Hildy thought angrily that that was no way to speak. She wondered whether to flatter him by saying she thought he had behaved extremely well by the harbor. But it was beside the subject, it was not true, and she did not think it would rouse Navis, anyway. “I came to ask you,” she said, champing at the words because she was so angry, “if I need to marry Lithar now.”
“What’s that got to do with the situation?” Navis asked.
“Grandfather arranged it,” Hildy said, trying to be patient. “But I don’t want to marry him. So will you cancel it, please?”
Navis looked at his book as if he would rather attend to that than Hildy. “I think you’ll find the alliance is prized quite as much now.”
“What does that mean? Can’t you cancel it?” Hildy demanded.
“I doubt it,” said her father.
“Don’t you care?” said Hildy.
“I fancy I do,” Navis admitted. “But with things in this state of upheaval—”
Hildy lost her grip on her temper. “Ye gods! Nobody cares in this place! You’re the worst of the lot! You just sit there, after all that happens, and you don’t even care that nobody even knows if there’s going to be a feast or not!”
“Don’t they?” Navis asked, rather surprised. “Really, Hildy, there is nothing to do at the moment but sit. I’m very sorry—”
“You’re not sorry!” raved Hildy. “But I’ll make you sorry! You just wait!” She turned to storm out of the rooms.
Navis called after her. “Hildy!” She turned round to find him looking oddly anxious. “Hildy, will you make sure you and Ynen stay where I can find you?”
“Why?” Hildy said haughtily.
“I may need you in a hurry.”
This was such an unlikely thing that Hildy simply made a scornful noise and crashed out of her father’s rooms, slamming each door behind her as hard as she could. She was so angry, and so determined to make Navis sorry, that she reached the gallery outside her uncle Harl’s rooms on a surge of blind fury and had almost no idea how she got there. She was fetched back to her senses by running into her cousins Harilla and Irana. They were hurrying the other way. Harilla’s face was still streaked with red from her recent hysterics. Irana’s was red all over.
“It’s no good,” Irana said. “If you’re going where I think you’re going. They’re both pigs.”
Harilla gasped, “I wish I was dead!” and burst into tears. Irana led her away.
Hildy wondered what was the matter with them this time. When she saw that there were guards outside her uncle’s rooms, she supposed that meant Harl had refused to see them. She marched up to the guards, prepared for battle. But they stood aside, most respectfully, and one opened the door for her. Hildy marched on into the antechamber, rather puzzled. The servants there bowed. She heard her uncle Harl’s voice from the room beyond.
“I tell you I owe the fellow a favor! He killed old Haddock, didn’t he? Let him get away.”
“Don’t be an ass, Harl!” snapped Uncle Harchad’s voice.
“With my blessing,” added Harl.
“Look, Harl, if we don’t catch him—” Harchad broke off irritably as Hildy came in.
Harl looked at her and let out a great guffaw. He was sitting in great comfort, with his shoes off and his feet on a chair. A table under his beefy elbow was crowded with wine bottles. He seemed very happy. He was grinning and sweating with happiness all over his big, bluff face. Harchad, on the other hand, was sitting tensely on the edge of his chair, nervily twiddling a full glass of wine. His face was paler than usual.
“Ha! Ha!” bellowed Harl. “Now it’s Hildrida. That makes the full set of them. We haven’t any more, have we, Harchad? Daughters and nieces and things?”
“No,” said Harchad. He did not seem to find it funny. “If you please, Hildrida. We are trying to talk business. Say what you have to say quickly, and then go.”
Hildy stared at them. She had never paid much attention to her uncle Harl before. He had always been a lazy, sober, silent man—and so ordinary. Nothing he said or did was ever remarkable. But now Uncle Harl was drunk, drunker even than the soldiers got on their nights off. And he was not drowning his sorrow either. He was celebrating. And Uncle Harchad was no more sorry about Grandfather than Harl was. But he was frightened: scared stiff in case he got shot next.
Harl pointed a drunken finger at Hildy. “Don’t say it. We know. All the rest said it.” He put on a high, squeaky voice. “‘Please, Uncle, will you break off my betrothal, please?’ Who’s she betrothed to?” he asked Harchad.
“Lithar,” said Harchad. “Holy Islands. And the answer’s no, Hildrida. We need all the allies we can get.”
“So it’s no good asking,” said Harl. He wriggled his stockinged toes at Hildy and produced strange cracking sounds.
At this Hildy’s anger blazed up again. “You’re quite wrong,” she said haughtily. “I wasn’t going to ask. I was going to tell you. I am not marrying Lithar or anyone else you try to choose for me. I’m quite determined about it, and you can’t make me.”