Warren peeked out. Men in armour, some helmeted, others not, sat in lines along two tables large enough to fill the hall. They were eating and drinking and some were obviously drunk. The only one who looked bored was a masked man lounging in a separate chair against one wall. The chair was covered in intricate carvings and had lion’s feet. A band of metal glinted through the masked man’s dirty red hair.
“I think Claudus is here,” Warren retracted his head and said. “There’s servant-boys or whatever walking around too, filling people’s cups. Do you think we’ll blend in?”
“In these clothes? No chance!”
“Just have to stay here, then.”
Warren waited, watching the revelry. There were women present, though not many, sitting awkward and silent between the sweaty biceps of the men on either side of them and clearly wishing they could be somewhere quieter. If a girl servant happened to stray too close to one of the drunker warriors, she would find herself poked and pinched and laughed at.
Two shrouded figures entered the room, stooped over like the elderly, covered head to toe in various shawls and wraps. They did not stop to speak to anyone, though they nodded at people they appeared to recognise. Nobody nodded back.
“I think that’s Ban and Bors over there,” Warren whispered in George’s ear.
“Where?”
“There. Can you see them? I can’t, the juggler’s in the way.”
“Yes. They’re kneeling in front of that creepy masked bloke on the chair. War, you’d better go and tell the others they’re here.”
“All right. Don’t move.”
Warren slipped from behind the tapestry and ran softly down the steps into the kitchens. Phariens had managed to revive Lambegus and was fussing around him while he slumped in a corner with a cup of wine. Bors the Younger kept trying and failing to sit on his knee.
“Well?” Lionel looked at Warren.
“They’re here. They’re dressed up like two old ladies, all bent over and wrapped up. One’s in a brown cloak, the other’s in grey. I left them paying respects to Claudus. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Who’s here?” Lambegus croaked. He set the empty cup aside and pulled young Bors onto his lap. The boy seemed content.
“King Bors,” Phariens said distractedly. “We have to get them down here with us, somehow. If one of them is desperate enough to see Claudus dead, he won’t wait to strike off his head. If that happens there’ll be an uproar and nobody will be safe.” He glanced at Warren, then at Lionel in his rags, and back again. “Warren, you’re quite small. If Lionel gives you some of his clothes…”
Nightwalks 