At the edge of his mind was vague, uneasy wonder, obviously not his own thought. There was a dim caricature of himself standing over the body of the Earl. And there was a feeling of the need to do something without understanding of what was to be done, or why.
He could remember clearly now, the Earl’s explanations of the action of the coronet. One incident stood out—a time when the old man, having overindulged in the local wine, had demonstrated his ability to divine the thoughts of others. Flor twitched a little in painful recollection. The kitchen master had been especially enthusiastic in his use of the strap that night.
The Earl’s mount was eying Flor, who realized without knowing just how, that the vague images and rudimentary thoughts were a reflection of the beast’s mind. He looked over at the thicket into which the little animal which had started the charger, was hiding. It was still there, and he could feel a sense of fearful wonder, a desire to be gone, coupled with a fear of being discovered.
Again, he looked about the woods. In a way, the husa and he were akin. It would be bad if he were caught here, too. To be sure, he would be hard to capture, with his new protection, but many men would hunt him. And some of them would be other Earls, or possibly some of the great abbots, who had their own coronets and belts, and possibly other things of great power. These, he knew, might be too much for him. He slunk into the thicket, looked down the hill, and decided on a course which would avoid the paths of the foresters.
As he walked, he plotted methods of using his new-found powers. He considered idea after idea—then discarded them and sought further. With his new awareness, he could see flaws in plans which would have seemed perfect to him only a few short hours before.
First, he realized he would have to learn to control his new powers. He would have to learn the ways of the nobility, their manners and their customs. And he would have to find a disguise which would allow him to move about the land. Serfs were too likely to be questioned by the first passer-by who noticed them. Serfs belonged on the land—part of it!
He hid in the bushes at the side of a path as a group of free swordsmen went by. As he watched them, a plan came to him. He examined it carefully, finally deciding it would do.
The man-at-arms sauntered through the forest, swaying a little as he walked. He sang in a gravelly voice, pausing now and then to remember a new verse.
Flor watched him as he approached, allowing the man’s thoughts to enter his own consciousness. They were none too complicated. The man was a free swordsman, his sword unemployed at the moment. He still had sufficient money to enjoy the forest houses for a time, then he would seek service with the Earl of Konewar, who was rumored to be planning a campaign.
The man swayed closer, finally noticing Flor. He paused in mid stride, eying the escaped serf up and down.
“Now, here’s something strange indeed,” he mused. He looked closely at Flor’s face.
“Tell me, my fellow, tell me this: How is it you wear the belt and coronet of a great noble, and yet have no other garment than the shift of a serf?”
As Flor looked at him insolently, he drew his sword.
“Come,” he demanded impatiently, “I must have answer, else I take you to a provost. Possibly his way of finding your secret would be to your liking, eh?”
Flor drew a deep breath and waited. Here was the final test of his new device. He had experimented, finding that even the charge of a khada was harmless to him. Now, he would find if a sword could be rendered harmless. At the approach of the man, he had pressed the boss on his belt. The man seemed suddenly a little uncertain, so Flor spoke.
“Why, who are you,” he demanded haughtily, “to question the doings of your betters? Away with you, before I spit you with your own sword.”
The man shook his head, smiling sarcastically. “Hah!” he said, approaching Flor. “I know that accent. It stinks of the scullery. Tell me, Serf, where did you steal that—”
He broke off, climaxing his question with an abrupt swing of the sword. Then, he fell back in surprise. Flor had thrust a hand out to ward off the blow, and the sword had been thrown back violently. The rebound tore it from its amazed owner’s hand, and it thudded to the ground. The man-at-arms looked at it stupidly.
Flor sprang aside, scooping up the weapon before the man could recover.
“Now,” he cried, “stand quite still. I shall have business with you.”
The expression on the man’s face told of something more than mere surprise which held him quiet. Here was proof of the powers of the coronet. Flor looked savagely at his captive.
“Take off your cap.”
Reluctantly, the man’s hand came up. He removed his steel cap, holding it in his hand as he faced his captor.
“That is fine.” Flor pressed his advantage. “Now, your garments. Off with them!”
The swordsman was nearly his size. Both of them had the heavy build of their mountain stock, and the garments of the free swordsman would do for Flor’s purpose, even though they might not fit him perfectly. Who expected one of these roving soldiers of fortune to be dressed in the height of style? They were fighters, not models to show off the tailor’s art.
Flor watched as his prisoner started to disrobe, then pulled off his own single garment, carefully guiding it through the belt at his waist, so as not to disturb the talisman’s powers.
He threw the long shirt at the man before him.
“Here,” he ordered. “Put this on.”
He sensed a feeling of deep resentment—of hopeless rebellion. He repeated his demand, more emphatically.
“Put it on, I say!”
As the man stood before him, dressed in the rough shift of a serf, Flor smiled grimly.
“And now,” he said, “none will worry too much about a mere serf, or look too closely into his fate. Here.”
He slashed out with the sword, awkwardly, but effectively.
“I shall have to find a new name,” he told himself as he dressed in the garments of his victim. “No free swordsman would have a name like Flor. They all have two names.”
He thought of the names he had heard used by the guards of the Earl. Flor, he thought, could be part of a name. But one of the swordsmen would make it Floran, or possibly Florel. They would be hunters, or slayers of elk—not simply elk. He looked at the steel cap in his hands. An iron hat—deri kuna.
“So,” he told himself, “I shall be Florel Derikuna.”
He inspected his new garments, being sure they hid the belt, and yet left the bosses available to easy reach. At last, he put on the iron cap. It covered the coronet, effectively hiding it.
Taking up the sword, he replaced it in its scabbard and swaggered through the forest, imitating the man-at-arms’ song.
At one stroke, he had improved his status infinitely. Now, he could roam the land unquestioned, so long as he had money. He smiled to himself. There was money in his scrip, and there would be but slight problems involved in getting more. Tonight, he
would sleep in a forest house, instead of huddling in a thicket.
As the days passed, to grow into weeks and then, months, Florel wandered over the land. Sometimes, he took service with a captain, who would engage in a campaign. Sometimes, he took service with one of the lesser nobility. A few times, he ran with the bands of the forest and road, to rob travelers. But he was cautious to avoid the great Earls, realizing the danger of detection.
Always, he kept his direction to the east, knowing that he would have to reach the sea and cross to the eastern land before he could feel completely safe. His store of money and of goods grew, and he hoarded it against the time when he would use it.
Sometimes, he posed as a merchant, traveling the land with the caravans. But always, he followed his path eastward.
Florel Derikuna looked back at the line of pack animals. It had been a long trip, and a hard one. He smiled grimly to himself as he remembered the last robber attack. For a time, he had thought the caravan guard was going to be overwhelmed.
He might have had to join with the robbers, as he had done before. And that would have delayed his plans. He looked ahead again, toward the hill, crowned with its great, stone castle.
This, then, was the land of the east—the farthest march of the land of the east. It had taken him a long, cautious time to get here. And he had spent his days in fear of a searching party from Budorn, even when he had reached the seacoast itself. But here, he would be safe. None from this land had ever been even to the mountainous backbone of his own land, he was sure. And certainly, there would be no travelers who had guided their steps from here to faraway Budorn and back.
None here knew Budorn, excepting him. Flor, the serf—now Florel Derikuna, swordsman at large—was in a new land. And he would take a new, more useful identity. He looked at the stone buildings of the town and its castle.
They were not unlike the castles and towns of his native land, he thought. There were differences, of course, but only in the small things. And he had gotten used to those by now. He had even managed to learn the peculiar language of the country. He smiled again. That coronet he always wore beneath his steel cap had served him well. It had more powers than he had dreamed of when he had first held it in his hands in those distant woods.
Here in Dweros, he thought, he could complete his change. Here, he could take service with the Duke as a young man of noble blood, once afflicted with a restless urge for travel, but now ready to establish himself. By now, he had learned to act. It had not been for nothing that he had carefully studied the ways of the nobility.
The caravan clattered through the gate beneath the castle, twisted through the streets just beyond the wall, and stopped in the market place. Derikuna urged his mount ahead and confronted the merchant.
“Here is my destination,” he said. “So, we’ll settle up, and I’ll be on my way.”
The merchant looked at him with a certain amount of relief. The man, he knew, was a tough fighter. His efforts had been largely the cause of the failure of bandits to capture the caravan only a few days before. But there was something about him that repelled. He was a man to be feared, not liked. Somehow, the merchant felt he was well rid of this guard, despite his demonstrated ability. He reached into his clothing and produced two bags.
“We hate to lose you, Derikuna,” he dissembled. “Here is your normal wage.” He held out one bag. “And this second purse is a present, in memory of your gallant defense of the caravan.”
Derikuna smiled sardonically. “Thank you,” he said, “and good trading.” He reined away.
He had caught the semi-fearful thoughts. Well, that was nothing unusual. Everybody became fearful of the iron hat sooner or later. Here, they would learn to respect him, too. Though their respect would be for a different name. Nor would they be able to deny him aught. They might not like him. That, he had no interest in. They’d do his will. And they’d never forget him.
He rode to an inn, where he ordered food and lodging. His meal over, he saw to his beasts, then had a servant take his baggage to his room.
Shortly after daybreak, he awoke. He blinked at the light, stirred restlessly, and got out of bed. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the other side of the room.
For a few minutes, he looked at the trough in the floor and the water bucket standing near it. At last, he shrugged and started splashing water over himself. This morning, he spent more time than usual, being sure that no vestige of beard was left on his face, and that he was perfectly clean. He completed his bath by dashing perfumed water over his entire body.
He opened his traveling chest, picking out clothing he had worn but few times, and those in private. At last, he examined his reflection in a mirror, and nodded in satisfaction.
“Truly,” he told himself, “a fine example of western nobility.”
He picked out a few expensive ornaments from his chest, then locked it again and left the inn.
He guided his mount through the narrow streets to the castle gate, where he confronted a sleepy, heavily-armed sentry.
“Send word to the castle steward,” he ordered, throwing his riding cloak back, “that Florel, younger son of the Earl of Konewar, would pay his respects to your master, the Duke of Dwerostel.”
The man eyed him for a moment, then straightened and grounded his pike with a crash.
“It shall be done, sir.” He turned and struck a gong.
A guard officer came through the tunnel under the wall. For a moment, he looked doubtful, then he spoke respectfully and ushered Derikuna through the inner court to a small apartment, where he turned him over to a steward.
“You wish audience with His Excellency?”
“I do, My Man. I wish to pay him my respects, and those of my father, the Earl of Konewar.” Derikuna looked haughtily at the man.
Like the guard officer, the steward seemed doubtful. For a few seconds, he seemed about to demur. Then, he bowed respectfully.
“Very well, sir.” With a final, curious glance at the coronet which shone in Florel’s hair, the steward clapped his hands. A page hurried into the room and bowed.
“Your orders, sir?”
“We have a noble guest. Bring refreshment, at once.” The steward waved to a table. “If Your Honor will wait here?”
Florel inclined his head, strode to a chair, and sat down. He looked amusedly after the disappearing steward. The coronet of the old Earl, he thought, was a truly potent talisman. Even the disdainful stewards of castles bowed to its force. And, thought the impostor, so would his master—when the time came.
The page reappeared with a flagon of wine and some cakes. Florel was sampling them when the steward returned. The man bowed respectfully, waited for Florel to finish his wine, and led the way through a corridor to a heavy pair of doors, which he swung open.
“Florel, Son of Konewar,” he announced ceremoniously.
The Duke flipped a bone to one of his dogs, shoved his plate aside, and looked up. Florel walked forward a few paces, stopped, and bowed low.
“Your Excellency.”
As he straightened, he realized that he was the object of an intense scrutiny. At last, the Duke nodded.
“We had no notice of your coming.”
Florel smiled. “I have been traveling alone, Excellency, and incognito. For some years, I have been wandering, to satisfy my desire to see the world.” He glanced down at his clothing.
“I arrived in your town last evening, and delayed only to make myself presentable before appearing to pay my respects.”
“Very good. Punctuality in meeting social obligations is a mark of good breeding.” The Duke eyed Florel’s costume.
“Tell me, young man, do all your nobility affect the insignia you wear?”
Florel’s hand rose to his coronet. “Only members of the older families, Excellency.”
“I see.” The nobleman nodded thoughtfully. “We have heard rumors of your fashions in dress, though no member of any of the great families of your realm has ever come so far before. We are somewhat isolated here.” He looked sharply at the younger man.
“Rumor also has it that this is more than mere insignia you wear. I have heard it said that your ornaments give more than mortal powers to their wearer. Is this true?”
Florel hesitated for an instant, then recognized the desired response. Of course this eastern noble would not welcome the thought that there were others who had greater powers than he. And he would certainly resent any suggestions that a young visitor to his court had such powers.
“Oh, that,” he said easily. “Legends, really. The truth is that the wearing of the coronet and belt is restricted to members of the older, more honorable families. And even these must prove their ability at arms and statecraft before being invested with the insignia. Too, knowledge of long lineage and gentle birth makes a man more bold—possibly even more skillful than the average.” He smiled ingratiatingly.
“You, yourself, recognize your own superiority in all ways over your retainers, your vassals, and your townspeop
le. And so are we above the common man. This insignia is but the outward symbol of that superiority.”
The Duke nodded, satisfied. He waved a hand.
“Sit down, young man. You must remain at our court for a time. We are hungry for news of the distant lands.”
Florel congratulated himself. Well embellished gossip, he had found, was a popular form of entertainment in camp and court alike, and his store of gossip was large and carefully gathered. Here at Dweros, far from the center of the kingdom, his store of tales would last for a long time—probably as long as he needed.
During the days and nights that followed, he exerted himself to gain the favor of the Duke and his household. Much of his time, he spent entertaining others with his tales. But he kept his own ears and eyes open. He became a constant visitor at the castle, finally being offered the use of one of the small apartments, which he graciously accepted. And, of course, he was invited to join the hunts.
Hunting, he discovered, could be a pleasant pastime—so long as it was another who was doing the hard work of beating. And his own experience as a beater proved valuable. He was familiar with the ways and the haunts of animals. What had once been a matter of survival became a road to acclaim. He was known before long as a skillful, daring hunter.
At length, he decided the time was right to talk to the Duke of more serious things. The duchy was at the very border of the kingdom. To the north lay territory occupied only by barbaric tribes, who frequently descended on the northern baronies, to rob travelers of their goods, or to loot villages. Having secured their loot, the tribesmen retreated to their mountains before a fighting force could come up with them.
Florel came upon the Duke while he was considering the news of one of these raids.
“Your Excellency, these border raids could be halted. A strong hand is all that is needed, at the right place. A determined knight, established on the Menstal, could command the river crossing and the pass, thus preventing either entry or exit.”
“To be sure.” The Duke sighed wearily. “But the mountains of Menstal are inhospitable. Knights have occupied the heights, protecting the border for a time, to be sure, but the land has always escheated to the duchy. A small watchtower is kept manned even now, but it’s a hungry land, and one which would drain even a baron’s funds. I have no knight who wants it.”
Complete Fiction (Jerry eBooks) Page 26