The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III (12 page)

That
broke the ice, finally; the little boy giggled, and stifled the laugh behind both hands. But the eyes above the hands were merry, and when he turned a sober face back to T’fyrr, his eyes had a sparkle to them that they had lacked until that moment.

“If you would come with me, then, Sire?” the boy said, gesturing at the door.

T’fyrr nodded. “Certainly—ah, what is your name? It seems rude to call you ‘boy,’ or ‘page.’ ”

“Regan, Sire,” the boy said, skipping to keep up with T’fyrr as the Haspur strode down the hallway. “But my friends call me Nob.”

T’fyrr coaxed his beak into something like a human smile. He had learned that the expression made humans feel better around him. “Very well, Nob,” he said, projecting good humor and casualness into his voice. “Now, if you were in my place, granted a title and a new home, what would
you
do first?”

“You mean, about the suite and all, Sire?” Nob asked, looking up at T’fyrr with a crooked grin. “Well, I might have some ideas—”

“Then by all means,” T’fyrr told him, “let me hear them!”

###

Harperus lounged at his ease on one of the damask-covered sofas in the reception room of the suite, watching T’fyrr try out the various pieces of furniture that Nob had suggested he order brought down from storage. Somehow, it all matched—or at least, it coordinated, as the main colors of the suite were warm golds and browns, with gryphons forming the main theme of the carvings. Padded stools proved surprisingly comfortable, as did an odd, backless couch that Nob particularly recommended. And to replace the bed—

When T’fyrr had sketched what a Haspur bed looked like, Nob had studied the sketch for a moment, and then snapped his fingers with a grin of glee. He hadn’t said a word to T’fyrr, but he had called another servant—an oddly silent servant—and handed him the sketch with a whispered explanation.

Six husky men appeared about an hour later, just as Harperus arrived with more servants bearing T’fyrr’s baggage. The men took the bed out without a single word and returned with something that was the closest thing to a Haspur bed that T’fyrr had
ever
seen in these human realms. He stared at it, mouth agape, while Nob grinned from ear to ear.

He had a suspicion that there was more to this than met the eye, and his suspicion was confirmed when Harperus took one look and nearly choked.

“Very well,” he said, mustering up as much dignity as he could. “Obviously, this is not the Haspur bed that it appears to be. What
is
it?”

Nob clapped both hands over his mouth, stifling a laugh.
“You
tell him, my lord!” he said to Harperus, gasping. “I—nay, I can’t do it!”

He turned around, growing scarlet in the face, obviously having a hard time containing himself.

T’fyrr waited, curiosity vying with exasperation, while Harperus struggled to get himself under control.

“It’s—it’s something no well-bred boy should know about at Nob’s tender age,” Harperus managed finally. “Let’s just say, it isn’t meant for sleeping.”

Enlightenment dawned. “Ah! A piece of mating furniture!” T’fyrr exclaimed brightly, and clicked his beak in further annoyance when both Nob and Harperus went off into paroxysms of smothered laughter.

I cannot, and never will, understand why the subject of mating should make these humans into sniggering idiots,
he thought a little irritably.
It is just as natural as eating, and there are no whispers and giggles about enjoying one’s breakfast! So that explains the ever-so-reticent servant that found the thing; in a place like this, there must be a servant in charge of romantic liaisons!

By the winds, there was probably even a division of labor—one servant for discreet liaisons, one for
very
discreet liaisons, one for indiscreet liaisons, one for the exotic . . .

Well, at least Nob hadn’t been so bound up in this silly human propriety nonsense that he refused to have the object sent for! It might be a piece of mating equipment to these humans, but it made a perfectly
fine
nest-bed, and T’fyrr looked forward to having one of the first completely comfortable nights he’d had in a very long time.

Finally, after many false starts, the page got himself back under control, although he would not or could not look Harperus in the eye. “If you need me anymore, Sire,” he told T’fyrr with a decent imitation of a sober expression, “just ring for me.”

“Ring for you?” T’fyrr asked, puzzled, and Nob walked over to the wood-paneled wall, pulled aside a brown damask curtain, and pointed to a line of gilded brass bellpulls.

“This is the guards—this is the kitchen, if I’m off running an errand—this is the bath servants, if I’m off running an errand—this is the maid, in case you need something cleaned. This is for me—I’m
your
page now, Sire. I’ll be sleeping in that little room just next to the bathroom. Unless you want someone older, I’ll be your body servant, too. That means I dress you.” Nob eyed the simple wrapped garment that T’fyrr wore for the sake of modesty. “Doesn’t look as if there’s all that much work tending to your wardrobe.”

“Not really,” T’fyrr agreed. “Do
you
want to be assigned to me?”

“Oh yes, Sire!” Nob replied immediately, and his artless enthusiasm could not be doubted. “There’s status in it; I’d be more than just a page—and you’ll be a good master, Sire. I can tell,” he finished confidently.

T’fyrr sighed. “I hope I can live up to that, young friend,” he answered, as much to himself as to the boy. “Well, so what are all these other bells?”

When Nob finished his explanations, Harperus intervened. “I can show him the rest, young one,” the Deliambren said easily. “My people built most of the complicated arrangements in this Palace. You go see to getting your own quarters set up.”

“Yes, my lord,” Nob said obediently, as T’fyrr nodded confirmation of Harperus’ suggestion. “Thank you, my lord, I appreciate that—”

As the boy whisked out of the suite, Harperus turned to T’fyrr. “Well, now you’re a Sire, and that lad is your entire retinue. The thing to remember is that Nob’s duty is always to
you,
first. That means if you keep him doing things for you all the time, he has no right to eat, rest, or even sleep.”

T’fyrr’s beak fell open as he stared, aghast. Harperus just shrugged.

“It’s the way these boys are brought up,” he said philosophically. “Chances are, he was hired as a child of four or five, and he doesn’t even live with his own family anymore—he probably doesn’t see them more than twice or three times a year. His whole life is in Palace service. Just remember that, and if you want the boy to have any time to himself, you’ll have to order him to take it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” T’fyrr said absently.
Every time I think I have seen the last of subtle human cruelties, another pops up! Can it be that there
are
masters who would keep their servants so bound as to permit them no time to eat or sleep? Is
that
why he said he thought I would be a good master?

“Well, come let me show you the bathing room, old bird,” Harperus said, oblivious to T’fyrr’s thoughts. “You’ll probably like it better than the one in the wagon; since this is a royal suite, there should be a tub big enough for you to splash around the way you do when you find a pond.” The Deliambren shook his head with amusement. “Honestly, you look like a wren in a birdbath when you do that!”

“I do
not,”
T’fyrr responded automatically, but followed Harperus anyway. This room was bigger than the entire traveling wagon put together, tiled on the walls, floor and ceiling in beige and brown. The bathroom was all Deliambren in its luxury, every fixture sculpted into some strange floral shape, the floor heated, the rack for the towels heated as well. The sink was big enough to bathe an infant in, the tub fully large enough to have a proper Haspur bath, and the “convenience”—convenient, and discreetly placed behind its own little door. The “usual” Deliambren lighting could be made bright or dim as one chose. There was even one of the Deliambren waterfalls that Harperus called a “shower stall,” though it was much more luxurious than the one in the wagon. There were full-length mirrors everywhere, and T’fyrr kept meeting his own eyes wherever he looked. The Deliambren showed him the various controls, then ran water into the basin.

“There,” he said under the sound of the running water, “if there’s any spies listening, and I’m sure there are, this should cover our conversation.”

“Ah.” T’fyrr nodded cautiously and pretended to finger another fixture, as if he was asking questions. “Well? Did this proceed as you hoped?”

“I’m overjoyed. You could not have done better,” Harperus told him gleefully. “You absolutely exceeded my wildest wishes.”

“I didn’t do anything—” T’fyrr objected, feeling uncomfortable about taking praise for something he’d had no hand in.

“You kept your beak shut and let the King have his way by not giving his Advisors anything to use against you; that was enough,” Harperus said. “Now, I’ll have to make my instructions very brief—there is one bag that isn’t yours; there are some devices in it that you will recognize. I want you to place them around your rooms; tell Nob that they’re statues from your home. Then talk to Nob about everything that happens to you that you think I should know. If there are spies listening, it won’t matter; they won’t be surprised that you’re asking advice from a page, they’ll think it shows how stupid you are, and they won’t know what those ‘statues’ are.”

T’fyrr made a caw of distaste. “If they are what I think they are—I’ve seen those little eavesdroppers of yours. They are hideous, and you will make Nob and those spies believe that my people have no artistic talent whatsoever.”

Harperus grinned and went on. “You’ll need to get directions eventually to a tavern called The Freehold. It’s owned by a Deliambren, and he’ll be your contact back to us if you need anything else.” He correctly interpreted T’fyrr’s dubious expression. “Don’t worry; before the week is out, people will think it’s odd if you
haven’t
visited there at least once. It’s the center of social activity for every nonhuman of every rank in Lyonarie—and a fair number of humans, as well. It’s like Jenthan Square in the Fortress-City. You might even go there just to have a good time.”

T’fyrr nodded, relieved, and Harperus reached over and turned the water off. “You may want to leave specific orders with Nob for baths,” he said, as if he was continuing an existing conversation. “You know how the lights work, of course. Can you think of anything else?”

His eyebrows signaled a wider range to that question than was implied by the circumstance. T’fyrr only shook his head.

“Not really,” he said truthfully, spreading his wings a little to indicate that he understood the question for what it was. “I only hope I can serve Theovere as well as you expect me to. I am, after all, less of an envoy and more of a messenger of good will.”

Harperus raised his eyebrows with amusement at T’fyrr’s circumspect reply. “In that case, I’ll leave you to settle in by yourself,” he said. “Once the boy finishes with his own gear, you should have him fetch a meal for the two of you. You’ll be expected to eat in your own quarters, of course—people are likely to be uneasy dining around anyone sporting something like that meat hook in the center of your face.”

People will be offended if I dare to actually take my meals in public, with the rest of the courtiers and folk of rank. After all, I’m only a lowly nonhuman. I shouldn’t allow myself any airs.

“Of course,” T’fyrr agreed, allowing his irony to show. “I’m not at all surprised.”

Harperus took his leave—and T’fyrr swallowed his own feeling of panic at being entirely alone in this situation and went to look for “his” servant. He found Nob putting away the last of his belongings in a snug little room just off the bathroom. When he suggested food, Nob was not only willing, he was eager, suggesting to T’fyrr that it was probably well past the boy’s usual dinnertime.

Or else, that like small males of every species, he was always hungry.

But when Nob returned with servants bearing dinner, it was with
many
servants bearing dinner, and with three of the King’s Advisors following behind. T’fyrr welcomed them, quickly covering his surprise, and invited them to take seats while the servants made one small table into a large table, set places for all of them, and vanished, leaving Nob to serve as their waiter.

“If you would arrange yourselves as is proper, my lords,” he said finally, “I have no idea of precedence among you, except that you are all greatly above my rank. I would not care to offend any of you.”

His three unexpected dinner guests all displayed various levels of amusement. Lord Seneschal Acreon actually chuckled; Lord Secretary Atrovel (a cocky little man who clearly possessed an enormous ego) smirked slightly. Lord Artificer Levan Pendleton only raised his eyebrows and smiled. The Seneschal, a greying man so utterly ordinary that the only things memorable about him were his silver-embroidered grey silk robes and chain of office, took charge of the situation.

“As our host, Sire T’fyrr, you must take the head of the table. As the lowest in rank, I must take the foot—”

Lord Levan and Lord Atrovel both made token protests, which the Seneschal dismissed, as they obviously expected him to.

“Lord Secretary, Lord Artificer, I leave it to you to choose left or right hand,” the Seneschal concluded.

Atrovel, a short, wiry, dark-haired man robed in blue and gold, grinned. “Well, since no one has ever accused me of being
sinister,
I shall take the right,” he punned. Levan Pendleton cast his eyes up to the ornately painted ceiling, but did not groan.

“Since I am often accused of just that, it does seem appropriate,” he agreed, taking the seat at T’fyrr’s left. “We are all here, Sire T’fyrr, in hopes of showing you that not everyone in the King’s Council is—ah—distressed by your presence.”

Acreon winced. “So blunt, Levan?” he chided. The Lord Artificer only shrugged.

“I can afford to be blunt, Acreon,” the man replied, and turned again to T’fyrr. T’fyrr found him fascinating; the most birdlike human he had yet met. His head sported a thick crest of greying black hair; his face was sharp and his nose quite prominent. Perched on the nose was a pair of spectacles; they enlarged his eyes and made him look very owl-like. The rest of the man was hidden in his silvery-grey robe of state, but from the way it hung on him, T’fyrr suspected he was cadaverously thin.