Knighthood of the Dragon

by Chris Bunch

  Again, Quesney gave Hal a surprised look. Evidently Kailas wasn't behaving like the hanging judge the flier had expected.

  "To simplify matters, and allow others to go back to their licensed murder," he said, "I concede freely that I disobeyed orders several times to fly, and will refuse any future orders given me, so all these assembled witnesses can be permitted to go their own ways."

  Quesney's defender looked hopeless.

  "Treasonous bastard!" hissed Tzimsces.

  Quesney looked defiant.

  * * * *

  "Perhaps I've gone loony," Hal wrote. "Or perhaps …" He stopped writing, considered what he was going to say next, went on:

  … this is to compensate for some other things that I've done. But there is no way I'm going to hang Quesney, in spite of Cantabri's near-order. I don't think it has anything to do with the fact we shared a tent and he gave me advice when I was a new flier. There's been several who've done that. So I don't feel particularly indebted to him.

  Nor do I feel that he's any particular example of virtue—he's at least as obnoxious in his self-righteousness as any street-corner priest.

  Maybe—and I think I'm guessing—maybe he stands for something beyond this damned war and killing, something that should be protected.

  Or, more likely, I'm just getting softheaded in my old age.

  Gods, but I miss you, and wish that I was with you, and all was quiet.

  * * * *

  "So you decided, all on your very own," the prosecutor asked Quesney, "to declare peace with the Roche."

  "No," Quesney said. "Not peace. But I was tired of killing."

  "All of us are tired of killing," the prosecutor almost snarled. "But we are still patriots who know our duty."

  Quesney shrugged, made no response.

  "You're not on trial," Hal reprimanded. "Stick to the point."

  The prosecutor nodded.

  "Sorry, your lordship." Then, to Quesney:

  "Perhaps I might ask why you enlisted in the service of the king in the first place?"

  "Because I wanted to fly," Quesney said. "And, frankly, because I wanted to do my part in the war, to drive the Roche back to their own lands."

  "Your own part," the prosecutor asked. "As long as it didn't involve killing? Perhaps you're a bit unsure of what war is all about."

  "Your lordship," Quesney's counsel said. "Lieutenant Quesney is being unfairly chivied."

  Hal thought.

  "No," he decided. "I'll allow the question. I'd like an answer to that."

  "I'm not a fool," Quesney said. "Of course I knew—know—war is no more than killing. But—I'll be honest—I hoped to be able to do my duty to my country without… without…" Quesney's voice trailed off.

  "Without having to bloody your own hands?" the prosecutor sneered.

  Quesney was staring at the wooden duckboards of the tent.

  "I guess I wasn't being very smart," he admitted. "But I went along with things as long as I could… and then something broke."

  "So you made out your own peace treaty," the prosecutor said. "Wouldn't it be convenient if all of us could do the same when we've decided we've fought enough.

  "If we did, what do you think would happen?

  "Do you imagine the barons who now rule Roche, and their soldiers would just smile happily, and go back to their farms and jobs?"

  "No," Quesney said. "But… but someone's got to do something to end this war before it destroys all three countries."

  Hal remembered what King Asir had told him.

  "Doesn't it seem to you that something is in the hands of the barons who quite illegitimately now rule Roche?"

  "No," Quesney said. "They're part of the whole killing machine—as much as Lord Kailas is, as much as I was."

  "I see," the prosecutor said. "But you aren't now. That seems most arrogant of you."

  "I don't mean it to be," Quesney said, and Hal could hear the honesty in his voice. "But I had to do something… and this was all I could figure out."

  "Let me ask you, Lieutenant. What effect do you think your refusal, as an officer, to obey lawful orders will have on other soldiers?"

  "I would hope that it would make them refuse to keep on with the killing… on both sides."

  "You therefore advocate disobedience to the king's orders?"

  Quesney hesitated, then nodded.

  "That, sir," the prosecutor hissed, "is the highest of high treason!"

  * * * *

  "He surely seems determined to hang," Myricil said to Hal. The three judges had decided to eat together, and discuss what testimony there'd been in the two days of trial.

  "And I think we should oblige him," Tzimsces said. "If we didn't have a firm hold on what the taletellers say, his nonsense could be all over the armies in a day! Gods know what effect that would have on the average trooper, who, as we all know, isn't guilty of thought when he can avoid it."

  "I have a bit more faith in our soldiery than you seem to," Hal said. "But you do have a point."

  "You certainly can't say Quesney's a coward," Myricil said. "You and I, Lord Kailas, know there's a point where any of us can break. Quesney has just reached that… and gone beyond. Or perhaps, if we accept his viewpoint, he's suddenly become the most moral of men."

  "As the prosecutor said," Tzimsces said, "if we allow Quesney to spout his drivel, then we create the precedent for any of us to decide we've had enough war, and just go home.

  "We have a duty to the king—and to Deraine—to deal with the man most harshly." Tzimsces sipped at his wine. "Although I'll grudge that the man is clearly mad.

  "A pity, for a man with his record."

  Myricil nodded, smiling grimly.

  "A warrior gone wrong, without doubt. And I agree about his mind having left him. We live in a terrible world, gentlemen. I do not wish to be the one who orders Quesney's death as a reward for his services to Deraine.

  "Aimard Quesney no long wishes to chance death, which certainly is an indication of being able to reason logically, particularly considering how deadly this war is to dragon fliers. Therefore, he cannot be insane, for an insane man would wish to continue on, until he is killed. What a predicament."

  It came then to Hal.

  "I think, Lord Myricil, that you have the solution to our problem."

  * * * *

  Hal ordered the court-martial recessed for the day, and set to on Myricil and Tzimsces.

  It was dusk before they wearily agreed with Hal's suggestion.

  "Thank heavens I'm not a career army man," Tzimsces said. "For I fear there'll be no promotion this side of the ocean for the three of us after King Asir hears of this."

  "Don't worry about it," Hal said. "The king seldom remembers things like this for long."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that," Myricil said. "For when, when the war's over, I come begging on your doorstep asking for a crust of bread, we can debate whether you were right or not."

  "Actually," Hal said, "it's not the king I'm afraid of, but Lord Cantabri."

  * * * *

  "We have unanimously decided," Hal announced the next morning, "that this court no longer needs to sit. We have reached a verdict."

  Both defense counsel and prosecutor started to yammer.

  Hal thudded the butt of his flier's dagger on the table, and only then did the men in the tent notice the sword that should have been set between the judges and Quesney was gone.

  "Our decision, justified by military code and precedent, is that the defendant, Lieutenant Aimard Quesney, cannot be held responsible for his actions, due to his clear impairment of mind."

  Quesney was on his feet. "I never thought you'd be capable of—"

  "If you do not sit down," Hal said coldly, "I shall order you to be removed, to be tied and gagged, and then returned to this court."

  Quesney's mouth was open, but he saw the look on Hal's face, and slumped back down in his chair.

  "We further order him, since he is evidently a thr
eat both to himself and to the public order, to be removed to a proper place of detention in Deraine, for an attempt to restore his sanity and then determine, at that time, whether he wishes to obey orders or to continue to disobey, in which case this court shall be reconvened and the trial shall continue."

  * * * *

  Two guards brought Quesney into the deserted tent.

  Hal eyed him coldly.

  "You wished to speak to me?"

  "Yes, you bastard," Quesney growled. "You silenced me, and you made my stand into a joke! How dare—"

  Hal was on his feet.

  "Silence!"

  Quesney shut up.

  "You two," Hal told the guards. "Outside."

  "But sir, what if the prisoner attempts to escape?" one said.

  "Then I shall cut his frigging weasand out myself."

  The two saluted, left the tent.

  "Now, I have less than no interest in hearing what you have to say," Hal went on. "Except for answering one question.

  "Are you such a fool that you really want to have a rope strangle you? Remembering that your last letter will be held until the war's end, and there will be no one permitted to transcribe your last speech, no matter how noble.

  "All you'll be is one poor damned fool in some unmarked grave somewhere within the borders of Roche.

  "You have a family.

  "What a memory to leave them. Now, answer my gods-damned question."

  "No," Quesney said. "I'm not a madman, contrary to what you decided. Of course I want to live, and—"

  "That's enough." Hal came close. "I put the guards out because I don't want any witnesses to what I'm going to say.

  "You're going back to Deraine. They'll find somewhere to mew you up with women who think they're the king, men who scratch all the day and night, children who're in some private world of their own.

  "That's a horrible damned thing to do to a man who's at least as sane as I am. Maybe saner. But it'll keep you alive. You'll live to see the war out. Stay mad until the war's over, when no one will care about a peace-spouting idiot, and you'll be quietly released from the asylum. Nobody'll be reconvening any damned trial, and no one will care about punishing you. Then you can, if you want, start prancing back and forth in front of the king's palace, shouting about what a murdering bastard he is. Or you can come to my estate, and do the same.

  "If I'm still alive then.

  "Or you can go around from town to town, preaching about the evils of war, and maybe enough people will listen to keep this kind of shit from happening ever again.

  "I don't think you can succeed—people seem to like cutting each other up and down too much. But you can try.

  "Because," and Hal spoke with great emphasis on each word, "you… will… be… alive!"

  Without waiting for a response, Hal turned.

  "Guards!"

  He looked at Quesney.

  "Now, get your sorry ass out of my sight… And when this is over, drink a dram to my memory. I've wasted enough time on you. I've still got a war to fight."

  39

  Lord Bab Cantabri considered Hal coldly.

  "You know," he said, "I was not a terribly bright child. Some say nothing has changed from that day to this."

  Hal tactfully kept silent.

  "One of the dumber things I used to do, when I'd done something bad, was not to stay out of my father's way, like any sensible lad should have done, but seek his presence out. Maybe I thought he wouldn't have noticed whatever sin I'd committed, or maybe I wanted to be punished.

  "In any event, not the brightest thing I've ever done, since the beatings I incurred were no gentler than if I'd kept myself hidden in the stables for a day or so.

  "Now, let us consider your case.

  "You and your fellow idiots commit a travesty of justice with Lieutenant Quesney, in spite of my rather clearly expressed wishes for him to be found very damned guilty. Which were also the king's wishes.

  "Very well. If it had just been three idiots, I could have sent all of them off to, say, the tip of Deraine to watch for icebergs or such.

  "But not with the Dragonmaster one of the crew.

  "So I decided, until I cooled off a bit, I would do without your presence, to keep me from saying, or worse yet doing, something meritorious, such as hanging you by your balls for a week or so.

  "I was quite pleased with my insight and my forbearance.

  "Then you seek me out with this—no, I won't insult it—this plan.

  "Are you trying to attract my lightnings?"

  "No, sir," Hal said. For some unknown reason, he was having a hard time not laughing.

  "I fully agree with you that Ky Yasin has been an unutterable pain in the ass for far too long, and he and his Guards Squadron should be dealt with harshly.

  "Especially since his brother now seems to be atop the Roche group of barons that insist on keeping this damned war going.

  "Clearly your plan—assuming this sorcerer of yours develops a spell—is promising.

  "If I were a vindictive man… What is the matter, Kailas? Are you choking on something?"

  "No, sir," Hal said. "A raspy throat from dawn flights."

  Cantabri snorted.

  "To go on. If I were vindictive, the thought might have crossed my mind that one of the virtues of your plan is—I assume you're planning on implementing this yourself—that you'll be behind Roche lines, with an excellent chance on getting yourself killed."

  "I don't plan on that."

  "But it could—notice I said could—have been a sidelight that might—notice I said might—have cheered me.

  "But it didn't. We do need you, even if you seem to have the sappiest of ideas from time to time, which I assume comes from the thin air you breathe when you're atop your dragon.

  "All you need from me is approval for your plan—which I grant—and two men from my Raiding Squadron. This I also grant. I'll send them along to your squadron at once.

  "You'll also need an order from me commanding every godsdamned dragon leader in the armies to become your scouts to find Yasin's base, without asking any questions.

  "This, too, I'll give, although I'm a bit surprised you didn't think of just how good a flier can be at disobeying orders if he doesn't want to follow them.

  "Now, get your ass back to being invisible. I haven't forgiven you totally yet."

  "Yes, sir."

  * * * *

  Even though winter was coming in strong, Cantabri kept the army pushing forward, very slowly driving the Roche back and back, east and south, toward Carcaor.

  Hal guessed there'd be no winter quarters this year, at least not unless the Roche forced a stalemate.

  * * * *

  Now that we're prepared to bell the cat… at least when Bodrugan finally finishes his spell, Hal thought, and we actually have our foolish mice who'll attempt the feat, all we need to do is find the bugger.

  Once Yasin's landing field was located, he planned to take in himself and the two raiders for the operation. That would require three dragons.

  He pondered the reality of war, where the tail kept getting bigger and bigger. In this case, not a tail, but a head, someone to carry the warriors. Hal had considered the dragon baskets, that were about as dangerous to monster and master as they were to the passengers, thought wistfully of a really large dragon, able to carry, perhaps, a dozen men on its back, then wondered where in hell they'd find men—or women—with muscles and guts enough to tame it and pushed the whole matter away.

  He would take Sir Loren, Farren Mariah, and Chincha.

  Hal put the three fliers off the duty roster, told them to stand by "for Special Duties."

  * * * *

  "So I'm for it again, and again, and again," Mariah said.

  "What makes you think that?" Hal asked innocently. "I could have asked for the three of you to, say, fly three of the king's popsies around."

  "Narh," Mariah said. "First, you didn't ask us to volunteer, which is the biggest clue ri
ght there. Second, I didn't know the king had—popsies—at least out in the open—let alone three of 'em.

  "And, come to think, if we were toot-toot-tootling tarts about, the king would've specified all women fliers, instead of virile young sorts like myself," he finished.

  "And," he added reluctantly, "Sir Loren, I suppose, although nobody I know's measured the length of his thingiewhacker."

  "All you're going to have to do is fly somewhere," Hal said, "escorting me with a passenger on your back, land on a nice, quiet hill, then wait for me, and the passengers, to take care of a nice, simple job."

  "Nice, quiet hill," Mariah said. "I'm on to your shame-game, Lord Kailas. How far back of the lines is this nice, quiet hill?"

  Hal looked at him, didn't reply. Mariah nodded.

  "Just what I thought. I'll go help Chincha make out her will."

  * * * *

  The two raiders arrived, and Hal wondered if Cantabri wasn't trying to arrange his death, after all.

  One was a baby-faced sort named Gamo, who looked far too young to be in any army, let alone be a purportedly deadly warrior in the raiders. The only thing that might be a giveaway was his calmness, and the easy way he carried his sword and dagger.

  The other, Hakea, was a chubby, sleepy-eyed peasant, who Hal thought should have been trudging the fields behind an oxen.

  But if they were what Cantabri had given him, they were the ones he'd go in with.

  * * * *

  Bodrugan still hadn't come back with the spell. Waiting, Hal set out, alone, on Storm, visiting other dragon flights on the front.

  He took flight leaders aside, and gave them one simple instruction: if you're attacked by Yasin's black dragons, try to find out where their base is.

  No one needed to know why the Dragonmaster wanted the information, and any clever sorts who figured out the obvious could damned well keep their mouths shut.

  Don't advertise the knowledge, don't attack the base, don't fly over it more than once.

  He continued the analogy of the cat in his own mind—the last thing to do is wake it up from its nap, when it might be hungry or cranky.

  Contrary to Cantabri's cynicism, he didn't have to use the lord's direct order. There was a reason—almost all the fliers on the front, Sagene and Derainian, had either faced Yasin's killing machine, or had heard of it.