“Sorry you won’t be joining us,” Rojer said as he passed.

Jasin grabbed his arms, shoving him hard into the wall. He wasn’t a giant like Gared, but he was taller and stronger than Rojer. “I thought you’d learned not to cross me, cripple, but it seems you need a reminder of—”

Rojer stomped hard on Jasin’s instep, circling his forearms in a simple sharusahk move to break the herald’s hold. He flicked his wrist, catching a knife in his hand and putting the point to Jasin’s throat.

“Not afraid of you anymore, Nosong,” Rojer spat. He pressed the knife in, drawing a drop of blood.

Jasin’s face went from pink to snow white. “You wouldn’t dare …”

Rojer pressed harder, cutting off the words. “You think I’ve forgotten what you did to me? To Jaycob? Give me an excuse. I beg you.”

“What’s going on here?”

Rojer and Jasin turned as one to see the speaker, Rojer twisting to block the blade from sight as he made it disappear up his sleeve. Lord Janson stood in the hall, glaring at them both. Rojer didn’t think he had seen the knife, but there was no telling for sure. Not that it mattered, if Jasin were to accuse him and show the puncture at his throat.

But Jasin smiled, spreading his hands. “Nothing, Uncle. Simply an old disagreement.”

Janson’s eyes narrowed. “Settle it another time. His Grace awaits you, Master Halfgrip.”

Rojer bowed. “Of course, Minister.”

“Another time,” Jasin agreed, turning on his heel and stomping back into the palace proper.

“Halfgrip!” Rhinebeck called when Rojer made the stables. It was unclear if he were still drunk from the night before, or if this was a fresh inebriation, but it was barely dawn and already his words were slurred and the wineskin his page carried was only half full.

“You can’t mean to hunt in that,” Pether said, pointing to Rojer’s motley with a short crooked staff that doubled as a riding crop. The Shepherd had changed from his formal robes into brown and green riding gear, fine silk and suede, with the crooked staff embroidered in gold on his fine wool jacket.

Rojer looked down at his clothes, a bright patchwork of color that was perfect for performance, but less so for sneaking about the woods. He shrugged helplessly. “Apologies, my lords, but I had not packed for hunting.”

“No matter,” Prince Mickael said. “Goldentone has hunting motley. Janson! Send a boy up to fetch a set from the herald.”

Janson bowed. “Of course, Highness.” He glanced at Rojer, who was wise enough to swallow his grin and look at his feet.

The runner returned with a set of green and brown motley from Jasin, but when Rojer opened the package, it stank like Goldentone had emptied his chamber pot onto it.

Rojer smiled. Still a victory. If he could not easily kill the man, he would settle for a thousand tiny blows.

The royal hunting lodge was a full day’s ride east of the city. Keerin and Sament had been invited along, but it was the barest courtesy, and not a true welcome. They had their own entourage, and even on the next day’s hunt the two groups kept mostly to themselves.

They were hunting rockbirds, a large species of raptor common in the hills of Angiers. The birds were a slate color almost indistinguishable from the rocks where they made their nests.

The duke had split them into two groups. Rhinebeck, Thamos, Rojer, and Gared positioned themselves east above a cluster of nesting stones. Mickael, Pether, Sament, and Keerin had been sent to a similar position to the west. Servants led dogs quietly up the path to the stones. When they were ready, Rhinebeck would give the signal and they would loose the dogs, flushing the birds from concealment, right into the hunters’ sights.

Rojer and Gared carried conventional bows, arrows nocked at the ready. The duke and Thamos held loaded crank bows with ornate aiming lenses. Each had an attendant with two more, ready to hand off and reload while the Royals fired.

“He’s an embarrassment to the crown,” Thamos was saying to Rhinebeck. “Driving peasants into the night to save a few hours.”

“Rizonan peasants,” Rhinebeck said. “Squatters trespassing on ground cleared for Messengers and caravans. Most of them bandits who would as soon slit my men’s throats as not.”

“Nonsense,” Thamos said. “Those we encountered were too wretched to be a threat to anyone. Rizon is gone, brother. And Lakton soon enough, if we do not act. If we don’t want our lands teeming with bandits, we must absorb the refugees and offer them better. It is the only way. And we cannot do that if Goldentone has them cursing your name.”

Rhinebeck sighed, taking another long pull from his wineskin. He offered it to Thamos, who waved it away, and Gared, who accepted. The young baron was proving impressionable, and was nearly as drunk as Rhinebeck.

“Creator knows I’m not defending Goldentone,” Rhinebeck said. “That little pissant makes me long for the days of Sweetsong, before the drink turned him sour.” He glanced at Rojer, who kept his face expressionless. It was no secret much of the rift between Arrick and the duke had come after Sweetsong returned from the destruction of Riverbridge with Rojer in tow.

“What about you, Halfgrip?” Rhinebeck asked. “They say ask a Jongleur if you’re looking for gossip. What do they say on the streets about my half-witted herald?”

“He’s no more loved in the guildhouse than in the palace,” Rojer said. “Before Your Grace took him as herald, his patrons were more interested in doing his uncle a favor than they were in his singing. He was known for taking jobs my master turned down. It’s how he earned the nickname Secondsong.”

Rhinebeck roared a laugh. “Secondsong! I love it!”

The sound echoed off the rocks and a dozen rockbirds took flight, muscular wings fighting the pull of the ground to reach the strong winds that swept the hills.

“Night!” Rhinebeck cried, snapping his crank bow up so quickly the bolt came loose and the string twanged uselessly. Rojer and Gared loosed at well, their arrows not coming significantly closer. There were curses from the west as the other group had similar results.

Only Thamos remained calm, raising his crank bow and taking his time as he tracked one of the birds. Rhinebeck snatched another bow from his attendant and had it up while Rojer and Gared were still nocking their second shots. Thamos fired and there was a squawk even as Rhinebeck pulled his trigger with barely a moment to aim.

The rockbird cried as it fell from the sky. Thamos smiled, but it was short-lived as his elder brother glared at him. The count gave a nod. “Well shot, brother. I confess I am out of practice, but Creator willing, I’ll catch up over the next few days.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Rhinebeck’s attendant spoke. “Indeed, sire. A fine shot.” Thamos’ attendant nodded emphatically. “Masterfully done, Your Grace.”

Rhinebeck glanced to Gared and Rojer.

“Rarely have I seen such skill with a crank bow,” Rojer said. Gared remained quiet, so he gave the big man a surreptitious kick in the leg.

“Oh, ay,” Gared said, his voice flat. “Good shootin’.”

Rhinebeck grunted, slapping Thamos on the back. “You were always better with the spear than the bow.” He looked to Rojer. “You’re fault, Jongleur, for making me laugh like that.” He chuckled again. “Secondsong. I’ll have to remember that one.” The servants began to breathe again, and the tension bled from the air.