I completed a similar perusal of Lord Golden's chamber while he waited in silence. When I was finished, I turned back to my master. He dropped heavily into a chair and puffed out an immense sigh. His eyes drooped as his chin dropped to his chest. All of his features sagged with drink. I made a small sound of dismay. How could he have beeri so careless as to get drunk? As I watched him, he kicked out his feet one after the other so that his heels clonked against the floor. Obediently I went to draw his boots off and set them to one side. “Can you stand?” I asked him.

“Whsay?”

I glanced up from where I crouched by his feet. “I said, can you stand?”

He opened his eyes a slit, and then a slow smile stretched his mouth. “I am so good,” he congratulated himself in a whisper. “And you are such a satisfactory audience, Fitz. Do you know how draining it can be, to strike poses when no one knows they are poses, to assume a whole different character when there is no one to appreciate how well I do it?” A glint of the old Fool's mischief shone in his golden eyes. Then it faded and his mouth became serious. He spoke very softly. “Of course I can stand. And dance and leap, if need be. But tonight is not for that. Tonight, you must go to the kitchens and complain of how hungry you are. Fetching as you look, I don't doubt you will be fed. And see where you can lead the conversation. Go ahead, go now, I am perfectly capable of getting myself to bed. Do you wish the window left open?”

“I would prefer it so,” I hedged.

And I. The confirming thought from Nighteyes was softer than a breath.

“Then it shall be so,” Lord Golden decreed.

The kitchen was still full of servants, for the end of the meal is not the end of the serving of it. Indeed, few folk work harder or longer hours than those who feed a keep, for usually just as the tidying and washing is done from the evening meal it is nearly time to set the bread rising for the next. This was as true at Galeton as it was at Buckkeep Castle. I came to the door and ventured to lean in with an inquisitive and hopeful look on my face.

Almost immediately one of the kitchen women took pity on me. I recognized her as one of the women who had waited on the table. Lady Bresinga had addressed her as Lebven. “You must be ravenous. There they all sat, eating and drinking, and treated you as if you were made of wood. Well, come in. As much as they ate,, there is still plenty and to spare.”

In a short time, I was perched on a tall stool at a corner of the floury and scarred bread table. Lebven set out an array of dishes within arm's reach of me, and true to her telling, there was plenty and to spare. Slices of cold smoked venison still half filled a platter artfully ringed with little pickled apples. Sweetened apricots were fat golden cushions in little pastry squares so rich they crumbled away at one bite. Scores of tiny bird livers marinated with bits of garlic in an oily bath did not appeal to me, but beside those there were dark breasts of duck garnished with syrupy slices of sweet gingerroot. I wallowed in culinary indulgence. There was good brown bread and a slab of butter to grease it down as well. Lebven brought a mug of cold ale and a pitcher to refill it. When she had set it down to my noddedthanks, she stood at the table across from me, sprinkled flour generously, and turned out onto it a risen sponge of bread. She commenced to thump and turn it, adding handfuls of flour as she worked at the dough until it was satiny.

For a time I simply ate and watched and listened. It was the usual kitchen talk, gossip and minor rivalries between servants, one spat over a bucket of milk left out to sour, and talk of the work to prepare for the morrow. The grand folk of the house would be up early, but they would expect the food to be ready when they were, and as lavish as tonight's dinner. They'd want saddlefood to carry along as well, and this must charm the eye as much as fill the gut. I watched Lebven as she flattened the dough, spread it with butter, folded it, and then flattened it again, only to butter and fold it again. She became aware of me watching her and looked up with a smile. “It makes lots of layers in the rolls this way, all flaky and crisp. But it's a lot of work for something that they'll eat down in less than a minute.”

Behind her, a servant placed a covered basket on the counter. He opened it, spread a linen napkin to line it, and then began to place food in it: fresh rolls, a small pot of butter, a dish with slices of meat in it, and some of the pickled apples. I watched him from the comer of my eye, while nodding and replying to Lebven's words. “It's odd. Most of them don't give half a thought to how much work goes into our making them comfortable.”

There was more than one muttered assent in the kitchen. “Well, look at you,” Lebven returned the sympathy. “Kept on guard all through dinner, like someone might do your master harm in a house where he's guesting. Ridiculous Jamaillian way of thinking. But for that, you could have had a meal and some time to yourself tonight.”