Saga of Menyoral: The Service

by M. A. Ray

  Vandis had a certain talent for the tracking. He hadn’t learned it as a child—working in his uncle’s tavern hadn’t really offered much opportunity—but as a youth, even with Old Man Dingus, he’d enjoyed it. He could say with all honesty he was very good, good enough to know he had nothing on his Squire. Dingus had senses sharper than any human could boast, and on top of that, he was meticulous, careful, observant. With Eagle Eye he’d learned tracking to hunt. As a Squire, he’d picked up something Vandis would bet he enjoyed more: man-tracking, counter-tracking. Since the end of last winter they’d been pushing on that harder, going turn-for-turn, Vandis tracking Dingus, Dingus tracking Vandis, and Kessa usually along for the ride with the tracker. Whenever Vandis pulled a trick, Dingus pulled it right back, and better. Vandis had put a stop to it when it took him five days to find Dingus sitting pretty at the starting point; they’d been on a schedule, after all.

  Dingus was that rare combination of talent, skill, and love: a real, live, motherfucking genius, and even Vandis wasn’t arrogant enough to think he had anything to do with that. He just hoped that whoever drew Dingus’s name tonight would be a worthy examiner.

  As the Knights started to arrive on the shelf, Vandis grinned. He knew them all by name, whether through reputation or personal experience. Santo or Evan would probably manage to give Dingus a bit of a workout, Evan a little more so if he could bring himself to make it as nasty as possible. One of the women could do just as well or even a little better, Tania maybe, or Sarai. Maybe Jack, pulling stand-in duty even though he’d made it clear earlier that he was still angry with Vandis. If Vandis had his choice, it’d be Adeon: a renowned trainer of Squires, since he’d had over a hundred, and an excellent foil against whom Dingus could prove himself.

  The second horn sounded, calling the candidates. All the Knights stood back to watch the Squires making their way up the winding stairs. They’d all watched these kids grow, some closely, some only once a year at the Longday Moot. They’d all seen the oral exams. Now an excited chatter broke out among the Masters as they bragged on their Squires or talked about others: “You’d better watch out for my Bruno,” and “Whoever gets your Tony ought to take him down a peg.” There was also, to Vandis’s pleasure, plenty of talk about Dingus, the unknown quantity. More than a few wanted to take a crack at him to see what he was made of, especially since he’d done so well in the orals.

  “What do you think, Vandis?” Tania asked, her coffee skin gleaming in the firelight as the Squires wound higher and higher. “Who’d you want for your dark horse?”

  “The Lady’ll choose,” Vandis said piously, and she lifted her eyebrows. “All I can say is, if you pull his name, make it vicious.”

  She laughed. “What—he tracks as well as he tells a story?”

  “Better.”

  “That was a fine story, mighty fine, that Eagle Eye thing. I’d never heard it. He had me wanting to go hey-la-hey right along. I still think he should’ve tied Scalietti instead of MacNair.”

  “Better,” Vandis insisted.

  “He must be something quite special, then,” Adeon put in, and Vandis couldn’t be certain he honestly meant it. It wasn’t as if Adeon tried to be that way; in fact, he actively tried not to, but he did sound a little sarcastic. Some cultural clusterfucks were all but unshakeable.

  “Don’t doubt it,” Vandis said, looking down again at the long snake of Squires. He picked out Dingus in a heartbeat. The buttery torchlight made his shaggy head look even brighter than usual. He walked dead last, behind Wally and Tony, hands in his pockets. Even as Vandis watched, Dingus picked him out in turn and lifted a hand in salute. Unlike the other Squires, he didn’t carry a pack. Vandis knew what he had on him, what he always had on him, everything he’d need: his pocketknife, a ball of rough handmade twine, and a flint and steel.

  Arkady Markov was first to the shelf. Vandis’s brow furrowed at the plaster over his nose, the deep bruises around his eyes, and the swollen cheek. When Vandis caught Dingus’s eye, the boy smiled slightly. “Good control,” he muttered as Dingus passed, and damn, but it was. He’d almost wanted Reed to have been thrashing his Squire. He’d never admit to anyone that he’d gone back yesterday evening, after Dingus was installed in the camp with Francine and Lukas, and made a thorough examination of the scene. Even with some of the sign disturbed from what had happened after, he’d been able to put together a clear enough picture of the incident that he knew nobody’d been killed, or injured badly enough to die afterward. He just hadn’t known, until he saw Arkady just now, who had been on the receiving end of Dingus’s wrath.

  All the Squires filed into a line; the Masters lined up opposite. Vandis let them settle and strode into the center. “Now hear this,” he said, the same thing he’d always said. “You are about to seek entry into one of the oldest, and greatest, religious orders in the world. Any who would like to leave may do so now; any who choose to accept the responsibility of the calling may stay.” He paused, waited for any walk-aways. It was a rare thing, and this year, it pleased him to note, there were none. “You’ve been tested on your knowledge of the world so that you’ll be able to make informed decisions. You’ve been tested on your ability to speak in public so that you’ll be able to inform others, to entertain, and to share our Lady’s message.”

  Hitting his stride, Vandis paced up and down, hands behind his back. “Tomorrow is the real test, the oldest test: the Practical Examination. It is, first and foremost, a test of your skill in tracking. This skill may save your life by allowing you to find food when others can’t. This skill may save the life of another, if you participate in search-and-rescue operations. This skill may allow you to combat injustice, oppression, and wrongdoing, which, if you pass, you will swear to do. It is the exercise of this knowledge that expresses who we are, as Knights and as individuals.”

  He stopped, at center again. “In a few moments, each Master will draw a piece of parchment from my cap and read the name written there. When you hear your name, step forward; when you’ve finished exchanging the challenge, stand next to the yew tree. The Master who reads your name will be your examiner tomorrow. If your own Master draws your name, I will arrange a trade. We will spend the night here; right after breakfast, the examiners will leave. Follow in two hours and trace your examiner back to the valley mouth. You must follow the entire trail. Do not attempt to make your way back to Knightsvalley by any other route.” Vandis reached into his cloak and brought out two sample pouches, one for the examiner, one for the candidate.

  “You will each receive an empty pouch.” He raised it, then laid it on the ground. “Your examiner will set four medals along his or her trail: copper, silver, electrum, and gold. Pass these around and take a good look.” He handed the full pouch to the battered Arkady for inspection. “The medals may be concealed at the examiner’s discretion. Each set has a number assigned to it. If you return with a medal that is not from your set, you will fail, and so will the person who should have found that medal, so pay attention. If you return with more than one of any medal, you will fail. If you return with less than one of any medal, you will fail. You must retrieve all four from the set you are assigned, and no others. Are there any questions?”

  There was always one asking the same question, but Vandis always waited to see who’d ask it. Sure enough, Tania’s Finbar raised his hand. “What if we get lost?”

  “On the fourth day, we will organize a search party. If you get turned around, lose the trail, or become completely lost, don’t attempt to find your way back. Stay put, light a smoky fire if you can, and wait to be found. Are there any other questions?”

  “What if we catch up?” Arkady said, slurring through his plugged nose.

  “Your examiner will verify that. Any medals not yet laid must remain in his or her hands until you return. Any other questions?”

  There weren’t. “Lady bless our endeavors,” Vandis said. “Now let’s have some fun.” He rubbed his hands together. This was the best
fun of the whole Moot, a ritual of mutual disrespect, in which the examiner and candidate were meant to insult each other. It showed the candidates they were about to become equals with the Knights who examined them: to dish it out and take it. Maybe it was the inveterate gossip in him, but he loved hearing what people had to say about each other. Vandis used his foot to push forward the heavy basket with the medals, pouches, and his flying cap.

  “Number one,” he said, putting the pouch of medals in his pocket. “That’s me.” He made a show of looking away and squeezing his eyes shut while he reached into his cap and pulled out a slip. “Antonio Scalietti,” he read, and grinned evilly at Santo’s shiny-headed Squire. Tony gulped visibly and came up to get his empty pouch, embroidered with the number one. “I’ll drag you clear back to Brightwater by your big-ass nose,” Vandis promised, slapping the pouch into his hand.

  “You can talk about noses when you get your own face in order,” Tony said, his voice thready, but gaining strength. “With that big honker dragging on the ground behind you, I’ll always know what trail is yours!” He let out a relieved whoosh when he finished and got a laugh out of Vandis rather than total destruction.

  Master after Master drew a name. Vandis watched the odds on Dingus getting one of the better examiners dwindle. Pearl drew Stefan’s Edvard; Santo got Nigel’s Tariq and Tania drew Pearl’s Francine. When Betty stepped up, number ten, Vandis suppressed a cringe. Her bustling, methodical competence was excellent as far as it went—and he enjoyed her company—but he’d rather not see her examine Dingus.

  “Wallace MacNair,” she read cheerfully. “Oh, good, Wally, we can run off some of this weight.” She pinched Wallace’s rather husky middle.

  “And I suppose you’d ken about reducing,” Wallace snipped, since Betty herself was a bit round. It went on that way. Some were funnier than others; some got downright nasty. Some liked each other: Betty and Wallace. Some didn’t, like pair number twelve, Gregory and Kirsten’s Lukas, and then it could be both personal and mean. There had to be a place to express that kind of animosity, though, and this was the place and the time.

  “Number thirteen,” Vandis called as Adeon came to choose a name.

  “Hmm.” Adeon smiled faintly. “Dingus Xavier.” While Vandis thought, Yes!, and Dingus stepped out of line, he shook out the sheet of silvery hair he was so famous for. “I don’t believe I’ve ever before had the pleasure of matching wits with a boy named for his own member.”

  “I never heard that before,” Dingus said, rolling his eyes. He stooped and picked something up off the ground. As he drew his hands apart, Vandis saw it was a long platinum hair, stretched between them.

  Mouth flicking up at the corners, Dingus let out a soft flow of musical hituleti, so quickly and quietly Vandis couldn’t follow. Adeon stared, then laughed. “What’d he say?” four Knights yelled at once. “Adeon, what’d he say?”

  Smiling, Adeon turned to the Masters. “Young Dingus informs me that I drop hair.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  Adeon hitched up his belt, hawked, and spat. “Well listen here, Bumblebee,” he drawled. “You shed like a sheepdog in the springtime. If you wanna lose me tomorrow, you gotta quit pasting your grammaw’s hair on your own head!”

  “That’s what I said.” Dingus grinned and walked across the shelf to take a place under the yew with the other Squires whose names had already been drawn. As Vandis picked up pouch number fourteen and Evan came to take a name, he distinctly heard Tariq demanding of Dingus how he’d seen a single hair fall to the rock. Evan drew Ryan’s Arkady while Dingus made a dismissive gesture and said something quietly enough that Vandis didn’t hear.

  “Good grief, Arkady,” Evan said. “What’s happened to your face? Did you open your mouth again?”

  Arkady flushed. “At least I’m not short,” he blurted, drew himself up, and strutted over to stand under the yew.

  It went on for some time after that, but Vandis had to admit he didn’t pay as much attention as he had before Adeon drew Dingus’s name. Adeon couldn’t slip his boy, he was as sure of it as he was of the Lady’s lilt in his mind. He was terribly excited about it, too, but once the lines broke up, he started to think Dingus wasn’t. While he spoke to Santo about what he should set for Tony, and to Adeon about what Dingus could do, from time to time he felt his Squire’s eyes on him. They hadn’t really spoken since dinnertime. When he’d finished he waited for Dingus to catch his eye and then raised a hand, curling all four fingers to call the boy over.

  Dingus abandoned his spot leaning on a rock near the yew—surrounded by three pretty girls—with every appearance of relief. “I gotta go see what Vandis wants,” he said, and before any of the girls could protest he pushed through.

  “You nervous?” Vandis asked him quietly, and he shook his head.

  Behind his back, Tania’s Isobel snickered and stage-whispered, “But he’s so skinny!” Dingus blushed violently.

  Vandis tried to act as if it hadn’t happened. “Don’t worry. Adeon’s pretty hot shit, but you try your best and you’ll be fine.”

  “Oh—” Dingus grinned around his spectacular contusions. “It’s not Adeon. I been watching him. He does drop that hair everywhere, especially when he messes with it.”

  “So what’s the problem? I know you’ve got a few friends. Go talk to them for a while.”

  “Can’t I just hang out by you?” His eyes flicked back toward the rock he’d been propped against.

  Ah, Vandis thought, teenage girls. I would not be his age again if I got paid for it. “Not a chance.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ve had less than a week to figure out how much fun it is to be a Squire around other Squires. Go put your mind to the problem before you’re not a Squire anymore.”

  “Yes, Vandis.” Dingus slouched away, or started to, until Santo came by and gave him a bump in the arm.

  “Hey, where you going?”

  “Vandis said to—”

  “Nah, don’t listen to that old fart. Stick around. I’m about to bet against you.”

  “You’re at least as old as I am,” Vandis said, grinning in spite of himself.

  “Sure,” Santo said, “but I’m not about to act it. You’re falling down on the job, Gus, you gotta keep this guy young.”

  Dingus made a face. “Gus?”

  “Why not? You can’t tell me you wanna walk around with a handle like Dingus.”

  “It’s an awful name,” Dingus admitted. “But it’s mine.”

  “Dingus it is,” Santo said, and turned to Vandis. “I got ten says my boy’s in before yours.”

  Vandis stuck out his hand. “You’re on.”

  “Wait, wait,” Tony said, coming to block Santo from clasping wrists. “Sucker bet. Smart money’s on the other guy.”

  Dingus blinked. “Huh?”

  “I did not see that hair.”

  Santo reached around and clasped wrists with Vandis anyway. “Tony, Tony, Tony, this ain’t about the smart money. It ain’t about smart at all. It’s about love.” And he seized Tony in a headlock, scrubbing his knuckles across scalp. “You still oiling this? Ugh, I told you to quit that.” He gave Tony’s head a slap and released him. “Get outta here, the both of you.”

  The two Squires walked away, but Dingus looked back over his shoulder at Vandis as they went, and Vandis’s lips twitched into a smile. No, it wasn’t about the smart money—not even a little.

  First, Do No Harm

  Fort Rule

  Krakus lay on his back in bed with his hands folded on his shrinking stomach. He kept closing his eyes, but they kept springing open again. No part of his bed seemed comfortable, though he rolled from back to side, side to back.

  “Danny’s gone,” he heard, in Sofia Zielski’s little-girl voice. Matter-of-fact. Flat. “Danny’s gone.” When, today, he’d gone back to Section One, there hadn’t been a trace of the young man, and Danny wasn’t exactly difficult to spot, either: scaly-skinned and spe
ctacularly patterned in black, orange, and butter-gold. He bit, Krakus had been told, with his needle teeth, and spat poison; but with Krakus, Danny had been as sweet as the day was long, even if his lipless smile was much too wide and his long, thin tongue flickered in and out almost constantly.

  He hadn’t spoken much, what with his mouth being so strange; he’d tended to get attention by tapping a shoulder, and the touch of his smooth, scaly hands had become familiar over the last few months.

  “Danny’s gone.”

  Krakus knew where, too. Even he couldn’t have failed to notice the dread with which the kids viewed Section Two (Medical), and, having some idea what went on there, he didn’t blame them. He twisted and turned, and his mind wouldn’t stop showing him pictures of what might be happening to Danny this very moment, and he couldn’t bear it.

  He swung his legs out of bed and snatched his white silk dressing gown, pulling it on while he crossed his bedchamber to the door. Light streamed from under Lech’s door, but grinding snores issued from behind it. Krakus strode swiftly through the common room, tying his belt, and let himself out. There were benefits to being Krakus: people looked the other way when he did whatever he pleased, though he’d never before used the power he wielded for anything but grabbing whatever indulgence he could.

  Be damned to it. He answered to not one man in the fort, not even Lech, and be damned to Lech’s silent, frozen disapproval, too. Krakus went to Section Two. “What can I do for you, Father?” one of the guards asked politely, with no reference to the lateness of the hour, although he seemed to be making a valiant attempt not to stare at Krakus’s dressing gown.

  “Let me in, please.”

  The guard raised his eyebrows, but said, “Yes, Father.”

  Krakus waited long minutes for the tall portal to swing open on one side. “Leave it open,” he said. “I’ll be back.”