29th of Spring, 511 AV
The sun was setting over the Suvan as Dayn headed for the heavy doors that led to the Dyres District, staining all it touched with hues of red and orange. He wanted to put this dinner behind him as quickly as possible. The day was winding down, and only a few people lingered among the tawdry sprawl that had risen in the shadow of the Gates. Beneath the shadow of an awning, a plump woman was arguing over the price of some trinket with a hawker, twisting her face into a mask of practiced outrage. The man protested that he could not afford to charge such a tiny sum, even while he reduced the price by three coppers. Dayn saw a pair of children leave a shop with a parcel wrapped in bloody cloth, followed a few moments later by the butcher, who began to lower his shutters for the night. Most of the outdoor traders were also closing up for the night, loading their wares onto carts and counting their coins. Muck clung thickly to the gutters. Dayn continued on, through the press of taverns with their dirty windows and tight, reeking alleys, passing a patrol of weary knights, until he glimpsed the lofty turrets of the keep. He could see wisps of smoke rising over the rounded domes, gathering in an untidy cloud that was slowly dispersed by the wind. As he approached the keep, the faint scratching of a fiddle could be heard over the thunder of humanity, then faded.
Dayn waited for a group of laborers to skirt a puddle, the men laughing roughly, and suddenly the doors loomed up at him, thrown wide on their enormous hinges. The knight on duty gave him a cursory glance, craggy features set in a grimace, then settled back into his customary torpor. Behind him, the rough stones were unevenly patched with creepers. Dayn gathered up the folds of his cloak and entered the keep. He walked quickly, edging past clusters of knights. Pages scurried about on their duties. The murk was pierced at regular intervals by shafts of waning light, carved by masons whose bones were probably moldering in some crumbling, neglected crypt. A message was pinned to one door, and bale of goods rested beside another. A scruffy girl was wrestling a torch into a twisted sconce. Dayn smiled wanly at her. His nerves were taut with the prospect of seeing his family for the first time in over a year. He’d bathed and scraped the stubble from his cheeks, but even so, he was barely presentable. His garb was plain, yet wanted a good brushing, and the arm that protruded from the right sleeve of his tunic was ringed with inky whorls. Still, it didn’t matter what he wore to dinner. His father was quick to find fault in everything.
Dayn was so distracted by these reminiscences that he almost didn’t notice when a halberd was shoved into his path. Its bearer grunted in disgust. “Tyveth, man, don’t you know an old friend when you see one?” Dayn peered at the knight.
“Well, petch me,” he said, face splitting into a grin, “Is that Ryger du Trema?” Ryger had changed a great deal since their last meeting. He was stouter and bearded, and the skin around his eyes was sagging.
“The one and only,” Ryger smiled back at Dayn. “I hadn’t expected to see you alive and kicking.
“I was going to say the same about you.” Ryger snorted.
“Behind these walls, the only thing I’m likely to perish of is boredom. I stand around on guard. I walk around on guard. I sit on the walls until my legs grow numb, and that’s on a good day.” He shook his head. “I need a petching war, that’s what I need.”
“No you don’t,” Dayn replied instinctively. He understood why Ryger spoke so bitterly, but he also knew how it felt to watch friends die. From that perspective, glory wasn’t worth spit. “Besides, what’s so awful about protecting the peace?”
“Dayn, you should know as well as I that as long as men wear swords, peace is only a dream.”
“Enough of this gloomy shyke. Dayn pushed the halberd aside, not wanting to upset his father by being late. “If you’re ever off duty, you know where to find me.”
“Aye, that I do,” Ryger said. Dayn slipped past a grille of pitted iron, where he came upon a pair of squires that was having some sort of quarrel. One bore a fading bruise on his cheek. They paused to regard him for a moment, and then, turning callow faces back upon one another, went on as if nothing had happened, both gesticulating wildly.
Dayn turned the corner and ducked under an archway that opened upon a corridor set with balusters, its flags worn smooth by the passage of countless sets of feet. The years clung heavily to the ponderous stones. Torches were the only source of light in these depths, and from them emanated an acrid smoke that stung his eyes. As he neared the glowing maw of a kitchen, his lungs were seared by its ghastly heat and he paused a moment to peer inside. The masonry was moist and steaming, set with iron hooks from which dangled strings of greasy sausages, bunches of herbs and great joints of meat. A heap of sacks leaned precariously against a far corner. There was an oily, sepia-colored stain across the floor, and along the far wall ovens gasped and shimmered like forges, sucking the air from the chamber and replacing it with writhing shadows. Dayn was assailed by the aroma of burnt fat and savory stews, chopped garlic, pickled fish, and thick, simmering gravies. The gray faced scullions were bent over tables that creaked under towering stacks of ceramic bowls, packets of seasoning, greasy, dented kettles and tepid bottles of wine. Their bodies were slick with sweat, raised voices drowned out by the frantic clamor of the preparations. They wrestled with mounds of sticky dough, turned spits over fires that spit and cracked when melted fat encountered the embers. Every so often, they thrust spoons into enormous cauldrons for tasting. Their faces were haggard and the eyes beneath their streaming brows lusterless.
Dayn swiftly moved on, leaving behind the stifling brutality of the kitchen, and ascended a few irregular steps that led to a narrow passage. A gaunt retainer approached from the opposite direction, so Dayn pressed himself against the wall, receiving a wan smile as the man shambled to the steps. His thin arms were almost pellucid. After a few dozen paces, the passage forked sharply. Dayn kept to the right, a draft ruffling his hair as he ducked beneath the lintels. The passage broadened after a while, and doors began to sprout from the rough stones. One of them slammed, and then a knight in a wine-spattered doublet stalked away, his face livid and nostrils flaring. Dayn thought he discerned the reek of stale vomit beneath one of the doors. Muted voices emanated through the cracks, arguing, cajoling, laughing. Bare stone gave way to crumbling plaster that bore traces of an ancient fresco, its corners all but concealed by the spreading cobwebs.
Shoving through a rusty gate, Dayn entered a soaring but neglected arcade whose pillars were hewn into a semblance of mythical beasts, then stepped beneath an arch that opened upon a busy corridor. There he made his way to a flight of stairs that was guarded by two knights. One, a pimply youth who favored a posture of rigid erectness, shot a quick glance at his comrade before speaking.
“Not so fast, fellow,” he cautioned. “These stairs lead to the second tier, where the senior knights and their families are quartered. If you want to go through then you ought to state your business.” Dayn felt the shadow of a grin come over his face as he peered at the older knight. The man was seated on a stool and seemed to be dozing, but a flicker of eyelids betrayed his awareness.
“My name is Dayn, and I’m to dine with my father this evening. Ser Davic Nigriso.” The younger knight frowned.
“But you’re not a knight.”
“Let him through,” rasped the older man. He got ponderously to his feet, armor clanking, and then cleared his throat. “I’ll see that he gets where he needs to go.”
“Very well.”
“So you’re Ser Davic’s other boy,” the knight said. He led Dayn up the steep, narrow steps, grunting at the weight of his plate armor. “I’ve heard of you.”
“Nothing good, I suppose.”
“No, nothing good.” Reaching the top of the stairs, they walked down a spacious corridor, made a right, and halted in front of a carved door. Dayn began to thank the knight, only to be silenced by a grave look. “You’re First Wing, you know. It might not mean anything to you, but it does for many of us.” Dayn wasn’t eager to wage this debate again, but before he could retort the knight turned away. “At least give it some thought.”
“Aye, that I will,” Dayn lied, and then, raising a fist, rapped sharply on the door.
