Tintauri's Squire - Part 2
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Tal spent the day wandering cautiously around Ceorlhold. Compared to the keep - rich and palatial to house the Queen, thick with the warm smell of charring pinelogs - the towers were military and austere. It was a huge castle, though, planted tall and regal on the hill, the crown on its kingly head. There were three concentric walls to it, all visible from the innermost rampart, and the town of Ceorlhold crouched like a child at its mother's skirts in between.
Everything was bigger and louder than it was back home. Not brighter, though. It was hard to say whether war-readiness had subdued the place, or whether it was something altogether different, but there were very few smiles to be seen - behind the innermost walls, at least.
The morning's steady spring drizzle had turned into heavier showers by the time evening approached. Tal abandoned the courtyard and the Queen's rather small rose garden to skirt the inner walls again, watching workmen and kitcheners alike bustling about their duties, and wondering what a squire's duties were.
The knowledge came by chance in the end. As Tal wandered past the stables - crossing the inner road and staring up at the sharp-toothed barbican again - and paused for the warmth if not the stench, a tall boy in white and grey emerged with an array of tack slung over his shoulder.
"Who're you?" the boy demanded, halting mid-step.
"I ... I'm Tal. I'm from Narraine -"
"Let me rephrase. What are you doing here?"
"My father sent me to stay with the Queen ... I'm Sir Tintauri's squire, I think."
"I'm Lady Hanalia's squire and I've never seen you before," retorted the boy, though it seemed more of a statement than a challenge. "What do you mean, 'you think'?"
"Well ... he hasn't really given me anything to do."
The boy rolled his eyes. "You're lucky you're not Sir Scadamain's, I'll tell you that. Look, the lords and ladies aren't going to stand and list your daily itinerary for you! Get a look at Sir Tintauri's stuff and see what needs doing! Clean things! Repair things!"
"I don't know where it is," replied Tal, spreading both hands. "I don't even know where Sir Tintauri sleeps."
"South Tower, same as all the winterknights except the old nine!" Lady Hanalia's squire snapped. "Sweet Divine, you're not going to last five seconds around here - I can tell. Wait, is Sir Tintauri back in Ceorlhold?"
"Yes -"
"Then get your behind to the dining hall, quick! In the keep! Dinner's at sundown!"
"What do I do at dinner?" Tal asked, starting after the boy as he tried to stride off again. "I've never done this before! People used to wait on me!"
"They used to wait on me too," retorted the squire sharply, glaring back over his shoulder of tack. "But that was eleven years ago in Massiel. I've survived more than you can imagine - yet - and it's all because I used what's in my own damn head. Do the same while you've still got one!"
Tal left the squire be, infected by the urgency in his voice, and dashed towards the keep. The doors were open, flanked by a dozen guards who listened to Tal's gasped plea for directions without emotion and then pointed towards the first flight of stairs.
It felt like the steps were multiplying each time a boot fell on them, but at last Tal reached the second floor - and there through the door on the landing was a still half-empty dining hall. Dinner had not started yet.
Tal stepped inside, chest heaving for breath, and looked around in hopes of more visual clues as to what on the sweet, living earth a squire should be doing next. There were none. Tall Sir Scadamain was already in the hall, listening silently as a female knight with braided white hair bent his ear, but there was no-one dressed like the boy from the stables that Tal could see ...
"Are you acting as my own personal door as well?" asked Sir Tintauri's voice from behind, half-dipping on another odd laugh.
Losing a little recovered air in a gasp, Tal leaped aside, unblocking the doorway. Sir Tintauri passed through with the same crooked smile, pointing to the back wall. "See over there?"
"The big tapestry, my lord?"
"No, my squire - the more mentally gifted boys standing underneath it. They're the other squires. When their lord wants something to drink, they pour it."
"Oh! I've seen them at feasts before!"
"I daresay," replied Sir Tintauri. "Go stand with them. If I raise my cup, please be so kind as to come and fill it for me."
Tal nodded. Sir Tintauri left, still grinning that grin - very, very different to Sir Madaire's flashing smile - and went to sit by Sir Scadamain and the other knight.
There were two squires standing where Sir Tintauri had indicated, though shortly after Tal joined them, another boy with lowered face also came through the door and stepped silently into line. A servant came up to them both with a pitcher of wine for each, then left without a word.
"You're new," remarked the first boy in line, not looking at Tal.
"I arrived today," Tal replied in a faint voice. It didn't feel like today. This had been one of the longest, most wearing days ever. Being delivered to this cold, cold castle by retainers and not family had been bad enough, but then even the retainers had wept like mourners at a funeral, not like dear ones taking a long but temporary leave of each other ...
"Oh, you're that new? Bet you'll try to run. You look the type. Already want your mumma back."
"Whose are you?" the second in line asked.
"Sir Madaire offered to take care of me, but the Queen told me to go serve Sir Tintauri."
The two boys in front both started to laugh, trying to hold their pitchers carefully for all their mirth. The latecome boy, by contrast, lifted his lowered head and shot Tal a slicing look like hatred.
"Sir Madaire!" snorted the first. "What a shame, he's real nice to us boys - isn't he, Keal?"
"Go to hell," hissed the latecomer.
"Maybe you can still swap, new boy. Try asking the Queen. She'll be surprised, but I'm sure she won't mind!"
"Jeys!" the second squire warned. "Cup!"
The first went both quiet and pale, looking over to where Sir Scadamain had silently lifted his cup, and went hurrying over with the pitcher. The knight didn't look at him as he approached to pour the wine; he simply let him finish, still listening to whatever the female winterknight was saying to him, and then grabbed and twisted the squire's unresisting arm.
"If my arm gets tired again, Jeys," they all heard the winterknight say, not a trace of anger in his voice, "yours gets broken. Off you go."
"This place is horrible," murmured Tal.
"Wow, no kidding," the second squire muttered, all contempt. "You really are going to be dead in another week, aren't you?"
Tal spent the entire night after that staring fixedly at Sir Tintauri, and more specifically the winterknight's arm, watching for the slightest lift of the cup. He was not the biggest drinker at the table - though by sheer dint of diligence Tal didn't notice who that actually was - but his behaviour seemed to hint at intoxication; he had a thin, birdlike whoop of a laugh, and loosed it at the slightest remark.
He didn't mention anything about breaking arms, though, on any of the five visits Tal actually paid to his place at the table. In fact he said nothing to Tal at all. It was only the other winterknights who paid anything resembling attention.
"Oh, another one?" was what the female winterknight, Lady Auridine, said on Tal's second approach. She wasn't actually looking at Tal, and not until Sir Scadamain answered did the subject of the remark become clear.
"Narraine," the big knight replied laconically. "Lord Caul's son."
"I didn't realise the Queen had demanded Narraine's submission yet."
"I think Caul saw it coming and shortcut the inevitable," said Sir Scadamain. "A pity, in some ways. He was a good and strong ruler in his day."
On Tal's fifth and last errand to the table, Sir Tintauri's cup was just about full when Sir Madaire gave a grin and lifted his as well. "Why don't you fill mine as well, young mouse? Nothing to say you can't do two knights at once."
"Or two squires, Madaire?" asked Sir Tintauri, setting his refilled cup back on the table.
"You're vile," Sir Madaire replied. "He's a vile creature, young one. You let me know the moment you've had enough of him."
It was a long night. Tal was tired long before the end of it, when the diners rose and the servants descended on the scraps. It was impossible to keep track of Sir Tintauri in the chaos, and by the time Tal realised he was gone, it was too late.
Mildly panicked, Tal spotted one of the squires - the quiet one, Keal - eating stewed carrots and whitespice at the end of the table. "The knights have gone! What do we do now?"
"Eat," snapped the hollow-cheeked young man. "And hope they go to sleep before we're finished."
"Where are we supposed to sleep? Sir Tintauri hasn't shown me anything!"
Keal shot Tal a long, flinty stare, the bitter curl still sitting in one corner of his mouth, and then put down his bowl. "South Tower," he said after another of those long, oddly angry silences. "Third floor. Got it? Third floor. You sleep outside your master's door."
"Thank you."
The boy turned away.
Tal spent the day wandering cautiously around Ceorlhold. Compared to the keep - rich and palatial to house the Queen, thick with the warm smell of charring pinelogs - the towers were military and austere. It was a huge castle, though, planted tall and regal on the hill, the crown on its kingly head. There were three concentric walls to it, all visible from the innermost rampart, and the town of Ceorlhold crouched like a child at its mother's skirts in between.
Everything was bigger and louder than it was back home. Not brighter, though. It was hard to say whether war-readiness had subdued the place, or whether it was something altogether different, but there were very few smiles to be seen - behind the innermost walls, at least.
The morning's steady spring drizzle had turned into heavier showers by the time evening approached. Tal abandoned the courtyard and the Queen's rather small rose garden to skirt the inner walls again, watching workmen and kitcheners alike bustling about their duties, and wondering what a squire's duties were.
The knowledge came by chance in the end. As Tal wandered past the stables - crossing the inner road and staring up at the sharp-toothed barbican again - and paused for the warmth if not the stench, a tall boy in white and grey emerged with an array of tack slung over his shoulder.
"Who're you?" the boy demanded, halting mid-step.
"I ... I'm Tal. I'm from Narraine -"
"Let me rephrase. What are you doing here?"
"My father sent me to stay with the Queen ... I'm Sir Tintauri's squire, I think."
"I'm Lady Hanalia's squire and I've never seen you before," retorted the boy, though it seemed more of a statement than a challenge. "What do you mean, 'you think'?"
"Well ... he hasn't really given me anything to do."
The boy rolled his eyes. "You're lucky you're not Sir Scadamain's, I'll tell you that. Look, the lords and ladies aren't going to stand and list your daily itinerary for you! Get a look at Sir Tintauri's stuff and see what needs doing! Clean things! Repair things!"
"I don't know where it is," replied Tal, spreading both hands. "I don't even know where Sir Tintauri sleeps."
"South Tower, same as all the winterknights except the old nine!" Lady Hanalia's squire snapped. "Sweet Divine, you're not going to last five seconds around here - I can tell. Wait, is Sir Tintauri back in Ceorlhold?"
"Yes -"
"Then get your behind to the dining hall, quick! In the keep! Dinner's at sundown!"
"What do I do at dinner?" Tal asked, starting after the boy as he tried to stride off again. "I've never done this before! People used to wait on me!"
"They used to wait on me too," retorted the squire sharply, glaring back over his shoulder of tack. "But that was eleven years ago in Massiel. I've survived more than you can imagine - yet - and it's all because I used what's in my own damn head. Do the same while you've still got one!"
Tal left the squire be, infected by the urgency in his voice, and dashed towards the keep. The doors were open, flanked by a dozen guards who listened to Tal's gasped plea for directions without emotion and then pointed towards the first flight of stairs.
It felt like the steps were multiplying each time a boot fell on them, but at last Tal reached the second floor - and there through the door on the landing was a still half-empty dining hall. Dinner had not started yet.
Tal stepped inside, chest heaving for breath, and looked around in hopes of more visual clues as to what on the sweet, living earth a squire should be doing next. There were none. Tall Sir Scadamain was already in the hall, listening silently as a female knight with braided white hair bent his ear, but there was no-one dressed like the boy from the stables that Tal could see ...
"Are you acting as my own personal door as well?" asked Sir Tintauri's voice from behind, half-dipping on another odd laugh.
Losing a little recovered air in a gasp, Tal leaped aside, unblocking the doorway. Sir Tintauri passed through with the same crooked smile, pointing to the back wall. "See over there?"
"The big tapestry, my lord?"
"No, my squire - the more mentally gifted boys standing underneath it. They're the other squires. When their lord wants something to drink, they pour it."
"Oh! I've seen them at feasts before!"
"I daresay," replied Sir Tintauri. "Go stand with them. If I raise my cup, please be so kind as to come and fill it for me."
Tal nodded. Sir Tintauri left, still grinning that grin - very, very different to Sir Madaire's flashing smile - and went to sit by Sir Scadamain and the other knight.
There were two squires standing where Sir Tintauri had indicated, though shortly after Tal joined them, another boy with lowered face also came through the door and stepped silently into line. A servant came up to them both with a pitcher of wine for each, then left without a word.
"You're new," remarked the first boy in line, not looking at Tal.
"I arrived today," Tal replied in a faint voice. It didn't feel like today. This had been one of the longest, most wearing days ever. Being delivered to this cold, cold castle by retainers and not family had been bad enough, but then even the retainers had wept like mourners at a funeral, not like dear ones taking a long but temporary leave of each other ...
"Oh, you're that new? Bet you'll try to run. You look the type. Already want your mumma back."
"Whose are you?" the second in line asked.
"Sir Madaire offered to take care of me, but the Queen told me to go serve Sir Tintauri."
The two boys in front both started to laugh, trying to hold their pitchers carefully for all their mirth. The latecome boy, by contrast, lifted his lowered head and shot Tal a slicing look like hatred.
"Sir Madaire!" snorted the first. "What a shame, he's real nice to us boys - isn't he, Keal?"
"Go to hell," hissed the latecomer.
"Maybe you can still swap, new boy. Try asking the Queen. She'll be surprised, but I'm sure she won't mind!"
"Jeys!" the second squire warned. "Cup!"
The first went both quiet and pale, looking over to where Sir Scadamain had silently lifted his cup, and went hurrying over with the pitcher. The knight didn't look at him as he approached to pour the wine; he simply let him finish, still listening to whatever the female winterknight was saying to him, and then grabbed and twisted the squire's unresisting arm.
"If my arm gets tired again, Jeys," they all heard the winterknight say, not a trace of anger in his voice, "yours gets broken. Off you go."
"This place is horrible," murmured Tal.
"Wow, no kidding," the second squire muttered, all contempt. "You really are going to be dead in another week, aren't you?"
Tal spent the entire night after that staring fixedly at Sir Tintauri, and more specifically the winterknight's arm, watching for the slightest lift of the cup. He was not the biggest drinker at the table - though by sheer dint of diligence Tal didn't notice who that actually was - but his behaviour seemed to hint at intoxication; he had a thin, birdlike whoop of a laugh, and loosed it at the slightest remark.
He didn't mention anything about breaking arms, though, on any of the five visits Tal actually paid to his place at the table. In fact he said nothing to Tal at all. It was only the other winterknights who paid anything resembling attention.
"Oh, another one?" was what the female winterknight, Lady Auridine, said on Tal's second approach. She wasn't actually looking at Tal, and not until Sir Scadamain answered did the subject of the remark become clear.
"Narraine," the big knight replied laconically. "Lord Caul's son."
"I didn't realise the Queen had demanded Narraine's submission yet."
"I think Caul saw it coming and shortcut the inevitable," said Sir Scadamain. "A pity, in some ways. He was a good and strong ruler in his day."
On Tal's fifth and last errand to the table, Sir Tintauri's cup was just about full when Sir Madaire gave a grin and lifted his as well. "Why don't you fill mine as well, young mouse? Nothing to say you can't do two knights at once."
"Or two squires, Madaire?" asked Sir Tintauri, setting his refilled cup back on the table.
"You're vile," Sir Madaire replied. "He's a vile creature, young one. You let me know the moment you've had enough of him."
It was a long night. Tal was tired long before the end of it, when the diners rose and the servants descended on the scraps. It was impossible to keep track of Sir Tintauri in the chaos, and by the time Tal realised he was gone, it was too late.
Mildly panicked, Tal spotted one of the squires - the quiet one, Keal - eating stewed carrots and whitespice at the end of the table. "The knights have gone! What do we do now?"
"Eat," snapped the hollow-cheeked young man. "And hope they go to sleep before we're finished."
"Where are we supposed to sleep? Sir Tintauri hasn't shown me anything!"
Keal shot Tal a long, flinty stare, the bitter curl still sitting in one corner of his mouth, and then put down his bowl. "South Tower," he said after another of those long, oddly angry silences. "Third floor. Got it? Third floor. You sleep outside your master's door."
"Thank you."
The boy turned away.