Free Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray Page B

Fortunately the trousers were loose enough that he could pull them over the tops of the boots.
    He regarded his appearance in the mirror next to the wardrobe. He looked like a damn fool. The shirt and trousers might be fit for a lord, but the weathered face and plain boots belonged to a countryman.
    There was a rap at the door. “My lord? We must leave now or you will be late,” a voice called.
    “I am ready,” Devlin said.
    The servant woman escorted him through the castle. He recognized the hallway that he had seen that morning, but rather than turning right to the servants’ area, his guide continued straight ahead.
    At last they turned the corner, and before he knew it, he was standing at the entrance to a vast hall. At the far end, a long table set on a raised dais faced the occupants. Below, at right angles to the dais, were a dozen lines of tables. The room was lit by chandeliers, which hung suspended from the high ceiling. Bright banners decorated the walls, and silver plate shone on the tables.
    There was room for a dozen dozen to dine, he thought, and then realized that he had underestimated. Perhaps thrice a dozen dozen could be seated at the benches, not to mention all the servants required to wait on them.
    But his guide would not permit him to linger. “Come,” she said, tugging on his sleeve when he proved reluctant to follow. “The steward instructed me to bring you to the gathering room, where you will join the others.”
    The gathering room proved to be a small chamber to the left of the Great Hall. A guard came to attention as they approached, and after rapping once on the door, opened it. Devlin entered the room. When he looked back, he found that his guide had disappeared.
    There were perhaps a dozen people in the room, standing talking in small groups. A few heads turned as he entered, but after a dismissive glance they returned to their own conversations.
    “Finally. Have you no sense of time? His Majesty is expected any moment,” the Royal Steward said, breaking away from one of the groups. His eyes swept over Devlin from head to toe, lingering on the shabby boots, and his lips pursed narrowly.
    Devlin returned his gaze evenly.
    “Well, I suppose it could have been worse,” the steward said, shaking his head. “Come now, and we will fulfill our duties.”
    The steward led Devlin toward a small group of nobles who stood in a semicircle around a central figure dressed in brilliant white. The object of their attention was recounting a story, and some smiled politely, while others sipped a pale wine from slender glasses.
    The steward waited, Devlin at his shoulder, until the nobleman had finished his story and the laughter had died away.
    The nobleman turned toward the Royal Steward and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
    “Your Grace,” the steward said, with a slight bow. “It is my duty to present to you Devlin Stonehand of Duncaer, the new Chosen One. Chosen, this is Duke Gerhard, the King’s Champion and General of the Royal Army.”
    Duke Gerhard barely glanced at Devlin. “I greet you, Chosen One, and welcome you to the King’s service.” The words were gracious, but there was no true welcome in his eyes.
    Devlin decided that this man did not rate a proper greeting. Instead he used a phrase he had learned in his journeys. “The honor is mine,” he said, giving a short bow in the Jorskian style. Duke Gerhard acknowledged the bow with a mere inclination of his head, then moved away.
    With the air of a man performing a distasteful duty, the steward introduced Devlin to the other occupants of the room. Devlin acknowledged each introduction with grave courtesy, then promptly forgot their names. To his eye, one richly dressed Jorskian noble resembled another.
    Even his encounter with the King proved a disappointment, for his fine robes could not disguise the fact that the ruler of Jorsk was approaching middle age, with thinning blond hair and the beginnings of a paunch. The King wore the