Read Online The Unwilling Warlord by Lawrence Watt-Evans - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Watt-Evans
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he called me a barbarian?” Sterren was dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream with rage at the unbelievable insult of being called a barbarian by people such as these, but after a moment laughter won out.
Alder stared at him, puzzled and amused, but not particularly displeased with his new warlord.
Chapter Seven
The clothes in the wardrobe did not fit him; Sterren, Eighth Warlord had obviously been considerably larger than was Sterren, Ninth Warlord. Not that he had been anything like Alder or Dogal, but he surely had the advantage of a few inches over his great-nephew, both in height and circumference.
Even so, Sterren thought that he would do better to wear something from the wardrobe, belted up tight, than to try and get any more use out of his own tattered garments. He was to eat dinner with the king, at the High Table, and he had not a single tunic left that had neither patches nor major stains.
Furthermore, he saw that all his clothes were cut differently from the prevailing mode in Semma. The local style was looser, more flowing, but with more fancywork to it.
He picked out an elegant black silk tunic embroidered in gold, and a pair of black leather breeches — black seemed to be the predominant color in the collection, and he guessed it had something to do with the office he held. It seemed an appropriate color for a warlord.
Of course, it might just be that his great-uncle had liked the dramatic, or had had a morbid streak, but in any case, black clothes might not look quite so oversized on him.
He would, he thought with a sigh, have to alter all the clothes, take them in to fit him.
No, he wouldn’t, he corrected himself, brightening up; he was an aristocrat now! He could find a servant to do that. The castle probably had a tailor somewhere.
He pulled the tunic over his head and looked in the flaking, yellowed mirror that hung in the back of the wardrobe.
He shuddered. The tunic almost reached his knees; he looked like a little boy.
He pulled on the breeches, then began adjusting belts and fabric.
By tucking in the top of the breeches and folding under the cuff on each leg he was able to make them fit, though they were still rather baggy in spots. The tunic was less cooperative, but he finally contrived an arrangement of two belts, one under and one over, that pulled the hem up to a height he could live with. The embroidered sleeves he had to roll up.
He was studying his appearance critically when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” he called, unthinkingly using Ethsharitic.
“What?” someone answered in Semmat. The voice was female, young and female.
“Sorry,” he called, switching to Semmat as he adjusted his belts. “Who is it?”
“The Princess Lura, Lord Sterren,” Alder’s voice replied.
Sterren whirled around and stared at the door. A princess? He glanced down at himself.
He looked foolish, he knew, but he would have to face this soon enough. He pursed his lips, and decided not to put off the inevitable. “Come in,” he called.
The door swung open and Sterren looked up to see who was there, but at first he saw no one. Then he let his gaze drop.
“Hello,” Princess Lura said, smiling up at him. “You look funny in those clothes; don’t you have any that fit?”
Sterren was not particularly fond of children, but Lura, who he guessed to be no more than nine, at the most, had an irresistable grin.
Besides, she was a princess. He smiled back, and it was only slightly forced.
“No,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t. The clothes I brought with me are all worn out.”
“Can’t you get new ones?” she demanded.
“I haven’t had time,” he explained.
“Oh, I guess not.” Her gaze dropped for a moment, and an awkward silence fell, to be quickly broken when she raised her eyes again and said, “I wanted to meet you. I never met anybody from Ethshar before.”
Sterren noticed that she pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, even when
Alder stared at him, puzzled and amused, but not particularly displeased with his new warlord.
Chapter Seven
The clothes in the wardrobe did not fit him; Sterren, Eighth Warlord had obviously been considerably larger than was Sterren, Ninth Warlord. Not that he had been anything like Alder or Dogal, but he surely had the advantage of a few inches over his great-nephew, both in height and circumference.
Even so, Sterren thought that he would do better to wear something from the wardrobe, belted up tight, than to try and get any more use out of his own tattered garments. He was to eat dinner with the king, at the High Table, and he had not a single tunic left that had neither patches nor major stains.
Furthermore, he saw that all his clothes were cut differently from the prevailing mode in Semma. The local style was looser, more flowing, but with more fancywork to it.
He picked out an elegant black silk tunic embroidered in gold, and a pair of black leather breeches — black seemed to be the predominant color in the collection, and he guessed it had something to do with the office he held. It seemed an appropriate color for a warlord.
Of course, it might just be that his great-uncle had liked the dramatic, or had had a morbid streak, but in any case, black clothes might not look quite so oversized on him.
He would, he thought with a sigh, have to alter all the clothes, take them in to fit him.
No, he wouldn’t, he corrected himself, brightening up; he was an aristocrat now! He could find a servant to do that. The castle probably had a tailor somewhere.
He pulled the tunic over his head and looked in the flaking, yellowed mirror that hung in the back of the wardrobe.
He shuddered. The tunic almost reached his knees; he looked like a little boy.
He pulled on the breeches, then began adjusting belts and fabric.
By tucking in the top of the breeches and folding under the cuff on each leg he was able to make them fit, though they were still rather baggy in spots. The tunic was less cooperative, but he finally contrived an arrangement of two belts, one under and one over, that pulled the hem up to a height he could live with. The embroidered sleeves he had to roll up.
He was studying his appearance critically when someone knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” he called, unthinkingly using Ethsharitic.
“What?” someone answered in Semmat. The voice was female, young and female.
“Sorry,” he called, switching to Semmat as he adjusted his belts. “Who is it?”
“The Princess Lura, Lord Sterren,” Alder’s voice replied.
Sterren whirled around and stared at the door. A princess? He glanced down at himself.
He looked foolish, he knew, but he would have to face this soon enough. He pursed his lips, and decided not to put off the inevitable. “Come in,” he called.
The door swung open and Sterren looked up to see who was there, but at first he saw no one. Then he let his gaze drop.
“Hello,” Princess Lura said, smiling up at him. “You look funny in those clothes; don’t you have any that fit?”
Sterren was not particularly fond of children, but Lura, who he guessed to be no more than nine, at the most, had an irresistable grin.
Besides, she was a princess. He smiled back, and it was only slightly forced.
“No,” he said, “I’m afraid I don’t. The clothes I brought with me are all worn out.”
“Can’t you get new ones?” she demanded.
“I haven’t had time,” he explained.
“Oh, I guess not.” Her gaze dropped for a moment, and an awkward silence fell, to be quickly broken when she raised her eyes again and said, “I wanted to meet you. I never met anybody from Ethshar before.”
Sterren noticed that she pronounced “Ethshar” correctly, even when
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