She looked at him narrowly and then waved a hand at one of the nearby paupers of the court–a hunched and much put-upon looking man-servant, bent-backed with rheumy old eyes and skin splotched by liver spots. His lips were wet and loose, and his hair thin and grey.
“Make that man rich enough to buy a good house, but do not put anything in his hands, nor his pockets, nor in his purse, nor his bags, lay nothing at his feet, make him no promises, and give him no grants, writs, notes of obligation, nor titles nor word-bestowed wealth.”
Athairdrost had to consider this. He stepped through the instructions and prohibitions several times before arriving at the answer. Smiling with a small inner flush of pride at having worked it out–he unclasped the gold brooches at his throat, swept his heavy cloak of embroidery and ermine-trim from his shoulders, then settled it on the shoulders of the servant, who was visibly trembling under the sudden–and no doubt unwanted–attention. “There,” said Athairdrost. That cloak is worth much more than a good cottage. It is threaded with cloth-of-gold, edged with vair, clasped with gold too.” His grin was malicious as he turned back to the young woman. “Very expensive work. Perhaps I can think of it as a payment for a…” he licked his lips, “…new and useful servant.” He stood then, regarding the overdressed man and flicking a gaze back-and-forth to the young woman.
She looked so self-assured. Not at all worried.
She had the look of someone who knew very much that things were going to plan.
This worried him.
His feeling of achievement cracked a fraction. Her expression was too pleased
Without his cloak, he felt the bite of the high cold wind. It sent chill fingers creeping into his collar and down his neck. With a start, he realised that in taking off his cloak, he had exposed everything beneath it. The silvery sheen of his armour. His sword and dagger. Belt-tied satchels. The little ring of braided hair.
He rearranged himself and did his best to look settled in his thoughts.
It was his turn now. He needed to think of a puzzle, and quickly. Turning over ideas and thoughts, he found a trick from childhood. It seemed a silly little thing, but he could think of nothing better.”
“Well? she said. “Do you have something for me, or do you concede a round?
He shook his head. “I have something.” He left his place by the throne and walked a few paces down the hill, moving towards her, and stopping halfway. He crouched down, and with his dagger he cut a small circle in the turf. It was no more than a hand-breadth across. Then he stood, adjusted the folds of his clothing, and walked back to the old, weathered throne. He put on as haughty an air as he could, as he climbed back into his seat. Once comfortably settled, he said, “You see that circle on the soil?”
She nodded.
“You must keep a part of yourself upon the earth within that circle whilst no part of you touches the soil anywhere else for a count of… let us say ten? Standing on a cloak or other piece of clothing is a cheat in this. You must be well off the ground, not separated from it by a mere hair’s breadth of fabric. Balancing upon a finger or toe will do fine.” He waved a hand, nonchalant and dismissive.
She looked at the circle. “No. You could refuse to finish counting, and then this cannot be done.”
He shook his head. “I swear upon the ghosts of a thousand ancestors, and I swear by the hot blood in my veins, that I will count from one to ten, steadily but surely.” A smile crossed his expression. “So long as you can keep yourself precariously perched, for that time.”
She seemed genuinely puzzled for a few seconds and Athairdrost experienced a glimmer of hope that this small child’s trick might be enough to stump her. Though he was by no means sure of it. In the back of his thoughts, his mind raced to think of a new challenge. “Do you give up?” he asked hopefully. “Do you admit defeat?”