by Pierre Pevel
Cadfeld paused at a carefully calculated point.
Lorn, who was taking care to go unnoticed without missing the smallest scrap of the story, could not help smiling.
‘For during the ball, the king retired to his apartment to rest for a while and fell asleep. Fatigued by his wound, no doubt. Or perhaps it was the remedies the queen had given him against the pain … Be that as it may, at the end of the ball, the First Knight was still First Knight. And he remained so the following morning, when he was caught discreetly leaving the queen’s chamber …’
There was another pause and another draught of wine. The bookseller wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued:
‘The affair was hushed up to avoid scandal. But the First Knight was never brought to justice, although he lost the king’s trust and was exiled at the first opportunity. Yet, neither the queen nor he had done anything reprehensible. She had slept with her husband and he had slept with his wife. That night, in the eyes of the law, the queen had received the king in her bed. Little did it matter that the king, at that very instant, was sleeping in his own …’
Quite proud of himself, Cadfeld punctuated his anecdote with a last quaff and sat up. The others straightened up in turn, smiling. The old man had drained their jug of wine, but his story had been worth it.
There was a silence, which the scribe broke:
‘So the rumour is true,’ he said. ‘The High King has indeed named a First Knight.’
Lorn winced. He had not been aware that this particular detail had spread.
‘And he’s here,’ said the former soldier. ‘In Oriale.’
‘That’s what I have the most trouble believing. I don’t know who this man is who has taken possession of the Black Tower. But I cannot believe his signet ring is authentic, or if it is, that he did not steal it … The king has named a First Knight. Very well. But what would he be doing here?’
‘The Black Towers belonged to the Onyx Guard. The one in Redstone is the last one standing. What would be more normal than for him to return there?’
‘In that ruin, Liam? When he could lodge at the Palace?’
The veteran had no answer to that. He shrugged.
‘And a First Knight of the Realm would break his back rebuilding a tower, alone, with his own two hands?’ insisted the workman.
There again, the former soldier had no answer.
Yet, he had the feeling that all this had a meaning. Like most people, he’d felt abandoned when the king had retired to the Citadel and left the government of the kingdom to the queen and her ministers. The High Kingdom, at that point, was already doing poorly. But since then, the situation had only grown worse, especially for the people. Liam, the veteran, was one of those who only asked to believe, who still hoped that the High King had not totally forgotten them.
‘During his first campaigns,’ said Cadfeld, ‘the king saddled his own horse. And he let no one else furbish his weapons. He slept in a tent or under the stars, among his knights and his squires.’
‘That’s true,’ said Liam. ‘And the men with whom the king surrounded himself were made of different stuff than … the ones the queen coddles. They knew what sweat and blood were. They knew what effort was and they did not hesitate to strain themselves, up to their knees in the mud, if necessary …’
‘Those men cannot have all disappeared,’ observed the scribe.
‘No. But it seems their era is over.’
Their era was also that of the former soldier. He seemed so bleak that Cadfeld tried to comfort him with a friendly hand on his shoulder.
Lorn stood up.
The four men noticed him then and fell silent. It was obvious he’d heard everything. The workman turned pale. The scribe froze. Liam and Cadfeld, for their part, looked at Lorn and waited.
Expressionless, he walked towards the exit, passing their table.
But then he halted.
Changed his mind, and went back to them.
‘The cuckolded king,’ he said to Cadfeld, ‘was Galandir IV.’
Whereupon he tossed a coin to the innkeeper and declared:
‘They’re my guests.’
And then he left, taking his basket with him, followed by the eyes of everyone at the table except for the bookseller.
His back to the door, Cadfeld did not even give any sign of wanting to turn round. He remained pensive, his eyes lost in a blurred distance.
‘He’s right,’ he said at the end of a long silence. ‘It was indeed Galandir IV.’
Upon his return to the Black Tower, Lorn found Daril and his father the carpenter waiting for him in the courtyard. The boy made the introductions and, after a handshake, the man said to Lorn:
‘So you have a problem with the timbers?’
Lorn’s gaze passed between father and son, halted for a moment upon the son, and then returned to the father. Tall, massive and paunchy, the carpenter seemed to be a fine fellow. His handshake was firm and his palm calloused.
‘It seems so, yes.’
‘I can take a look, if you like.’
‘All right,’ said Lorn, after a moment’s thought. ‘Follow me.’
The carpenter entered the tower at his side, followed by Daril, grinning from ear to ear.
6
One evening, having brought back some documents to Sibellus and spent a long while conferring with him, Lorn was returning alone from the Royal Archives when, passing before an alley, he heard a stifled moan. He halted, listened carefully, examined the alley in the light of the Great Nebula, and noticed, lying on the ground, an old leather bag which he immediately recognised: it was Cadfeld’s. He picked it up. The strap was broken and books in a very piteous state were strewn all over the paving stones.
Without thinking about it, Lorn stuffed the books back in the bag. Then he pursued his investigations a little further and, in a back courtyard at the end of the alley where they had dragged him, he came upon some militiamen who were beating the old bookseller. They were taking their time and aiming their blows carefully, out of playful cruelty.
The vision of another poor wretch being brutalised, one festive night behind a tavern in Samarande, struck Lorn like a slap in the face. The memory of his own cowardice resurfaced too. A cold anger seized him.
‘Leave him alone.’
Surprised, the militiamen turned round. Since it was night, Lorn was not wearing his spectacles. They did not recognise him beneath his hood.
‘Clear off.’
‘I said: leave him alone.’
‘Clear off, or you’ll regret it.’
Lorn did not move an inch.
‘Leave him. And sod off yourselves.’
The militiamen spread out, snickering, while Cadfeld painfully stood up.
There were four of them, wielding heavy lead-filled clubs.
Lorn was alone and unarmed. He did have a knife on his belt but, Oriale being a fairly safe city, he had not taken his sword with him to the Archives.
On the other hand …
The bag full of books whirled round at the end of its strap and caught one of the militiamen beneath the chin. The man toppled over, stunned, while the split bag flew free, spilling the books in a cloud of printed pages. Another militiaman was already attacking. Lorn parried the blow with the bag’s strap, held horizontally. He stepped back, pivoted, gave a shove with his shoulder and then looped the strap around the wrist of the third militiaman … whom he sent stumbling over the one lying unconscious on the ground. Before the fourth man even realised what was happening, with a feint and two swift moves Lorn had forced him to his knees, then passed behind him and choked him with the strap.
The militiaman whose blow Lorn had blocked was preparing to attack again. And the one who had fallen over the body of his stunned companion was getting back up, rubbing his wrist with an evil expression.
But Lorn announced threateningly:
‘One move, and I’ll break his neck.’
To show that he meant business, he tightened t
he strap a little more. Scarlet-faced, his prisoner squealed, drooling, and his eyes rolled upwards.
The two militiamen hesitated.
‘Throw down your clubs. Now!’
They let go of their weapons as if they had suddenly grown red-hot.
‘Daggers too.’
They obeyed.
Lorn felt his prisoner starting to weaken: the man slumped forward and was clawing less vigorously at the leather choking him.
It was time to end this.
Lorn freed the man and pushed him roughly forward in the same movement. One of his companions helped him rise to his feet as he coughed, spat and struggled to catch his breath.
Lorn picked up a weighted club and pointed to the other militiaman still stretched out on the ground.
‘Take him and piss off.’
He did not need to repeat himself. The militiamen lifted their colleague and fled, shamefaced. It was not until they were about to vanish around the corner of the alley that one of them threatened:
‘We’ll be seeing you!’
‘Yes,’ Lorn replied to himself. ‘I’m sure of that.’
Lorn waited to be certain that the militiamen were not coming back before worrying about Cadfeld. The bookseller had not managed to stand up. He’d dragged himself over to a wall and was sitting with his back against it, his nose and mouth bloody, and his face swollen with bruises.
Dropping the club he’d picked up, Lorn crouched down near him and leaned over to briefly examine his wounds.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really.’
‘Where do you hurt?’
‘My head. My ribs. My belly. Just about everywhere, in fact.’
‘I think your nose is broken.’
‘I’d be surprised if it weren’t. Do you think the ladies will still find me attractive?’
Lorn felt the old man’s flanks through his rags. Cadfeld grimaced and moaned.
‘They also broke two of your ribs.’
‘They know their job and are fairly skilled at it. But one always performs best when one enjoys the work, don’t you think?’
Lorn straightened up but remained crouching.
‘Why were they beating you?’
The bookseller could not refrain from giving a pained smile.
‘It seems I haven’t paid my taxes.’
‘How’s that?’
‘I’m a shopkeeper, according to them. So I must pay tax.’
As far as shops went, he had a small shack made of rickety boards, tightly squeezed between two houses, where he slept and kept his meagre belongings.
‘By the way,’ added Cadfeld. ‘Thanks. Without you …’
‘Can you walk?’ Lorn asked.
‘Not on my own.’
‘I’ll help you.’
‘Why don’t we ask that fellow over there to lend us a hand?’
Lorn turned round and saw Daril who was standing in the alley, looking embarrassed and awkward, not knowing where to put his hands.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I … I was following you and …’
And changing tone abruptly, the boy exclaimed, eyes gleaming:
‘Bloody hell, my lord! I saw the whole thing! There were four of them, with clubs. And you, you were on your own, and you—’
‘Are you finished?’ Lorn interrupted him.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Because if you’re finished, I could use your help over here.’
Daril hurried over and between the two of them they eventually managed to get Cadfeld on his feet. He was heavy and, legs feeble, was in a great deal of pain. He nevertheless managed to put one foot in front of another, supported by Lorn and Daril.
When they emerged from the alley, they hesitated over which way to go.
‘A doctor should examine you,’ said Lorn.
‘A doctor,’ Cadfeld asked mockingly. ‘In Redstone? You’re in the wrong neighbourhood, my lord …’
‘There’s Father Eldrim,’ suggested Daril.
‘I don’t care much for priests,’ the old man grumbled.
Lorn ignored him.
‘Father Eldrim, you say?’
‘He runs a little dispensary for the ill and the destitute,’ the boy explained.
‘Is it far?’
‘It’s in Elm Square.’
‘Perfect.’
‘Couldn’t you take me home instead?’ asked Cadfeld.
‘You need care,’ Lorn replied. ‘Besides, nobody asked for your opinion.’
Lorn knocked several times on the door.
Despite the late hour, a nun came to open it and, upon seeing the state Cadfeld was in, raised no objections to letting them enter. Lorn and Daril carried the old man inside the dispensary and to a room with ten beds adjoining one another, all of them occupied by two or three patients. A small cot had to be unfolded for Cadfeld.
Following which, Lorn and Daril were asked to wait in a very pleasant little courtyard. Ivy climbed the walls and the columns of an arcade. Benches and lawn chairs were set out here and there, beneath the night sky and the Nebula’s pale constellations. The air was warm and the silence soothing.
Tired from hauling Cadfeld practically on his own, despite Daril’s well-meaning efforts to assist, Lorn let himself drop into a lawn chair. He asked only for some relief to his aching back and, heaving a sigh, closed his eyes. His breathing grew very regular, to the point that the boy – who for his part had trouble remaining still – thought he’d fallen asleep.
But Lorn, without stirring, his hood over his eyes, said suddenly:
‘So, you were following me.’
Daril trembled.
‘P … Pardon me?’
‘Before, in the alley. You said you were following me.’
‘Yes. I mean, no … Well, yes!’
Lorn removed his hood.
He slowly turned his head towards the boy and waited.
Daril swallowed.
‘I … I wasn’t following you really. But I was going to the same place as you. To your place. We were taking the same route, is all.’
‘And what were you going to do at my place?’
‘To see you, by gum! But …’ He hesitated. ‘But I don’t think it’s the right moment to tell you … to tell you what I want to tell you.’
Intrigued, Lorn turned on his side, propped up on one elbow.
‘I’m listening, Daril.’
‘Here? Really? Are you sure?’
‘You have something better to do?’
‘No, no.’
The boy, standing, tugged on the cloth of his tunic and, his back very straight, announced:
‘I’m bored at the Archives. Nothing ever happens there. The others, they like it there, but not me. And I spoke to Master Sibellus about it and he’s agreeable to letting me enter your service.’
Lorn refrained from smiling.
‘My service. Nothing less than that.’
‘Yes, my lord. As a valet. Or a squire, since you’re a knight. You are a knight, aren’t you?’
‘I am. And Sibellus has given you leave?’
‘He said my only virtue, as an archivist, was punctuality. And all that meant was he knew what time the catastrophes would commence. But he also said I would probably make a good valet.’
‘Or a good squire.’
‘You need someone in your service, my lord. To take care of your horse and your weapons. To clean the house. Run errands. To do a little of everything in fact …’
‘And your father, what does he think?’
Daril looked down.
‘To tell you the truth, I was hoping you would be there when I told him. And that you might say it was your idea …’
Lorn gazed at him, unable to explain the affection he felt towards this young man who seemed to have grown up too fast, as if expelled from childhood by an excess of impatience.
‘I’ll think about it,’ said Lorn.
‘Really?’
‘I
haven’t said “yes”! But there is a task you could carry out right now.’
‘Anything you say, my lord!’
‘Do you know where Cadfeld’s cabin is?’
‘I’m from Redstone, my lord.’
‘In the future, whenever possible, answer with a “yes” or a “no”.’
‘Then, yes. I know.’
‘Go there and bring back everything Cadfeld might need. Or anything that might have a little value. I’d be surprised if there’s a lock on the door.’
‘Understood, my lord.’
And Daril hurried off, almost jostling Father Eldrim who was coming out into the courtyard.
‘Pardon me, father!’
Lorn stood up.
Tall, thin and with a stiff bearing, Father Eldrim was about thirty but seemed younger. He was wearing a black robe, for like all the priests of the Church of the Sacrificed Dragon-King, he was in mourning for the deceased deity. The Church of the Dragon-King had supplanted the worship of the other Divine Dragons almost everywhere. In Oriale, as in the rest of the High Kingdom, only the Church of Eyral, the Dragon of Knowledge and Light, could still compete with it.
‘Good evening, father.’
‘Good evening, my son.’
‘I am—’
‘I know who you are: people in the neighbourhood talk about nothing except you, these days. I was planning to come and visit you soon. But more importantly, I know what you did this evening for poor Cadfeld, and I thank you.’
Lorn wondered what the black priest’s motive might have been for a visit. A courtesy call?
