by Robert Evert
“Really? My judgment’s a bit off. Odd. I’m usually fairly good at such things.” He paced for a couple of more strides, polished sword propped on his shoulder. “If I protect you,” he said, “you can’t say a word about lending me Brago’s things. It wouldn’t be seen as…well…appropriate.”
“I understand, sir. I understand completely. I won’t tell a soul!”
Sir Edris resumed pacing, now using his sword as a walking stick. “Hmmm…”
“We could hide her at Baron Hugo’s guest house,” Reg offered. “He hates Brago.”
“Everybody hates Brago,” Sir Edris replied. “He’s a menace.” He stopped and stared through the window at the clouds gathering on the horizon, tinted purple by the rising sun. “Oh, how I’d love to humiliate that bastard again.”
“With the maps and—”
Sir Edris waved for Natalie to be quiet. “The chancel?” he mused. “Nothing’s there. I’ve been in the chancel at least a hundred times.”
He turned to Reg.
“Very well. Go with the young lady here and retrieve the items she acquired. If they are as she says, we’ll see what we can do for her. At the very least, we can get her some clothes that don’t reek of manure.”
“With all due respect, sir”—Natalie stepped forward quickly—“you could give me all the money and fancy clothes in the world, but they aren’t going to mean a thing when I’m dead.”
“Quite right! That’s a valuable lesson many of even the most brilliant scholars have yet to learn. Very good! Still, I first want to see what’s so important to Master Brago. If it is what I believe, I’ll make sure no harm comes to you.”
“How?” Reg asked.
Sir Edris flipped the sword and caught it by its hilt. “Simple. We’ll pass her off as one of my bast—” He pivoted back to Reg. “Can girls be bastards, do you think?”
“I believe so, sir. The term seems to apply to anybody who’s not legitimate.”
“Really?” Sir Edris considered this. “Are you sure about that?”
“But I don’t want to be your bastard daughter!” Natalie chimed in. “No disrespect, sir, but I…I have a family! What would my mother think if she heard such a thing? And my friends—?”
“Well, my dear, I’m not sure how else to protect you. If we claim you are one of my children, and under my care, Brago wouldn’t dream of touching one hair on your frizzy head. If he did, he’d know I’d have to kill him.”
“There’s no other way, Natalie,” Reg said sympathetically. “Unless you want to hide for the rest of your life.”
Natalie felt a headache coming on. Certainly pretending to be Sir Edris’s bastard child would afford her some protection, though she doubted anybody would believe it. Even before having seven children, her mother wasn’t exactly the type of woman a famous knight would bed—not unless there was a lot of wine involved.
“This is all so crazy! Me, your daughter? Nobody would believe it.”
“You only have to convince one person,” said Sir Edris.
“Brago,” Natalie muttered.
“Precisely! Now, go back to your quarters with Reginald and bring me the books and papers. Once I have a look at them, I’ll decide what to do.”
Chapter Eighteen
The morning air was filled with the scent of cooking fires and the ringing of bells as Artis and Reg followed Natalie, weaving through Winros Minor’s crowded streets.
“So she just kicked you?” Artis asked.
“Right in the groin,” Reg affirmed. “Never saw it coming.”
Natalie chortled. “So much for your training as a knight.”
“I’ve trained with blade and bow,” Reg replied, his long strides easily keeping up with Natalie’s trotting, “against singular and multiple opponents. I merely haven’t been trained for hysterical women.”
Natalie spun round.
“Wrong thing to say,” Artis whispered.
“Quite right.” He bowed to Natalie. “My apologies. Please, lead on.”
“Think you could teach me a few things?” Artis asked Reg after Natalie had resumed shoving her way through the growing mass of merchants, pilgrims, and passersby. “Fighting with a sword, I mean.”
“Do you have a sword?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But perhaps I’ll buy one.”
“Why would you get a sword?” Natalie asked bitterly.
“Well”—Artis shrugged—“I am looking for a profession. If being a brewer doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll become an adventurer!”
Natalie grunted a laugh.
“Believe me,” said Reg, “I’d love to be a brewer. Or a tavern owner. In fact, that’s what I plan on doing after I serve my time with the king.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Adventuring’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” Reg followed Natalie up another street. “Sleeping on hard ground, rocks jabbing you in back. Rain. Cold. People trying to kill you.”
“People try to kill you?” Artis asked eagerly. “Who?”
“Other adventurers, usually. If you eliminate the competition, the quests become that much easier.”
“I didn’t realize you all tried to kill each other!” Artis considered this. “Well, that’d certainly change things.”
“Oh, not all of us go in for those kinds of things. Certainly, Sir Edris would never harm another adventurer, not unless pressed to do so. He killed Sir Bactavious in a duel, and a few others. All from other kingdoms, you understand. Killing King Michael’s adventurers would be improper.”
“But Brago’s an adventurer for King Michael,” Artis pointed out.
Natalie bristled at the name.
“Brago goes to whomever offers him the most money.”
“Really? I didn’t think that was allowed.”
Reg gave a noncommittal shrug. “What’s allowed is a tad tricky.”
“He means you can get away with anything you want,” Natalie said, disgusted, “as long as you win. I hate men.” She resumed stomping up the street.
“Anyway,” Reg said after an uncomfortable pause, “killing somebody merely begets more killing. Families get involved, and minor wars flare up. Honestly, if I were you, I’d be a brewer. Nobody ever tries to kill the brewer. In fact, in most towns, they’re heroes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Artis. A horse-drawn cart rattled by. “If you don’t want to be a knight, why are you Sir Edris’s squire?”
“I’m the fourth son in a noble family. The eldest gets the land and the title. The second is a successful merchant. The third, a cleric.”
“So being a knight is the only thing left?”
“Something like that. Don’t get me wrong,” said Reg, “I’m blessed to have the life I have. Still, it would be nice to have something less transitory.”
“Transitory?”
“How many elderly knights do you know?”
Artis held up a finger as if to indicate he knew of such a knight, then lowered it, his expression becoming more contemplative.
“Exactly.” They caught up to Natalie again. “As soon as you get older, your reflexes slow, your strength ebbs. Eventually, every younger knight who wants to make a name for himself wants to fight you in a duel. I tell you, brewers and tavern owners have a much better life—a warm bed, a roof over their heads, mugs of good ale always near at hand—”
“Oh, will you two shut up?” Natalie snapped. “It’s like you don’t even care some lunatic is after me! You prattle on about sleeping on the hard ground and being cold and hungry.” She stopped. “You know, some people are always cold and hungry and tired! Trust me, Mr. Nobility, it’s no fun being poor.” She drove her way between two men discussing the coming Market Festival.
“What was that all about?” Reg asked Artis as they hurried to keep step.
“I’ll explain later,” Artis replied, waving away several street merchants holding out food and clothing. “So, how long have you been with Sir Edris? You must have some incredible s
tories to tell. Were you with him when he won the Quest for the Ivory Boar?”
Reg chuckled. “That wasn’t much of a quest. We found it in some farmer’s attic after two days of looking. Getting it to King Michael was the real difficulty; everybody knew we had it, which is never a good thing. But to answer your question, I’ve been with him since I was twelve. Another two years, and I’ll serve as one of the king’s men.”
A flock of beggar children ran up, holding out their dirty hands. Reg gave them each a few coins—mainly bronze and copper—then shooed them away.
“Perhaps after that, I’ll be able to become a knight. How about you? How long have you been Natalie's boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Natalie shouted.
People in the street stopped and stared at her.
“Well, if he isn’t,” called an old man, “maybe you’ll give me a try!” He gave a toothless grin.
Everybody laughed, but Natalie huffed and quickened her pace.
“I’m kind of like you,” Artis said to Reg, matching Natalie’s step, “without the noble blood, that is.”
“How so?”
“Well, my family owns an orchard.”
“You actually own the land?” Reg asked, impressed.
“Yup! We’ve had it for five generations. King Horis the Second gave us a charter. We have it framed and everything. The trees are good and strong; the land is well-drained. We sell everything we grow, either in raw fruit, or jams and cider.”
“But you have brothers?”
“Four,” Artis said, a bit dejected. “The eldest will keep the orchard when my father dies, which is a shame, seeing as I’m pretty good at making cider.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Honestly”—Artis exhaled heavily—“I don’t know.”
Natalie entered the Yellow Rose Inn.
“Is this it?” Reg asked. “Quaint. Not where I thought you two would be staying at all.”
They walked briskly behind Natalie into the common room, where the innkeeper immediately greeted them. “Morning, gentlemen. Breakfast is ready, if you have a mind.” Puzzled, he motioned to Natalie’s hair. “You have a bit of a…”
Natalie ran her fingers through her bangs. Twigs and dried leaves fell to the floor. She snarled at Artis.
Artis backed away, hands up. “I didn’t want to say anything!”
“You know,” said the innkeeper, pleasantly, “we have a superb bath house. Just three copper.”
“Thank you,” said Artis, “we’ll let you know.” He followed Natalie to the stairway.
“You let me walk around with twigs in my hair?” Natalie growled once they’d gotten out of earshot.
“Look,” Artis said defensively, “every time I say something about your clothes or appearance or anything, you hit me.”
“At least she doesn’t kick you in the groin,” Reg pointed out optimistically.
“Nat, when have you ever cared about your appearance?”
“Oh, never mind!” Natalie stormed down the hallway.
“Let’s focus on why we came, shall we? Which one’s your room?”
“Here.” Natalie fished out her key and opened a door to their left. She rushed in, Artis and Reg following.
Artis pointed to the wide-open window, lace curtains fluttering in the breeze. “I could have sworn—”
Natalie slid her arms frantically under the mattress, and then threw it to the floor. She stood staring where the mattress used to be.
“What’s wrong?” Reg asked.
“They’re gone,” she said. “Somebody stole the books and papers!”
Artis stood by the open window. “Nat…”
“I’m dead.” Natalie collapsed into the chair. “I’m as good as dead!”
“Don’t say that,” Reg told her. “Where there’s life, there’s always hope.”
“He’s going to kill me!” Natalie cried.
“Reg.” Artis pointed to the busy street below.
Reg joined him and looked out the window. “Well, now things will get interesting.”
Natalie choked back a sob. “What is it?”
Artis hesitated and then said, “Brago’s in town.”
PART THREE
Chapter Nineteen
“It was him, sir,” Reg told Sir Edris. “He was alone this time.”
They all sat in the lavish parlor adjoining Sir Edris’s quarters at The Maggie, Natalie on the grey granite hearth, face awash with tears.
“Alone? Hmm.” Sir Edris thumped a leather glove into the palm of his left hand. “That probably means he believes he knows where the harp is and doesn’t need any help getting it.”
“Or keeping it,” Reg added.
Sir Edris nodded. “Yes. Or keeping it.”
“What am I going to do?” Natalie cried. Artis put his arm around her. “I’m going to die!”
“You’re not going to die, young lady,” said Sir Edris. “At least not for a very long time, if I can help it.”
Natalie dragged her hand under her snotty nose. “You’re…you’re still going to help me? You’re going to protect me from Brago?”
“If I can. However, you must understand,” he said, “there’s a task to which I need to attend. I cannot be with you every moment of every day.”
Natalie sniffled. “Thank you.”
“Now—” Sir Edris sat in a chair next to Natalie. “If you’d kindly assist me in accomplishing my task, we’ll both be better off. Tell me as much as you can about the cathedral drawing.”
Reg gave Natalie his handkerchief again. She blew her nose.
“It was of the chancel,” she said, “the altar at the front of the church.” She shrugged. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“It was very detailed,” Artis offered. “Each pillar and alcove had been sketched. Somebody had put some time into drawing it.”
“Maybe one of the pillars has a secret compartment?” Reg suggested.
“Perhaps…” Sir Edris leaned back, stroking his beard.
“There were a bunch of little squares and a large rectangle drawn right behind the altar,” Artis went on.
Natalie blew her nose again. “Those were just the floor tiles. I checked that when I was looking around. There are all these square tiles, and one big rectangular tile, right where the Head Cleric stands and delivers his little speeches.”
“Little speeches…” Sir Edris chuckled.
Reg smiled at Natalie. “I believe you mean their sermons.”
“Oh, I don’t care what they’re called,” she said. “But Art’s right, it was very detailed.”
Reg turned to Sir Edris. “The pillars seem to be the only possibility, or maybe there’s a hidden compartment in one of the alcoves.”
“Maybe.” The knight got to his feet, and paced the room. “The tiles must have something to do with it, though. Otherwise, why draw them?”
“Why draw the pillars?”
“To give perspective. A drawing of the chancel would be meaningless without the pillars; they’re a key feature. No—” Sir Edris stopped as though he’d made a decision. “I’d bet you anything the tiles are the key.”
“Why?” asked Artis. “What would tiles have to do with Balen’s harp?”
“You see,” Sir Edris explained, “back in the olden days, when marauding armies appeared out of nowhere and ravished towns, the clergy used to hide the church’s relics under the floor stones. There were so many stones, thieves couldn’t check them all; you had to know exactly where to look.”
“And Brago knows where to look,” Reg said, sitting on the other side of Natalie.
“Evidently.”
Artis pulled Natalie closer to him. “I wonder what the other papers meant.”
“Other papers?” Sir Edris repeated, suddenly interested. “Tell me about those.”
“Well, there were scores of them. One had a drawing of a strange street with ‘first right, second back, third up’ scribbled to one sid
e.”
“Strange street?” Reg repeated.
“Yeah,” said Artis. “It was all curvy, like a path in the mountains, except it had dozens of dead ends twisting off from it.”
“Dead ends?”
Sir Edris waved the conversation away. “That may have been from another adventure. Likely, Brago’s been keeping a journal. He’s wanted to write a book about his exploits ever since he was a child. There are no such streets here, I can tell you.” Then he thought for a moment. “Speaking of books, tell me about the ones he had. What were they, exactly? Make sure you’re as precise as possible.”
Natalie took a deep, uneven breath. “Two were about Balen. One was a biography.”
“It was very old,” Artis added. “Probably written right after his death.”
“The other,” Natalie went on, “was about music. You know, with—with notes, or whatever musicians call them.”
“A book of Balen’s compositions?” Reg looked doubtfully at Sir Edris. “That couldn’t have been too helpful. Why would he have that?”
“The third book was on genealogy,” Artis added. “It was really old, too, and thick. Must have been a couple thousand pages. A piece of paper marked Balen’s family tree.”
Sir Edris strode back and forth, slapping the leather glove repeatedly against his muscular thigh. “That wouldn’t help him any, either. Everyone knows what happened to Balen’s family. No, I think it has something to do with the cathedral. Evidently, Brago believes so, as well.”
“As do Randell and the others, seemingly,” Reg said.
Sir Edris turned abruptly. “They’re here?”
“Yes, sir. They arrived yesterday. Same with some new adventurer named Clooney.”
“What about Otto and Heinrich?”
“I believe they were here first, sir.”
“Bollocks!” Sir Edris clutched his glove. “We have to get moving. I’m not going to lose to Otto or Heinrich—not again. And I’m sure as hell not going to lose to some young upstart. Clooney…what kind of name is that?”
“I believe he’s from Eryn Mas. Though I could be wrong.”
“One of King Lionel’s men, no doubt.” Sir Edris slapped his glove against the arm of an upholstered chair. “The yellow-haired moron.”