Oliver said, "Magister."
"My Lord."
"I am informed that you know the method of Greek Fire."
Standing in the crowd, Marek snorted. He whispered to Kate, "No one knows that." And no one did. Greek Fire was a famous historical conundrum, a devastating incendiary weapon from the sixth century, the precise nature of which was debated by historians even now. No one knew what Greek Fire really was, or how it was made.
"Yes," Johnston said. "I know this method."
Marek stared. What was this? Clearly the Professor had recognized a rival, but this was a dangerous game to be playing. He would undoubtedly be asked to prove it.
"You can yourself make Greek Fire?" Oliver said.
"My Lord, I can."
"Ah." Oliver turned and shot a glance back at Sir Robert. It seemed the trusted adviser had given wrong advice. Oliver turned back to the Professor.
"It will not be difficult," the Professor said, "if I have my assistants."
So that's it, Marek thought. The Professor was making promises, in an attempt to get them all together.
"Eh? Assistants? You have assistants?"
"I do, my Lord, and - "
"Well of course they can assist you, Magister. And if they do not, we shall provide you whatever help you need. Have no concern there. But what of Dew Fire - the fire of Nathos? You know it, as well?"
"I do, my Lord."
"And by demonstration you will show it to me?"
"Whenever you wish, my Lord."
"Very good, Magister. Very good." Lord Oliver paused, looking intently at the Professor. "And you also know the one secret that I wish to know above all others?"
"Sir Oliver, that secret I do not know."
"You do! And you will answer me!" he shouted, banging down a goblet. His face was bright red, the veins standing out on his forehead; his voice echoed in the hall, which had gone suddenly silent. "I will have your answer this day!" One of the small dogs on the table cringed; with the back of his hand, he smacked it, sending it yelping to the floor. When the girl beside him started to protest, he swore and slapped her hard across the face, the blow knocking her, chair and all, on her back. The girl did not make a sound, or move. She remained motionless, her feet up in the air.
"Oh, I am wrothed! I am sore wrothed!" Lord Oliver snarled, standing up. He looked around him angrily, his hand on his sword, his eyes sweeping the great hall, as if seeking some culprit.
Everyone inside the hall was silent, unmoving, staring down at their feet. It was as if the room had suddenly become a still life, in which only Lord Oliver moved. He puffed in fury, finally took out his sword, and crashed the blade down on the table. Plates and goblets jumped and clattered, the sword buried in the wood.
Oliver glared at the Professor, but he was gaining control, his fury passing. "Magister, you will do my bidding!" he cried. Then he nodded to the guards. "Take him away, and give him cause to meditate."
Roughly, guards grabbed the Professor and hauled him back through the silent crowds. Kate and Marek stepped aside as he passed, but the Professor did not see them.
Lord Oliver glared at the silent room. "Be seated and be merry," he snarled, "before I am in temper!"
Immediately, the musicians began to play, and the noise of the crowd filled the hall.
Soon after, Robert de Kere hurried out of the room, following the Professor. Marek thought that departure meant nothing good. He nudged Kate, indicating that they should follow de Kere. They were moving toward the door when the herald's staff banged on the floor.
"My Lord! The Lady Claire d'Eltham and Squire Christopher de Hewes."
They paused. "Hell," Marek said.
A beautiful young woman came into the hall, with Chris Hughes walking at her side. Chris was now wearing rich, courtly clothes. He looked very distinguished - and very confused.
Standing beside Kate, Marek tapped his ear and whispered, "Chris. As long as you're in this room, don't speak, and don't act. Do you understand?"
Chris nodded slightly.
"Behave as if you don't understand anything. It shouldn't be difficult."
Chris and the woman passed through the crowd and walked directly to the high table, where Lord Oliver watched her approach with open annoyance. The woman saw it, dipped low, and stayed there, close to the ground, head bowed in submission.
"Come, come," Lord Oliver said irritably, waving a drumstick. "This obsecration ill-suits you."
"My Lord." She rose to her feet.
Oliver snorted. "And what have you dragged in with you today? Another dazzled conquest?"
"If it please my Lord, I present you Christopher of Hewes, a squire of Eire, who saved me from villains who would have kidnapped me today, or worse."
"Eh? Villains? Kidnapped?" Amused, Lord Oliver looked down the table at his knights. "Sir Guy? What say you?"
A dark-complected man stood angrily. Sir Guy de Malegant was dressed entirely in black - black chain mail and a black surcoat, with a black eagle embroidered on his chest. "My Lord, I fear my Lady amuses herself at our expense. She knows full well I set my men to save her, seeing that she was alone and in distress." Sir Guy walked toward Chris, glaring at him. "It is this man, my Lord, who placed her at risk of her life. I cannot think she now defends him, except as display of her uncommon wit."
"Eh?" Oliver said. "Wit? My Lady Claire, what wit is here?"
The woman shrugged. "Only the witless, my Lord, see wit where none is writ."