The king made no attempt to conceal the exchange, for he knew that nothing upset Noote more than being excluded from a conversation. Besides, over the years, Camden and the hill giant had developed a peculiar camaraderie, sharing with each other a great many things more personal than the king's feelings toward his chamberlain.
Bjordrek stood in the doorway, a resentful spark flaring in his eyes. He bowed and began to hack away.
"Wait." The king's tone was gentler, for he could see that he had pushed Bjordrek to the breaking point. "You've done well. If I'm tense, it's because I worry about my daughter."
That much, at least, was true,
Bjordrek nodded sympathetically. "Then Brianna hasn't told even you whom she'll choose tonight?"
"No."
The chamberlain sighed. "Let us hope it won't be the scout," he said. "It wouldn't do to have the princess marry a commoner-especially that one. Can you imagine what the earls would do if a firbolg were to become king?"
"The one thing I do know is that Brianna won't marry Tavis Burdun." Camden's voice was as morose as it was certain. "You and the earls may rest assured of that."
The chamberlain cast his eyes toward the heavens. "At least we can thank Stronmaus for that much."
Bjordrek bowed again, then disappeared into the stairwell.
Noote cursed in the rumbling language of his race. "Noote not expect wedding!" he grumbled. "Only bring one present."
Slowly, the king turned to face the hill giant. "There's no need for concern, Noote," he said. "You know as well as I do Brianna isn't going to marry anyone."
The hill giant furrowed his heavy brow, then rubbed his leathery knuckles across his chin; His gaze grew sad and dropped toward the ground.
"Oh, yeah," he said. "Noote forget about that."
Through the open window of the enormous hall rolled a series of distant bellows, rumbling like muted drumbeats beneath the melody of the lodge musicians. Tavis Burdun rose from his seat and raised his palm toward his performers. The fipple pipe squealed into silence and the tambourine crashed to a stop, bringing the dance of the fire giant to a jumbled, stomping halt. From the streets outside came the slap-slap of a flat-footed runner. The lumbering gait was distant and erratic, too heavy for a human foot, each step echoing slightly louder as it rebounded off the rough-hewn walls of the Weary Giant Lodge.
The dancer cast an impatient glare down at the banquet table. Dressed only in a tunic and loincloth of red dragon hide, the fire giant was a lanky figure with thin legs resembling barren sumac boles, long spindly arms, and skin as black and shiny as coal. His blocky head loomed among the murky rafters more than twenty feet above, his scarlet hair and orange beard reminding Tavis of a fireball bursting high in the night sky.
"I'll finish my dance," the fire giant demanded.
"Of course, Kwasid. But give me a moment-please."
The innkeeper knew dancing was sacred to fire giants, put Kwasid would have to endure a short interruption. Tavis did not like what he heard outside, and with Princess Brianna among his guests, he had no intention of letting something unpleasant develop on the grounds of the Weary Giant.
After listening to the distant steps for a moment longer, Tavis said. "There's a verbeeg loose in the village."
"Verbeeg!" The voice came from two seats away. There sat Earl Ruther Dobbin, lord mayor of Stagwick, with a pitcher of ale and a pile of goose bones before him. "A verbeeg in my village?"
"I'm afraid so." Tavis answered. Verbeegs were one of the races of giant-kin, cousins of true giants. They were notorious thieves, for they believed that all things belonged to all people. "And it sounds as though he's heavily loaded."
Earl Dobbin considered this, his round face slowly stiffening with tension. Finally, he scowled at Tavis. "Phaw! You can't know it's a verbeeg! Why not a hill giant, or even an ogre?"
Either option would have been preferable to a verbeeg. Hill giants seldom stole anything valuable, and if they did, their chieftain, Noote, forced them to return it. Ogres were even less cause for concern. Though they were the most savage of giant-kin, for some unknown reason no ogre had committed a crime within the kingdom of Hartsvale in twenty years.
Unfortunately for Earl Dobbin, Tavis was sure of what he'd heard. "If a hill giant were running through Stagwick's narrow streets, he'd be knocking huts down with every step." the innkeeper explained. "And ogres have high arches. They move on the balls of their feet, so their soles don't slap the ground."
The earl's cheeks reddened. "I've killed an ogre or two in my time," he said. "I've seen nothing strange about their feet."
