direction of the house, as people rushed to and fro trying to get ready. Now and then a horse or pony was led across the yard on their way to the pasture, and once in a while it sounded like other animals were being brought from the main stables, no doubt to benefit from Timur's expertise as a blacksmith. Apart from the tightly controlled havoc in the Prince's House, the day could have been quite peaceful...and yet Gerulf could not shake of a sense of foreboding. Perhaps it was simply the worries of Mrs Burry and Timur, or perhaps it was something more.
Perhaps it was the distinctive sound of armed men, marching across the yard towards the very spot where he sat.
He set aside the cloth and tin of leather oil he'd been using, and hung the part-cleaned bridle that he'd been working on back on it's hook, then rose to his feet, half expecting the footsteps to veer away and for him to be left feeling like a fool.
But no, seconds after he'd risen, the door was opened by a guardsman. The man was a little older, and perhaps a little heavier set than most he'd seen around the palace, and as well as the usual blue and grey livery, he wore a white sash across his chest. A signifier of rank perhaps? The man looked Gerulf up and down, an unreadable expression on his face, then turned to two other figures and nodded, silently.
As the guardsman moved out of the door frame, Gerulf found himself the subject of great scrutiny by two other men; one was another guardsman, wearing the same white sash, while the third man on the party was something else all together.
He was tall and narrow bodied, dressed in a fussily neat suit over which flowed a knee length robe, similar to those worn by magistrates, all in shades of reddish brown and cream. His grey-speckled dark hair was oiled tidily back, showing pale, thin skin at his hair line. Of the appearance of his face, Gerulf could not say, for he was wearing the most curious thing, a dark fabric mask which covered his face from brow to chin and from ear to ear, held in place by sturdy strips of cloth.
The guardsman who had opened the door, in the seconds Gerulf had been allowed to take his visitors in, had snapped himself to strict attention and drew breath to speak, clearly and rather more loudly than was necessary.
“Maester Rein, may I present the servant of the Prince's House, Gerulf!” he boomed. The thin man, the Maester, nodded coolly, and seemed approving as Gerulf bowed.
The man wasn't supposed to come out here in person. His presence couldn't mean anything good.
He stepped forward. “I understand from his Majesty Prince Jaromil that you are here from the Provinces, Gerulf,” the Maester said smoothly, his tone making the statement not only a question but a demand.
“Yes, my Lord,” Gerulf replied, allowing a little of his old accent to slip into his voice. “I come from the village of Breant in the North Well province.”
The Maester nodded solemnly at this insignificant bit of news. “A mining region I understand?” he said, sounding barely interested. “I suppose it is a great deal different, living here.”
Gerulf sensed it was a leading question, but where it was intended to lead him to, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he should aim for appearing dim once again.
“It certainly is, my Lord. I've never seen anything as pretty as all these paintings and curtains and things!”
Maester Rein stared at him, his dark eyes piercing through the eye-holes of his mask, measuring...assessing...
Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to play stupid. This man was clearly more perceptive than Prince Jaromil.
“And how do you find your duties with the Prince, Gerulf?”
“I find them very agreeable, my Lord,” Gerulf replied cheerily. “He's a fine fellow to work for.”
Rein nodded. “You know Gerulf, I always take care to make sure that those who live in this palace and it's...outbuildings know their place. I trust you understand that you are rather low in the order of things here?”
“Oh yes my Lord, have no fear. I know what I've to do.”
“Do you, indeed?” Rein murmured. He stared evenly at Gerulf's face for a few moments more, and Gerulf could tell that he was studying the scar. Would he ask about it? Would he decide to use it as some kind of reason to get rid of him?
He felt a tension in his stomach that he couldn't discern the reason for, but should he be sent away from here now, should he be forced to leave...
“Good day, Gerulf,” said Rein imperiously, his robe fluttering as he turned away. “I trust you will keep your duties to our beloved Prince Mihai at the forefront of your mind.”
“Yes, my Lord, I shall!” Gerulf replied, as the guardsmen turned to follow their master. “I'm glad you have faith in me, my Lord!”
Something in the Maester's body flinched, just very slightly, and for an instant Gerulf thought he might turn back. But no, he kept going, across the yard and back into the kitchen of the Prince's House, the door of which was being held open for him by another white-sashed guard.
Gerulf was glad that that was over with. Now if only he had the slightest idea what it had been.