Two Crows Watch from the Gallows Tree (cont'd)

Pratik felt awkward simply obeying without responding -- it felt rude not to acknowledge someone speaking to him. But he could follow orders. And his orders were silence. So he filled the glass and then stepped back from the desk.

Tarr nodded to himself and downed half the glass; he was already a bit rosy-cheeked but he seemed to be holding his mead better than an eighteen year old ought to.

This was going to end badly. Pratik didn't know how or why. But he could feel it in his gut that they were on their way to some debacle. He only hoped he'd be dismissed before Tarr got violent. Or, that by some miracle, he'd misjudged Tarr. But he wasn't hopeful for that one.

"How much is left?" Tarr asked as he signed his name on the letter and began to fold it. "Speak."

Pratik felt a surge of anxiety at the question, but it abated when Tarr commanded him to speak. That would make things easier. He angled the bottle so the liquid would be visible if Tarr looked up and answered. "Half, sir."

"Leave the bottle and send for another and General Utrid."

Pratik barely caught himself before murmuring a 'sir' -- but instead, simply put the bottle down on the desk next to the glass and took his leave. Pratik strode quickly down the hall in hopes of finding another servant who could take the mead up to Tarr while he went to find the General, mind trying to connect pieces. What was Tarr informing Bledroe of?

A couple paid servants were walking past, trays of tea in hand.

"Lord Tarr requested a bottle of mead be brought to his study," Pratik said. "He's sent me for another task."

"Get another slave to do it," one of the maids scoffed. "We're taking tea to the Lady Mother and her daughter."

Pratik blinked at her, taking a moment to process what she'd said. So, Tarr's mother was here? And sister? That certainly made things more interesting. Somehow he'd forgotten that even men as nasty as Tarr were born of someone. "Fine."

The woman shot him a glare at his tone and moved on.

Pratik continued down the hall, feeling increasingly disoriented by the dynamics in this household and where he was supposed to fit in it all.

A couple slaves passed him on the stairs; one was a boy who looked to be no more than thirteen, and the other was a round-faced woman with her dark hair done in a messy braid. Both looked to be from the South.

Pratik hesitated, feeling like a massive jerk at the prospect of sending a child or a woman in to face the man that he himself wanted to avoid. He bit his lip, debating what to do. He almost groaned when he realized the only not-scummy thing he could do was, "Please send General Utrid to Lord Tarr's study. I'm to fetch more mead."