He left her to meet with his steward as she shrugged off her cloak, draping it on a nearby post, to reveal she was well-armed and ready for combat. Serovek jested with his men to keep the injuries to a minimum.
His steward Bryzant waited for him in his study. An efficient man and an ambitious one as well, Bryzant was a high-born younger son from one of the more prominent Beladine families. He’d gladly accepted the position of steward in Serovek Pangion’s remote citadel. High Salure was far away from the Beladine court and its hub of social and political machinations. Few would want to spend years in the kingdom’s hinterlands bordering Bast-Haradis, even in service to the highly respected margrave. Serovek had been surprised by Bryzant’s enthusiastic response to his invitation to become his steward.”
Now, then years into the role, he had proven himself invaluable, making sure the fortress’s day-to-day administration ran smoothly. He’d been the one to oversee the non-military tasks when Serovek left to fight the galla alongside Brishen and the other Wraith kings. Serovek intended he do so again while he made the journey to deliver Megiddo’s ensorceled body to the Jeden Order.
“My lord,” Bryzant said, trying to bow as he entered the study, arms filled to overflowing with scrolls. “I need signatures from you for supply requisitions, among other things.”
Serovek neatly plucked several of the scrolls out of Bryzant’s arms and set them on the nearby table. By the look of it, he was in for hours of unavoidable drudgery. Too bad he couldn’t put his signature and seal on documents while on horseback.
The two men sat across from each other, Serovek with quill in hand while Bryzant passed him the first of many pieces of parchment. “I’ve sent requisitions in as you requested for additional leather, wool, and food stores. We’re waiting for three bids to come in for all of them.” Bryzant pointed to the list of names on the sheet. “Two are local, one is from the capital. That one will be more expensive, of course.”
“But possibly better quality, unless the vendor assumes we’re ignorant provincials and tries to gouge us with high prices for poor product.” Serovek scowled. “Have you seen examples of the others’ goods?”
Bryzant shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to wait until you left for the monastery in case you needed anything beforehand.” He set the vendor list aside, replacing it with another sheet of parchment, this one with a much longer list to review. “Do you know how long you might be gone, my lord?”
Not long enough, Serovek thought, eyeing the parchment in front of him with resigned distaste. While the administration of High Salure mostly fell to his steward, leaving Serovek to the tasks of defense of the borders and diplomacy with his Kai neighbors, Serovek kept a close eye on things. He’d witnessed and heard of too many instances in which a dishonest steward robbed his overlord blind or sent him into penury through mismanagement.
Given the choice, he would much rather spend his time on patrol, sparring, or battling demons alongside the Kai herceges or, even better, playing a cutthroat dice game with sha-Anhuset. He disliked the drudgery of stewardship. He disliked the notion of thievery under his very nose even more. Bryzant had done a fine job in the role these last five years, giving Serovek no reason to doubt his honesty, his fealty, or his abilities. Still, it was best to remain diligent.
“No more than a month, I think,” he replied to Bryzant’s question. “I doubt the monks wish to act as our hosts any longer than necessary, and the Khaskem will want his sha back in short order.”
The sun was well on its way toward the horizon before Serovek finally broke free of his steward as well as those other officers of his household, including one quietly seething cook who demanded to know how exactly he was supposed to cook and serve the vile insect bestowed upon him earlier and not die from the effort. Serovek’s puzzled shrug and short “Just bash it with a club,” didn’t calm the man’s outrage. Certain the cook contemplated every manner of butchering him behind the slit-eyed stare he leveled on Serovek, the margrave chose strategic retreat and left the fortress to find his guest.
He had no compunction to disguise his interest in sha-Anhuset. From the first moment he met her, she’d drawn him like a moth to a blazing lamp, and he didn’t care that he might burn to ash if he got too close. She was prickly—at least with him—as well as dour. Unwavering in her devotion to the Kai regent, she represented the Kai military and the physical prowess of the soldiers who served at Saggara in the finest manner. She wore her strength and her confidence as easily as she wore her armor, and Serovek sometimes wondered if any weakness existed behind her fierce expression and distinctively beautiful features. Should she ever choose to bond with a husband, the man would have to possess an iron-plated backbone to equal her.
His effort to break free of administrative shackles failed in the end. He’d only made it to the front entrance’s threshold when he heard Bryzant shout his name. He turned to see the steward racing toward him, pale and wide-eyed with panic.
“My lord! My lord, wait! We have a problem!”
His plea was joined by a chorus of shouts and screams erupting from the direction of the kitchen, along with the dissonant bang of pots and pans slamming into furniture or the floor.
“What in the gods’ names is going on?” Serovek met Bryzant in the hall’s center and just as quickly strode past him as he hurried toward the source of the commotion. The steward jogged to keep up.
“The scarpatine,” he said between pants. “It’s gotten loose.”
Serovek halted and glared at the man. “Are you serious?” At the other’s nod, he cursed loud and long and charged into the kitchen.
Chaos greeted his arrival. Overturned pots and broken ceramic lay scattered across a floor made slippery from puddles of spilled soup and trampled vegetables. Three of the scullery maids stood atop one of the preparation tables, all armed with weapons that included a cleaver, a skillet, and a raw goose leg.
Those still on the ground joined the cook in ransacking the rest of the destroyed kitchen, lamplight glinting off their knives as they hunted for his lordship’s lethal delicacy. No one noticed Serovek’s presence.
He leaned down to speak softly to Bryzant “Stay here and make sure no one accidentally stabs or clubs themselves or each other. And keep the door closed. I’ll return in a moment.”
Bryzant nodded, his eyes darting around the room as he searched for any suspect movement amid the destruction.
Serovek eased out of the kitchen, closing the door gently behind him before bolting for the bailey. He found Anhuset in short order, sitting amid a cluster of soldiers, a small heap of coins beside her as she watched Carov roll a set of bone dice into the center of their makeshift circle.
She glanced up and instantly gained her feet, abandoning the game without hesitation. “What’s wrong?”
“The scarpatine has escaped.” He expected at least a huff of derisive laughter from her at her host’s carelessness, but all she did was bend to gather and pocket her winnings. “Any idea what room it’s in?”
“Still in the kitchen.” He gave a brief nod to the soldiers who’d risen as well and motioned for them to stay where they were. “The maids are standing on the tables, and the cook is stabbing at anything that moves. What’s the best way to catch Brishen’s fine gift?”