Page 68 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

“What did you just call me?”

“S-sir? Because you’re a knight?”

Morfran shuddered. “What demonic entity from the bowels of hell possessed you to believe that?”

“Because Gueldefore ditched the job, and there’s an opening to fill, isn’t there?”

“I’d rather eat my spleen than fill that position.”

“Why?” He looked terribly confused, wiping at his cheeks. “You’re everyone’s hero here.”

The strangest twinge of pleased panic erupted in his chest at hearing that. Morfran scowled, suddenly anxious. “Look, kid. If you’re going to be precocious and over-the-top cute, I’ll ensure you’ll be missing your bottom row of teeth as well. You understand?”

Toothless Pete clammed his mouth shut and nodded his head up and down.

“Now show me what you’re doing to my lute.”

The kid obeyed, placing his fingers on the strings in a way only an eight-year-old with no musical talent at all would.

Morfran was tempted to wretch the instrument from his hands. “Your fingering sucks, and the lute is simply too big for you. But if you’re going to keep me awake at all hours playing the wrong chords, I want it to at least sound tastelessly bad,” Morfran said. “Hold it thumb under.”

Pete blinked at him.

“Thumb under.” Morfran repeated.

The kid’s face went red with panic. “I don’t know what that is.”

Morfran yanked the lute out of his hand, positioned it horizontally, wrapped his arm around the bottom, and waggled his thumb so he could see why it was called “thumb under.” “This is an eight-course lute, so it has fifteen strings. You understand?”

Pete nodded vigorously.

“Now, the string system is fairly complex. But this lone string here is called a chanterelle, and it’s usually the note on which the melody is sung. Got it?”

Again, the vigorous nodding.

“And the way you’ll read music is based on a notation based on your finger position…”

Even more nodding.

Morfran lowered the lute, annoyed. “You’re just nodding to appease me, aren’t you?”

“Appease?”

“Trying to convince me not to punch you in the head.”

“Oh,” Pete said, to which he responded by nodding.

Morfran sighed. “All right. I won’t punch you. Just walk what I just said backwards.”

To his surprise, Toothless Pete was able to recite it, with only one or two mistakes. The kid was rather perceptive, and in quick time Morfran deemed him semi-worthy to touch the lute. He passed it back over only after demanding Toothless Pete show him how to properly hold it.

“Like this?” the boy asked.

“Exactly.” Morfran gave Toothless Pete a polite round of applause at not being a complete sack of crap at holding it, then turned to go back to his planning crisis. But before doing so, the question flitted to his mind. “Why were you crying?”

“I overheard some of the men talkin’.” The boy looked down, self-conscious. “They say Lord Morfran’s men captured thirty of us during the battle over the Valley of the Vale. They plan to hang them inside Warshire in three days.”

He froze. A public execution. Another warning from Ravana. A knot of fear tightened below Morfran’s chest as he remembered Bronwen telling him about the three Fleet Foot children’s parents who were away in battle. “Tell me you were only crying because you’re an overly sensitive baby and not because your parents were among those captured.”