Without looking at him, Hal reached up and pressed Perrin’s head down until it rested against his shoulder. The man stiffened for an instant, then softened, allowing his weight to settle against Hal’s side. His hair smelled of the salve and of sweat. Of honest labour.
Hal let his own head tilt sideways until his cheek pressed against the crown of Perrin’s head, the soft strands tickling his jaw. Perrin might have been just a squire, but a squire’s duty was whatever his knight required. Right now, Hal required this.
The world narrowed to just that moment—to the warmth where they touched and the rhythm of their breathing gradually falling into sync.
Hal didn’t acknowledge what he was doing, or why. Perrin had relaxed, so Hal could, too. He closed his eyes and breathed in the only comfort he would permit himself to need.
“You’re facing the Nameless Knight.”
Perrin, who could read much better than Hal, delivered this news very quietly. He’d run to the pairings board first thing and had returned to spout his findings. Hal was still in bed, and he’d stay in bed until the absolute last minute.
Perrin was looking at him like he expected anger.
But Hal only blinked at him. “Who the fuck is the Nameless Knight?”
He’d been on the circuit long enough to know every competitor worth knowing. Either this was some poor sod about to be humiliated, or. ..
Perrin shook his head. “I asked. He’s some late entry. Only arrived yesterday.”
That made Hal straighten. “But. . .I mean, he was allowed in? After registration closed?”
Perrin shrugged, a nervous motion. “I think,” he began, then swallowed. “That is, ser, I know that schedules can be. . .flexible.”
“For the right people,” Hal finished with a scowl.
“Has to be a disgraced lord,” Perrin said quietly. He was doing that thing he did when several overlapping thoughts came to him at once. A furrow appeared in his brow, and his eyes went far away. “Or someone’s bastard with enough connections to matter…ser.”
That last word was Perrin coming back to himself and his own anxiety, as if he’d said anything wrong by speculating about the undesirable past of his new competitor. Hal thought about Perrin’s guesswork and frowned.
“You think he wanted to get slotted against me?” Hal snorted. What a fool. “Someone thinks highly of himself.”
“Or someone paid very well to get the match they wanted.”
Hal glanced at his squire. The boy was too observant for his own good sometimes. “You think he bribed his way in?”
Perrin’s thin shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “That scribe spent most of yesterday alone at his post. The marshal was in the stands. Also. . .”
Hal raised a brow. “Yes?”
“The scribe is wearing very fine boots this morning. From the merchant charging an arm and a leg for her leather work.”
Hal’s lips twitched, threatening a smile. “Ah.” He threw back the covers and stood quickly, stretching his back until it popped satisfactorily. He was giving Perrin a view, heknew; he was amused by the way the squire’s eyes kept glancing at his taut, barrel-sized chest and hairy belly, and, oh, lower still—Perrin was feeling quite bold that morning, apparently.
Hal reached for his clothes and began to dress. “So that’s the first bracket?”
“The schedule was fixed,” Perrin said, dogged as always when he sensed injustice on Hal’s behalf. “You were to face Odenkirk first. An easy draw.”
One of the three victories he needed to satisfy Lady Isolde. “And now this.”
Going from a likely win to uncertainty stung.
Hal finished dressing and stepped into the weak sunlight, Perrin trailing behind. The tournament grounds were waking slowly, smoke rising from cook fires, voices calling across the trampled grass.
“Hemusthave asked for you specifically, sir.”
Hal stopped walking. A cold spike of something—not quite anger, not quite fear—drove through his chest. “You really think so?”
“Why else change the brackets? Any gap would have served if he just wanted to compete.”
