Free Shadow of the Father by Kyell Gold Page B

gone to use the necessary, that Maxon cleared his throat and followed it with words.
    “If his lordship will permit—”
    “I will not,” Yilon said.
    “—I would like to explain my actions.”
    Yilon tore another bite out of the meat pastry they’d bought. It was stale and somewhat fatty, so he chewed as loudly as he could. “If it were up to me, I would have left you back at the Quiet Muskrat.”
    “I understand his lordship’s feelings, but—”
    “You are supposed to be following my orders. you’re supposed to be loyal to me.” Yilon pointed a finger at him.
    “I am loyal. To the Lord Dewanne and the court of Dewanne,” Maxon snapped.
    “Which is me!”
    “Not yet.”
    They glared at each other. Maxon dipped his muzzle first. “My lord,” he said, “we have several more days of traveling remaining, and although it would be within your right to dismiss me once you are confirmed as Lord, I believe your lordship would be remiss in doing so without hearing my motivations for my actions.”
    Yilon ripped into the meat pastry. He chewed and swallowed a full bite before saying, “All right. Speak.”
    “Thank you, my lord.” Maxon cleared his throat. “It has become clear that his lordship, while of quick wit and great education, does not possess a full understanding of the land whose lordship he is about to inherit. There are certain factors which would make it easier for his lordship to assume the transition to power, and others which would make it more difficult. My actions, I promise you, were only intended to ease that transition and provide his lordship with the smoothest possible path to…”
    He turned his head, his words trailing off. Following his gaze, Yilon saw Sinch strolling back. “What,” he said, “you can’t say it in front of him?”
    “Please, allow me to conclude at a later time, your lordship.”
    Sinch looked from one to the other of them, rubbing his paws together as he sat down. “You were talking?”
    “Briefly,” Yilon said, finishing his meat pastry. He leaned back in his chair. “After all, we’ll all have to travel together for another two weeks. Isn’t that right, Maxon?”
    “Indeed, your lordship,” the steward said, muffling a cough into his paw. Sinch ate the rest of his lunch without comment, but when Maxon left to use the necessary, the mouse whispered, “Are you sure we can trust him?”
    “No,” Yilon said. “But at least we know we can’t.”
    On the evening of the eighth day, they stayed in a town called Havial, and in the morning they turned south. The ride became considerably bumpier, so that Yilon and Sinch were constantly shifting to avoid getting bruises on their rears from the bouncing. Maxon remained still, reading through his book, apparently immune to the attempts of the carriage to throw him around. Yilon wasn’t sure that Maxon even noticed the conditions, until near midday, when he rapped on the ceiling to signal the driver to stop. He looked across at Yilon and said, “From Havial, the road is less traveled, and therefore less even. It will be this bad for the rest of the way. And no churches for services, even at Frontier.”
    “Whose land is this?” Yilon asked.
    “Barclaw, your lordship,” Maxon said, and lowered his head to his book.
    They hadn’t talked since the previous day’s lunch, but Yilon wasn’t terribly anxious to hear Maxon’s explanation. People had all kinds of ways of justifying their actions. Anyway, they weren’t alone very often; when Sinch left them, the driver or guard always seemed to be around. At night, Yilon stayed in Sinch’s room, the two of them talking about the day’s events with a freedom Maxon’s presence made impossible.
    “Do you think you’ll have a servant when you get there?” Sinch asked.
    Yilon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The room they’d taken was the smallest in the inn, over Maxon’s protests, because it was the only one left with two beds. Clearly it was