I almost laughed. Anything else? I needed everything else, starting with explanations to dozens of questions about my newly discovered family. But I merely smiled and shook my head.
“The bath will do,” I said. “Now, where—?”
“A boy will summon you when the water is ready.”
“All right. That will be all.”
“Very good, Lord.” He shut the doors on his way out, and as he did, I noticed how the heavy old hinges gave a faint squeak. At least nobody would be able to sneak up on me, I thought, the soldier inside taking over for the moment.
Unbuckling my swordbelt, I draped it across the back of the nearest chair, then sat down and pulled off my boots. It felt good to be alone. I tossed my boots into the corner by the door, then wandered through the suite, admiring all the little decorations, the gilding on the moldings and woodwork, the paintings and tapestries on the walls. Finally I flopped onto the bed, spreading my arms and feeling the goosedown yield beneath me. Soft… softer than I had felt in a long time. Not even Helda’s bed had been this comfortable.
I just needed a woman’s warmth beside me, I decided while stifling a yawn, and I could easily call this place home. But a trace of guilt crept into my pleasant thoughts.
King Elnar and Ilerium remained besieged, and I remembered Dworkin’s promise that he could help end the attacks. I would have to press him for an explanation the next time we met. Duty called.
An hour and a half later, after a long hot bath had soaked many of the day’s accumulated aches from my bones, I returned to my rooms for a quick nap.
The castle’s staff had been busy in my absence, I discovered. My boots had been cleaned and polished to a shine that would have made my orderly green with envy. Not even my sword had escaped their attention—the gold and silver inlay on the hilt had been polished to perfection. When I pulled half the blade’s length from its scabbard, I discovered it had been freshly oiled. I couldn’t have done a better job myself.
I could definitely get used to this sort of life, I thought, yawning widely.
The bath attendants had made off with the blood-and-sweat stained clothing I’d been wearing, replacing it with the long black robe I now wore. Anari had not yet produced the clothes he’d promised… not that I found fault—he hadn’t had much notice, after all.
With nothing to wear and nothing to do before dinner, I crawled into bed. Almost immediately I grew dead to the world.
Some time later, when the afternoon light had begun to fade, I came awake with a start.
I’d heard a noise. Something just wrong enough to sound an alarm and wake me.
A light knock sounded again from the other room, so softly I almost missed it. Then the hinges squeaked slightly as the door opened slowly… stealthily.
Someone trying to sneak up on me? No hell-creatures could possibly get in here, I thought.
I sat up, instinctively reaching for my sword. It was gone—I had left it on one of the chairs in the next room, I realized.
“Lord?” I heard an old man’s voice call. It wasn’t Anari. “Lord Oberon?”
“I’m here.” Rising, I found I still wore the robe I’d donned after my bath. I tightened the belt and wandered out into the main room of my suite, stretching the kinks from my muscles. “What is it?”
A man in his late years, dressed in castle livery, stood in the doorway to the hall. He held a large silver tray laden with towels in his age-spotted hands. He had to be at least seventy years old, I guessed. Undoubtedly, he had been serving my father as long as Anari. He had a warm, gentle smile.
“Your pardon, Lord Oberon,” he said. His voice quavered slightly. “I am Ivinius, the barber. Lady Freda said you required a shave and haircut before dinner.”
I ran my fingers over the thick stubble on my chin. “Thoughtful of her.”
“Her ladyship is most kind,” he murmured. “I’ve known her since she was a babe in her mother’s arms, bless her.”
He set his tray down on the table. In addition to the towels, I saw that it held two small blocks of shaving soap, plus several cutthroat razors of varying lengths and a selection of tiny glass bottles: probably lotions and perfumes. Without asking, he began to drag one of the armchairs toward the window.
“I’ll get that,” I said, starting forward to help. He looked too frail to be moving furniture.
“No need, Lord,” he said. He gave the chair one final tug and swung it into the last of the afternoon sunlight, exactly where he wanted it. “Please sit, Lord.”
As I did so, he went into my bedroom, picked up the small table with the wash basin and pitcher of water, and lugged them slowly over to my chair.
“Do you need help?” I asked, half rising.
“No, Lord.” He gave a low chuckle. “It is kind of you to ask, but I have been doing my job since before you were born. Please relax. I will be ready for you in a moment.”
He might look doddering, I thought, settling back in my seat, but he obviously had his pride. And he obviously knew his own strength. With a slight grunt, he set the table down beside the chair. He hadn’t spilled so much as a single drop of water from the pitcher.
I loosened my robe around my neck and took a deep contented breath, stretching out my feet and clenching and unclenching my toes. It would be nice to get a decent shave and haircut, I thought. I’d made do with battlefield barbering for most of the last year, and I’m afraid it showed.
With deft hands, Ivinius poured a small measure of water into the basin, took a block of shaving soap from his tray, and expertly lathered it with a brush. He spread towels across my chest and shoulders, then liberally foamed my chin, cheeks, and neck. While my beard softened, he selected the longest straight-edge razor from his tray—one almost as long as his forearm—and began stropping it across a long piece of leather tied to his belt.
To my surprise, I realized I could easily have gone back to sleep. I half closed my eyes, the clean scent of the shaving soap in my nostrils, the shup-shup-shup of the stropping blade a lullaby to my ears. The joys of civilization… yes, I could easily get used to life in Juniper, I thought with a half smile.
Silently, I gave thanks to Freda’s thoughtfulness for sending Ivinius. The closest thing to a real barber I’d seen in the last year of campaigning against the hell-creatures had been my own orderly, who had more thumbs than fingers. He managed to trim my hair with a minimum of blood loss, but after his first stab—and that was the word—at shaving my face, I told him to get out and reclaimed my razor. My instincts for self-preservation demanded it.
In a near monotone, Ivinius kept up a steady murmur about his years in the service of Lord Dworkin. He mentioned his wife of sixty-two years, a cook in the kitchens; his five boys, who all served as valets in the castle; and his twenty-six grandchildren and great-grandchildren, one of whom would soon be of age to join the army. I made appropriate noises whenever he paused—“uh-huh,” “yes,” “go on”—but really I heard only every second or third sentence.
When I turned my head slightly, I could see us both in the looking glass. At that moment I knew why Freda had sent him: my hair was a wild tangle that not even a dunking in bathwater could tame. Dark circles lined my eyes, and I looked ten years older than my actual age. Everyone had been too polite to tell me I was a mess… certainly unsuitable to bring to dinner without being cleaned up.
Ivinius finished working on his razor and turned to me once more. Gently touching the bridge of my nose with two fingers, he tilted my head to the side. He didn’t realize I could see our reflection, and with sudden alarm I noticed how he shifted his grip on the razor’s handle. Now he held it like a butcher’s knife poised to joint a leg of lamb.
With my right hand I caught his wrist barely an inch from my throat.
“That’s not how you hold a razor,” I said, voice hard, turning to look at him.
“Lord,” he said in the calm tones one uses to gentle a spooked horse, “I am a barber. I know my job. Let me do it.”
“I’d rather shave myself, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind,” he snarled.
I pushed back the hand holding the razor. Or tried to—for he suddenly bore down on me with all his weight and strength. Much, much more strength than an old man deserved.
I am a strong man—stronger than any human I’ve ever fought. It should have been an easy thing for me to push an old man’s arm away from my throat.
But it wasn’t.
Ivinius, despite his age, was at least as strong as me—certainly stronger than any seventy-year-old servant ought to be.
It became a struggle of wills and brute force. I felt my bones start to creak; the muscles in my arm stood out like bands of iron. Grunting from the strain, I gave my every effort to throw him off.
It wasn’t enough. Standing, he had the better position. He threw not only his strength but his full weight against me, and steadily the razor drew closer to my throat. I gulped, suddenly realizing I couldn’t win.