Page 16 of The Sun He Buried

So the courtier has a name. That’s unfortunate. I was enjoying Court Man.

“He apologized.”

“Because I made him.”

“It still counts a little.”

“Do you want him removed from the hall?”

Baldr would do it. Hakon could lose his place at the Dróttin’s table because I say yes.

I think about his boot nudging my hook farther away, then his face when the training yard went quiet.

“No.”

Baldr waits.

“I want him to sit there tomorrow and wonder whether I’m going to tell everyone he lost a fight with a crochet hook.”

“You didn’t have the hook.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

The grin returns. “A severe punishment.”

“He might learn from it.”

“You believe that?”

“No, but I want the chance to be surprised.”

Baldr tears off another piece of bread. “Then he stays.”

He asked, I answered, and the answer is enough.

“But if he does it again,” Baldr continues, “I’m giving you the practice sword.”

“I don’t know how to use one.”

“Neither does Hakon.”

I laugh into my wine.

We finish the fish. Baldr gives me the last carrots, and I give him the fennel hidden beneath mine. He finds it anyway.

“The kitchens think centuries will wear you down.”

He eats the fennel with great seriousness. “Never.”

The door opens once. A young servant brings honey cake, sets it down, and leaves with a smile he hides poorly.

“He knows.”

“He carried dinner in.”

“You could have called it a meeting.”

“Then they would have brought paper and less cake.”