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“You know what they say about ‘im, roit? They say ‘the King shits,” Gerrin said, clearly amused with himself.
“and the Hand wipes!” Rokar cut him off, hooting like a stuttering owl.
It was at that instant that both of them noticed that the sun wasn’t streaming in the door of the barracks yet, and turned to see why. A very large person with broad shoulders filled the doorway, cast in shadow by the bright light penetrating here and there around him. The person stood there for a minute, then stepped into the shade of the building. It was the “Hand” that they’d been mocking, and both knew that they’d be heard.
“Begging your pardon, your highness,” Rokar choked out with some difficulty, “we didn’t mean nuthin’ by it!”
Gerrin stood looking at his feet, shuffling like a boy caught with stolen pies, but his chin thrust out a bit in sullen defiance. “Wuz jus’ sayin’ what we ‘eard,” he mumbled, kicking a bit of dirt.
“Stand up straight!” the Hand barked, his voice cloaked in authority and command. Both men snapped to as they’d been well-trained to do. “Now let’s talk about what you did wrong. First, you let someone my size walk up on you without being aware of him. If I had ill intent, you’d both be corpses now, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
The men looked confused, not sure if the Hand was having a go at them or maybe was slightly unbalanced.
“Second,” the Hand ticked a finger, “your joke is old and tired. I order you to come up with original material. Third, I don’t care if its your sergeant or the bloody King almighty himself, you don’t bow and scrape. You are men of the King’s guard, and you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Both men looked at each other, then back at the Hand, their backs a bit stiffer and their chins higher.
“And five, I am not a highness. That term is reserved for royalty. I am merely nobility. As is ‘your majesty,’ ‘your grace,’ and ‘your royal high muckety muck.’ The proper term for me is ‘m’Lord’ or ‘Ser’ or ‘Your Handiness.”
“That was four,” Gerrin dead panned.
“Now you’re getting it,” the Hand grinned his approval, clapping Gerrin on the back. “So since we’ve got all that sorted, can you point me to a Knight by the name of Hightower? Ellis Hightower?
“Oh sure thing Your Handiness,” Rokar quipped, pointing toward the back corner of the barrack. “E’s the broody looking one.”
The Hand wove his way between bunks to the man. He really wasn’t all that broody looking, but he’d known exactly who Rokar meant in spite of that.
“Are you Ser Ellis Hightower, annointed Knight of the Shield?” the Hand inquired.
The man stood. He had a look of serenity, the kind that a man gets when he’s seen some things and overcome most of them. “I am, my Lord.”
“You’re going to have to get over that. You’re the one King Ru suggested as a new companion to our band. The King must attend to affairs of state, as Kings are wont to do.”
“I am Ser. I volunteered.”
“Again with the Ser. Do you know whose place you’ll be taking in our gang of merry men?”
“The King’s, Ser?”
“That’s correct. And when we adventured through the land with His Grace, do you think we heaped honorifics upon him left and right?”
“No, he wasn’t a King yet.”
“Ford thought he was a King, but we didn’t show him any deference. What I’m trying to say is that our lives will be in your hands, and yours in ours. You honor us by your friendship, and by caring whether we live or die. You are as much a partner in this new endeavor as any of us, and your leadership and opinion are not only sought after, they are required. I am speaking to you ask Hand to Knight at this moment, but when next we meet, we will be equals. Understood?”
With no change in expression, Ellis Hightower nodded his head and said, “Understood, Your Handiness.”
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