Chapter Two

The wind was rising as Warren strode out into the castle's foremost courtyard. He scowled as he felt it drag ragged fingers through the thin thatch of hair he had only just tidied, making his collar flap up around the tips of his ears.

The rest of the keep's servants were already assembled. The maids stood in a neat line, trying vainly to keep the breeze from snatching at the hems of their starched white aprons. His fellow stewards and houseboys, looking smart in their gold-trimmed livery, were anxiously watching the clouds that had gathered overhead, waiting for the coming rain to spill their banks. Jobrey's face itself resembled a thundercloud. Warren sighed; the man looked like he'd combed his hair backwards with a rake. There was no telling him to fix it now - nor ever, he rightly suspected. The big man would simply argue that it was the horses in his charge that needed to look presentable, not he himself.

The lad from the rider's post was hovering by the stable door, shooting him pleading glances. With a sigh, Warren went over to him. As he passed, he noticed several maids look around and perk their ears in his direction; the stewards craned their necks, straining to hear over the howl of the wind. They were all anxious for reliable news of their lord; the standard-bearer was one of the first in the Swoop's village to have seen their new master with his own eyes.

"Well, Josua," Warren said, trying to keep his tone level; he was determined to refrain from gossip, keeping his inquiry strictly professional. "How many riders does he have in his escort?"

The boy shifted uncomfortably on the spot, as if afraid that his answer would be the wrong one. "Er... none, sir," he said at last.

Warren's mouth snapped shut in surprise. Ignoring the excited murmur that ran through the others around him, he eyed Josua incredulously. "None? What do you mean, none?!"

Josua met his gaze warily. "He ain't got none, sir. Just himself. Rode out o' Corus with a comp'ny of the King's Own, so he says - Gavin, our rider what was returnin' from deliverin' the post two days past, heard talk in Port Caynn that he was accompanied by Commander Raoul himself, as far as that. They got called off to go a-huntin' traitors round the Lake district, and His Lordship came the rest o' the way on his lonesome." He shuffled from foot to foot, looking somewhere between awed and astounded. "He's the strangest noble I ever seen, sir. Got the dust from days' worth o' travel on him, yet he still rides right enough. He could be one of our best couriers, the way he holds himself in the saddle. Never knew no city commoner to ride so well - and here I thought he ain't ever been trained up as a knight."

As he finished, the rest of the household was already whispering frantically amongst themselves. Jobrey looked frankly sceptical; the maids exchanged speculative remarks, while the grooms were nodding thoughtfully to themselves, something akin to respect already in their bland faces. Warren's curt voice cut through their chatter.

"You mean to say, lad... if he's good a rider as that, he could be here sooner than-"

Before he could finish speaking, a sentry up on the castle's observation deck gave a shout. A single rider was approaching along the coastal path.

The ordered ranks of servants were instantly thrown into turmoil. They had reckoned that a city-born commoner, unused to making such a long trip, would take at least half an hour to reach the Swoop from the time he passed through the village; it had barely been a quarter since the standard-bearer had arrived, galloping the whole way. Caught unawares, the staff hastily scrambled to neaten themselves as best they could, scurrying to their rightful positions. Directing Josua back toward the stables, Warren dashed over to stand before the keep's entrance, smoothing wrinkles from his tunic as he went.

An unnatural hush fell as they all stood to attention, intently watching the crest of the hill, where the road ended at the Swoop's gates. After a few minutes of suspenseful silence, a single set of hoof-beats became audible, approaching at a steady pace.

A lone rider slowly rose into view over the edge of the hill, mounted astride a magnificent bay mare, her smooth hide gleaming, as strongly-built as any proper charger. Warren knew nothing about horseflesh, but he heard Jobrey grumble admiringly to himself, despite his determination to remain hostile.

The man upon the horse's back commanded the attention of everyone else in the yard. He was lean, broad shouldered, with a wiry build. He appeared to be quite tall, especially given the way he sat up in the saddle. His straight-backed, steady posture, and the alert tilt of his head, was somehow strangely impressive. His nose was a little too large for noble stock, but his features were otherwise well-proportioned and fairly pleasant. His jaw had a confident set; his mouth was drawn in an impassive line. His hazel eyes swept quickly over the assembled company, appearing to take them all in with a single rapid glance.

He rode into the stableyard, then pulled his mare up a few feet shy of them. The two parties regarded each other in silence. Warren should have been commanding Jobrey and the grooms to attend to their visitor, but he was seemingly rooted to the spot.

This new 'lord' wasn't quite what they had been expecting. True to Josua's word, his cloak was streaked with dust, and his short-cropped waves of nut-brown hair had been pushed all to one side by the strong winds he had just ridden through. Yet he didn't look like just any straggly traveller. There was something about him, something that Warren couldn't put his finger on, that instantly captured and held their collective fascination. There was a certain quality to him - self-possessed, almost regal - that they had never witnessed before. It was nothing like the haughty, aloof manner that they had come to expect from the upper classes; nor was it the belligerent swagger of the lower caste. They didn't know what it was, but it held them all in its sway right from the start.

The young man continued to regard the company surrounding him with sharp hazel eyes. His gaze settled on Warren, and the head steward felt himself tense as he was singled out by it. Those eyes seemed to spark a little, revealing glittering green tints in their depths. Then a smile lit upon his lips, showing a flash of dazzling white teeth, which made several of the younger maids flutter involuntarily in place.

"Well now," the baron said, with a pronounced lilt in his voice - an unmistakably trace of Lower City street cant. "This be a fine welcome, indeed."

As he spoke, he brushed aside the edge of his cloak with a casual flick of his hand. This exposed the front of his tunic, upon which a familiar crest - a key, embroidered in gold, upon a brown background - stood out prominently.

This broke the spell that had fallen over them. The obvious accent in his speech, combined with this proof of his noble status, reached them through their mesmerized state. Warren, mastering his surprise and rebuking himself fiercely for his inattentiveness, gave a quick bark of instruction, urging both Jobrey and the houseboy forward.

Jobrey approached, his eyes distrustful, going to the horse's head. Meanwhile, without waiting for the hostler to get a steadying hold on the bridle, the baron dismounted, in a single easy motion that filled Warren with an unfair pang of jealousy. An atrocious rider himself, he travelled as seldom as he could, and had to be hauled bodily out of the saddle, stiff and sore, after as little as an hour. This newly-appointed lord had just slid from his perch in seemingly perfect comfort, as if he had been riding for a mere three minutes, not three days.

The baron passed Jobrey his reins. In contrast to the hostler's closed expression, he still smiled, the friendliness of his gesture reaching his eyes, though his attendant's only answer was a sulky glower.

As the horse's rein passed from one set of hands to the other, the baron suddenly leaned in, his lips moving. Jobrey had half a head's height advantage, forcing him to stoop slightly in order to hear. The baron said something in a voice too low for Warren to make out; his grin stayed put, and there were mischievous lights in his eyes. What he said didn't appear to be a threat or an insult; but whatever it was, it had a marked effect on Jobrey. He straightened with a jolt, pulling away as suddenly as if he had been burned. Casting the horse beside him an uncertain glance, he began to lead it away, shooting nervous looks at her master all the while.

Warren would have given a flask of his best brandy to know what had passed between them. Jobrey had a fiery temper and was sometimes too much for even his friends to handle, let alone anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in his ill-favour, as the new baron had unwittingly done.

However, there was no time for him to find out. The lanky nobleman now turned toward him, his travel cloak swirling around him, a single battered bag in his hand. Warren had only a moment to compose himself, before launching into the speech he had prepared for this occasion.

"Greetings, Lord Baron," he said, as graciously as he could manage, bending his back in a low bow. "I am Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, and your most humble servant. It is my esteemed duty to pass our modest fief into hands, and to bid you welcome in what is now your own domain."

This salutation had been carefully composed and painstakingly practiced for the past week. He discreetly glanced upward, squinting against the force of the driving wind, gauging His Lordship's reaction.

"Thank you kindly," the baron said in reply, his tone warm and appreciative. "I am honoured to be entrusted with such fine lands, and to make my home in such an impressive keep." Warren saw his gaze shoot upward, rapidly taking in the barony's rickety-looking towers. He didn't put much stock in his Lordship's words; he wondered if this response had been rehearsed as much as his own speech had been.

Then the sight of those eyes fell back on him, this time with an inquiring look. "Warren Lansark, perhaps you can tell me somethin' I'm curious about. Know you how thick the rampart walls are, the ones borderin' the cliff-side of the keep?"

Warren raised himself with a jerk. He hadn't expected such a question. "T-that is..." he stammered, feeling rather dumbfounded. The rest of the household watched him curiously; they had seldom known the 'old slave-driver', as they called him, to be caught wrong-footed like this. "I-I think they must be at least five feet thick, my lord, at the closest guess. I can get more exact measurements-"

"All in good time," the baron replied, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "I was only wonderin'. I'll need to get around to reviewin' security measures here as soon as possible. We can't have brigands takin' my realm from me as soon as it's been bestowed." He winked at the flustered steward, then once again looked up at the keep itself. "I should like to be gettin' inside and takin' possession afore any pirates beat me to the punch. Much as I appreciate the welcome, we would all do well to get indoors, lest the heavens open."

Warren looked down the line of servants, as his Lordship was doing; most of the maids were holding onto their caps to keep them from blowing away, and several of them appeared to be shivering. "Unless my city-bred nose deceives me," the baron went on, "there's a mighty strong storm a-brewin'."

"This is nothing," piped up the bootboy, who was standing close at the baron's elbow. "We've had far worse squalls 'ere than this is shapin' up t'be."

Warren groaned inwardly. Of all his staff, he should have known that the lad would be the first to run off at the mouth. He thought that because he was small, he could get away with a few smart words, with few repercussions in turn. The maids pinched his cheeks when he teased him, and the grooms only pretended to kick out at him when he got underfoot.

All eyes were on the baron. He favoured the boy with a chagrined look. "I don't doubt it," he drawled companionably, looking his impudent challenger square in the eye. "And I trust a hale-lookin' lad like you can weather a squall or two. At any rate, you seem strong enough to take this off my hands for me." He passed over his one small bag; the boy hastily complied, nearly dropping it. "And I trust this won't add too much to your load," the baron went on, flicking a coin - a brass noble, from the way it caught the light - in the lad's direction. Still struggling to keep a hold of the luggage, he just barely caught it.

As the baron moved past him, the boy turned to the rest of the servants with a lopsided grin. Coin still clutched in one hand, he hefted the bag easily in his other. It's light, Warren saw him silently mouth to the rest of the servants, who looked on in amazement.

"The rest of my swag should be arrivin' in the next few days," the baron said, as if he somehow divined what the bootboy said behind his back.

Realizing this comment had been directed at him, Warren quickly turned to face his master, trying to claw back some of his equilibrium. The baron had somehow managed to get him off-balance, and was doing a stellar job of keeping him that way. "Do you know when it can be expected, Your Lordship?"

He was answered with a wry chuckle. "Whenever that lumberin' box they call a coach manages to reach here. I half-wonder how it will get along that narrow pass beneath the cliffs." He gestured toward the bag, which the now-ecstatic bootboy brought up, trailing along behind him. "Most everythin' I'll be needin' for the time is in there. And I trust I can make do for the rest with what is here." He took in the barony with another wave of his hand.

"Yes, of course," Warren replied, in a tone that came out far shorter than he had intended, scolding himself yet again. He had carefully thought out everything he meant to say in this instance well before now, but the words had somehow deserted him. "You need only command, my lord, and everything you wish for will be brought you. I'm sure we can meet your needs."

"That's good, then." The baron favoured him with another genial smile; he seemed to scatter them freely, making the maids flush whenever he squarely caught their gaze. Now he turned from them and strode towards the door, pulling his dust-coated gloves from his large hands as he went.

Warren hovered at his heel, keeping a respectful distance behind him. Peering as best he could over the baron's tall shoulder, he noticed a thin scar snaking up his wrist, half-hidden by his sleeve-cuff. Several pronounced calluses were visible upon the broad palm of his hand.

Just what kind of common-bred noble has the king sent us? Warren wondered to himself, with something akin to dismay.

This was quite different from the spoiled rags-to-riches ruffian he had been expecting; in fact, it was far worse.

The servants had assembled themselves out in the blustery courtyard ahead of his arrival - awaiting his pleasure, no doubt. He was glad he had kept a steady pace; several of the maids already appeared to be shivering.

George tried to keep from pulling a face as he surveyed them in silence.

Of all the aspects, good or ill, that came with being made 'respectable', this was the one that set his most ill-at-ease. Despite having borne the title of 'Majesty' for many years, he had regarded his court as his subordinates, not his servants. He knew that free-wheeling thieves could only be ordered about so much, before discontent began to fester in their ranks. He understood this need for balance; it had been a key factor in the length of his successful tenure.

The house-staff that nobles kept, he knew, were no less strong-willed than the rogues of Corus; they were simply obligated to obey any order they were given in silence, and were certainly no less resentful for their grudging compliance. He didn't much like the thought of 'owning' any number of people, nor having them bound to his will.

He scanned the crowd that ranged before him with a discreet, long-practiced scrutiny, sizing them up.

There was no danger among the maids. Many of the younger ones gazed at him gleefully, a coquettish slant to their lowered lashes; and even the older ones already looked not a little bit charmed. He grinned to himself inside, though he kept a straight face outwardly; he well knew how great a power came with winning the womenfolk's approval. Rispah would be fair proud of him, he was sure.

He shifted his glance to the men. Here, he had his work cut out for him, though he could see that some of them already looked as though they would at least tolerate him. Some, he knew, would be harder to win; he would just have to take each one as they came.

A glimpse was enough to tell him that the main problem lay with the tall fellow at the back. Yes, there; that fiery glare would set tinder alight, he was sure - it was a blessing that the man wasn't Gifted, or George suspected he would have already dropped where he stood. He was the Swoop's hostler, from the look of him; his bulky arms bespoke manual labour, while his slightly bandy-legged stance marked him as a frequent rider. The leaden scowl upon his brow had no immediate explanation, though George could rightly guess that he was the object of its ire, simply for being what he was.

Well, there were waters to smooth there, sure enough. Perhaps he could make some headway here and now; the sooner he made progress with this obstinate fellow, the sooner he could make inroads with his compatriots.

"Well now," he said, sweeping his cloak aside, as a subtle indication that he intended to dismount; he also, quite intentionally, flashed his credentials at them, so there could be no mistaking who he was. "This be a fine welcome, indeed."

His words and gesture had the desired effect. An elder man in smart brown livery barked a command, and two servants stepped forward; one of them was the hostler, he noticed. George rapidly sized him up, as he sprang lightly from his saddle. His stature was intimidating, indeed; or would be, if George didn't already know that size only counted so far in a battle of wits. The man went to Beauty's head and took hold of her bridle with an insolent air; the set of his stance and the brisk manner about his movements were an obvious challenge.

Well, George thought to himself, I have an ally who's even taller and stronger than your like; let's see how you and the little lady be gettin' along.

As he meekly passed his reins over to the man, he learned in and said, in a low, even tone: "You'll be wantin' to be wary of little Beauty here, my friend. She's a trained warhorse, and can be fair vicious if she isn't treated just right. You watch she doesn't start bitin' now; I've known her to take a careless fellow's ear off more than once."

He couldn't help but smirk a little as he watched the man give a start, as if he'd had a fire lit under him. He had used this particular tactic on many a suspect stablehand in Corus; it worked here like a charm. The burly man gave the horse a sideways glance, looking suddenly far less sure of himself. As if she sensed his nerves, Beauty lived up to George's warning admirably, tossing her head and shifting impatiently on her hooves. Looking askance at both Beauty and her master, the humbled man cautiously led the mare away.

With this task thus accomplished, George turned his attention upon the rest of his staff. The exchange he'd had with the hostler made just the impression he'd hoped for: he saw new respect in faces, where there had been little enough of it before.

Scanning the ranks before him, he singled out the next man in his sights: the older gentleman who had given orders to the others.

George hastily smothered a laugh as he watched this individual's approach. The man's thinning white hair whipped about in the gale, looking to all appearances like ruffled feathers; his wide collar fluttered freely, flapping along behind him like wings. Completing the effect, he clucked discontentedly to himself as he strutted across the yard towards him. It was like watching a very large, bedraggled rooster crossing a farmyard.

What an old fusspot, George remarked to himself. I bet he'll be hard to be get along with. I'll have my work cut out with him.

"Greetings, Lord Baron," the object of his scrutiny said, giving him a stiff-backed bow which was apparently meant to be gracious. "I am Warren Lansark, head steward of the Swoop, and your most humble servant."

He launched into a speech which, despite its brevity, sounded very well-rehearsed. This salutation did not fool George; he detected a resounding note of reluctance in his manservant's manner. A different sort of challenge, George quickly decided. This man won't intimidate with his physicality; he has little enough bulk to be armin' himself with, at any rate. His will be a subtler match of wits. Well, perhaps it will keep me sharp; I worried I'd be in danger of fallin' off of my game in this out-of-the-way place. I could fain ask for anything much better.

Aloud, he said: "Thank you kindly. I am honoured to be entrusted with such fine lands, and to make my home in such an impressive keep."

At mention of the castle - his castle, he hastily reminded himself - his keen hazel eyes swept over it. The keep was centred around three rickety-looking towers, the furthermost of them far stouter and taller than its fellows, looming precariously over the sea. George spied a vantage point upon its peak; the glint of a sentry's weapon was visible to him in the sun's dying rays. The rest of the battlements all appeared to be at least as old as the central towers. The stonework was crumbling in places, and he heard snatches of a low-pitched moan, as if the wind were whistling through more than one breach in the outer walls.

"Warren Lansark," he said, turning back to the head steward, who was still bowing low in a superfluous show of pomposity, "perhaps you can tell me somethin' I'm curious about. Know you how thick the rampart walls are, the ones borderin' the cliff-side of the keep?"

The man started upright, a look of bewilderment on his weathered face. "T-that is..." he stammered; George was privately pleased to see the other servants looking at him, ill-concealed amusement writ upon their faces. "I-I think they must be at least five feet thick, my lord, at the closest guess. I can get more exact measurements-"

"All in good time," George replied, feeling a little more generous now. Two birds with one stone - he had gotten a good enough answer to his query, and wrong-footed his man enough to begin putting him in his place. It wasn't much of a win; but it was a start, which was all he needed for the moment. " I was only wonderin'. I'll need to be review security measures round here as soon as possible. We can't have brigands takin' my realm from me as soon as it's been bestowed."

He winked at the man now, softening his blow a little, making sure he wasn't too obviously trying to make him look a fool. He wanted the man on-side; the last thing he needed was to make his head of household affairs his own enemy.

""I should like to be gettin' inside and takin' possession afore any pirates beat me to the punch," he added, eying the towers which were now his to claim. "Much as I appreciate the welcome, we would all do well to get indoors, lest the heavens open." He spared a glance at the thinly-clad maids, many of whom were now visibly trembling with cold. Some of them smiled thankfully at him. "Unless my city-bred nose deceives me, there's a mighty strong storm a-brewin'."

"This is nothing," a small voice suddenly declared at his elbow. A slip of a lad, whom he took to be the Swoop's bootboy, looked up at him with defensive eyes; the freckles on his nose stood out sharply against his indignant flush. "We've had far worse squalls 'ere than this is shapin' up t'be."

It was an attack from an unexpected quarter; but George took it all in stride. He met the lad's gaze squarely, making sure he regarded him in all seriousness, with not the least hint of condescendence. If he for a moment came across as being too superior, be would lose his man. He well knew how easily young egos bruised.

"I don't doubt it," he replied amiably, as if he spoke to another grown adult, not a lad less than half his age. "And I trust a hale-lookin' lad like you can weather a squall or two. At any rate, you seem strong enough to take this off my hands for me." He held out the small travelling bag he had been carrying with him, lashed to Beauty's packs; he knew it was even lighter than it looked, containing only the few necessities he had required on the road. The boy quickly took the proffered burden. George saw the boy's eyes widen as he discovered how little weight it had.

"And I trust this won't add too much to your load," he continued, tossing a brass noble to the boy for good measure. This more than sweetened the pot; judging from the ecstatic grin that now stretched across the boy's face, he had just won himself a loyal supporter.

"The rest of my swag should be arrivin' sometime in the next few days," he added to Warren, as an afterthought. Several chests and crates, containing what few belongings he'd had in Corus that weren't ill-gotten, were currently lurching their way through the countryside, making slow but steady progress to this same destination. Much as he'd wanted to draw the journey out long enough to give himself time to think, even he hadn't had the patience to make such sluggish progress.

"Do you know when it can be expected, Your Lordship?" was the bland reply. George read the meaning behind the words with an expert ear; the man, still smarting from the humiliatingly vague answer he had been forced to give about the wall's thickness, was turning his tactic back on him. George was frankly impressed by the man's audacity; he had more spirit than he'd originally thought.

"Whenever that lumberin' box they call a coach manages to reach here," he answered, with a laugh that told his opponent that he brooked no hard feelings; the man looked all the more affronted for it, disappointed that his barb hadn't stuck. "I half-wonder how it will get along that narrow pass beneath the cliffs. Most everythin' I'll be needin' for the time is in there," he added, jerking his thumb at the bootboy, who faithfully trailed behind him with his bag. "And I trust I can make do for the rest with what is here."

"Yes, of course," was the immediate reply. George had expected as much; Warren Lansark took umbrage to any suggestion that his household might be ill-prepared to receive its master. His answer was subservient enough, though something in its tone was faintly mocking. "You need only command, my lord, and everything you wish for will be brought you. I'm sure we can meet your needs."

George pursed his lips with slight distaste. The steward intoned the words 'my lord' with much the same regard he himself had for them; the title sounded ironic, like an ill-meant joke, in reference to himself.

If only he knew my previous array of nicknames, George thought wryly to himself. I fancy he'd throw a fit.

"That's good, then," he said, loud enough for the rest of the company to hear. He was well aware that they were all watching him, waiting for him to move towards the doors of the barony. They were anxious to see if he would hover beyond their bounds, waiting to be invited indoors like a mere guest; or if he would actively take possession, like the rightful master that he was.

He knew which it would be. After all, he told himself, I was never afeared from enterin' the doors of the Dancin' Dove. If not going to start flinchin' at front-stoops now. He made a show of casually sauntering across the keep's threshold, stripping off his riding gloves as he went. The gesture clearly told them all that he had arrived, and he meant to stay.

"Allow me to show you to your room, Your Lordship." Lansark had been following close at his heel; now he darted ahead a step and paused, an unspoken question in his impassive face.

George eyed him thoughtfully. The man meant to press his superiority, showing off his better knowledge of the lay of the land; he had the unfair advantage, being far better acquainted with the barony than its rightful owner - for the time being, at least. George wasn't so ignorant as he supposed; he had carefully pored over the floor-plans that Jonathon had given him, getting to know every corner and crevice of his domain before he even left Corus. However, though he knew the layout of the rooms well enough, he didn't know which was currently the appointed master.

After only a slight pause, he nodded in deference. "Lead on," he said. He was tired after his long journey, eager for a wash and a clean set of clothes. Political tussling with his head-of-staff could wait until he was warmed and well-fed.

The steward strode on at a clipping speed, his manner assured, his confidence evident in every step. George followed him; despite his fatigue, his long stride easily kept pace. He could hear the bootboy scrambling behind him, struggling to keep up. As he walked, George darted sideways glances without appearing to do so, taking in his surroundings. He already had a remarkably complete knowledge of the Dancing Dove's inner corridors, the labyrinthine alleys of the Lower City, the staggering maze of Corus' hidden catacombs, and even the myriad passageways of the Royal Palace itself. He had no trouble taking in the wealth of new landmarks that he passed, confirming them against the floor-maps he already knew by heart.

I wonder if my darlin' had as easy a time as this when she first arrived at the palace as a page, he wondered dryly to himself.

At last, they stopped outside the door to a large, well-appointed chamber. Lansark turned, looking a little surprised to see George still right behind him, the bootboy puffing along in his wake.

"I trust you will be comfortable here, my lord," he said, sweeping the chamber with an eloquent wave of his hand.

George stepped through the door. Automatically, his eyes sought out the darkest corners, looking for signs of concealed enemies. His Sight probed for any presence that seemed untoward; satisfied that the room was secure, he looked at the furnishings themselves. At a glance, they looked plain enough; but his knowing eye recognized a Scanran tapestry here, an embroidery in K'miri silk there, a mirror with Yamani patterns in its gilt frame hanging above the bureau. As befitted an estate that stood upon the kingdom's very borders, many of the ornaments were foreign and exotic; they would have cost a pretty penny, to have both bought and had shipped in from abroad.

Impressed despite himself, he gave an approving nod. "This will do nicely," he said, with obvious praise in his voice.

Lansark appeared to be somewhat placated; he gave a thin smile, the first George had yet seen him wear. "Supper will be prepared for an hour's time, sir. If you would prefer to sate your hunger sooner...?"

"No, I'll keep til then."

"Very good. Hot water has been brought into your dressing chamber, and there and towels and robes laid out for your use. If you should require assistance...?"

"No, thank you, I can manage on my own," George replied, evenly. Warren's tone made his unfinished queries sound like rhetoric. He indulged the charade, though his patience was wearing a little thin. He was anxious to divest himself of the dust of the road. "Everything is highly satisfactory, Lansark."

"Yes, sir." The man knew a dismissal when he heard it; for this, at least, George was thankful.

"Place it there, lad," he added, turning to the bootboy now with an encouraging smile. The boy put his bag down in the place indicated, atop a low dresser. Lansark looked slightly peeved again; he had been about to order the boy about himself, and certainly hadn't wanted the dusty, battered-looking travel case put upon the freshly-cleaned furniture.

George sighed inwardly, for the first time since his arrival. Must we secretly war over every petty thing? he asked no one in particular. The boy, meanwhile, grinned at him; the brass noble was obviously still warming his pocket.

"I shall call on you when the meal is prepared, sir," Lansark said from the doorway. At George's nod, he then closed the door behind himself and the boy, leaving the baron thankfully alone in his new quarters.

Once he was unobserved, he quickly crossed the room and opened the various cabinets, making sure that nobody had hidden themselves inside. He searched under the bed, carefully poked the curtains from a safe distance, and finally opened the connecting to door to - what had Lansark called it? - his dressing-room. There was a chest of drawers, several trunks for keeping clothes in, a few rows of shelves, and some useful hooks for hanging coats on. In the centre of the floor stood a tub and pitcher, steam rising from both; the hot water for bathing, as promised.

Eying it wistfully, George rapidly took stock. His arrival had been uneventful enough, though it gave him ample indications of the kind of situation he had walked into. The place seemed pleasant, comfortable; the house-staff he deemed manageable, for the most part. He would have to keep an eagle eye on the hostler, who might still be angling for a fight; and Lansark himself was going to make himself disagreeable for a while to come, of that he was certain.

He heaved another sigh, this time in contentment; in spite of everything, he felt optimistic. Things weren't so difficult as he had feared, nor quite as drearily easy as he had been dreading. There were things to challenge him here, right enough, and he knew that getting his house in order was only the start of things; once the proper resources came together, this would become his base of operations.

It well-suited his purpose, he decided. Many interesting possibilities were now perceivable upon the horizon. Give him enough time, and he would see what they shaped up to be. Whatever was to come, he at least had a place to call his own; as far as he could tell, it seemed to be ideal for all his wants.

The place could do with being a bit warmer, though, if a certain lass was to live here.

The instant it crossed his mind, he wished he hadn't dared entertain such a hope; it was outrageously presumptuous of him. Besides, the desert was far warmer than this. So was the palace, for that matter.

No, he would avoid such thoughts. That way lay only madness - disappointment, and self-pity. Those were the last things he needed right now, on top of everything else.

Turning his mind back to more immediate things, he stripped off his stale clothes, eager to enjoy the steaming bathwater before it cooled any more than it already had.

Author's note: sorry for the repetitive nature of this chapter. I wanted to show the situation from both Lansark's and George's points of view, since each had a slightly different slant. I don't think I'll do that again any time soon; though I'll continue to switch viewpoints between the two men, I'll try to give them each fresh incidents to relate.

The Swoop in this chapter is based on the brief descriptions of it in Wild Magic. Not many of the servants are named, though I think it is mentioned that they wear brown livery with gold trim. As you can see, Warren, being the mature, dignified fellow that he is, is going to engage in some childish mind games and petty warfare - more of which are to come in the next chapter!

Also, thank you very much to everyone who posted reviews; I appreciate every one! I've been really enjoying reading the other fics written for the Tortall series; I don't think I've ever yet seen another fandom with so many high-quality pieces!

~ W.J.