Knights of the Crown w-1

by Roland Green

  “I had not thought to receive your dowry,” Jemar said. “But neither had I thought to pay bride-price.”

  “You did not think about many things,” Eskaia said, “but I understand that is common when a man is hot for a woman.”

  Jemar kissed her lightly on the forehead, then stroked both her cheeks with the tips of his fingers. “Was it that plain?”

  “Even a green maiden like myself could tell, my love,” she said softly.

  Then they both laughed, because Tarothin was turning red. The laughter died as they looked beyond him toward the prow, where the slim figure of Haimya stood, the golden cap of her hair ruffled in the wind.

  An even slimmer, darker figure was making its way toward her. Jemar and Eskaia looked at each other again, then both stepped to Tarothin, spun him around, and marched him off toward the cabin amidships.

  Pirvan slipped up beside Haimya and looked out past the bow wave curling over the ram, to the endless sea horizon beyond. Perhaps the ocean was not so bad, in such a benign mood. But the memory of its other moods would be with him every time he smelled saltwater.

  “That did not look like a farewell,” Haimya said, in a distant voice.

  Pirvan wondered briefly what she meant, then looked back, as Jemar and Eskaia wrapped themselves around one another.

  “It looks even less like one now.”

  “So I expected. So I hoped.”

  “What will you do now?” Pirvan asked.

  Haimya shrugged. “I could doubtless enlist under Jemar. To be a sea barbarian warrior in his service is better than many other fates that might be mine. He might even consider it part of his gift to Eskaia, to find me a dowry and a husband.”

  Several questions came to Pirvan’s mind; he kept them all off his lips.

  “I fear I cannot accept such a gift,” Haimya said. “I have won most of what I have fairly. It is no great matter to do that again. Are you returning to Istar?”

  “Perhaps, but not for long if I do. I have said I might be giving up night work. Also, I may have no choice. I am now known to many in Istar, who cannot afford to tolerate even the most moderate of thieves.”

  “I was asking, because Gerik has kin. A sister, at least, wed to a merchant’s heir, and I believe they have children.”

  “House Encuintras can do more for them than I,” Pirvan reminded her.

  “If they so wish. Eskaia would make sure that they wished it, if she were returning to Istar. But the city may never see her again. Nor was any of House Encuintras there when Gerik died.”

  Pirvan understood where this was leading. Haimya was afraid to face Gerik’s kin, when she saw herself with his blood on her hands. It was the first time he had seen her run away from a battle-and, in her position, he would have done the same.

  “What I can do shall be done,” he said. He put his hand over hers. “I also fear that the time has come for us to stand apart.”

  She lifted a hand and put it over his. When she turned to him, her face was a mask-except for the eyes.

  “Tes, for now it is best if you stand far away. But not so far, my friend, that I cannot find you if I wish to see you again.”

  Chapter 23

  Rumor ran that there was mailing and gnashing of teeth in high places in House Encuintras when Eskaia’s “mad fling” (as one woman was said to have called it) became open knowledge.

  Rumor also ran that Eskaia’s father watched the wailers and gnashers run about, rather like a cat watching mice at play, then brought his paw down firmly on “this pestilential nonsense” (as it was said he called it). He had been waiting for an excuse to remove certain persons, as they had been waiting for an excuse to remove him. Now their conduct let him strike first.

  However much truth there was to these tales, it was certainly some while before the matter of Eskaia’s dowry and rewards for the other questers could be settled. When it was, the terms were more than generous.

  An amount equivalent to Eskaia’s dowry was paid out, but not as a single sum into Jemar’s hands. He received some, Eskaia received more (with strong legal barriers to Jemar’s ever taking it), a new ship was built to replace Golden Cup and Kurulus appointed its captain, and much generosity was recorded in the chronicles of the city, or at least in those of House Encuintras.

  Pirvan received a generous sum, more money than he would likely have received from the factor over the sale of all the rubies. He gave part of it to Gerik’s sister, using his thief’s skills to make sure her husband did not know of it, for he was too respectable to take such “tainted silver.”

  Then he left Istar, even before Jemar and his bride sailed up to the city’s piers and had a grand second wedding with a longer guest list than any wedding in the city that year. He regretted missing the occasion, but he had received warnings that his becoming well known would indeed mean exile from Istar.

  Five years, at least, he was warned, and at the end of that time perhaps a full pardon. Otherwise, he might end in the arena or even on the scaffold, and at best could buy his freedom only by revealing the secrets of the thieves.

  Pirvan was on the road from Istar that night, to guard against this being treachery intended to provoke him into some crime. He resolved also to yield without a fight if he could not outrun pursuit, rather than besmirch the quest’s reputation down the years.

  There had to be some in Istar who would count his and Haimya’s eliminating Synsaga’s pirates-in Istar and in every other trading city-in his favor. But they seemed to be outnumbered by those who could see no farther than ending the career of one thief and perhaps learning the secrets of his brothers and sisters in night work.

  House Encuintras was powerful, but it could not do everything. So Pirvan did the one most necessary thing remaining, which was to leave Istar for the safety that lay only a few days’ ride from the city.

  He left so swiftly that he could not learn what had become of Haimya, and he regretted missing the wedding mostly for missing the chance to do that. It did not ease his spirits that autumn, when Grimsoar One-Eye found his way to the village where Pirvan was living and said that Haimya had not been at the wedding.

  “Or at least if she was, she was so well disguised that even a man who’d seen all of her-”

  “My hospitality is not without limits, Brother Grimsoar.”

  “Oh, sorry. But you’ve let a good one get away, I say that-”

  “I say that you ought to keep your tongue off Haimya, if you cannot talk sense about her.”

  After that it was a while before a sullen Grimsoar would talk, but good wine and a better stew at the local inn brought him into a better humor. As he watched the grooms finishing work on the horse that would take him back to Istar and his ship, he clapped Pirvan on the back.

  “Brother, Istar may be closed to you for five years, but that’s no cause to spend them all here in this fleabite of a town. Or are you casting eyes on the maid at the tavern? I wouldn’t say that red hair is all real, but-”

  Pirvan punched his old comrade lightly in the ribs. “See a healer when you return to town, my friend. Even about other women, your tongue runs away with you.”

  “Then you are waiting for Haimya?”

  “Yes, curse you! But if you spread that tale all over the land and sea, I will hunt you down and cut out your tongue and other parts, then burn them in front of your eyes.”

  “I shall be the soul of discretion.”

  “It’s not your soul that I worry about, Grimsoar.” Pirvan hesitated, remembering Haimya’s admonition that she should be able to find him if she wished. He had hoped that “if” meant “when;” that hope was fast diminishing.

  But perhaps it should not be lost.

  “I still fear treachery from Istar,” he said, “but if the sea barbarians-at least those friendly to Jemar-and the brothers and sisters know where I am-it should do no harm.”

  “Maybe even some good,” Grimsoar said softly, then broke off to shout at the groom’s boy for not heating the horse�
��s drinking water.

  Pirvan had bought a yeoman’s cottage just outside the village, not cut off from it except in the worst weather. It had some fields and a large kitchen garden attached, and come spring he would hire labor, plant, and plough. He had not spent so freely thus far that anyone suspected him of hidden wealth; that would change if he did nothing to bring in silver for another year.

  Meanwhile, he did well enough for himself, with an elderly manservant who slept in the barn except when he drank so much he could not walk that far. Pirvan had grown used to cleaning up after the old man; when sober, he worked well enough, and he did not deserve to end facedown in a mud puddle. One could not imagine him unleashing evil dragons and twisted Frostreavers on the world, no matter how much he drank.

  Autumn had turned into winter, and the roads had turned to icy ooze, when they were not iron-hard ruts. The wind now blew against the shutters without the skitter and crackle of dead leaves driven before it. Pirvan and his servant had patched enough of the cracks so that no cold air trickled in to chill the stew or awake Pirvan even before the neighbors’ cocks crowed.

  The servant was gone, carrying his blankets and a kerchief full of bread, hard cheese, and a leg of chicken left over from dinner. Pirvan sat on the bench opposite the fireplace, a cup of wine nestled in his lap.

  It was good wine (this village lived by coopering barrels for the winegrowers of the area), but it might have been vinegar for all the pleasure it gave Pirvan. He was tempted to toss it into the fire, but feared that would put out the flames and condemn him to sleeping cold or relighting the damp wood.

  Best count the kindling and the firewood tomorrow, he thought.

  He rather hoped they would come up short, even if it might be thanks to the neighbors’ boys stealing again. A good day chopping wood was as much exercise as he had these days, always leaving him able to eat well, sleep soundly, and forget how alone he was.

  He set the cup on the rough-hewn table that was the only piece of furniture in the cottage when he had moved in. It might be a pleasant change to sleep in the hall tonight, in front of the fire. The bedchamber was smaller and easier for its own fireplace to heat, but he’d grown weary of falling asleep and waking up with the same pattern of cracks in the plaster before his eyes.

  He had finished distributing the pallet, blankets, and furs on the hall floor when he heard the knocker clatter. Probably the old man coming back, with an eye to raiding the wine cellar-and every cup he drank was one less that Pirvan could not be tempted to toss down.

  The figure in the door was not the old man. It was taller, less stooped, and showed a youthful face and figure almost lost in a hooded gray cloak of fine wool that must have cost more than the old man’s wages for a year-and Pirvan was not holding back on those wages.

  “Good evening, traveler,” Pirvan said. “If you are lost, I can show you the way to the village. The inn there is more comfortable than anything I can offer, though on a night like this I would not turn anyone away.”

  “Good,” the traveler said, and threw back the hood of the cloak.

  “Haimya!”

  Pirvan’s arms rose of their own will, but he forced them down. The woman stepped forward.

  “Aren’t you glad to see me?” It was a question as artless as a child’s, but Pirvan heard depths that no child could have learned.

  At least his arms knew the answer. He embraced her, feeling the chill dampness of her cloak but with her warmth inside it, glowing like a coal in a snowdrift.

  He did not trust himself to speak. He did not quite trust his own senses. This could not be happening, or if it was, it would end suddenly and he would be standing there in the wind from the open door, embracing nothing, and looking like an idiot.

  Without breaking the embrace, Haimya reached back with a foot and kicked the door shut. When she regained her balance, she tightened the hold, then kissed him.

  “Pirvan, you-we have stood apart as long as we need to. Unless you think otherwise.”

  Pirvan did not. Both his body and mind were now sending him the message that this moment was real; he should seize it and make it last, even for a whole lifetime.

  He hoped it would be that long. Also, he would not have sent Haimya away even if he had doubted what they might have after tonight. A look into her eyes, the same clear blue, told him that it would be better to die himself than to inflict such a wound.

  “No, Haimya. Let us stand close.”

  She swallowed. “Then help me off with my … cloak.”

  The help did not end with her cloak, or his tunic, and before long they were not standing at all.

  “Why weren’t you at Eskaia’s wedding?” Pirvan asked. He had to pose the question three times, because his mouth was partly muffled in Haimya’s hair. She had grown it longer than he had ever seen it, and running his hands through it gave all sorts of new and exquisite sensations.

  “I was, but not at the public ceremony. Eskaia understood.”

  “I hope so. May I ask where you’ve been since then?”

  “Several places. Mostly Karthay. Remember, my mother was Karthayan. There were family matters I had put off too long, for all that Eskaia would have been glad to send an Encuintras factor to settle it. I suppose I was too proud to accept her aid. So I ended by doing most of the work myself, and spending a good part of my pay for the quest on the way.”

  Pirvan tightened his grip. She laid a hand over his eyes.

  “No, Pirvan. I am not poor, not yet. If-If I live here, I can pay my own way.”

  The thought of having Haimya in his arms every night made Pirvan’s blood race. She sensed it, and rolled over on top of him, brushing her hair across his face as her hands roamed.

  It was a long while before they spoke again, at least in words, and then it was only to say good-night as they plunged down into sleep.

  They woke before dawn, bathed in a bucket of water heated on a revived hearth fire, lay down again, and in due course slept. The sun was high when they woke, and they had barely broken their fast and garbed themselves when the knocker clattered again.

  The man who stood against a harsh blue sky was almost as tall as Grimsoar One-Eye, but leaner and lighter on his feet. His long face showed breeding as well as an imposing mustache, and his hands showed Pirvan the same sort of marks left by years of work with steel.

  “Warrior, what brings you here?” Pirvan asked. Behind his back, he signaled Haimya to arm herself.

  “A matter of interest to all of us. May I enter?”

  “If you keep the peace, you may enter and we will hear you out.”

  “Paladine and Kiri-Jolith hear me, that I swear to do you no harm. Whether I do you good is for you to judge, but I trust the judgment of both of you.”

  The man entered, looking even taller under the low ceiling and formidable even when he sat. The scabbard of a broadsword showed under his riding cloak, and Pirvan caught the glint of mail at his throat.

  “I am known as Niebar the Tall-”

  “Sir Niebar, by any chance?” Haimya asked.

  “You see clearly. Sir Niebar, Knight of the Sword, here on a matter of concern to the Knights of Solamnia.”

  “Very well,” Pirvan said. “But it will go ill with you if you lie.”

  “Lies do harm-at least here and now,” the knight added with a wry little smile. “Therefore I shall tell none.”

  The knight might have been telling no lies, but his recital of Pirvan’s history seemed to take forever. Pirvan half expected the shadows to be lengthening before the tall warrior was done.

  “All this praise of my skill, honor, virtue, and the rest make pleasant listening,” Pirvan said. “But some of it is only known to my brothers and sisters. On your oath, answer-have you spies among them?”

  “Tes,” Sir Niebar said blandly. “We have spies in many places, seeking folk worthy of entering the ranks of the knights.”

  When those words sank into Pirvan’s brain, he gritted his teeth to keep his jaw
from hitting his knees. Or at least that was one possible interpretation of those words, even if it might be a dream.

  “If you had spies, then you knew where he was,” Haimya said. If the wine in her cup had been any closer to her, it would have frozen as solid as the crater lake. “Do you know how long it took me to find him, after I knew I wished to do so?”

  “Yes,” Sir Niebar said again, as blandly as before. Pirvan reflected that the knight’s manner of tossing off these stunning answers might one day get him killed. Not today, by Pirvan. Haimya might prove another matter.

  She was quivering, and her hand was not far from the hilt of her sword, as she spoke again. “Then-may I assume that you followed me?”

  Sir Niebar seemed to realize the possible consequences of another bland yes. Instead he nodded. “Forgive me, but we trusted your judgment once again, for it has never led us false. You are your grandfather’s blood, as true as a sword blade and as sharp in destroying evil.”

  Under all this poetry, Pirvan detected another astonishing truth. Haimya’s grandfather had been a Knight of Solamnia.

  It’s always nice to know about your wife’s ancestry before the wedding, he mused.

  “We followed you,” Niebar went on, “because your coming to Pirvan was the final test. If he was worth seeking out, then he was worthy of the knights.”

  Pirvan looked at the ceiling. “That is not one of the lawful tests I have heard of, in the tales of the knights choosing men.”

  “Hard times strain the best laws,” Niebar said. “Now-I assume that you know what I wish to know. When may I have your answer?”

  “In an hour,” Haimya said.

  “I asked-I think it is not impious to call him ‘Sir Pirvan,’ among us three.”

  “An hour will be enough,” Pirvan said.

  Sir Niebar rose and bowed himself out, without taking his eyes off Haimya. Pirvan doubted he appreciated her beauty. More likely watching her sword hand.

  Then Haimya fell down on the furs, biting one of them to keep from howling with laughter.