Turkey was in no doubt. "I'd want to know a good bit more about the laddie, sir, before I had him next to me with a knife."
"Oh," said Lymond, "would you? And what about you, Johnnie?"
Johnnie Bullo regarded his fingers. "If I were yourself, I would perhaps give him his head. He looks a meek enough child."
"So did Heliogabalus at an early age," said Lymond. "And Attila and Torquemada and Nero and the man who invented the boot. The only thing they had in common was a cherubic adolescence. And red hair, of course, makes it worse."
He considered, while the boy watched him steadily; then said, "Infant, I can't resist it. I'm going to put you to the proof; and if you impress us with your worth, then quicquid libet, licet; as was remarked on another, unsavoury occasion. Are you willing to be wooed, sweet Marigold?"
Redhead was not charmed. "I'm willing to give you a reasonable proof of my talents, of course."
"Proof of your talents!...Oh, little Peg-a-Ramsey, we are going to do well together. Come along then. Gif thou should sing well ever in thy life, here is in fay the time, and eke the space. Your name?"
"You can call me Will."
" - Sir," said Lymond affectionately. "Surname and parentage?"
"My own affair." A rustle among the onlookers gave credit to this piece of bravura; Lymond was undisturbed. "Never fear. We're all runts...of one sort or another. Do you swim? Hunt? Wrestle? I see. Can you use a crossbow? Your longest shot? Can you count? Read and write? Ah, the sting of sarcasm - Have we a scholar here? Then produce us a specimen," said Lymond. "What about some modest quatrains? Frae vulgar prose to flowand Latin. Deafen us, enchant us, educate us, boy." (...)
Smoothly spinning, the inexorable questions resumed, faster and faster. "What do you know about gunpowder? Not very much, is it? How old are you? Year of birth? If you must invent, stay awake afterwards....What are you like with the longbow? There's Mat's quiver: hit that tree. Passable. Now the thorn. Good. Now," said Lymond, "kill the man by the cooking-pot."
Exhausted, deflated and angry, the boy directed one haughty grimace at the Master, hauled on the bowstring and sent the shot of a lifetime buzzing for the mark.
A great cheer, part shocked, part sardonic, arose. There was a blur of movement. Mat disappeared, and a swarm of curious bodies shut off the view of the target. Redhead knew, if he had never shot straight before, that he had put an arrow through blood and bone this time. He stood still.
from The Game of Kings by Dorothy Dunnett
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