The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) by Juliet E. McKenna Read Free Book Online

the ancient black-oak chair that dominated the dais at the end of the long room. Despite his scant white hair and deeply graven wrinkles, his faded eyes were clear and alert.
    “Sieur.” Temar made a formal reverence and sank to one knee, head bowed.
    “This is an official visit?” There was a hint of amusement in the old man’s voice.
    “It is.” Temar’s voice was firm. With his head bowed, he did not see the dismay that fleetingly doubled the weight of years on his grandfather’s face.
    “Then make your petition.” The Sieur’s voice was firm and even a little grim.
    “I request permission to take ship with Messire Den Fellaemion.” Temar spoke more loudly than he had intended in his determination not to stumble over his words. The request rang through the room more like a demand and Temar forced himself to remain still, staring at the subtle curves of the ocher and cream tiles on the floor.
    “Go on.” The old man’s voice was quelling.
    Temar looked up despite himself; momentarily at a loss.
    “Make your case, Esquire.” The Sieur looked down at him, unsmiling. “Tell me why I should allow the last of my line to risk himself in some unknown land the far side of the ocean.”
    Temar took another deep breath while trying to conceal it. He’d expected confrontation, argument; he’d been counting on it to spur him into defying his grandfather.
    “I know that I am the last in the male line of the House D’Alsennin and I respect the obligations of my blood. Therefore it falls upon me to restore the fortunes of our name, both materially and among our peers. As the Empire has withdrawn from the provinces in latter years, we have successively lost lands, wealth and position. I do not see any realistic prospect that these will be recovered and so I have sought another means to raise our House to its former glory.” He paused to collect his thoughts.
    “The Emperor has announced that a military levy will be raised to retake Lescar from these self-proclaimed Dukes.” The old man’s face was unreadable.
    Temar looked directly at him. “No Great House has sent troops to any of the levies announced since the turn of the year, my lord, and this will be no different. I have no more confidence in the commanders of the Imperial Cohorts than I do in a pack of middenyard dogs and every Esquire who served his turn in the last year will be saying the same to his elders. You know as well as I do that Nemith the Reckless will be the last Emperor of his line and likely dead and burned before the end of the season, given his tastes in wine and whores.”
    The Sieur inclined his head slowly. “That is very true and when the Convocation of Princes meets to elect a new Emperor, there will be all manner of opportunity for the Esquires of even the minor Houses to secure his patronage. I am too old to dance that measure and you cannot do it from half the world away.”
    The cold of the floor was starting to strike up into Temar’s knees and he was getting cramp in his calves. He cursed himself for a fool for adopting the formal posture and tried to ignore the discomfort, but it forced itself out in his increasingly terse words.
    “We are not the only House suffering as the Empire retreats, Grandfather. Why should I stand in line with a pail for another man to grant me a turn at a shrinking well? Messire Den Fellaemion tells of vast lands overseas, fertile and free for the taking, endless, untapped forests, wealth to be had in iron and gold, even gems.”
    “That sounds more like your friend young Den Rannion talking.” The old man’s tone was sour. “Tell me, just what do the good Esquire’s gambling debts stand at now? I’m sure his father is only too keen to send him to any shore empty of gaming dens and brothels, if only to save his purse!”
    Was the old man deliberately misunderstanding him? Be that as it may, Temar was not about to be reined aside into an argument about Vahil’s latest foolishness; he did not