The Thief's Tale

by Jonathan Moeller

  Sir Paul Tallmane reined up before the steps to the domus and vaulted out of his saddle in a single smooth motion, his armor clanking. Grooms hurried to claim the horse, and he handed over the reins with insouciant grace. Jager had not seen him since they had both been boys, but Paul had grown into a strong man. Unlike his father, he looked every inch the knight of Andomhaim, tall and strong with his blond hair close-cropped and his black eyes hard and clear. He wore a green surcoat with a white hart, the colors and sigils of the Dux of the Northerland, over his gleaming armor.

  This was what a lord and knight ought to look like, Jager thought. Perhaps Paul was a true and a just knight, a better man than his deceitful and adulterous father.

  That pleasant hope lasted until Paul opened his mouth.

  “Father,” said Paul. “So good of you to see me home.” He looked over the domus. “I see the old pile hasn’t changed. If you hadn’t been so busy seducing every farmer’s daughter for twenty miles in all directions, perhaps you could have exerted yourself to undertake some repairs.”

  Alan sneered at his son. “And has all the fine living in Castra Marcaine corrupted you, boy?”

  Paul barked a laugh. “Don’t be absurd, you fat old fool.” Hilder shifted a bit, but said nothing. “Castra Marcaine is the arse-end of the realm, populated with ignorant rustics. The Dux himself is little better. When I left, his court was all aflutter because the Dux’s newest Swordbearer killed a female urdmordar in single combat.”

  “Really,” said Alan. “That is news. Who?”

  “Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand,” said Paul. “I met the fool. Cold and arrogant and much too concerned about his own honor and piety, as you would expect from a son of Leogrance Arban.”

  “But at least he has won renown for his family name,” said Alan. “What have you done? Have you slain an urdmordar?”

  Paul scoffed. “Don’t be absurd, Father. Ridmark Arban is a Swordbearer. A sword of mortal steel would be about as useful against an urdmordar as harsh words.” He sneered, his expression a mirror image of his father’s. “Perhaps I could give myself over to gluttony as you did, and sit upon an urdmordar until it choked to death.”

  “Do not be impertinent,” said Alan, waving his cane as if he threatened to beat Paul with it. “You are wearing the colors of the Dux of the Northerland?”

  “Yes, Father,” said Paul. “Because I have taken service in his court. You might have heard.”

  Alan scowled. “You ought to be wearing the colors of the Dux of Caerdracon.”

  “Dux Samothus can’t stand you, Father,” said Paul. “It’s likely the smell, I think. And your crude manners. But I’ve made friends with Samothus’s heir, Sir Tarrabus. Unlike you, I know how to make myself useful to more powerful men, and Sir Tarrabus will need loyal men at his side when he becomes Dux.” He grinned. “Perhaps I’ll have you shuffled off to a monastery once Tarrabus succeeds his father. It would be amusing to watch you try and seduce the freeholders from a penitent’s cell…”

  Alan growled. “Impudent boy. I will teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  Quick as a snake, he raised his cane and swung it for Paul’s head. But Paul caught the blow in a heavy fist, and a moment later the two men struggled, shouting curses as they staggered back and forth, the cane pinned between them. Paul was young and fit, but Sir Alan was still strong, despite his age, and father and son strained against each other.

  Hilder coughed into his hand. Jager watched, aghast and embarrassed. These were the lords of Andomhaim? These were the men who had converted the orcs to the church, vanquished the dark elven princes, and thrown down the urdmordar?

  No. Their ancestors had done that.

  Finally Alan and Paul broke apart, both breathing hard.

  “Bah,” said Paul. “You’ve still got a grip, old man.”

  “Don’t forget it, boy,” said Alan. “I might be old and fat, but I can still thrash you.”

  Paul spat at his father’s feet. “Though not as you did when I was a boy.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Alan, wiping sweat from his reddened forehead. “Well, at least you’ve grown into a strong man, and not a weakling.” He snorted. “And if you impress Tarrabus once he becomes Dux of Caerdracon, you won’t need Caudea. The new Dux will give you benefices and offices of your own.”

  Paul waved a hand at the domus. “Leaving you to live in this old wreck and to romp with your millers’ daughters and farmers’ wives.”

  Alan shrugged. “A man needs something to keep him occupied in his old age.”

  “I suppose so,” said Paul, watching as the grooms led his horse away to the stables. “I don’t suppose you have a decent body servant for me.”

  “Hilder!” said Alan, rapping his cane against the ground.

  Hilder stepped forward at once, calm and impassive in his servant’s blacks. “I am here, my lord knight.” He bowed. “Sir Paul, it is an honor to see you at home once…”

  Paul burst out laughing. “You, Hilder? By God, Father, you’ve kept his old fossil on?” Jager felt his hands start to curl into fists, and then remembered his father’s lessons in decorum. “He did love his little speeches.”

  Hilder’s calm remained unruffled. “It is an honor to serve, my lord knight.”

  “Do you have someone for Sir Paul or not?” said Alan.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Hilder. “Jager?”

  Jager took a deep breath and joined his father.

  “This is Jager, my lord knight,” said Hilder. Jager bowed to Paul. “It shall be his honor to serve you.”

  Paul squinted down at him. “Runty little rat, isn’t it?” Jager kept his face calm, as his father did. “Well, you might as well make yourself useful.”

  “It would please me,” said Jager, “to show you to your…”

  Paul snorted. “I know where my room is. Follow me.”

  He strode off, and Jager had no choice to follow, leaving Sir Alan and Hilder and the servants standing outside the domus. Paul let himself into the house, climbed the stairs to his room, and threw open the door. The room was only a little less lavish than Sir Alan’s, with a wide bed, a broad window looking toward the Lake of Mourning, and gleaming wooden furniture.

  “Adequate,” said Paul. He pulled of his surcoat and armor, and Jager winced as the dropped steel dug gouges into the floorboards. “I don’t have a squire, so I suppose you’ll have to serve. Attend to my armor and sword, and have a bath drawn up. Too much damned road dust. And bring me some food, too. Bread and ham, if Father’s servants had the wit to put any away before winter.”

  He unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it to the floor, the weapon bouncing.

  Jager hurried forward and picked up the sword. “Perhaps, my lord, if we put the sword on the sideboard, it would be easier on the woodwork.”

  Paul stared at him, face blank.

  Then he snarled, his fist a blur.

  The blow slammed into Jager’s jaw and threw him against the wall, the sword belt tumbling from his hands. He stared at Sir Paul, frozen with shock and pain. Before he could recover, Paul punched him again, his fist sinking into Jager’s stomach. Jager doubled over with a wheeze and fell hard, his entire body clenching as his lungs tried to draw a breath.

  He heard a slithering, steely rasp, and felt the cold point of a sword against his throat.

  “I suggest you listen carefully,” said Paul. “Don’t question me. Don’t ever question me. You will do exactly what I say, and you will do it at once. Bad enough that I have to take lip from my fat pig of a father. But I won’t take it from a cringing halfling rat. Do you understand me?”

  Jager opened his mouth, intending to protest that he only wanted to look after Sir Paul’s things, to make sure his armor did not rust and his sword did not damage his floor. But one look at Paul’s flat, dead eyes convinced him to stop talking. If he did not agree, Paul was going to kill him then and there.

  “Yes,” whispered Jage
r.

  Paul’s boots gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. “Yes, my lord knight.”

  Jager nodded. “Yes, my lord knight, yes, I…”

  “Stop sniveling,” said Paul, returning his blade to its sheath. Jager scrambled to his feet, watching Paul warily. “Now bring me my food! Move, you rat! Move!”

  Jager took a shuddering breath and hastened to obey.

  ###

  Later, much later, after Alan and Paul had drunk themselves to incoherence and staggered off to their respective beds, Jager sat in his father’s room, holding a cloth to his swollen lip.

  “There,” murmured Dagma, wiping off Jager’s forehead. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

  “Will I?” said Jager. “They’re monsters, both of them.”

  Hilder frowned. “They are our sworn lords and masters, and we should speak respectfully of…”

  “Respectfully?” said Jager. “Sir Alan is a lecher.” Hilder glanced at Dagma in alarm, but she did not seemed surprised. Likely she had already heard of the old knight’s behavior. “And Sir Paul is a thug and a bully.”

  “They are not,” said Hilder. “Sir Alan and his son are…”

  “They are!” said Jager, shaking his head. “Father. Look me in the eye and tell me they are not. That they are equal of the great heroes who freed our ancestors and defeated the urdmordar.”

  Hilder stared at him for a long moment, and then sighed and looked away.

  “They are…weaker than I would hope,” said Hilder.

  Jager scoffed and glared at the wall.

  “What are you going to do?” said Dagma.

  “I am going to leave,” said Jager.

  “What?” said Hilder. “And go where, precisely?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jager. “I will go to Tarlion or Cintarra, to one of the great cities. The merchants and nobles there have halfling workers and servants. Or…maybe I shall strike out on my own, become a merchant.” He scowled. “Then I shall have no master but myself.”

  “And how will you do that?” said Hilder. “You have no experience in such things and only a little money.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jager. “But it would be better than staying here to serve that fat old drunk and that cruel thug…”

  Hilder slapped the top of his desk. “Do not say such things about your sworn lords! It is ill to talk of them that way.”

  “Why?” said Jager. “It is also ill to speak lies, Father. To call them valiant knights is a lie.”

  “Yes,” said Hilder. “But I told you, Jager, that our lords are often less than perfect. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, is that not what the church says? We both know that it is true of ourselves, if we are honest and look into our own hearts. Why should it be any different for our lords?”

  “Aye, I am a sinner, as are all men,” said Jager, “but I have never beaten a man because he offered to help me with my armor. No. I am going.”

  “Listen to me, I beg of you,” said Hilder, his lined face drawn. “You are a man grown and I cannot gainsay you. But it is a dark world. Do you think the lords and merchants of Cintarra and Tarlion shall be any more kindly disposed to you? And Caerdracon is a safe duxarchate. There hasn’t been a war here since the days of the Frostborn, and the pagan orcs and the creatures of the dark elves were driven out long ago. There are creatures that would make you a slave, or that would simply devour you, if they but had the chance. Would you really choose to live away from the protection of the Magistri and the Swordbearers?”

  “Tarlion and Cintarra have known peace as long as Caerdracon,” said Jager. “I am not likely to meet an urvaalg or an urdmordar within their walls. And when was the last time a Magistrius came to Caudea? Or a Swordbearer? If there are no urvaalgs or spider-devils here then it hardly seems we need the Two Orders’ protection.”

  Hilder sighed. “You were always better with words than I am, my son. But do not go. Our oaths, our traditions of service…they carry great meaning. Even if the object of our service is unworthy. Our ancestors were slaves, and Sir Alan’s ancestor made us free. Shall we forget that debt? Are we less honorable than our forebears?”

  Jager hesitated. The ache in his father’s eyes unsettled him. Hilder had dedicated his life to his service of the House of Tallmane. For his son to turn on his back on it would be a grievous blow. And many of his father’s arguments had merit. What would happen if he went to the cities and was unable to find work? At least in the domus he had enough to eat and a roof over his head. If he went to Cintarra, would he have to sleep in alleys and beg for his bread?

  “It is only through the winter,” said Hilder. “Sir Paul is still in service to the Dux of the Northerland. Once spring comes, he will ride back to Castra Marcaine.”

  “And once Sir Alan dies and Paul inherits the benefice?” said Jager.

  Hilder shrugged. “May God grant Sir Alan many healthy years. But when he does die…I suspect Sir Paul will find Caudea too small for him. Likely he will stay at Castra Marcaine and only visit Caudea to collect his rents. Or if he is indeed close to Sir Tarrabus, likely he will spend all his time at Castra Carhaine.”

  “What do you think?” said Jager to Dagma.

  “I think Father is right,” she said. “Yes, Sir Alan is an old lecher, and Sir Paul is a thug. But we are halflings. We are servants. It is what we have always done, for centuries and centuries. If you leave, Jager, I fear what might become of you.”

  He hesitated. Something about that answer rankled him. There was honor in loyal service, yes. But what if he wanted more than that? What if he wanted to see the realm, to become more than the servant of a minor knight in a quiet village?

  But perhaps Hilder was right.

  “I…will stay,” said Jager. Hilder smiled, and Dagma clapped her hands in delight. “And I will try to deal with Sir Paul.”

  “It will be hard, I know,” said Hilder. “The path of service is often a challenge. But I will help you however I can.”

  ###

  Bit by bit, Jager learned to manage Paul Tallmane.

  The big knight drank to excess almost every night, save for evenings when he wanted to go hunting the next morning. Whether suffering from a hangover or not, he wanted food and drink brought to him at once when he awoke. On days he stayed at the domus, he practiced his sword work for hours in the atrium, facing off against some of Sir Alan’s men-at-arms. On days when he practiced the sword and the lance, he wanted spiced wine ready at hand to quench his thirst. On days when he preferred to ride around Sir Alan’s benefice, he desired food immediately upon his return.

  Gradually Jager learned Paul’s routine. Paul punched him twice more, once when Jager spilled a cup of wine, and again when his wine had not been spiced to satisfaction. Jager hastened to correct the errors, and Paul started to ignore him. Jager preferred it that way. He realized Paul saw him as simply part of the furniture, a tool to be ignored.

  Like a pack animal, he thought bitterly. Paul likely valued his horse more. Was this how Hilder had spent his life? At least Sir Alan had never hit Hilder.

  Or maybe Alan was simply too old and fat to beat the servants now.

  On mornings when Paul went hunting, Jager accompanied him on a donkey. Someone had to carry the weapons and clean the kills, after all, and Hilder had taught him how to do so. Jager didn’t mind. The hunting expeditions always put Paul in a good mood, and he rarely spoke to Jager save to give commands.

  But when he failed to find a kill, his temper darkened.

  “The hell with this,” muttered Paul one morning, about two months after he had arrived from Castra Marcaine. It was a cold winter day, a thin blanket of snow covering the ground. “Where have all the deer gone? If those damned freeholders have been poaching again I’ll have them hung.”

  Jager said nothing. He knew better.

  “I wanted meat for dinner, damn it,” said Paul. “Proper, fresh meat. Not more of that salted leather that has been sitting in your father’s pantry
since Malahan Pendragon arrived from Old Earth.” He growled and turned his horse. “Come. Back to the domus. I may as well get drunk.”

  “As you wish, my lord knight,” said Jager, turning his reluctant donkey around.

  They rode through the fields west of Caudea, past patches of forest and pastureland. Paul ignored the roads and rode through the fields, heedless of the ground beneath him. Jager shuddered to think of the damage Paul would do if he went hunting in the spring, after a crop had been sown. But perhaps his horse would throw a shoe in the rough ground, and Paul would fall and break his neck.

  There was a pleasant thought. Though a fall from a horse would likely do nothing to his master’s thick skull.

  “Here, now,” said Paul, reining up. “What’s this?”

  A small cottage stood nearby, a flock of goats milling in a stone-walled pasture. The cottage looked deserted, no smoke rising from the chimney, and Jager saw no sign of anyone.

  “Well, well,” said Paul, his smile returning. “Wild goats. What a fortuitous coincidence, eh?”

  “But my lord knight,” said Jager. Hunting was once thing. Stealing livestock was quite another. “They clearly belong to that herder.”

  “Wild goats,” said Paul.

  “But they’re branded,” said Jager, pointing, “you can see the…”

  Paul glared at him, his short bow in his hands, and Jager had the sudden feeling that the knight was thinking about putting a shaft through Jager’s heart. A cold wave of fear went down his spine. He had suffered beatings from Paul before, had thought that Paul might have him dismissed from service…but he had never feared that the knight would kill him.

  Until now.

  “Wild goats,” said Jager.

  “Wise man,” said Paul, turning in the saddle.

  He drew an arrow, set it to the string, and released. One of the male goats fell dead with an arrow in its breast, blood spilling upon the ground.

  “Gather it up,” said Paul. “No, wait, don’t bother. I suppose you’re too small and weak, and that donkey is no better. Wait a moment.” He dropped from the saddle and vaulted over the stone wall, heading towards the dead goat. The surviving goats fled to the other side of the pen, bleating in terror from the smell of blood. Jager looked around, his heart racing. If the herdsman happened to come home, or if someone saw Paul stealing the goat…