Sir Apropos of Nothing

by Peter David

  Knights passed me by. I wouldn’t have recognized them as knights at first, since they weren’t wearing their armor. Nor was there reason for them to be. They were “off duty,” as it were, the castle not under attack. Nor were they planning to ride out at the moment and enforce the king’s justice, or perhaps rape some poor helpless trollop in the city.

  Elaborate tapestries hung along the walls, with depictions of adventure and feats of derring-do portrayed upon them. On most of them, words were interwoven along the borders, and the words were always some sort of uplifting comment. JUSTICE ABOVE ALL, proclaimed one. PURE OF MIND, PURE OF BODY, PURE OF SPIRIT, said another. All charming phrases designed to educate and impress anyone foolish enough to buy into them.

  Two knights were approaching, engaged in conversation. I wondered if either of them was my father, and tried to see something of myself in their faces. One of them had eyes that reminded me of my own, while the other had reddish hair that was evocative of mine.

  It was hopeless. A hopeless game that existed only in my mind. As the knights passed me by without giving me a second glance, I knew all too well that the notion of determining who was my true father was purest folly. First of all, I had no way of knowing whether he was even still alive. There had been skirmishes, quests, and such during the intervening years, certainly. My father might have fallen to an opponent’s arrow or a blast of dragonflame. Anything was possible. Being a knight was not the safest of occupations, after all. And if he was alive … if he did lurk somewhere within these walls … did he even remember that night? The night that I had been so violently conceived? Was it all a drunken blur to him, indistinguishable from who knew how many other nights of revelry and debauchery? Did he remember Madelyne’s face at all? Had she meant anything to him?

  As my erratic footsteps echoed in the great corridors of the palace, I became convinced—with greater clarity than I’d ever known in my life—that the answer to all of those questions was no. None of it meant anything to these protectors of justice and morality. Perhaps I had an abundance of siblings wandering about from similar evenings of entertainment by these great and just individuals; all of those siblings equally meaning nothing. The slight fluttering in my stomach from before was replaced by a slow, burning anger. In a way, I almost welcomed it. It made me feel truly alive.

  I heard voices up ahead, laughter echoing. Powerful laughter, the laughter of strength and confidence. For a moment—just a moment—I envisioned going in there and pointing an accusing finger at the assemblage. “One of you,” I saw myself stridently declaring, “is my father!” And the reaction to that would be … what? Shocked looks? Embarrassment? Shuffled feet, scuffed toes, an inability to meet my gaze or the critical stare of their fellows?

  Nonsense. Very likely they would laugh at me derisively before throwing me out. Very likely, they wouldn’t believe me. They probably bought into the nonsense of their little homilies about truth, justice, and morality.

  Or even worse, they would believe me … and simply not care. The notion of being laughed at by these … these holier-than-thou mighty knights was more than I could bear. So I resolved to say nothing of my parentage, preferring instead to focus on the matter at hand, the slaying of a freewoman of Isteria by one of the minions of the mad king, Meander. Perhaps it would lead to a full-blown war, which would result in the death of whichever one of the bastards present—if any—happened to be my father. It wouldn’t be much in terms of evening the scales of true justice, but it would be something.

  I was ushered into the main hall and looked expectantly to the throne. There were twin thrones, although one was a bit smaller than the other … presumably that one being for the queen. Both, however, were vacant. Instead, there were several knights grouped around, and they were dressed a bit more formally than the others I’d seen roaming the halls. They sported nicely adorned tunics, one of them with gold epaulets. They were also armed with short swords hanging from their hips, although considering the number of guards standing about at the ready, I could only assume that this was more for show and ceremony than anything else.

  What truly caught my eye, however, was the huge tapestry that hung behind the thrones. I couldn’t quite believe it, and just for a moment, I felt a winter chill finger my spine. It was unmistakably a representation of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of its predecessor. Moreover, someone was astride it. It was impossible to make out the details, for the bird was so large that it dwarfed its rider by comparison. Perhaps “rider” was too generous a word, for to call it such would be to call a flea a jockey.

  “She would have loved to see this,” I said.

  I sensed an immediate change in the atmosphere of the room. Until that moment, there had been relaxed chatting, albeit in muted tones. When I spoke, however, there was immediate silence. I looked around, making no attempt to hide my confusion.

  One of the knights, the one with the epaulets, had a foot propped on one of the steps leading to the thrones. He had an air of confidence about him, and he looked at me as if I provided him with amusement. “You speak out of turn, young sir. Youth may excuse much … but not everything.”

  I supposed that, had I a brain in my head, I would have taken my cue to be properly quavering. Instead I said, “I thought that, since the king isn’t here yet … well, there was no harm …”

  “The king?” The knight sounded properly entertained, and there was now a ripple of laughter through the court. There were several ladies in waiting, and their high-pitched giggling was added to the mix. For some reason I found that even more irritating than the sneering of the men. “The king is not in attendance at the present time, young sir.”

  “But I …” The confusion must have been all over my face. “I … thought this was the time when he heard petitions, complaints …”

  The knight sauntered to a podium that stood somewhat left of the throne. He moved with a fluid and easy grace. He was not especially tall, and his black hair—tied back in a tail—was streaked with gray. His eyes glittered with a cold intelligence. “The king is the court of last resort. Most matters are not of sufficient moment to warrant his attention. I am his chief magistrate, Sir Justus. Whatever issues you have, you will tell them to me and I will settle them.”

  “But I was told the king—”

  He cut me off, politely but firmly … a bit more the latter than the former. “I am telling you differently. Since I am here, and whoever told you otherwise is not, I suggest you attend to me, not him. If you wish, think of me as the king, in that I speak with his authority … and therefore, in that sense, you are dealing with him. Now … what weighs on you, young sir.”

  I realized that I wasn’t going to get anywhere demanding to see the king. Furthermore, I started to feel slightly light-headed, as my exhaustion began to catch up with me. If it hadn’t been for the small amount of food and drink I had managed to grab, I likely would have passed out right then.

  “My mother,” I said slowly, “is dead. Her name was Madelyne, and she worked at a pub called Stroker’s.”

  I was hoping that some reaction would accompany that announcement. I wasn’t quite sure what, but … something. But there was nothing. Simply blank stares.

  Sir Justus affected some vague interest. “What was her position there?” he asked.

  “She …” I could have come up with a lie, but Sir Justus had pale green eyes that seemed to penetrate into portions of my mind that I would have far preferred to keep private. So instead I said, “I … do not think that is especially relevant.”

  “She was probably a whore then,” said another knight, and there was rough laughter from all around. All of a sudden I would have liked nothing better than to crush their skulls if there was a way to take all of them at once.

  “Yes,” I said, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. “She was.” I wanted to shout out, And a group of you raped her years ago, and I was the result, you sanctimonious pack of bastards! Instead I restrained myself sufficiently, and si
mply inquired, “Do any of you have a problem with that?”

  If there had been a surprised silence before, the quiet that greeted my newest outburst was positively deathly. “Have a care, child,” said the knight who had just spoken. He was a burly fellow with a bristling mustache.

  I wasn’t backing down. I was too tired and not thinking clearly enough to worry about normally overwhelming concerns such as my continued health. Considering what was truly tumbling through my mind—the accusations, the vituperation—what I was allowing myself to say was incredibly restrained. “It is a simple enough question, milord.” There was nothing in the way I said the honorific that could have implied any true respect on my part.

  It was Sir Justus who replied. “All creatures serve their purpose in their own way, and in that respect are equal. She was what she was, and I see no point in dwelling on it. Am I correct in assuming that the manner of her death is why you are here?”

  “Yes.” Clearly he was endeavoring to move on, and probably I should follow his lead. “She was slain by a Journeyman.”

  “One of King Meander’s men.” He didn’t sound surprised.

  “You know? You know of Meander’s presence?”

  “Of course.” There were nods from the other knights now. There were no longer any expressions of contempt or annoyance. Apparently Meander’s presence was something that they took rather seriously.

  “Well then … I demand justice for her. Her life was ended, brutally, tragically, and prematurely. She was a freewoman of Isteria. There must be a … a balancing of the scales.”

  “True enough,” said Justus. He appeared to consider the matter a moment. “Was she a young woman, your mother?”

  “Reasonably young, from a chronological point of view.”

  “What other point of view is there?”

  “Well, sir … a woman in her profession tends to age a bit faster. Wear and tear and all that.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “A good point, and an honest one. And because you are honest, you will not be penalized for it in the settlement.”

  “Penalized? Settlement?” I made no effort to hide my befuddlement. “I … do not understand, milord.”

  He wasn’t replying. Instead he was digging deep into a pouch hanging from his belt, and from it he produced a handful of gold dukes. A single duke was worth fifty sovereigns each. He was handling the huge amount casually, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. I felt my breath catch in my throat.

  He counted out ten dukes, walked toward me, and pressed them into my hand. “This,” he said, “will certainly make up for the years of lost revenue.”

  I stared at my still open hand, the coins glittering in my palm. It was a considerable amount of money. But I wasn’t entirely clear on why it was being handed to me. Furthermore, I was having trouble focusing on anything. My hand seemed very far away, as if it were attached to the wrist of someone else entirely. I felt clammy, but did my best to push through it. “I … don’t understand.”

  As if addressing a simpleton, Justus said, very slowly, “This will make up for the money that she will not earn, since she is dead.”

  “But … what of the man who killed her? What of him?”

  “What of him?” Justus replied. But the accent was different. I had emphasized the word “him” while he had hit the word “of.” My priority was her killer, but Justus seemed nonchalant. Everyone else appeared to share the blasé attitude.

  “Well …” I gestured helplessly, unable to believe that I had to spell out something that should have been so painfully obvious. “He killed her!”

  Now it was the burly knight, the one who had been remonstrating me before, who spoke up. “And you’ve been offered compensation. What more do you want?”

  “Justice!” I couldn’t help but find it ludicrously ironic that I was echoing the words of Astel, a woman so bereft of morality that she had knocked me unconscious with my mother’s ashes and robbed me of my life’s savings. But the situation was rapidly spinning out of control, and I found I was willing to say just about anything, including spouting moral indignation that I only marginally bought into, simply so I wouldn’t look the fool.

  “You have your justice in your hand,” said Sir Justus, indicating the coins.

  “But … but aren’t you going to track down her killer? I can describe him! At least, I can describe the marks she likely left on him!”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Justus.

  “But it should be! It … I …” My mind was at war with itself. Part of me was urging me to pocket the money, which would be more than enough to stake me to a decent lifestyle, at least to start. But I couldn’t get past the image of her corpse lying beneath a blanket, the image of a life cut short. The life that had given me my life. Take the money, fool! Take the money and simply get out! My mind made a tremendous amount of sense, and I can only blame temporary insanity, aggravated by my weakened condition, for what happened next.

  “Why aren’t you going to go after him! She was a freewoman. Whore or not, she was still a freewoman of Isteria. She was murdered. Why aren’t you going to do anything about that?”

  “What would you have us do? Go to war with Meander?” There was a ripple of derisive laughter throughout the so-called Hall of Justice.

  I wasn’t laughing. I wasn’t even cracking a smile, although the gold dukes remained in my hand. “If that is what it takes … yes. Yes, that it exactly what I would be expecting.”

  “Listen, young sir,” said Sir Justus. “We know his habits, his patterns of movement. The vagabond king never resides in one place for very long. However, if you want to make sure that Meander’s stay in your territory is a lengthy one, then the best thing you can do is attack him. Once attacked, he will extend his stay just out of sheer perversity. His madness, however, is a predictable one. Try to make him leave, he will remain. Take no action, and he will depart. That is the official position of His Majesty, King Runcible, and frankly it is one with which I agree.”

  “But that’s insane! You’re supposed to defend the people!”

  “We are supposed to defend the land and kingdom, and I do not appreciate being lectured, young sir,” Justus told me. He was much closer to me, and there was clear anger beginning to build beneath the placid exterior. “Many factors come into consideration besides simple application of brute force. There are other, far more aggressive rulers to worry about. Berserk tribes, warlike monarchs. Plus we have knights out on quests. Manpower is not endless, and we must pick and choose our fights. Meander is simply not worth it.”

  “You mean my mother isn’t worth it,” I said flatly, the stench of their hypocrisy suffocating me. “If one of Meander’s men had slain a noblewoman, that would be a different story. But my mother, she was a prostitute. She isn’t worth your time.”

  “Her line of work certainly leaves her open to violent advances. Her end was unfortunate, granted, but not completely surprising, given the givens.” His impatience was becoming more and more evident. “Engaging Meander in war is a pointless pursuit. Good King Runcible chooses those fights that are in the national interest, and this one simply is not. But your ire is quite evident. Tell you what,” and he took another two coins from the pouch and placed them in my hand, then wrapped my fingers around them to indicate that as far as he was concerned, the matter was finalized. “If it is particularly upsetting to you, you can use the extra money I’ve just given you to hire a freelance mercenary to attend to the situation. An attack by an independent operator wouldn’t be construed as reflecting the opinions or attitudes of King Runcible, and so he could act with impunity. That, of course, is up to you.”

  “But … but …” I had apparently developed a stammer. My brain was locking up, and I was beginning to feel an uncomfortable tightness in my chest. “But … it should be your job!”

  “I have done my job,” Sir Justus said, and there was no disguising the fact that his good humor and patience was on the verge of totally dissolving.
“Take the money and be done with it. There are others waiting for justice. You have permission to take your leave of us. Good day, young sir.”

  Well, that’s that, take the money and go, just go. My brain seemed rather pleased with the way everything had worked out.

  But there was another part of me … a part that was picturing my mother. Deluded, true, but never anything other than a good intentioned soul who had believed in me and sold her body to try and provide a home for mine. A woman who took her brutalization and transformed the result of that trauma into her reason for living. I thought about the gentle words she had spoken to me, about the endless patience, and the sweetness of her face.

  And that other part of me said angrily, In the final analysis, then, is that all she’s worth? She believed in you, and you would sell her memory for twelve dukes? A handful of gold coins? Is that the going price for the life of one’s mother? Because you know you won’t use any of the money to hire someone to track down her murderer. You’ll use it for yourself. And these men, at least some of these men treated her like trash when she was alive, and would buy you off now that she’s dead. Do you accept this, then? Will you simply take the money … and run?

  And the answer, all in my head, came quickly and cleanly and clearly:

  Yes.

  The battered and pathetic thing that represented any claim to conscience I might have had turned away from me in disgust. Oddly, I couldn’t blame it. I was disgusted myself. Disgusted at my weakness and my lack of resolution, at my refusal to see justice through in the name of the woman who had borne me. And the most disgusting thing of all was … I knew it wouldn’t last. Oh, at the moment I was filled with self-revulsion. But I was walking out of there with twelve dukes in my pocket. That would buy me plenty of mead in which to drown my sorrows, plenty of women in whose soft loins I could hide, plenty of nights in comfortable, warm beds. Properly managed, I could parlay it into a homestead, or perhaps purchase an already existing business. Hell, perhaps I could even buy out Stroker and take the place over myself. Wouldn’t that bring everything pleasingly full circle.