Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray

expression of a nervous and anxious man, and he acknowledged Devlin’s introduction with but a wave of one jeweled hand.
    Or perhaps the wave had been a signal, for a moment later the steward beckoned imperiously and two Royal Guards opened the set of double doors that led into the Great Hall. The King proceeded through the doors, followed by his courtiers.
    As Devlin entered the hall, a servant stepped from the sidelines and bowed to him. “Chosen One, I will show you to your place,” he said. Like the rest, he was careful not to meet Devlin’s gaze.
    While the King and his intimates ascended to the dais and took their places at the high table, Devlin was escorted to the head of the table on the farthest right of the hall. A servant poured a glass of wine, and Devlin sipped it slowly as he watched the members of the court file in. Only half the tables had been set for eating, and he realized why as he saw the number of empty seats. Either the King’s court was smaller than it had been, or many of the nobles had chosen to stay at their estates rather than make their presence felt in the capital.
    Two brightly dressed courtiers drew near, then stopped abruptly as they noticed his presence. After a whispered consultation, they took seats at the far end of his table. They were joined by an older woman in a plain dark gown and a young man garbed in a blue uniform the color of the summer sky.
    “I am Lieutenant Olafson, aide to Duke Gerhard,” the young man said, as he took the seat at Devlin’s left. He was the only one to overtly acknowledge Devlin’s presence.
    “Lieutenant,” Devlin replied, acknowledging him with a curt nod. Like the rest of his people, he had no love for the members of the army. Even after fifty years as a part of the Jorskian empire, Duncaer had yet to be assimilated. The army troops sent there knew full well they were not there to defend Duncaer’s borders, but rather to control its native population.
    The other diners ignored him, as if by refusing to acknowledge him they could pretend he did not exist. He made them uneasy, Devlin realized, as would any man who lived under the sentence of death. In their eyes he was already dead, and thus they treated him as a nonperson.
    He found their lack of courtesy odd, but their rudeness had no power to wound him. Indeed he cared not what they thought of him. Those whose opinions mattered were hundreds of leagues away, and he knew full well how they regarded him.
    Indeed, this custom of Chosen One was a strange one. As a foreigner in Jorsk his welcome had been cold. As the Chosen One, his welcome was glacial. The strange folk gave him the title of lord, but treated him with scant courtesy. It was all show, and no substance beneath.
    Servants bustled in with the first course, river fish garnished with summer vegetables. This was followed by a pastry shell stuffed with a meat he could not identify. Partridge perhaps, or some other fowl. Devlin ate what he could, but he could not do justice to the elaborate meal, although those around him seemed to have no such problem. The young lieutenant ate as if he knew this would be his last meal.
    As he ate, Devlin caught scraps of conversation.
    “A complete barbarian…”
    “What else can one expect? In these times…”
    “I heard Master Dreng is giving seven to one odds that…”
    Devlin had a feeling that his survival was the subject of the bet. So the last wager had not been enough to cure the mage of his folly. He wondered if the sorcerer was now betting for Devlin’s longevity or if he was wagering on Devlin’s imminent demise.
    The meal passed without incident. Devlin ate until he could hold no more, than began to refuse the dishes offered. The servants brought pitchers of pale yellow and strong red wine, but after two glasses he stopped partaking of these as well. He had no wish to spend the night with his wits fuzzed from drink. His attention turned first to the chandeliers, suspended on long chains