Free Sword and the Spell 01: The Grey Robe by Clare Smith

late; my guards tell me you returned yesterday.”
    Maladran looked contrite in mock appeasement. “That’s
true but I hardly thought Your Majesty would care to share my dust and grime
from the road as well as the information your humble servant carries.”
    Sarrat gave a burst of cynical laughter but a genuine
smile of pleasure creased his face, momentarily softening the hard features. He
stood and descended the three steps from the dais, throwing an arm around the
magician’s shoulder and guiding him towards one of the Great Hall’s many doors.
    “Since when have you been a humble anything?” he
questioned with a laugh. “If I remember rightly the last time I reminded you of
your lowly position you threatened me with brewer’s droop for a year.”
    “Ah yes,” replied Maladran, remembering the heated
argument over the wardship of a lord’s pretty, orphaned daughter, “but as I
recall you were threatening to have me castrated like a common slave at the
time.”
    Sarrat laughed with a malicious glint in his eye
whilst a kingsguard opened the door to allow the two men to pass through into a
small private room decorated with considerable comfort and style. “But she was
such a pretty wench wasn’t she Maladran?”
    “She was indeed My Lord and from what I hear she has
turned out to be a woman of exceptional beauty who is loved and honoured by her
husband and three children. It would have been a great pity to despoil such
delicate fruit for a few nights pleasure, especially when there are always so
many others more willing.”
    “So I recall you counselling me at the time, only
threatening me with the pox was taking your point too far.”
    “So was threatening to take my balls,” retorted
Maladran.
    Both men laughed at their past encounter although at
the time it had been no laughing matter. The king poured two silver goblets
full of deep, red wine and handed one to the magician, indicating him to be
seated. Maladran chose a hard wooden chair without any padding but supporting a
magnificently carved high back of entwined dragons. It was his usual place,
half in the shadows with the sun behind him. Sarrat chose a more comfortable
chair which seemed to wrap around his short but muscular frame, giving the
magician the advantage of both height and light.
    “Well, will High Lord Coledran return to my court?”
Sarrat asked when he was settled.
    “Most certainly, My Lord. Surprisingly the illness
which kept him from your presence appears to have been genuine; I found him
barely able to walk and for most of the time incoherent.
    “He’s been like that since the night we took the
throne,” laughed Sarrat.
    “True, but for once this was not due to a surfeit of
red wine. However he will recover rapidly now, although he has found the cure a
most bitter one to swallow.” Sarrat raised an eyebrow in question. “Even as we
speak your will has been made known to the High Lord although I regret that his
only son will be unable to follow him to court as he is no longer heir to the
family name. That honour will have to go to another.”
    Sarrat gave a cackle of laughter and clapped his hands
together in pleasure. “You never cease to amaze me, Maladran. I send you on a
diplomatic mission to see why the High Lord has absented himself from my
scrutiny and you return with the old man put firmly in his place, his ambitious
son dealt with and Coledran’s house sufficiently weakened that they no longer
pose a threat. All that without a single sword being drawn. You are truly a
great magician.”
    “I live to serve,” bowed Maladran mockingly.
    The king
narrowed his eyes as he considered the magician’s tone but decided to ignore
the veiled insult. “What about the girl, did she have anything to do with the
High Lord’s illness?” Maladran shook his head. “Has she remembered who she is
yet?”
    Maladran shook his head again. He’d been in the throne
room the night Sarrat had killed King Malute and he’d placed the