“Our order survives because we allow ourselves to be constrained. Whether to judge innocence or guilt by lot is for the archbenefice and the king to decide, not us. The archbenefice and king will never order a cast without proof. To do so would be to place the aristocracy and the church under the power of the conclave. Such power corrupts.”
The primus took a deep breath. “At any rate the abbot has learned by now that the attack on us was unsuccessful. When no pursuit occurs, he may believe himself to be above suspicion. You have your penance to begin. Your exploits yesterday are on everyone’s tongue. I understand Captain Reynald has requested your presence at the barracks courtyard. Have Lakken—he’s the short one—escort you there. You’ll stay with the watch until you’re sent for.” He smiled. “Once your staff is returned, please send mine back with Lakken, if you would. I can’t wield it the way you can, but people expect me to have it.”
26
ADORA
LAKKEN’S DEPARTURE left Errol at the edge of the yard clutching his staff. The wood, polished by his hands over the past months, comforted him like an old friend. He slowed as he noticed for the first time the variety of people. Knots of men sparred in the barracks courtyard as before. Besides watchmen dressed in black, young men wearing a broad range of finery littered the grassy expanse. With a grudging admission, Errol conceded that some sparred nearly as well as the men who instructed them.
On the balconies overlooking the courtyard, women watched the strutting nobles, giving appreciative or encouraging smiles as the occasion warranted. Though the summer air on Green Isle did not approach the sultry heat of the mainland, each woman fanned herself in complex motions. Something about the fans stirred a memory, and he dredged for it. After a moment, he gave up. It refused to surface, and he had other, more pressing matters.
The lieutenant he’d bested walked by, his attention on four pair of men who sparred with practice swords.
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Garrigus?” Errol called.
The watchman’s face registered his recognition before the customary impassivity of the king’s guard returned it to its neutral expression.
“I’m to report to Captain Reynald,” Errol said. “Do you know where I might find him?”
The lieutenant pointed to the far end of the yard. “You’ll find the captain instructing the sons of Duke Escarion over there.”
Errol thought he’d heard a hint of disdain in the lieutenant’s voice. He retreated to the walkway that bordered the large rectangle of the courtyard and made his way through the cacophony to the captain. As he neared the far end, more of the men who sparred wore the colors of the nobility and fought under the watchful eyes of watchmen of rank. It seemed the richest nobles commanded the highest-ranking members of the watch to be their instructors.
Curious, he tried to imagine how Duke Escarion, whoever he was, could merit the senior captain as his sons’ teacher. Here at the far end of the field, spectators grew thick not only on the overlooking balcony but on the walkway as well. Tables and seats had been brought in order to accommodate them, and Errol had to pick his way among the press. As he moved, he became conscious of how plain the grays and browns of his clothes appeared next to the brilliant plumage of those who watched.
He threaded his way through the tight press of spectators, intent on working his way to Captain Reynald without bumping into any of the nobles present. He moved to step around a dark-haired noble whose indolent posture managed to fill not only his chair but most of the walkway as well. As Errol shifted, a glint of sun-gold hair and the flash of green eyes caught his attention. His feet stopped moving and he found himself before a woman about his age. Sensing his stare, she turned from the bout to meet his gaze.
Startled into motion, he turned away from the girl to hide his embarrassment and stepped on a foot extended well into the walkway. Errol bowed his head—“Your pardon, sir”—and shifted to move on.
Rough hands grabbed him from behind and spun him. The lord had vacated his seat, grabbing Errol by his tunic to pull him close to a face filled with disdain. “Watch where you’re going, peasant.” The man spat each word like a curse. Then he shoved Errol in the chest so hard he careened backward, tripped over unseen feet, and tumbled out into the courtyard to end up on his backside as the crowd laughed.
The two men sparring for Captain Reynald paused to share in the merriment.
“Derek. Darren,” the captain yelled. “Do you think there’ll be time to pause during battle for amusement?”
Neither of the young men appeared to notice or care that one of the best warriors in the kingdom found fault with them. As Errol scrambled to his feet, the older one, dark-haired and haughty, laughed. “But we’re not in battle, good captain.” He pointed at Errol with his sword. “And besides, it would be a shame to miss the antics of yon peasant.” He turned a wicked grin to the other young man, blond but obviously his brother. “What say you, Darren? We could be witnessing the future king’s fool.”
Darren snorted, but otherwise said nothing to deepen Errol’s shame or the hue of his face. “Go easy, Derek. It’s a rare man who’s never been embarrassed. Would you make it worse?”
The first man looked with affection on his brother at this. “If the peasant wants to keep himself from notice, he should perhaps watch his steps.”
“He had eyes only for Adora,” a voice behind Errol called out.
Derek’s eyes widened, and he gave a mocking bow to Errol before approaching and putting a conspiratorial arm around his shoulder. “Your clumsiness is understandable, good man.” He pointed his practice sword at the girl whose appearance had precipitated Errol’s fall. “In truth, Adora has a reputation for causing the most graceful nobles to become awkward as boys.”
Errol’s blush deepened until he thought his hair would burst into flame.
“Enough!” Captain Reynald yelled. “You do yourself a disservice and dishonor your father, the duke. In battle, it matters not your birth. Your life will depend on the loyalty of those who serve with you—peasant or noble.”
Darren looked down in shame, though he had done nothing wrong that Errol could discern, but Derek merely gave the captain that same impudent grin.
“Come now, Captain,” the man who had pushed Errol said. “We’re only having fun, and he is, after all, just one peasant.”
“Just one peasant, eh?” The captain looked at the man with an arch of his eyebrows. “The fate of many can be bound to one such as him. Why don’t we see what ‘one peasant’ can do?” Reynald crooked a finger at the man. “Come, Lord Weir, arm yourself.”
The man’s eyes grew wide. “What, you want me to fight the peasant?” His fingers flicked the air in Errol’s direction as if he were banishing a fly.
“I don’t want it,” Reynald said, his voice soft, dangerous. “I insist upon it.” He turned to the two brothers. “Go sit down and attend.”
Weir rose and sauntered out into the sun of the courtyard. Derek tossed him his sword, and he swung it lazily back and forth. “Does he mean to fight me with that stick as if I was some sort of dog?” Lord Weir’s face—women probably considered him well-featured—wore a self-indulgent look that appeared to be permanent. His chiseled features flowed into a sneer.
Errol gritted his teeth. “In truth, I’m not much good with a sword, but I have too much respect for dogs to use a staff on them.”
Weir’s face reddened at the insult and he spluttered.
Reynald winced at the jibe, then stepped over to whisper to Errol. “Weir thinks highly of himself, as do most of these.” He gestured at the crowd. “But do no permanent harm to him. His father is a powerful and spiteful man.”
He nodded, remembered his bout with Rokha. “I have more than my fill of enemies already. I think I can beat Weir without striking him, as long as permanent harm doesn’t include his dignity.”
The captain’s face beamed. “No, I don’t think it does. That sounds like an excellent idea, Errol Stone, most excellent.”
Reynald stepped back, trying to suppress a grin as Errol and Weir faced each other. “Gentlemen, you will spar until one of you quits, is rendered unconscious, or I call a halt. Is that understood?”
Errol nodded.
Weir smiled. “You’re having a really bad day, peasant. Perhaps a few blows to the head will relieve you of the memory of your embarrassment.”
Reynald closed his eyes and shook his head. With a deep breath he raised one hand. “Begin.”
Weir’s first stroke made it obvious the man knew his way around the sword but also made it plain he’d never been in a real fight in his life. He jumped and pranced like a hero from the tales and seemed more interested in impressing the crowd than fighting.
His shock when Errol parried the blow aimed at his head was laughable.
Deprived of instant victory, his smile fled, and he riposted to strike at Errol’s head from the opposite side.
Which was also parried.
Weir’s legs lay exposed to the most rudimentary staff attack Rale had taught him, but Errol refused to take advantage of it.
Reynald must have noticed as well. The mirth in the captain’s voice became plain as Errol moved, parrying each of Weir’s attacks. “Come, Lord Weir. He’s only a peasant after all. Surely one so skilled with the sword should be able to command, nay demand, the respect of one such as he.”
Stung, Weir threw himself into an all-out attack that rained blows upon Errol’s staff for ten minutes. At the end he stood, gasping, sweat streaming down his face, his sword arm so worn he could barely raise the weapon.
The nobleman hadn’t even been as good as Norad Endilion, the fourteenth. Errol stepped back, ground his staff, and leaned upon it. He would not shame himself by striking this fool. “Do you surrender?”
Weir sneered at him and rose to attack, but exhaustion tripped him and he fell.
“Halt!” Reynald called. He turned to regard the stunned audience. “With nothing more than a staff and without striking a blow, this peasant won.” He turned to Weir. “If you are not man enough to apologize for your comments, Lord Weir, I wonder if you are man enough to lead.”
Weir hawked and spat at Errol’s feet. “I won’t apologize to a dirty peasant.”
Errol filled his voice with scorn. “I don’t want your apology.”
The noble pulled himself off the ground. “You will address me as ‘my lord.’ ”
“You’re not my lord. You’re a strutting peacock who couldn’t beat the least of the men I’ve fought.”
Weir drew himself up and again spat at Errol’s feet.
Reynald’s face clouded, became a storm on the verge of breaking. “Does anyone else want to spar with the peasant?”
No one moved.
“I thought not.” The captain pulled a dagger, bent to the hem of his black tunic, and cut a strip of cloth a handsbreadth wide. He moved to Errol’s side. “Raise your arm, Errol.”
Errol did so.
Reynald tied the cloth around his right arm before turning on the crowd. “This strip of cloth from my tunic signifies that Errol Stone is an honorary captain of the watch. He will undertake to teach those of you with the ability to learn”—he shot a look of contempt at Weir—“how to use the staff.”
“I have no interest in the peasant’s weapon,” Weir said as he turned and strode away.
Errol watched him leave. Several of the onlookers left with him.
Derek came forward and offered Errol his hand. “I don’t know that I want to learn the staff,” he said. “But I think I’d better learn how to defend against it at the least.”
His smile as he shook hands seemed genuine.
Darren leaned in from behind. “It’s about time someone put that idiot in his place. And you did it without striking a blow. It’s going to take years for Weir to live this one down.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Errol watched Adora rise with a group of women and leave. He felt a curious pang at her departure.
As if Derek’s and Darren’s approval had broken a dam, a line of young noblemen came forward to shake Errol’s hand, and he spent the rest of the afternoon sparring and instructing them on the use of the staff. After he had beaten most of them, pulling his blows to avoid injury, the nobles attempted to goad Reynald into a match with him.
The captain shook his head and deferred.
“Why not?” Darren asked.
“Fair question, lad,” Reynald answered. “Attend.” He held up a finger. “Never fight a battle that doesn’t need to be fought.” He raised a second. “Unless you have to, never fight a battle you know you’re going to lose.”
Those closest to Errol took a step back. More than one face looked at the captain in disbelief, searching, but Reynald’s eyes wore no trace of mockery or jesting.
Twilight darkened the courtyard, yet the nobles were still watching and waiting for their turn with Errol when a nuntius strode through the press to hand him a rolled parchment. The seal of hardened wax left a warm spot on the palm of his hand.
“What’s the message, nuntius?” Reynald asked.
The messenger looked at Errol, who nodded.
“Errol Stone,” the nuntius declared in a clear tenor, “at noon tomorrow you are commanded to present yourself to the king in the royal throne room.” He stopped.
Errol’s heart decided to stop beating. Had the abbot somehow gotten to the king? Why would the king want to see him? What was he supposed to do or say or wear?
The nobles looked at him with renewed interest. Deep down, they probably didn’t care if he was a villain or a saint, as long as he provided an interesting diversion.
“That’s it?” he asked the nuntius.
The messenger nodded, adjusted the band of office on his arm, and retreated the way he came.
Reynald stepped in, pushed the nobles back to give Errol room. “That’s it for today, my lords.” He caught Errol by the arm. “I don’t know what trouble you might be in, lad, but I’ll stand for you if I can.” With a wave of his arm, he beckoned to a grim-faced sergeant. “Gillis, accompany Errol Stone back to his quarters.”
Errol nodded his thanks and started back to Luis’s quarters, the watchman trailing him with his hand resting on his sword pommel.
“Right waste of time, this is,” the man said once they were out of earshot of Captain Reynald. “As long as you’ve got that staff, with knobblocks on it no less, you should be protecting me.” Short and broad-faced, the sergeant possessed the same dark sense of humor as Cruk.
Errol shrugged and pointed around the corridor. “The staff is a weapon that requires room to move. In tight spaces, a sword would be better. I’m just not much good with it.”
“Aye, there’s truth in that, there is.” The man looked at Errol from the corner of his eyes. “You seem to have a little more sense than most of the nobles they bring here, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so, milord.”
Surprised laughter burst from him and bounced back from the stone corridor as bubbles of sound. Me? A nobleman? His mirth threatened to run away with him. For a moment he teetered on the edge of hysterics. With a deep breath he took hold of himself.
“That might be because I’m a peasant,” Errol said at last.
“Ah, well. That explains that, it does. But why were you ordered before the king?”
“I don’t know?” He bit his lip. “Is there anything I should know?”
The sergeant grunted. “I’ve never been called before the king, and I’m not good enough to draw guard duty for His Majesty, at least not yet.” They walked on. “But I’d keep that strip of cloth around my arm. It may not impress the king much, but it’ll keep others from taking you lightly, it will. News will spread of what it means. It’s not like a captain of the watch bestows his authority every day.”
Errol started. “His authority? I thought I was just going to teach people how to use the staff.”
The sergeant shook his head. “Aye, that’s what it means, right enough, but only of
ficers in the watch instruct. As long as you’ve got that armband on, anyone from a lieutenant on down is under your authority.”
He finished the walk to Luis’s quarters in a daze. Him? He could order the watch?
Luis opened the door to his knock, took one look at the armband, and sighed.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Errol said.
Gillis nodded and left.
Luis gestured toward the strip of cloth. “I see you made a new friend today.”
“I didn’t know, I swear. Captain Reynald . . .” Errol said. For some reason he couldn’t identify, the strip of cloth made him feel suddenly disloyal, as if he’d chosen to associate with the watch instead of the conclave. But that was silly. The primus had ordered him to the watch as penance, after all. Only, having Captain Reynald tear the hem of his tunic and award it to him hadn’t felt like penance. It felt like a reward.
“Never mind, Errol.” Luis waved his concerns away with one hand. “The captain is a shrewd man and a skilled negotiator. He wants you for himself, but in this he is overmatched. He may be a captain of the watch, but he is outranked by the primus, and you are now the only surviving omne of the kingdom.” The secondus smiled. “Ah, Errol, were we not in the middle of the greatest crisis our kingdom has seen in two millennia, we would have issued proclamations and held parades in your honor, and you would have been toasted throughout Illustra.” Luis shook his head. “As it is now, we dare not let any know of your special ability, not even the king.”
“Why does the king want to see me?”
“He keeps his own counsel, Errol. I don’t know.”
The idea of meeting the king both thrilled and frightened him. Rodran VI ruled an empire of provinces that spanned a continent. Millions of people owed their obeisance to him. For three generations, sixty years, he’d ruled from Erinon and enforced peace with the Merakhi and Morgols.
A Cast of Stones Page 34
