The reign of Istar t2-1

by Margaret Weis

  It wasn't as dangerous as it sounded; most boys were afraid to strike at all, sure that they were exposing their hands to a blade.

  Moran moved among them with a short sword, occasionally parrying a novice's thrust, more often touching a novice's back to remind him he was exposed.

  Tarli, from either uncommon sense or recklessness — Moran couldn't decide which — skipped halfway across the yard before the others had gone a step. Alone in the center, he cocked his head, listening carefully and stepping around each of the approaching novices, who were tiptoeing and shying away from each other, striking at nothing and ducking from the same.

  Tarli reached the opposite wall in record time and stood listening. Moran felt a burst of pride in him.

  Saliak, nearly halfway across, called softly, "Here, kender. Little Kender Stew, come on, boy." He clucked his tongue. "I've got something for you." He sidestepped away from the target spot his own voice had defined.

  Tarli smiled and stepped back into the courtyard. He moved behind Saliak and matched him step for step.

  Saliak called in a sweet voice: "Here, kender. Don't be afraid, little fella. Do you want my surprise?"

  Tarli licked one of his fingernails, then reached up and pressed it against Saliak's neck.

  "Depends. What is it?" Tarli asked conversationally.

  Saliak froze at the feel of what he thought was the cold point of a dagger.

  Faron, hearing Tarli, shuffled toward him, dagger thrust out.

  Tarli stepped back from Saliak, who all but leapt away.

  Faron made a quick thrust, low enough to pierce Tarli's heart.

  Tarli, his head cocked, caught the rustling of cloth. He turned and smacked Faron's wrist with the dagger's hilt. The other boy yelped, dropped his dagger, and Tarli snatched it up.

  Faron fell to his hands and knees, searching for his weapon. Tarli stood beside him and called loudly, "Janeel!"

  Janeel lurched toward him, fell over Faron, and lost his dagger as well. Tarli stepped between them and shouted, "Paladine help me! Steyan! Somebody! They've got my arms pinned."

  A number of boys advanced on what they thought was easy prey. After the first few went down in a heap, the rest were inevitable victims.

  Gradually the groans and mutterings of the defeated pile of arms and legs sank to nothing. Except for Tarli, only Saliak, feinting determinedly around the empty courtyard, was still upright.

  "Dein?" Saliak sidestepped. "Faron?"

  Faron and Dein, half-buried in the pile, were cursing each other and Tarli.

  Saliak had wrapped his shirt around his arm in a makeshift shield and used his dagger as a probe to find someone. "Janeel?" He sounded afraid. "Anybody?"

  Then he did something that impressed Moran. Saliak ran end-to-end in the courtyard, his fingers outstretched. When he touched the far wall, he spun around and ran the other way.

  As luck would have it, both times he missed the pile of novices. He stood still and called out, "Is everyone all right? You sound like you're in pain. Do you need help?"

  The worst among them is becoming a knight, Moran thought with satisfaction.

  Saliak was now thoroughly frightened. "Answer me!" He leapt to one side, as though something he couldn't see had lunged at him. "Sire, tell me they're all right!"

  Although he remained silent, Moran was moved.

  Tarli tiptoed over to Saliak.

  "Booga-booga-booga!" Tarli yelled and poked Saliak in the ribs with his finger.

  Saliak screamed and slashed wildly. Tarli leapt back, laughing. The others, hearing the noise, struggled to stand, grunting and cursing.

  Moran viewed glumly the shambles of the exercise. "All right, take off your blindfolds."

  Those who could helped those who couldn't. They gaped at what they saw: themselves, unarmed, in the center of the courtyard, and Tarli, still blindfolded, standing confidently over a stack of daggers.

  Most of the boys were bruised, hardly any cut. Moran supposed that the exercise might be judged a success.

  Saliak tugged angrily at his blindfold. "It won't come off." Several boys tried to untie Saliak's blindfold, but every tug made the knot tighter. Finally Janeel asked Tarli for a dagger.

  Tarli shrugged and tossed it, lightly and easily, without having to look, then he cut his own blindfold off, picked up his ever-present duffel and thonged stick, and walked to lunch alone, whirling the stick, listening to it hum.

  Saliak, rubbing the marks out of his head, stared viciously after him. "I'll kill the little animal. I'll kill him. I'll kill him."

  Moran, standing behind him, said coldly, "Saliak."

  Saliak spun, reddening. "Sire."

  "A word of advice: Don't attempt it blindfolded. You'll hurt yourself."

  Steyan laughed aloud. Saliak shot him a nasty look. Moran thought sadly, He'll pay for that laugh. Rakiel watched the boys limp out of the courtyard. "Tarli's hearing is amazing — for a human," he commented.

  "It's a common enough human talent," Moran retorted irritably. "My own hearing — " He stopped.

  "You were about to say something about your hearing?" Rakiel prodded him.

  "It's fairly good." He looked pointedly at the cleric, daring him to continue. Rakiel smiled, shrugged, and walked off. As soon as he was alone, Moran began sorting and counting the daggers. The count was woefully off. A trip to the barracks — and Tarli's duffel — replaced only a few of them. Tarli was vague about what had happened to the rest. A search of the manor produced no more daggers.

  Moran spent the evening in more paperwork, helped by a sarcastic and skeptical Rakiel. A late-night bout of Draconniel, in which Moran lost seven footmen to Rakiel's suicide squadrons, did nothing to improve the knight's temper.

  "Another expense?" Rakiel asked a week later.

  Moran grunted. This one was for missing pots and pans — Tarli had used them in the nightly barracks battle, for "armor."

  "Doesn't anyone ever ask you if you're overspending?" the cleric demanded.

  "No." Moran gritted his teeth, then said calmly, "Knights trust one another. I write the forms, I sign and seal documents, and I hold the gold and silver in the treasury room below, not far from the novices' barracks and… Oh, Paladine!" It was the first time in twenty years that Moran had sworn aloud.

  Rakiel watched, amazed to see an old man run so fast.

  By the time the cleric arrived, puffing and panting from his exertions, Moran was standing in the open door, staring at the shelves laden with sacks of gold, coins, caskets, bowls, and chalices. There were noticeable gaps.

  Moran started down the hall, then turned back around. "Here." He tossed Rakiel the key. "Make an inventory, then lock up as tight as a dragon's… Tight." Rakiel nodded dazedly. "Then sit against the door till I come back."

  Moran was planning for a long search, but it was all too short. He found the missing items standing on a stone windowsill in the barracks.

  A golden chalice, encrusted with gems, tapered into a griffin's foot, clutching a silver semispherical base.

  A marble chest was inlaid with onyx. The top handle was in the shape of a red dragon swooping down on a knight and horse. The dragon's eyes were rubies; the knight's shield was a single multifaceted emerald.

  A tray, inlaid with pearl, jet, and diamonds, portrayed the tomb of Huma by moonlight. The tray was propped up so that the diamonds, catching the sunlight, reflected onto the ceiling.

  "Aren't they beautiful?" Tarli was sitting on the bed in the comer. The bed legs had been removed, or maybe he had traded beds with Steyan. He was alone in the room, calmly whittling on the thong-stick.

  Moran pointed to the articles in the window. "Are those

  … Did you…"

  "Put them there? Yes. I borrowed them." Tarli, stick in hand, walked to the window. "The room needed something cheerful, and — can you believe it? — these things were just sitting on shelves in the dark. I thought they'd remind some of us of our training," he finished quietly.

&n
bsp; "Are these the only things you… borrowed?"

  "They were all I could carry." Tarli looked around the bare, dismal room critically. "I could go back for more — "

  "No!" Moran said, then, more calmly, "Don't go into that storeroom again. Don't take things out of it again. Don't do anything at all in relation to the storeroom, unless I give my written permission to do so."

  "All right, Sire." Tarli looked puzzled.

  "And now I'll take these back." Moran gathered up the chalice, the chest, and the tray.

  "Why? They won't do anyone any good, shut up in that room."

  Moran said delicately, "The knights prefer that these things be locked away, to discourage thieves."

  "No!" Tarli was shocked. "Thieves? Here?" A monstrous idea occurred to him. "Among the novices?"

  "It's been known," Moran said dryly.

  Rakiel had completed the inventory when Moran returned. The cleric quickly added the last three items. "Do you want to see the list — ?"

  Moran shook his head. He sat heavily on an oaken chest whose lock, he noted thankfully, was rusted shut and intact. "That's the lot. Sorry to put you to the extra work."

  "No trouble." Rakiel crumpled the list and stuffed it in his robes. "I assume it was Tarli who stole them. Have you noticed — ?"

  Moran cut him off. "Go to the basement. Bring me a handful of spikes and a hammer. I'm sealing this door."

  Rakiel did not move, eyed him grimly. "Have you noticed," he said determinedly, "that the novices are right about his being like a kender? He doesn't have the pointed ears, of course," he added hastily, "or the topknot hair, and he is a little taller, but his habits, and his recklessness, and his…"

  Moran glowered at the cleric. "Loraine was human. Very short, a bit odd, but human. Go."

  Rakiel left. The knight, alone on the trunk, sagged and closed his eyes, too tired even to dream of Loraine.

  Moran sat clearing away his manuscripts. Drill reason was nearly over.

  The game of Draconniel was over as well; last night Rakiel's forces, depleted over months of ruthless tactics, withdrew in disorder. Moran killed and captured as many as mercy and logistics allowed, then accepted Rakiel's sullen congratulations and gladly slipped downstairs to check on the novices.

  In retrospect, he wished he had stayed with Rakiel.

  Hidden in his niche, Moran listened to the boys in the barracks. This was their last night. In the morning, the novices would be given squires' tunics and the names of the knights they would serve.

  The boys had smuggled in cakes and ale — Moran had known — but they didn't feel like eating or drinking. It was no longer fun breaking the rules.

  Unfortunately, none of them felt that way yet about bullying their three victims.

  Janeel, with false heartiness, said, "Gully Gut can celebrate for us."

  Dein and Faron had bound Maglion's arms to his bed. By now he offered only a little resistance, mechanically pushing the others away. Only his eyes showed anger and pain.

  Steyan, his legs doubled up behind him and his body stuffed into an open trunk, watched as best he could. His head and neck were bent forward to fit in the trunk, which was labeled, "Gnome's Shortening Device."

  Tarli was chained, muzzled, and gagged. Set in front of him were a gnawed bone and a sign: beware! kender bites!

  Tarli watched the others with patient indifference.

  "Mustn't leave you thirsty." Janeel poured a full flagon of ale down Maglion's throat, some of it foaming into the fat boy's nostrils. He choked and sputtered.

  "And now" — Janeel waved a cake in front of Maglion like a conjurer — "a nut cake! Made with real honey. Don't you want it? Or should I feed it to Kender Stew?" He held it to Tarli's nose. "Poor Kender Stew. Has to beg for treats." He spun, and mashed it into Maglion's face. "Gully Gut gets them for nothing."

  He pulled the fat boy's hair, forced open his mouth, and shoved the entire cake in. Then he mashed Maglion's jaw up and down on the cake. A single angry tear leaked from the fat boy's eyes.

  "Wait." The voice sounded weary, embarrassed, and ashamed. To Moran's surprise, it was Saliak who spoke. "This is wrong. I've been wrong."

  He wiped Maglion's face clean, using one of his shirts as a towel, then untied his arms. The fat boy took the shirt from him without a word and finished cleaning himself.

  "I thought it was fun." Saliak bent down and undid the strap buckles on Steyan's knees and elbows. "I thought, they're strange, and we're not, and it's only… fun."

  Steyan, free of the trunk, stumbled and fell. Saliak massaged Steyan's arms and legs to bring the feeling back.

  "We all thought that." Saliak looked around anxiously. "Didn't we? We all laughed." He looked as far as Tarli and looked away, flushing. When Steyan groaned and rolled over, Saliak stepped to Tarli.

  "I never thought about the Oath." Saliak unlatched the chain. "And the Measure was just, well, classroom stuff." He unbuckled the muzzle and said, as he untied the gag, "I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to hit me."

  "Fair enough," Tarli said, and kicked Saliak in the groin.

  The others gasped, in surprise and in sympathetic pain. Maglion and Steyan looked as though, after a rainy spring, the sun had broken through.

  Saliak, when he could rise to his knees, gasped, "Is that any way for a knight to fight?"

  Tarli shrugged. "You'd rather fight face-to-face?"

  Saliak looked green. "I'd rather not fight just now"

  "But you insulted my honor. Repeatedly. And now you know it."

  Saliak blinked several times; he was having trouble focusing. "The Measure says that if I choose not to fight, and have apologized, then you must accept my apology."

  Tarli nodded. "So it does." He added, so casually that Moran's heart froze within him, "But my own code is more important than the Measure. Face-to-face?"

  Saliak nodded, grunting with the effort.

  "Good." Tarli tilted Saliak's head up. With the taller boy on his knees, the two boys were on eye level. Tarli clenched his hands together and swung them both into Saliak's face, knocking him backward.

  "This may hurt a little — "

  After a few more punches, Tarli propped Saliak upright with the thonged stick and began a systematic top-tobottom dismantling of Saliak, punches only. Moran, watching in dismay, had to admit that what Tarli did not know about mercy or the Measure, he clearly made up for with his knowledge of anatomy.

  At length, Tarli, staggering under the weight, carried the beaten Saliak to bed. Steyan and Maglion shook Tarli's hand several times. Then, to Moran's immense relief, the two larger boys dressed and bandaged Saliak. Everyone but Tarli seemed at last to understand what the Measure was, to a knight.

  Moran hated doing it.

  He could see Loraine's laughing face, quizzical and completely trusting. All that summer, she had never looked as though she thought anyone would hurt her, and he had tried very hard never to be the one who did.

  After breakfast, Rakiel, with every show of sympathy and every indication of smugness, went down the stairs and sent Tarli up.

  Moran argued with himself a final time. The best I could hope for, he said to himself, is that it would be many years before he failed. And then it would be trial, and conviction, and the black roses of guilt on the table.

  He sat quietly, rehearsing what he would say. As many years as he had sent squires from the manor, Moran always hated good-byes — unexpected good-byes the most.

  At the end of the summer, Loraine came

  to him. "I'm going away. Don't ask, and don't follow."

  He argued, but she stood firm. "You have

  your duty. your honor is your life,

  remember? Keep your honor for my sake.

  Remember your promise to me."

  She kissed him. He tried to catch her, but

  she twisted out of his hold and was gone -

  both from his arms and from Xak Tsaroth.

  She was carrying a duffel that he hadn't
<
br />   even noticed she'd brought. Hurt, he

  watched her walk away. As the winds from

  the side streets blew across her, she

  carefully patted her hair in place over her

  ars. She did not look back.

  Moran returned to his studies. Years

  later, when he heard that Loraine had

  returned, he didn't go to visit her.

  Tarli knocked. For once, Moran didn't put on the Mask, but left his face as gentle and weary as he'd seen it in the mirror. "Come in."

  Tarli had his duffel and thonged stick with him. He looked at Moran quizzically. "I've never seen you at your desk. Is that where you wrote The Brightblade Tactics?"

  "Yes." Moran gestured at the other chair. "Sit down."

  Without further delays, he began: "Tarli, I've watched your progress these past few weeks. You've done wonders, in spite of your size."

  Tarli nodded proudly.

  "And in every situation — and I know that in some training sessions you've faced real danger — you haven't shown the slightest fear."

  Tarli looked puzzled. "Of course not."

  "Most of your classmates found it harder. In three decades of novices, you're probably the most courageous boy I've ever taught."

  Tarli beamed.

  Moran did not smile back. "However, your courage showed itself in — well, in strange ways. Instead of using weapons, you broke or… took them. Instead of accepting training as offered, you took it and reshaped it. It would not be too much to say that you changed everyone else's training, too."

  Tarli sat rigidly. "I did my best for them." He seemed not to understand what was happening to him.

  "There has also been a problem of property" — Moran tried to dance around it — "private property. You don't seem to acknowledge others' property as off-limits, unavailable."

  Tarli frowned, irked. "If people would just label things — "

  "We can't label everything, and what with one thing and another — " Moran waved his arm. "Lances, daggers, miscellaneous books, and foodstuffs — this has been the costliest term I can remember."

  Tarli scratched his head. "I've heard people saying that costs are going up all over the city."