The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [22]
“Well, you look—ah—pretty, at least,” he said.
“Surely I do. And so do you. See?” She turned him toward the mirror.
Well, he recognized the face, even with it shaved clean. Burned dark by the sun, scarred and worn by forty-one years of hard living, it might not be pretty, but it was the sort of face the king’s holter ought to have.
From the neck down, he was a stranger. The tight, stiff collar was merely the most torturous part of a doublet made of some sort of brightly patterned cloth that ought to have ended up as a drape or a rug. Below that, his legs felt naked, clothed as they were in tight green hose. He felt altogether like a candied apple on a stick.
“Who ever thought of dressing like this?” He grunted. “It’s as if some madwoman tried to think of the most ridiculous outfit imaginable, and—Grim’s eye—succeeded.”
“Madwoman?” Winna asked.
“Yah, well, no man would ever invent such a clownish suit. It must have been some sort of evil trick. Or a dare.”
“You’ve been at court long enough to know better,” Winna said. “The men here love their plumage.”
“Yah,” he conceded, “and I’m damn ready to be away from here, too.”
Her eyes narrowed a little, and she wagged an accusing finger. “You’re nervous about meeting the praifec.”
“I’m no such a thing,” he snapped.
“You are such a thing! A nervous little kindling thing!”
“I haven’t had much to do with the Church, that’s all,” he grumbled. “Other than killing a few of their monks.”
“Outlaw monks,” she reminded him. “You’ll do fine, just try not to blaspheme—in other words, try not to talk at all. Let Stephen do the talking.”
“Oh, yah, that will be a comfort,” Aspar muttered sarcastically. “He’s the soul of tact.”
“He’s a churchman, though,” Winna pointed out. “He ought to know more about talking to a praifec than you do.”
That brought a sharp little laugh from near the door. Aspar glanced over to see that Stephen had entered and was leaning against the frame, clad much as he was but appearing far more comfortable. His mouth was quirked in a smile, and his brown hair was swept back in something approaching courtly fashion. “I was in the Church,” Stephen said. “Before committing heresy, disobeying my fratrex, getting him killed, and fleeing my monastery. I doubt much that His Grace the Praifec will have many good things to say to me.”
“Like as not,” Aspar agreed, “we’ll end this meeting in a dungeon.”
“Well,” Winna said, primly, “at least we’ll go well-dressed.”
Praifec Marché Hespero was a tall man of upper middle years. He had a narrow face made sharper by a small black goatee and mustache. His black robes were draped on a body to suit—thin, almost birdlike. His eyes were like a bird’s, as well, Aspar reflected—like a hawk’s or an eagle’s eyes.
He received them in a somber, spare room of gray stone with low-beamed ceilings. In the baroque splendor of Eslen Castle, it seemed very much out-of-place. The praifec sat in an armchair behind a large table. To his left sat a dark-complexioned boy of perhaps sixteen winters, looking at least as uncomfortable in his courtly garb as Aspar felt. Other than that, Aspar, Winna, and Stephen were the only people in the chamber.
“Sit, please,” the praifec said pleasantly.
Aspar waited until Stephen and Winna took their chairs, then settled in the one that remained. Grim knew if it was the right one. If there was a right one. He still smarted from an incident with spoons at a banquet the nineday before. Who needed more than one sort of spoon?
When they were seated, the praifec rose and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked at Aspar. “Aspar White,” he said in a soft voice, soft as the fabric of Winna’s dress. “You’ve been the royal holter for many years.”
“More years than I care to remember, Your Grace.”
The praifec smiled briefly. “Yes, the years chase us, do they not? I put you at a man of some forty winters. It’s been some time since I saw that age.” He shrugged. “What we lose in beauty, we gain