Thrand (Part Eight)

 

Thrand was taken in hand by a brisk young page and guided somewhat breathlessly through the back chambers of the palace. The old Morg trotted behind as the hallways grew less and less spacious and went from ornate to plain. Occasionally his belly growled as he passed halls that billowed and steamed with smells of cooking. At last he found himself kicked out of a small door (courteously of course, if rather hastily – it was going to be a busy day, after all) that led into the shady aisles of the castle gardens. The door itself was camouflaged outside by tall hedges, and as Thrand kinked his way around them he could already feel the heat of the day starting to overwhelm the cool of the morning.

After threading his way through the garden he was let out the back gate by the guard there with very little fuss. Maybe the guard recognized Thrand and maybe not. He gave no indication. Perhaps he just reckoned that no-one would try to break his way out of the palace, Thrand thought wryly. The gate swung shut behind him.

The High Justice looked up and down the street, tugging on his beard thoughtfully. This area seemed to be dedicated to rather fancy shops, places most likely to be frequented by habitues of the White Tower or people who thought that the proximity guaranteed some sort of quality or tone.  The Inner Circle road wasn’t far away; if he meant to begin taking Madam Melniar’s advice, there was no time like the present. The day would only get hotter and the trek more uncomfortable. Rather reluctantly, he began making his way forward.

It wasn’t just the idea of the exercise that was slowing him down. Thrand was still wearing his judge’s robes, and it would be a short leap from spotting those to identifying him as the High Justice himself, and before he knew it that information would be passed along and sold, and he would be mobbed by a throng of postulants who just couldn’t wait to be king. That sort of thing had happened to him before.  Right now, he just wanted a little time to think about things as he trudged along.

The solution came to him by accident. Almost the first place he passed was a clothing store outfitted with a fringed red awning. A large banner, obviously brand-new, had been pinned to the tassels: MOURNING CLOAKS/BLACK & WHITE. Grinning grimly to himself, he glanced left and right before going in.

A young clerk behind the desk looked up in surprise from his books as Thrand entered. The man was plainly not quite ready for business yet, but he was also apparently not going to let a sale go by. He switched smoothly into an obsequious mode as he slipped out onto the shop floor, tilting his head into a sort of permanent half-bow.

“Ah, my lord. And what can we supply you with on this somber day? The master of the shop himself is otherwise engaged at the moment, but perhaps I could help you?”

“Perhaps you can,” Thrand said gruffly. He looked around the store. It was obvious that much of its usual stock had been hurriedly pushed back to the walls to make room for racks upon racks of cloaks of all lengths. “I need to buy a mourning cloak.”

“But of course. As you can see, we have many sizes, in the traditional colors for both Men and Morgs. They range in quality from quite decently basic to most substantial.  You will, of course, wish a black one.”

“I do.” Thrand turned and fingered a nearby cloak. “You seem to have got things out pretty quickly, considering the King only died this morning.”

The clerk shook his head as he measured up his customer’s height.

“Alas, the passing of the lamented King Taryn was an event not entirely unforeseen. The master has been preparing for that melancholy eventuality for weeks, the better to serve our customers in their time of need. You are a Husky Medium,” he concluded briskly. “What sort of quality are you seeking, sir?”

“Oh, pretty basic, I think.” The young man’s face froze a bit, not exactly in disapproval, but a shade less enthusiastic. “I’ve got a fancier one at home,” Thrand hastened to add. “I just don’t want to be caught disrespecting the King on the streets right now.”

“I see.” The man sniffed slightly. “We also offer a cleaning service, should you find the need of one for your … old cloak, if it has gone unused for some time.” He riffled through the racks and came up with a plain cloak and hood. He briefly measured it against the old Morg. “This seems correct. I take it you will wear it out?”

They moved over to the counter and completed the transaction in an abrupt, businesslike manner. Before Thrand left the shop, throwing the cloak around his shoulders and pulling the hood up, a figure had emerged from the shadowy recesses of the door at the back of the store to watch him leave, a gingery-bearded Morg of middle age, very well dressed. He hastened out to the clerk after Thrand had left.

“Here, Sharro, how much did that fellow pay?”

“Just one silver mark.” He shrugged. “Cheapskate.”

The Morg slapped him on the side of his head.

“Dolt! Didn’t you realize that he was a Judge?”

The clerk rubbed his head.

“Really?”

“Really.” The master sighed, shaking his head mournfully. He stared at the empty doorway. “We could have soaked him for five marks, easy.”