Fair dealing.

In the morning, they played music for him. Sad and sweet melodies drifted through the rooms and Larkin sat on the edge of the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms resting on top of his head. Two servants, nurses for the doctor, unwound bandages from him. One of the women wiped the blood from his chest with a cloth and the other cleaned it from his back, Larkin’s hair wrapped around her hand and lifted to keep it out of the way. He stared on with a blank expression, waiting for them to finish, feigning patience.

“Your highness, it has not improved,” said the doctor. He bent over, examining the wound in Larkin’s chest. His fingers hovered above the stitches but he did not touch. His expert eyes could see everything, the wound so fresh it could have been made minutes ago. The blood still seeped, drawing a single red line down The Shrike’s chest. One of the women came to wipe it away but he grabbed her wrist, taking it from her and doing it himself. Larkin hummed in response to him, a very uninterested sound. “It should not be bleeding.”

“Wrap it again,” Larkin demanded, “I have things to do. My arms are falling asleep.”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something, to object, but decided against it. He could not explain why the wound did as it was. He straightened and walked to the other side of the bed, peering at the exit wound. He did not need a closer look to tell it was the same. He said, “Perhaps it would show improvement if you stayed in bed. Your recent activity could explain why it has not healed.”

“Wrap it.”

The nurses wrapped his chest in the bandages, tightly. They followed the doctor out the door, and after them came Larkin’s entourage, a tailor included. The man measured him and the servants dressed and pampered him but not without mishaps and bouts of rage from The Shrike. It was all mildly normal, except the blood Larkin coughed into a handkerchief. And when they brought him his clothes, he shook his head and sent for his official robes. He stood in front of the mirror and ripped a patch from the outfit, the sign of the Governor. It would have everyone guessing, wouldn’t it, he thought. They did not know what he was up to, not all of them. Word may have gotten around but they wouldn’t know. This would make them curious; keep their minds off of other things.

A little later in the morning, the violinists having been sent away and left of his entourage only three or four servants, there was a rapping at the door and one of them hurried to open it, but not after looking to The Shrike for permission. He nodded and the door was opened. Larkin’s eyelids fluttered in annoyance as the door groaned. Daniel hurried in, the servant closing the door behind him. It clicked and he started, everyone but The Shrike staring at him.

“Wine,” he demanded.

Not a task Daniel was unfamiliar with. Hopefully the only task he would be asked to perform while under The Shrike’s immediate command. There was a wine cabinet in Larkin’s bedroom, full of wine and other things besides wine. The man liked to drink and would be doing more of it, considering the recent mishaps and the pain of his wound. Daniel, as well as the other servants, feared also that his docility would fade and the combination of the drink would make it a Hell to be his servant. It was common for The Shrike to take his anger out on the servants, even out of the blue. No one would be safe.

And Daniel was the first victim. Larkin put out his foot as the boy walked past him to set a wine bottle on the table in front of the window. The Shrike was still seated on the bed, two maids sitting behind him, braiding his hair. He watched as Daniel stumbled, face unchanging until the boy recovered himself, saved from a mess of glass and wine. That’s not what Larkin wanted to see. He did not need an excuse to harm the servant, but creating one was part of the game. He scowled.

“Wine,” Larkin said again, impatient.