“Good! You keep eatin’ this way an’ you’ll be up on the roof doin’ handstands ’fore you know it!”
“I keep eating this way and I’ll have the belly you wear,” Falc said, and that way everyone went to sleep feeling bad.
2
Leaning only a little on Parshann, Sir Falc of Risskor walked with measured paces out of his house of convalescence. The sun was only just up, but hardly showed; the day promised to continue grey and probably promised rain. No matter. This was the day. Neither Sir Kaherevan nor the Messenger had made an appearance. Jinnery and Parshann had hitched the dead assailant’s darg to the old wagon, and loaded in her things and the omo’s. He insisted on wearing mailcoat and weapons, but had been unable to get into his mail, even with help. They did get the derlin on him, and Parshann’s great big hat. The farmer wore the one Falc had from Baysh. Overly warm or no, Jinnery wore Parshann’s coat under her derlin, with its hood up. That way she looked larger, like a third man on the wagon.
With help, Falc mounted into the wagon and sat facing rearward. His back was against the front end just under the seat where Parshann and Jinnery rode.
“Let’s go, boy,” the omo said. “Harr come.”
The wagon started forward and Harr followed hurriedly. As ever, Tay was happy to follow the leader. Rattling a little, the wagon rolled along the dust-road that led to the back of Parshann’s holding. There it abutted Crag view, which was the estate of Holder Karath Daviloran. The mansion of Daviloran was just under a day away. Both the Temple and Lock were too far. Falc rode, thinking. Eventually, despite the rocking and rattling of the wagon — and worse, when a wheel hit a rut or a weal or stone in the ground — he napped. After six days, he was still disgustingly weak.
3
It did not rain and the disguises were unnecessary; they saw no one and no one saw them until they reached the sprawling manse of Daviloran, who was friend to Falc’s Contract-Holder in Lock. He took in the omo and Jinnery happily and jovially. He embarrassed the well-rewarded Parshann by forcing on him a good winter cloak and insisting that he partake of “neighbourly food” before he departed. Eventually Parshann rode off. He had a new darg, a fine new cloak, and a new hat.
Falc was sure that the glances the bespectacled man cast back at Jinnery were of the longing variety.
Then Parshann was gone, and it was Daviloran himself who took the wounded Son of Ashah to a large and well-appointed guest chamber. The Holder apologised for a closeness in the room that was purely imaginary, and went about opening windows as if he were Housechief rather than lord and master of House, Holding and estate. The master of Cragview Holding was a man of average height whose face and body were the opposite of Falc’s in every way: pale of skin, azure of eye, sparse of grizzled hair, slight of frame and yet fat both before and behind. Several chins wobbled under a roundish, jovial face that looked at least ten years younger than Daviloran’s middle age. His skin was smooth as a boy’s and devoid of hair below short sideburns.
“There, Sir Falc. You are both more than welcome in this House. And that’s a good big bed for two, you’ll find. And firm. I do like them firm.”
“We will not be occupying the same bed, Holder,” Falc told him.
“Or room,” Jinnery added.
“We are cousins and accidental companions,” Falc said to a face gone from jovial to confused, “not lovers.”
Daviloran said, “Oh.” He recovered only after a few seconds: “Well it’s a big House, and plenty of rooms are available to guests. As a matter of fact, my lady —”
“Oh please, my lord, that title does not fit me!”
Falc was amused to see that Jinnery was indeed capable of being truly embarrassed.
“Well, perhap I know that, but saying the words doesn’t hurt either of us, does it!” Daviloran’s smile was huge and wide open, as if he were the most ingenuous man on the planet. He was a man who smiled easily, with the face almost of an angel. “What I was about to say, Jinnery, is why not take the room just next this one.”
“Please, Holder, do not put yourself or anyone else out for me.”
“All right,” Daviloran said equably, bobbing his head and chins. “The chamber beside and adjoining this one is entirely empty. Would you like to call it yours, while you are here?”
She smiled and her nod was a little bow. “Yes thank you, Holder.”
“Lord Holder, may I inquire after Sir Kaherevan?”
Daviloran’s face clouded. “Sir Falc, your brother omo went over to Lock on my business, and is days overdue.”
Falc’s face was dour and midnight eyes stared. “Pardon please, Holder, but was his mission to my lord Kinneven?”
Daviloran’s smile was boyish. “No, to Stavishen,” he said, naming the Holder who was Kinneven’s prime rival.
“Again, I beg pardon for inquiring into my lord’s business. And for coming here this way; infirm. I lost too much blood, and while the arm is knitting well, thanks to Jinnery here and the medical genius of your neighbour, I am slow in regaining my strength. That fact chafes me sore, believe me.”
“I do, honoured Falc, but blood does not replace itself overnight,” Daviloran said, in one of those obviously nonsense statements uttered merely to be making encouraging noises.
“I am not incapable of movement, and will be exercising daily —”
“A little,” Jinnery put in.
“— in private,” Falc finished, without glancing at her.
“O’ course, Sir Falc.’Course. I’ll see to it that you have attendants when you desire and an omo’s privacy when you desire. I’ll tell you this: I have an ajmil who is more than skilled at shaving a man, and trimming his hair. Perhap your hair and beard —”
“I would appreciate a more kempt appearance to my beard, lord Holder,” Falc said, a bit stiffly. “Has not Kaherevan imparted that no one sees an omo without his coif, ever?”
Daviloran sighed. “Oh yes. You’ll find that I cannot seem to help making little jokes, Sir Falc.”
*
Next morning Jinnery told Falc that Parshann had proposed. Awkwardly.
“Marriage?”
“Legal marriage, yes. And you know, I never saw that man without his hat and he never so much as touched me!”
“A good man,” Falc said. “Any woman could do a lot worse.”
“Oh Falc, don’t be silly!”
*
As it turned out, Daviloran’s promise to respect an omo’s privacy came close to being a joke. Perhaps he had intended it as such. The problem was that he assigned Falc’s care to most attractive twins, Sulah and Salih. From the way they walked when they entered that first time, Falc saw that they were not long away from their native Mersarl. Why they claimed to be of Ryar he never learned. They were painfully shapely, woefully underdressed, and lamentably youthful. They were also loath to leave the bed-bound Son of Ashah alone. Who had ever seen an omo bare-armed before? Besides, there was the added thrill of hoping — trying — to catch glimpses of chest! Falc was sure they hoped to see even more of him; from the way they popped in and out so frequently he suspected that they were trying to catch him exercising or worse still, using the chamberpot. They were also flirtatious unto seductive. Obviously both wanted to share his bed, singly or in tandem. On the second night they feigned far too much terror at a relatively mild quake followed by a violent storm of wind and rain. Their impatient patient all but had to hurl them out of his room.
His special request of his host next day gained him an apology for Daviloran’s failure to think of loaning his guest a robe. The desired garment was hurriedly fetched and delivered. Now Falc ceased bothering with trying to keep himself covered with bedclothes. He wore the robe night and day and made sure that it gaped nowhere. Sulah and Salih were disappointed. They were also bothersome; far, far too solicitous and ubiquitous. Jinnery reacted by becoming possessive and jealous. She complained of headaches. Falc’s convalescence became more of a trial than when he had been feeling worse.
He met a visitor: Daviloran’s young nephew, whose name was Daviloran and was usually called Davilo. Falc actually heard himself suggest that the young man take “those darling twins and use them as they desire until they can’t stand up.” For that he assigned himself the full litany, twice, He never knew whether Davilo had taken his embarrassingly salacious advice.
On that third night in this maddening manse, he stopped Salih and Sulah as, artfully loose of halter and shamefully swervy-swingy of hip, they were departing with his dinner things.
Both halted at once and swung back, and O Ashah but then-faces were happy and anticipatory! They also blinked surprise, for Falc had stood the moment they turned their backs, in order to present a more commanding appearance in Daviloran’s long robe of maroon.
“Oh how tall my lord Falc is when he stands!”
“And how broad!”
Strength, O Ashah, please loan me strength! He spoke quietly and sternly. “I am a knight of the Order Most Old who is being punished for my sins by being rendered invalid, left at your mercy while I convalesce. I am a man accustomed to privacy, and I want and need it. You will knock and wait until you hear me say come, and you will not even knock for the rest of this night. Do you hear and understand me?”
Looking sad unto morose, the girls nodded almost in unison.
Then Falc made his mistake. “Good. Fail to cooperate and obey me in this and I shall prove that I am strong enough to beat you.”
Their darling little faces went from fearful dolorousness to bright smiles.
Falc stared. O Ashah what have I done? Ashah help and guide me, but their faces are all happy and anticipatory again!
“No. Come to think, I am not strong enough. I shall have Jinnery beat you. A woman knows better how to hurt a woman, anyhow.”
Bright smiles faded to be replaced by almost comical dolour.
Falc did not show his sigh of relief. “Go.”
They went, and for once they forgot or forbore to wag their hips.
Thus Falc of Risskor gained a bit of privacy — until a gentle knock and a familiar voice persuaded him not to bellow but to bid Jinnery come in. She did, but remained by the door.
“I will not apologise for having overheard you, Falc. I must apologise, however, for thoughts I have had. I have seen those two girls behave, and even heard them talking and giggling. I had supposed you were enjoying the attention of two such —”
“Children.”
“Well, that isn’t what I was going to say,” she told him with a smile, “but I like it well enough and besides it’s nicer than crelly-brained cacks in heat.”
“Not to their ears, likely. What they want above all is to be seductive.”
“What they want above all is to seduce!”
Falc shrugged; one-sidedly because of his arm. “It is possible that I am not sorry you heard, respected Cousin Jinnery.”
She smiled in a different way, and nodded. “Well, now it’s my turn to respect your need for privacy, respected Cousin Falc.”
She left him no time for reply but turned and hurried away. She closed the door behind her and he sat on the bed gazing at it, wondering whether he would have said anything more.
It’s true, he mused. Somehow we have achieved mutual respect. How strange for Falc of Risskor!
Hmm. Now to block that door with the big chair!
He did, and within an hour it happened as he had hoped: the Manifestation appeared.
The Messenger sounded hurried. He bore no good news. He advised that the corpse of Sir Kaherevan had washed up in the reeds along the river below Lock. The body was unmistakably Kaherevan’s, despite his nudity and some decay. He had been stabbed repeatedly as well as beaten and kicked. Another omo was missing; “uncontactable.” Two, including Falc, had been attacked but had escaped murder. Saying that every Son of Ashah must be double warned, the Messenger vanished at once.
Falc sat abed staring at the place where the Manifestation had been, and knew that he could not consider sleep. Not only was it time for real thinking, he had no choice: his brain was spinning. Delving; working.
Simply put, someone was murdering the Sons of Ashah and stealing their arms, armour and clothing. At least four uniforms and sets of weapons were missing now, and the Order reduced by as many men.
Without even thinking about it, Falc rose to pace the nighted chamber.
This had to be a plot, a concerted effort. Throughout history, no one had attempted to murder an omo. Now someone was doing so. Rather, someones were, since this had the look of a concerted effort. That tended to indicate an unheard-of-unity with one instigator, a cabal. But — a plot against the Order Most Old? Why? Many men were involved; he had accounted for several, and more had come to try again. This bespoke organization, a master mind or council.
Why?
Falc could not imagine. He pushed his mental exploration further. Roaming the room that should have been darker but for moonlight, he paced to the window and stared out at nothing save trees silhouetted against the moons’ light. He stared at nothing, frowning in thought, eyes slitted.
Suppose that back in Lango Faradox had meant Falc’s death only, in a way that would put the blame on Chasmal — and there was no plot against Chasmal at all? All to slay me, with Chasmal to blame? How elaborate!
Such a concept at least lent some sense to the murder of “Falc’s cousin” Querry, and this recent attempt. Falc of Risskor had long since come to terms with the painful admission of a fact he would never have dreamed possible — or admissible: but for Jinn, the attempt by those three just over a week ago would have succeeded and he too would be a naked victim of murder.
Since Sath Firedrake ended the imperial tyranny and founded the Order, it had provided the communication link among a loose continental “society” of autonomous citystates. Only by a sort of myth-theory could they be called other than autonomous: the position and person of emperor, after all, still existed. Yet no empire existed and the emperor had been only a convenient figurehead for many, many years. The citystates were in turn full of autonomous, independent, wealth-motivated, often envious and ever-competing Holders: slaveholders who were the backbone of an economy based on trade and slavery.
The Sons of Ashah maintained their communication lines and provided a sort of bond among them. They also bound various such “lords” to themselves and thus to the Order and to various other Holders in various other citystates, along with ardoms and keeps such as this huge estate of Daviloran’s. Thus no longer were the annual Fairs as marred by plots, assassinations, and riots as once they were.
We omos prevent renewal of that unity leading to Empire. We menace only chaos. We menace no one.
Suddenly feeling weary, Falc, returned to his bed. He stretched out and remembered to arrange Daviloran’s robe carefully over his legs before he closed his eyes. That last thought wanted to lead to others. Still Falc was staring at nothing, even behind his eyelids, while he sought sleep. His mind continued trying to push, but at last gave up.
4
Doubtless he slept restlessly. He awoke next morning with the thought that logically followed his last one before sleep.
We of the Order do menace someone! Someone or some-ones who want more dissension and mistrust among the Holders and thus among the citystates!
But — why?
Perhaps more importantly: who?
He sat up. Who would profit by —
He was interrupted. The knock at his door came not from the confounded twins or even Jinnery, but his host. At once Falc bade them enter, and was surprised: although the man who accompanied Karath Daviloran was unknown to Falc, he was manifestly a Knight of the Order!
“Morning, Sir Falc! Sorry to pop in so early, but we have a visitor, another of your Order. I thought you’d want to see Sir Mandehal.”
Falc nodded a greeting. “Sir Mandehal.”
Mandehal pushed back his long crawk-wing cloak. “Sir Falc! How sorry I am to see you brought so low!”
“My time abed is temporary, brother.”
“Sir Mandehal is here seeking Contract, Sir Falc.”
Falc blinked in new surprise. “You have not heard from Kaherevan, Holder?”
Daviloran shook his head, and Falc was aware that Mandehal was staring at him.
“Holder,” Falc said, “I learned only last night that my brother Kaherevan was murdered in Lock and hurled into the river, days ago.”
“You — know this, Falc?” For once, Daviloran’s face was not jovial. “Ah, good Kaherevan, poor Sir K — but how could you know this, Sir Falc? Surely you have not left this room, and we’ve had no visitors until now.”
Falc only looked at that ingenuous, almost angelic face of the Holder. Beyond him, he saw Jinnery just outside the doorway. She bore a little tray. More undercooked red meat, no doubt.
“I... have heard that you... can exchange information among yourselves, but always discounted such... such...?” Floudering painfully, Daviloran broke off.
Falc nodded. “It’s easiest to say that in a way Sath Fire-drake is dead but his spirit has never truly died, eh Brother Mandehal? At any rate, my lord is indeed bereft of his Contracted omo. It would appear that Sir Mandehal’s arrival is fortuitous. Brother, I have to admit that I have never heard your name aforenow.”
Mandehal smiled and made a modest gesture with a black-gauntleted hand. “I am not surprised, Brother. I assure Falc of Risskor, however, that I have heard of him! My career has been none so illustrious as your own. Nor perhap as distinguished as that of our departed brother Kaherevan; of course I too learned of his demise last night. It is sadness on us all. I was near here, and —” He gestured with a shrug. “It is sadness too for me to find the foremost of all Deathknights of the Order abed with a wound. It is not, I hope, serious?”
“I was near slain, Brother Mandehal. But I shall recover, with another few weeks of rest and that dreadful medicine Cousin Jinnery forces on me.”
Deathknight Page 20
