Читать книгу Curse of Kings - Alex Barclay - Страница 13

HAT NIGHT, AT CASTLE DERRINGTON, THE BANQUET had the grim air of a celebration that had persisted in the face of tragedy. The Craven Lodge shifted in their seats as Oland served them, nudging against plates and tankards, making no secret of the fact that they were inviting a transgression. Oland had hoped his earlier strength would stay with him, but the truth was that, amid the hostility, he felt nothing but weakness. He had saved a life, drawn more attention to himself than he could bear, and the only place he wanted to be was alone in The Holdings.

Villius Ren was turned towards Wickham as Oland passed.

Wickham was speaking. “Yes, Villius,” he was saying, “for how long?”

“No more than a week,” said Villius. “I suppose you could call it a commission. I am anticipating the arrival of many dignitaries to Decresian. They will expect after-dinner tales that reflect a more… Envarly view. Settings that go beyond small tales of Decresian.”

Oland could see Wickham’s jaw clench and unclench rapidly.

“We must show these dignitaries that we understand their culture…” said Villius.

Wickham leaned to the side to allow Oland to fill his goblet. “Perhaps, Villius, as an alternative,” he said, “I could speak with the countless soldiers you have taken from all these dignitaries’ homelands… and have them enlighten the dark recesses of my tiny mind.”

Oland’s arm froze between Wickham’s shoulder and Viande’s on the other side. He had never heard Wickham so bold. He glanced at Villius Ren to see his reaction.

At first, Villius was silent. “You may leave immediately,” he said, after a moment. He stood up and walked away. This came as no surprise to Oland. Villius Ren delivered orders, never expecting them to be questioned, so he often left without registering a response. It was, in fact, Wickham’s reaction that surprised Oland: he was sitting motionless, with an expression of utter panic on his face.

As Oland moved on to Viande, Wickham jumped up and fled. Viande had pushed back his chair and positioned himself with one leg bent to the side, the other one straight out in front as if he were poised to trip someone up. He had been throwing Brussels sprouts into the air and catching them in his mouth, and he was now gnawing on a bone, drooling, snorting through his cavernous nostrils. He came to a piece of gristle and he growled, spitting it out with such force that it shot forward, striking Oland’s face, where it hung briefly from his jaw, then fell. Oland’s stomach turned. He rushed from the room, ignoring the familiar discord of The Craven Lodge’s laughter.

Oland scrubbed his face at the kitchen sink and, while he was there, took two plates of leftovers to eat in The Holdings – the second to keep for later that night. The Craven Lodge would not miss him for half an hour, and, certainly, he would not miss them. He took out his tinderbox and lit a small fire. He sat on a stool beside it with a plate on one knee and The Banon Servant open on the other. As he turned to the page where he had left off, something slipped from the play and fell to the floor. He glanced down. It was a teal-coloured envelope, sealed in gold wax stamped with the intricate royal D of Decresian. Teal and gold were the colours of King Micah’s reign. Oland set his plate and the play on the floor, wiped his hand on his napkin and picked up the envelope. He turned it over. He froze. There was a name written across it. And the name was Oland Born.