It was a strangely appointed conference room. The sort of thing you never imagined seeing in all your long years of life. Skandra could look up from under the brim of his hat and see the wooden beams, which were not covered as they were in other sections of the castle. The stone ceiling actually arched above them. It looked almost like a temple of some kind, and perhaps it had been, before they realized that temples weren't as useful as large conference spaces. Then again, those were not especially useful, either. It was too early in the morning to be awake. Especially the day after your knock-down drag-out brawl resulted in twenty-five men being put to rest in the infirmary. Rumor had it that Ithunvel was ready to tear down walls. He hadn't spoken to his son yet, and the only face he'd seen so far was Lethe's. As soon as she arrived back from the farm. Apparently she'd been keeping some things from Ithunvel, as well.
Not that Skandra suspected her of anything.
Much.
The table they were using as their centerpiece was solid oak, oval, long in the sides to accommodate a great many fellows. Skandra imagined them all as deep-chested brutes without a wit between them. Whcih made it easier to smile at Alvon while they waited. The chancellor seemed not to notice the insult implied in the smile. He wouldn't, since he could not read minds, but the fellow gave a toothy smile that made its meaning plain. Perhaps he did catch the disdain. Skandra raised a hand to his face, as though checking to see if he were sneering or not, before he lowered it again. Out of all the fellows involved in that fight Skandra was the only one without a mark on him. Some of those marks had been done in by healers with a thirst for curing folks. The rest sat like badges of proud battle. Ithacles' second wore one proudly. So did the man himself, but all of that seemed lost beneath his calmly brooding face.
The second was a strange sort of fellow, very proper where his soldiers were very unruly, but they respected him for the rank he'd earned. In fact, that was the reason he'd come, so explained the second. He'd received a brevet promotion from Ithacles to the rank of major - although a rank such as that did not exist in the regular army, it was tradition for those promoted in the field who had yet to receive their full honors and the rank of Commander. Now the second wore the braided cord and pins of a Commander with pride, still as Ithacles' second but with enough rank to pull over other army units sectioned and divided differently. And he wore it all beneath that ridiculous pair of bruises that made him look like a masked buffoon. Evidently the Knight Commandant, reporting directly to the king, had been by turns amused and annoyed that such a high rank was bestowed upon a fellow that bore hours-old cuts and bruises from a scuffle with his comrades.
Of course, comrades was a term loosely defined.
So on the end of her marathon session with Ithunvel, Lethe was to come here and debrief the sad lot of them. Skandra had asked to be excused, but Alvon fixed him with a hard stare and Ithacles gave him a knowing glare. They were both firmly aware of the two pertinent facts. One, that Skandra had taken no hurt during the fight, not even a nick on his chin from the sword that was held there. Two, he'd planned on getting drunk in some hangman's tavern and dicing away whatever coin he had on his person. Those were not bad ways to spend the time. Especially when they were not allowed to do the two things that might have put them back in the game. Question the prisoner, and speak with the king. Skandra didn't want anything to do with chatting up a king, of course, but Ithunvel was Ithacles' father. A situation that could have been set right avoided because father would not see his son.
Did that sting? Could it sting someone like Ithacles, who seemed to wear his pride as a matter of course? That he would do whatever it took to win Skandra had no doubt. That he would be fair and impartial to the men under his command, and might even come to love them, Skandra was certain. But the pride he wore wasn't the fierce and territorial pride of some men. It was reserved and cool, distant, so it couldn't help but engender questions. Where did Ithacles find the will to go on? And if he had no pride - if everything that crashed against the rocky cliffs of his soul was destroyed - then what could sting? What could make him angry? Call his brother a traitor and he might explode - but those angry words were gone in a flash. Deny him an audience with his father and he would sit in this room and wait for Lethe to come. Wait as though he was a servant, and not next in line for the throne. Not that Skandra wanted him to act like one of those haughty prince-types.
It was just strange that he didn't.
You could think you knew all the secrets of a fellow and they weren't worth a damn.
"Hey, Cavras," Skandra addressed the second with a sly twinkle. "Care for a wager?"
"This is not the proper place or time, Master Tyullis," Cavras instructed him primly.
"Afraid of losing? We can bet coppers if they don't pay you enough."
"Be quiet," Alvon barked.
So he was. Lethe chose that moment to breeze into the chamber, her face a thunderhead. He didn't want to be hanged for his trouble. Oddly, Pirne was right behind her, and that fellow took a seat meek-as-you-please at their table of conference.