He looked at Alaire, bewildered, as if it was the first time he had noticed him, and began babbling in his native tongue.
Alaire shook his head. "No, I'm sorry, whoever you are. I don't speak your language at all."
If I can keep him out here in this cold he might straighten up a little. Alaire had been drunk exactly twice in his life, once on his thirteenth birthday and then, more recently, at the wedding of the daughter of the Mayor of Fenrich. Both times, ice applied to the forehead seemed to take care of the more unpleasant side effects. This wind was practically the same thing.
"A southerner, then," the boy said suddenly. "Don't get many of you around here."
Though it was with a heavy accent, including a strong rolling of the r's, he spoke Alaire's language clearly, without hesitation. As the boy sobered, he examined the bardling, in a way that reminded Alaire of the King's look as they entered. The youngster even took the sleeve of his shirt and studied the fabric.
One thing was certain, this youngster was not one of the servants.
He must have said that aloud, for the young man started. "You're no peasant yourself!" the boy said loudly, but it did not sound as if he was trying to be impolite. "What brings you to Rozinki?"
"Business, of a sort," Alaire said, hesitating. "I'm .. .
Alaire, an assistant to the Ambassador of Althea. The dark fellow, up there with the King."
"Ambassador from Althea? Didn't know we even had one." His face went sour, as if he'd bit into a bad apple. "Who wants to discuss kingdom business tonight, anyway? It's not even midnight yet!"
As the boy spoke, a puff of breeze blew his breath into Alaire's face, and Alaire wrinkled his nose. The boy smelled like a brewery.
How much has he had to drink anyway? Alaire wondered, since he didn't recall seeing him at the din- ner earlier. There was something about the way he phrased things that made Alaire wonder: Is he some by-blow of the royal family too?
"Then I suppose you've already had the pleasure of meeting my father," the stranger continued, sardoni- cally. The way he emphasized the word "father" suggested they didn't get along very well.
"Well," Alaire said, uncertainly. "Perhaps. I'm sorry, but which man was your father?" He knew he was probably committing a sizable blunder by admitting ignorance, but could think of no other way to fin A broad smile creased the stranger's boyish fea- tures, a mischievous gleam that made Alaire instantly wary.
The young man led Alaire to the balcony doors, where the supper guests were still milling about, cir- cling around Naitachal like curious, but frightened little birds about a great black eagle.
"See the big fat man up there in the purple coat?" the boy asked ungraciously.
The only person in purple was the King. "You King Archenomen?" Alaire was a This is the crown prince? Drunk as a soldier on leave?
"Prince Kainemonen at your service," the boy announced, bowing an exaggerated bow, removing his hat with a sweeping gesture. "But you can call me Kai.
Everyone else does. When they don't call me useless, wastrel, or ne'er-do-well." He teetered, just a little, and Alaire gently pushed him upright. "I think I was an accident. I don't look like any of the family. Pe I was ..."
Alaire stood frozen in shock at the unasked for reve- lations, but Kai seemed to realize that he was babbling things he shouldn't and interrupted himself with a shrug.
"Well, probably not. Such things would be too much an embarrassment. I doubt they would have let me live. But yes, gods help Suinomen, I'll be king, whenever Father croaks."
Holy heavens, he despises his father and himself, and he doesn't care who knows it, Alaire thought with dismay. Assuming he's telling the truth. Could be, the ale has gone to his mind, so he thinks he's a prince. But everything else certainly fits. His eyebrows raised when he noticed the boy's ring, a chunky, gold piece that flashed when the candle-light caught it just right.
The large letter "A" A simplified version of the Arche- nomen Coat of Arms I saw hanging over the King's throne. Perhaps he is the Prince after all.
Then again, maybe he was only what Alaire was pretending to be; a royal bastard.
I might as well keep talking to him, whether he is or not. Even a drunk having grand delusions can supply a lot of interesting information.