by Brian Daley
“This is yours, I believe, nephew. An epistle of no importance, but I found it in the possession of one of the plotters.”
Crassmor stopped, seeing it was the note Willow had written to him when she’d had her guards turn him away. It had been taken from him at Virtuary, he recalled now; events had moved so swiftly that this was the first time he’d realized that.
“No doubt they wished to copy your hand for some purpose of knavery,” Furd added.
He’d made himself clear. Any airing of charges and countercharges would see the letter brought to light. The letter would be a terrible wound to Combard, Willow’s statement in her own hand that she’d never loved Sandur, but only Crassmor. It would rekindle the old man’s rage and resentment.
And what good would be the airing of Furd’s note? It was unsigned, in a scribe’s handwriting. It held nothing incriminating in and of itself. The knight guessed, too, that there would be no witnesses available at Virtuary; Furd’s agents were undoubtedly abroad even now.
Before all else, Crassmor considered the threat to the promise he’d seen in the Pattern. A royal inquiry, with its revelations, stood a good chance of pushing Combard to a public act of fury, giving Willow to some other man. No new element must be introduced to that part of the Pattern.
“Ah, yes, thank you,” Crassmor replied smoothly. He looked aside and saw Combard and Jaan-Marl organizing the evacuation of the wounded, ignoring the conversation. Furd watched him expectantly. “And this may be of interest to you; something to do with the plotters, I think.” He was already making up lies as to where he’d been and what had happened after he’d left Gateshield that night.
“I shall root the blackguards out to the last man,” Furd vowed. He contrived to look casual as he and Crassmor exchanged evidence. Each man assured himself he’d been given what had been agreed.
Hoowar Roisterer clapped the Grand Master on the back as Jaan-Marl, suffering the action without comment, helped him out. There was a somber sense of fellowship among the Lost Boys in which neither the Grand Master nor any other man there, except Bint, could take part. In the bailey, Fordall Urth and the other guardsmen who’d survived were being ministered to. Fordall, who’d seemed at death’s door before, now looked merely like an old man who’d taken a less-than-lethal wound. Crassmor assumed that his disguised strength had returned to him with di Cagliostro’s demise.
Combard cleared his throat as he and Crassmor watched the Lost Boys resume their places on the Skiver/Newsham Delux. “Well fought,” the old man allowed, hands locked behind his back. “You seem determined to be a hero on your own terms.”
“My own terms include nothing of being a hero,” Crassmor answered.
Combard’s face darkened. “That is not a good sentiment. There is also this matter of your failure in discipline. You are still away from Gateshield without permission and have much to answer for, do you realize that?”
“Which is more important—doing, or failing with propriety?”
“Enough!” Combard commanded, brows closing in like a blizzard front.
Just then there was the clatter of iron-shod hooves. The King galloped into the bailey at the head of a troop of Royal Borderers. Men bowed low, even the wounded among the Lost Boys. Ironwicca was helmed and clad for war.
“It seems I am tardy,” he declared. “When the Order rides forth, it behooves me to come seek out what the problem is. But matters are well in hand, I see.”
Of course, he would have his own sources of information on movements at Gateshield; word of goings-on throughout the Singularity came to the King swiftly, by many hidden channels. Too, Crassmor remembered that he’d seen something in the Pattern, an implied connection between the Knights of Onn and danger to the Tapestry. Small wonder, then, that Ironwicca had commanded Jaan-Marl to issue a general recall and keep his men at Gateshield. There it would be easier to monitor things. Even so, events had eluded the King’s control.
In a moment Ironwicca had dismounted, drawing the gist of the situation from Combard, Jaan-Marl, and Crassmor. When the King took Crassmor aside alone, Combard and the Grand Master were surprised, but conspicuous in turning their attention to other matters, obedient and unquestioning. After receiving a warning glance, Furd did the same. The abbot spoke to his brother, and Crassmor could see that they were as warm to each other as ever.
Crassmor explained things to Ironwicca as simply as he could, in a low voice.
“I have seen that eye-in-pyramid before,” the King told him at length. “This is not all of them, you know; they are in many Realities. Even some in the Singularity will have the means to evade the crown’s justice.” He paused for a glance at Furd, who was unaware of it. “Or do you think I should test their power?”
Crassmor hesitated. “Tell me what you think,” Ironwicca ordered, not harshly. The knight told him then of the two letters. The King nodded to himself as he listened.
“Scant evidence,” the King decided, “and it wouldn’t surprise me if Furd has found a way to destroy his own note already. Accusations would only do damage to you and Willow. I’ll let Furd be for now. I am content with the outcome today; your uncle and I will contest again. These things that you’ve told me I shall protect as royal privy testimony. Not even Combard or the Grand Master will be able to question you about what’s happened, or how.”
Crassmor was quick to thank him. Ironwicca told the knight, “I am aware of many things the Pattern predicts. I think you would make a good father to the next weaver.”
He chuckled as, leaving Crassmor dumbfounded, he went off to commend the Lost Boys for their valor.
Then the knight was distracted as milling armsmen made a path for Willow. Bint had been to one side, arranging for a keg of ale for the Skiver/Newsham’s return trip. He saw how Crassmor’s heart soared when he spied Willow; her own look showed nothing less. Bint abruptly understood; thinking of the failure of his own courtly romance with Arananth, he felt, in the kindliest sense, stirrings of envy.
Willow looked small and fragile among the ironclads. Combard went to her, slipping a fatherly arm around her. It took all of Crassmor’s willpower not to dash to her. Combard caught the look passing between the two, though. They both saw his temper rise. “There are gaps in the ranks of those who ride in the Beyonds,” he told Willow, but he was glaring at his son. “All the more will each man be needed out there who has experience.” Crassmor knew with a sinking heart that his assignment hadn’t changed. Another sojourn there awaited.
Bint put in, “That shortage is one man less than you think, uncle.” He had his hand on the hilt of the ornate sword of Tarafon Quickhand. “Sir Bosrow Feng fell saving me; I ride out in his place.” He grinned at Crassmor’s disbelief. “There are worse things to do in life.”
Not any that you could learn from me! Crassmor mused.
Jaan-Marl had come up. “Time enough for all wounds to heal first, Sir Bint. The Lost Boys will not resist a convalescent leave here at home, eh?” He took Combard’s arm. “The King wishes to speak to us both; we must arrange temporary security for House Comullo. The Tapestry’s secret is secret no longer, it seems.”
The Grand Master said merrily to Willow then, “Bid farewell to peace and quiet; this will become a busy, guarded place.” Willow sighed.
Combard had no choice but to let himself be led away, yielding his hold on Willow. Furd kept well up with the two old warriors, an ear cocked to listen. With a last stern glance, Combard told his son, “I shall expect you at my side when I ride for House Tarrant.”
Knights of Onn were being organized and assigned to posts. Fordall Urth and his men were being borne inside House Comullo. The Lost Boys bounced away on the firewagon; a glorious wake of dust, roars, and song was left behind them. Bint was driving. In moments, Crassmor and Willow were alone.
“He is still adamant,” the knight said, watching his father go off with Ironwicca, Furd, and Jaan-Marl.
“Perhaps less so,” Willow ventured, taking his hand.
>
“Another tour in the Beyonds for me,” he said bitterly. “Another parting for us. I am filled with fear, Willow, that the Pattern will fail us.”
She ran a hand through the black-dyed hair. “It will not, it must not. Fear is only one of the passions, and you are filled with those.”
Epilogue
HOPEFUL
Crassmor and the Cherokee Kid, whose name was actually something else, were seated on a bench near the table where Alanna had sat on another night. Bill, the tavernkeep who had once been Tsoora-Rin-Voor, drew two more drinks behind the bar as Toe Hold winds howled outside. Bill’s trunk was now nearly completely a nose, albeit a large one. His tusks were all but gone, but he retained an elephantine look.
The Kid was twirling a loop of white lariat around and around himself and Crassmor, making it look easy. Crassmor took one more sip of his stout and watched the lasso blur.
On the wall was a handbill:
TEXAS JACK’S CIRCUS
the
CHEROKEE KID
the world’s
CHAMPION LASSOER
Texas Jack’s show had come upon hard times there in the Beyonds, and so the Kid was at liberty. Crassmor was standing the drinks. The Kid was dressed in a cowboy suit of red velvet and gold trim, complete with chaps. Crassmor wore a new pourpoint jacket in purple and white and hose in gleaming russet, with new shoes of soft green leather.
Bill had carried a somewhat groggy Bint upstairs to bed a short time earlier. It had been a delightful evening, and Crassmor was well satisfied with the festivities.
Now the Cherokee Kid grinned and worked his wrist. The rope sang and spun. The Kid could throw three ropes at a time, jump back and forth through a spinning loop, or loft one with the toe of his silver-and-turquoise-tipped cowboy boot. Crassmor suspected that the lariats were sentient.
His stout finished, Crassmor threw his flagon into the air without warning. The rope—“small, light, hard twist,” the Kid had called it—went up as the flagon lofted toward the high ceiling. A moment later, the Kid had the flagon in hand. He was a friendly young fellow with a sharp, deadpan, folksy wit. He had a broad, shy grin, a whining manner, and a cowlick much like Crane’s. He’d just won a bet.
Crassmor clapped his hands in amusement, laughed, and passed over two brass chips. The Kid in turn threw them through the air to Bill, buying the next round.
“It never even came close to the ceiling,” Crassmor remarked with admiration. “I’ve never seen its like.”
The Kid laughed modestly, rubbing a sunburned nose with his forefinger. He shrugged. “I only know what I read in the papers,” he drawled.
Crassmor had an admonition in mind against too much self-deprecation. Before he could voice it, the first roar sounded from outside.
There were more shouts directly thereafter, coming closer quickly. They were ferocious and issued, so it sounded, by lungs of great power. Crassmor heard the outer door pulled open. All eyes went to the inner door of the place. Crassmor felt a sinking feeling begin in his midsection. Before he could gather his wits sufficiently to absent himself from the premises, the door banged open and the girl rushed in.
“Oh, no!” Crassmor nearly wept.
She was young and gorgeous and terrified, rather tall, with ringlets of auburn hair that fell nearly to her waist. Her eyes were large and impossibly clear-blue; her mobile, subtle, and eloquent mouth was pursed as she panted for breath. She wore a body suit like gunmetal, clinging to her every curve, with a shimmering golden cloak. The body suit was rent in two places; she had minor wounds. On her brow was a headdress carved from coral, a fantastic thing of spikes and swirls.
She spied Sir Crassmor just as ponderous footsteps made the entranceway shake. She cried, “By your station and the vows—”
She got no further, though Crassmor had already wailed and dropped his head onto his folded arms as the Cherokee Kid looked on sympathetically. Into the tavern burst a creature something like a human being.
He wore what looked to be several hundredsweight of armor, forged in a bizarre, rococo style. His helmet left his low-browed, brutish face exposed. His skin was a dead gray, and his yellow fangs protruded several inches from his lip. He was a head and more taller than Crassmor. He saw the girl.
“Save me, Sir Knight!” she screamed, dodging away from the newcomer. The creature hadn’t missed seeing to whom the entreaty was addressed. He attacked like a locomotive, raising a weapon that resembled a ball-headed mace armed with twin axe blades. Its shaft was the size of a lamppost.
The Cherokee Kid had the sense to dive off to one side. As the weapon descended, Crassmor made a sound very much like Eeep! and dived the other way. The axe blade passed through the thick planks of the bench with little resistance, to bury itself in the floor. The attacker yanked it free with no apparent strain, leaving a two-foot-long cleft in the wood.
Crassmor, arms folded close to his chest, rolled and rolled. The creature, blade held high, came after, ready to cleave. Crassmor gulped and thought of Willow…
A circlet of small, light, hard twist settled over the axe-mace’s head at the top of its backswing. The Cherokee Kid dug in and hauled at the line. The swing was of such raw power that he was yanked forward, the rowels of his spurs cutting the floor, his chaps rasping as he was dragged along. The Kid had professed never to have met a man he didn’t like, but that plainly did not apply to the newcomer. Crassmor just did manage to scramble aside, and the blow missed.
The monstrous attacker turned angrily on the source of his annoyance. The Cherokee Kid demonstrated good judgment yet again, abandoning the lasso and scuttling for safety. The creature turned back to Crassmor, who’d fetched up against a wooden pillar. Crassmor threw himself flat once more; the axe flashed in a horizontal arc, parting the pillar.
But such an enormous weapon demanded a considerable recovery, even from the creature who wielded it now. Crassmor was up, drawing Shhing, as he vaulted a table and wondered which exit he should use. The interloper howled angrily.
Crassmor’s sword was between the two now; glittering feints and thrusts partitioned the air. The outlandish attacker, for all his size and strength, became more cautious. He seemed to remember the girl just when Crassmor did.
She was cringing against the bar; Bill had ducked behind it, and Crassmor could hear the tavernkeep rummaging around back there. The huge warrior advanced on her, to slay her before finishing with the knight. The floor planks creaked under his weight; the girl shrank back and closed her eyes, preparing to die.
But a hand closed on her forearm. She was pulled up and out of the way as the axe blade split a considerable portion of the bar. Her auburn hair stood out from her as she was whirled, a pirouette of golden cloak and gleaming body suit, behind the man who’d just entered the battle.
Bint held up Tarafon Quickhand’s ornate sword. His hair was tousled from sleep; he wore only his midnight-black hose. The monster snarled, his fangs protruding, his hairline meeting the bridge of his nose. The girl cowered behind Bint, her long fingers digging at the muscles of his arm.
Crassmor skipped around a table to stand on the intruder’s off side. Taking turns chipping away appeared to be the best plan. The brute still seemed inclined to finish the girl. Crassmor prepared to go for his armpit.
“Here, here! Settle down, now!” It was Bill, who’d once been a god. He was peering through the sights of a large metal weapon that resembled a length of stovepipe, balancing it on his shoulder. The formerly divine index finger poised on an electric trigger.
The would-be assassin might not have understood exactly what the weapon was, but he didn’t miss the absolute certainty in Bill’s voice, a habit of command remaining to him from his days as a deity. The creature growled, shook his great axe-mace, and fled, making the building tremble as he pounded back out of the tavern.
Bill lowered the bazooka. “It was left here by a chap who passed through,” he explained. “Fortunate it is that the creature did not press me
; the weapon is empty.”
The Cherokee Kid eased out from behind a table, lowering the stool he’d been about to throw. Bint had the sobbing girl in his arms now. She clung to him, face pressed to his broad, bare chest. Bill looked to Crassmor, as did the Kid. Bint’s gaze also, sought his cousin.
In a few moments the girl’s tears stopped. She glanced up at Bint, then her eyes went to Crassmor.
He lowered himself onto a bench, recognizing the situation. “I wonder if you’d be so kind as to pack us a lunch, Bill?” the Reluctant Knight asked.
Table of Contents
- PART I –
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
- PART II –
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
- PART III –
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
