Knights of the Rose

by Roland Green

  Lewin looked down at the aged elf and reached for his sword.

  “Not wise,” Tharash said. He gripped Sir Lewin’s foot with both hands and heaved.

  In the next moment Sir Lewin learned that underestimating elven strength was as foolish as underestimating elven archery. He found himself in midair, then crashing to the ground, then supine while someone—he could not see who—held a lance point to his chest.

  “Sorry I had to hurry,” Tharash said, “but I thought you might want to wash and change before you met with Sir Pirvan.”

  Lewin found his voice. “What—is Pirvan really here?”

  “Yes,” a voice came from behind. Lewin twisted, pushed the lance point away, and sat up.

  “I will not say well met, because we are not,” said the figure, who looked more like a gutter-dwelling beggar than a knight. “But matters may mend, if you learn a few truths about Belkuthas. I pray you, accept the hospitality of Lord Krythis and Lady Tulia, which I offer to you by my authority as their war leader.”

  “A Knight of the Sword playing sell-sword to half-elves?” Lewin exclaimed. The lance point suddenly reappeared, not only at his throat but pricking his skin. He looked at the faces around him and realized that silence would have been more prudent.

  Lewin said sourly, “Very well. But I insist that my men be permitted to join me, likewise Sir Esthazas, and that we receive honorable treatment.”

  Pirvan’s face twisted for a moment, and Lewin knew he had scored a point. Bringing forty new mouths into the hungry, thirsty confines of the citadel of Belkuthas and leaving them armed was perilous. The alternatives were more so. Leave Lewin and his men free, and they could rejoin the sell-swords, for better or for worse. Kill them—but not even the gutter-sprung Pirvan the Wayward would contemplate that.

  Lewin had wanted to enter the citadel of Belkuthas. Why should he turn down an invitation to do so, even one so informal as this?

  He stood, and tried to brush dirt and less seemly matter off his clothes.

  Chapter 15

  With the air of a prince visiting a petty noble, the Knight of the Rose rode into the citadel of Belkuthas. It almost seemed as if the heavy guard around him was an honor, rather than a precaution.

  It was a precaution Pirvan would not have required if Lewin and his company had submitted to having their weapons peace-bonded, with leather or cloth thongs. The knight had refused, coming close to raising his voice in anger or at least offended dignity, and Pirvan had been forced to choose an alternative.

  That alternative was to bring the Solamnic newcomers into Belkuthas surrounded by a guard of nearly every able-bodied mounted fighter the citadel could command. Pirvan hoped the sell-swords wouldn’t regained their courage while he was appeasing Sir Lewin’s dignity.

  He had to admit, however, that the odds were long against that. The near-mob with whom Lewin had been riding had not only lost whatever leadership he gave it, it had lost near a hundred men killed or taken, never mind how many had limped off with wounds that would keep them out of the fighting for a while. None would be heard from today.

  From prisoners’ tales and scouts messages, one of the other two columns had lost its captain, to what was variously reported as a kender assassin or a plot by High Captain Zephros. Zephros, leader of the other column, was nowhere to be found. Again there were assorted rumors, that he was dead, fled, ensorcelled, or otherwise not where he could command his men.

  Pirvan was of two minds about the tale of the assassin. On the one hand, it would account for the two kender, who had been missing since before dawn and who deserved to avenge for Edelthirb’s death. On the other, such an assassination would hardly shrink the “lesser races” problem. Judging from remarks overheard from Sir Lewin’s men-at-arms, this problem already was almost insuperable.

  Within the courtyard, Sir Lewin dismounted, without waiting for Pirvan’s permission, and began doing an arms ritual with his sword. Pirvan waited until Sir Lewin had—looking at the matter with charity—restored limberness to his body, then also dismounted.

  “I must ask you and your men to give your word of honor to remain where we send you, until you and I have spoken,” Pirvan said. “I do not command this, but the Measure speaks against hindering a fellow knight, even of lesser rank, in the performance of his duties. You will certainly be hindering me if you do not—to put it plainly—stay out of the way until certain matters are further forward.”

  Lewin drew himself up to his full height, which was considerable, if not as great as Darin’s. “That provision of the Measure applies only to honorable and lawful duties to which a knight has been ordered by a superior. I permit myself to doubt that your commanding Belkuthas is such a duty.”

  “I permit myself,” Pirvan replied, “to doubt that you know what my orders are. They came from Sir Marod, and they were to learn all I could about the tax soldiers and whether they would do justice or not.” That was a free interpretation of what Sir Marod had said, but well short of a lie.

  The mention of Sir Marod stopped Lewin, as Pirvan had prayed it might. Taking the silence for agreement, Pirvan embraced Lewin, although he would on the whole have as willingly embraced an ogre. “I rejoice in your safe journey, the valor you showed in battle, and your coming here to aid me in my duties. I am sure we shall see that justice is done once we have a moment together, but that must wait.

  “Rynthala, Tharash. Find suitable quarters for these noble knights and their men-at-arms and provide them with food, water, and whatever else they may require after their journey and fighting.”

  “Water?” exclaimed Rynthala, in a tone of stark outrage. “We have—”

  Pirvan and Tharash both raised their voices without much caring what they said, but it was too late. Pirvan saw a smile flicker on Sir Lewin’s face.

  The first impulse that swept through Pirvan was to have Sir Lewin disarmed, bound, and confined. That, of course, would lead nowhere save immediately to a brawl with Lewin’s company, and in the end, to a tribunal of the knights. The second impulse was to pretend he had seen nothing, leaving Sir Lewin believing that the gutter-knight (a name Pirvan knew well, though none used it to his face) had been thoroughly deceived. On the whole, that seemed wiser.

  As the new arrivals marched off under escort, Rugal Nis approached and saluted. He was, Pirvan noted, wearing his sword, but one of Pirvan’s men-at-arms was with him.

  “Wishing to report, my lord, that we lost no men in the attack. The lads are out picking up after the enemy. We met a dwarf, and he says he wants to talk to you.”

  “A dwarf?”

  “Aye. He gives his name as Nuor of the Black Chisel and says he needs to speak to the chief of the citadel. That’s you.”

  “The chief of the citadel is actually Krythis. I know you came against him in arms, but he doesn’t eat honorable sell-swords. Neither does his lady.”

  “What about their daughter?” Nis said impudently.

  Pirvan mock-glared. “Where did you find this dwarf?”

  “Out to the other side of the walls, near the first of the outer wells. We were seeing that no one had heaved bodies down it to poison it, when all of a sudden this dwarf popped out.”

  “Out of the well?”

  “So it looked.”

  “Thank you. Well done, Rugal Nis. Finish your work. I will see this dwarf.”

  Nuor of the Black Chisel was tall for a dwarf, and somewhat the worse for a long underground journey. He sat astride one of Pirvan’s camp stools and, with a finger dipped in ashes from the fire, sketched a map on the floor. He could have used much fouler materials without Pirvan’s protesting.

  What the dwarf was offering was life itself, to Belkuthas and, above all, to those innocents who had sought the safety it could no longer provide.

  “We couldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t for the wells feeding from two different underground waters,” Nuor said. “That mage—Wilthur the Turd-Colored, or whatever—”

  “Has he been working
the spells against us?”

  “Of course. Gran Axesharp had it from our own thane himself, so if you want to call all three of us liars besides interrupting me—”

  Pirvan hastily assured Nuor that he would rather commit several gross crimes (he made the dwarf laugh describing them) than do any such thing. Mollified, the dwarf continued.

  “We can cut a tunnel across from the outer well to the one inside. At night, so we can dump the spoil without anyone seeing. Of course, it will mean a deal of stoop work for your people, fetching water through the tunnel, but we’ll size the tunnel for humans.”

  Pirvan looked at the map. “Couldn’t you cut a new well?”

  “I serve you venison and you want dressed beef as well?”

  “Pardon, but—”

  “Oh, I’ll explain or you’ll be fretting at me. Can’t do a new well inside the citadel, without tapping into the same water as the old one. That water’s gone, or if there’s any left, most likely it’s not fit to drink. Ask your Red Robe about that.”

  Pirvan started to return to the matter, then stopped. The dwarves’ aid promised another possibility, and Pirvan would rather have cut out his tongue than foreclose it.

  “Ah—pardon me again, if I’m asking for dwarven secrets—”

  “Oh, we never mind being asked about our secrets. A mite flattering, even. Just don’t expect answers.”

  Pirvan looked at the ceiling, trying to make a sensible choice of the words chasing themselves around in his mind. Finally he looked down at the dwarf.

  “I suppose you got into the well you came out of—”

  That was not going to work.

  Pirvan took a deep breath and started over. “Suppose there was a tunnel from the far side of the outer well, leading clear out of Belkuthas. Anyone who wanted to come in or out of the citadel without being seen could use it.”

  “And suppose there was? Who would you be thinking to see using it, besides dwarves, as it might make humans a bit stoop-shouldered?”

  Pirvan told his heart not to leap before time. “Well, there are some folk here in Belkuthas who would gladly crawl on hands and knees, to be away from here. They and their children.”

  “Aha. The refugees.” Nuor seemed to be waiting for confirmation, so Pirvan nodded. The dwarf continued, “And where would they go, once they went through this tunnel?”

  “I think your people would have done enough by then. Many of the refugees are able-bodied. They can forage, cut firewood and timber for shelters, and wait in the forest until the fighting’s done.”

  “Or until the sell-swords track them down,” Nuor said. “A bad business, that would be.”

  “They’d still have a better chance than staying here,” Pirvan said. Pleading with a dwarf was like getting a kender to pay close attention: a near-miracle. But he was ready to try it.

  “Well, if they didn’t mind following a few dwarves, so they wouldn’t see anything they shouldn’t—”

  Pirvan held his breath.

  “There’s caves aplenty we don’t use much, so they’re not connected to anything we wouldn’t want humans to know. Or if they are, we could do a bit of masonry before the refugees came out.”

  “You’ll shelter the refugees in the caves?”

  Nuor glared. “Of course we will. Didn’t I just say that we would? Of course there’s a tunnel into the outer well! You were wandering all over the potato patch, so I couldn’t be sure what you were driving at! You thought I walked to that well on the open ground, through all the sell-swords? I’d rather ride a pegasus!”

  “I think we can spare you that,” Pirvan said, once he’d regained the breath he let out in a sigh of relief. “Besides, Belot would have my blood if I let anyone but him ride his mount.”

  “Elves,” Nuor said, shaking his head as some humans would have when they said, “kender.”

  Pirvan looked at the floor. While he had been watching Nuor, somehow the dwarf had contrived to add another tunnel, stretching from the outer well off into the distance.”

  “Well, I think we can make it worth the dwarves’—”

  “Who is this ‘we’ of whom you speak?” came a voice that was about as welcome to Pirvan as a lewd proposition from Takhisis the Dark Queen. The knight turned, to see Sir Lewin standing in the chamber door.

  “Who let you out?” leapt to his lips.

  “None confined me. Rynthala and Tharash departed after they found us quarters—very damp and verminous, I fear—and I said to the guards remaining that I had to speak to you. They did not dispute my word of honor.”

  Strictly speaking, Lewin had broken his word, by not remaining in confinement. But if he argued before a tribunal that he had indeed desperately needed to speak to Pirvan, he would probably not be called foresworn.

  Pirvan wished to call Lewin a number of things, but none would be to any purpose.

  Then he noticed that Lewin was staring at the dwarf, who was returning the stare. “By Paladine! Nuor of the Black Shovel.”

  “Black Chisel, Knight. I see your tongue’s as glib and your memory’s as poor as ever.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “That’s for you to ask and for me not to answer, seeing as how your first question should have been about my wife.”

  Lewin seemed to recall something unpleasant. “I apologize.”

  “You’re doing a lot of that, but don’t wager it will be enough.”

  “I trust she is well.”

  “Oh, your healer was good enough. And now, by your leave, Sir Pirvan, I will go back whence I came and start putting our folk to the work I promised you. Tell your Red Robe what I said, won’t you?”

  Nuor rose, and as he walked past Pirvan, he carefully scuffed the map on the floor into a series of dark smears. Pirvan hoped Lewin had not been listening at the door, but could hardly ask him that.

  “Since you are here and claim need to speak to me, and I would not doubt such a claim from another knight, then sit down and speak.” Pirvan picked up a chair and set it before Sir Lewin, with as much graciousness as he could muster.

  Lewin was seated before Nuor was out the door.

  Pirvan searched for words to begin a conversation instead of a quarrel. He realized Lewin was doing the same.

  Nuor had given Pirvan a gift almost as precious as water or the refugees’ escape. He had embarrassed Sir Lewin, something Pirvan would have sworn no mortal being could do, leaving the Knight of the Sword able to dominate the Knight of the Rose—if he wished.

  When he thought of what was at stake, Pirvan decided he would do far worse to Sir Lewin than dominate him, if necessary.

  “Sir Lewin, I have the right to know what has passed between you and Nuor of the Black Chisel.”

  “Nothing that concerns you.”

  “I doubt that. What concerns one of our allies, one who has offered to see justice done to innocent folk, also concerns me. I would not care to hear callous words from you about the refugees.”

  Indeed, if he heard them, Pirvan was quite prepared to challenge Sir Lewin to a test of honor, or even simply have him thrown in irons. That fact was better not put into words—but he did put it into his voice, and Sir Lewin seemed to hear it.

  “Very well. It was a small matter of a mistake by one of my archers.”

  It was at least not a large matter. Even after hearing all the details, Pirvan had to agree with that. The Solamnic men-at-arms were superior fighting men, but even such grew uneasy and quick to shoot or slash on unknown ground facing unknown foes.

  Lewin concluded with: “I have answered enough of your questions and more. You have exceeded all the bounds allowed to a knight of your rank toward a knight of mine, by asking them at all. But I will say no more of the matter if the questions are at an end.”

  “They are not.”

  “Then I command—”

  “I suggest you sit down, Sir Lewin.”

  “That ‘suggestion’ sounds like an order. Will you tie me to the chair if I diso
bey?”

  “Do you wish to wager our ability to work together for the good of the knights, and to avoid a tribunal, on my not doing so?”

  Sir Lewin sat down. “Perhaps we should pray for less hasty tongues and tempers,” he said after a moment. “They can do as much harm as hasty archers.”

  “I will not dispute that,” Pirvan said. “As to those questions, I was thinking more of your asking me, and others who can answer them to your satisfaction. You see, Sir Lewin, you are not in all respects my superior here in Belkuthas. I hold the rank of commander of the citadel by appointment of its lawful lord and lady, Krythis and Tulia. I also command those men I brought from Tirabot, and hold the rank of chief equal to Threehands in authority over the Gryphons.”

  Lewin muttered something that sounded like, but that Pirvan hoped was not, “sand-eaters.”

  “So you see, I am your commander in truth, except by the standard of the Knights of Solamnia. And even by those standards, you do not command here. The Measure says plainly that regardless of rank, on detached duty, the knight who has the greatest knowledge of the land has command until his superiors have equaled his knowledge. That may take you a few days, so I suggest you start asking those questions.”

  “I suppose this would have to be called detached duty,” Lewin said. His smile seemed glued on, rather like a cheap seal to a letter. “But duty also implies doing what it is lawful for a knight to do.”

  “What have I done that is unlawful?”

  Lewin’s answer at least came swiftly to his tongue. “You have set yourself in arms against the servants of Istar—you, a Knight of Solamnia and therefore sworn to Istar. You have shed blood of comrades in fighting the tax soldiers!”

  “They may rank as such,” Pirvan admitted, “but my orders were to see if the tax soldiers would seek justice between Istar and the Silvanesti. They have not as yet fought the Silvanesti, but have behaved, where I have seen them, more like thieves and outlaws.”

  “You would know, I am sure.”

  Pirvan took a deep breath. “I also fear that the tax soldiers, left unopposed, will provoke a war with the Silvanesti.”