Kai is a black sheep, an outcast within the kingdom that by rights he should one day inherit. This would make him both an easy and desirable target for anyone seeking to gain power, or even to seize the Crown alto- gether.
The whole thing was troubling. Have we stumbled into a coup in progress? Or are they -- wh "they" may be -- simply laying the groundwork for one, and we happened to come along at a most inop- portune time?
He had the feeling that men close to the King were intentionally trying to shield him from foreign visitors, while the King himself had no idea that anything of the sort was going on. Naitachal certainly had the impression at supper that the King intended to receive him.
All right; let's assume that he wanted to talk to me, but his minions are keeping me from seeing him. If that is true, then enemies surround the King, and so far that list includes Paavo, Johan Pikhalas, and per- haps this Sir Jehan that Alaire mentioned last night.
Naitachal became suddenly worried for Alaire as well as himself and Kai. We are the first and most likely targets. If there is a coup, we'd be the first to die.
As the Dark Elf pondered these ominous thoughts, he heard a soft knock on the door. Though the knock was quiet, he started, reaching for his blade. The knock sounded again, and Naitachal approached the door, sword drawn.
"Yes? Who is it?" he said, ready for a garrison of sol- diers to come storming through the door. "What do you want?"
"Came to clean your room, sir," a young male voice replied timidly.
Naitachal relaxed, but not completely. Could still be a trap.
"Come in then," he said. Remember, no magic, just good swordsmanship, if this is another assassin.
The door opened slowly, and a young boy, of per- haps thirteen years, came in carrying a feather-duster and a rag. He wore the simple clothing that the rest of the servants wore, a tunic of soft suede, and short boots that were little more than slippers. His long brown hair fell over his face, but his eyes peered through it, as he used it as a veil to hide his features.
When the boy saw the blade in Naitachal's hand, he stopped dead in his tracks.
No threat here, Naitachal thought, and put the blade away. "Never mind that," he said, gesturing for the servant to come in. "Just practicing."
The boy smiled, apparently relieved, and stepped closer to Naitachal. He looked up at the Dark Elf, and his hair fell away from his face, which was full of won- der. He stared for several moments, speechless, almost to the point of being annoying.
I'm the first elf this boy's ever seen, Naitachal real- ized, and softened even more. In most circumstances he would not have appreciated this awkward atten- tion, but because of the treatment so far from the adults of this land, a smile, even a curious one, was a welcomed sight.
"You speak Althean," the elf observed.
"Yes. A little," the child said shyly. "They teach it in school. I'm a little keen on it. The teachers say it's important to speak the southerner's tongue, since we're going to be trading with you more soon."
"Do they really," Naitachal replied, a little more dryly than he had intended. He had wondered why so many of the natives spoke fluent Althean. But are they teaching their youth our language to trade with us, or to conquer us? In either case, a grasp of our language would be useful.
The boy giggled, hiding his mouth with a grimy hand.
Naitachal raised an eyebrow at him. "Did I say something amusing?"
"Your ears. They pricked up, just then."
Naitachal felt blood rushing to his face, a mild but uncontrollable response to an old, familiar embarrass- ment. Whenever a human noticed his ears, his reaction was always the same; perhaps it had some- thing to do with growing up in a relatively closed elven culture? This time, though, he was more amused than anything.
"They did that because you said something interest- ing to me," he told the boy, with a conspiratorial grin.
"Tell me, what do the grownups say about Althea?"
Naitachal made his ears wiggle; the boy giggled again.