The reign of Istar t2-1

by Margaret Weis

  Moran was proud of those stains; he'd spent much of last week painting them on and aging them. "Right."

  All heads turned. He stood in the archway, a twelvefoot lance tucked under his arm as easily as if it were a riding whip.

  He saluted with the lance, missing the arch top by inches. He flipped the lance over his right shoulder, then his left, then spun it around twice and tucked it under his arm, all without scraping the arch.

  Tarli applauded. His clapping slowed, then stopped, under his classmates' cold stares.

  "The lance," Moran said loudly, "is the knights' weapon of tradition. Huma consecrated one, called Huma's Grace, to Paladine. A single knight, with a single lance, defeated forty-two mounted enemies during the Siege of Tarsis."

  He looked over the group with disdain. "Let me also mention that your lance may — just may — keep you alive while you are squires. Later you'll train with footmen's lances. For now — " He pointed the lance suddenly under Saliak's nose, then transferred the lance to his left hand and all but stabbed Tarli. "You and you, choose lances and mount up."

  Saliak flinched. Tarli, to Moran's pleasure, did not even blink.

  "On the barrels?" Tarli cried in excitement. He stared at the wooden mounts, whose reins ran through eyelets to join the pulley ropes.

  "They're not barrels, runtlet," Saliak hissed.

  Tarli shrugged. "They're not horses, either. What are they supposed to be?"

  Saliak said, "Who cares," and pulled the first lance from the rack. He snapped it up, then down, in a clumsy salute. He was long-limbed and strong. Despite his inexperience, he could control the lance well.

  Tarli lifted his own lance upright and staggered as the weight toppled him backward.

  "It's too long," he complained. His classmates snickered.

  Moran regarded him solemnly. "Grow into it."

  Saliak laughed loudly.

  Carrying his lance clumsily by the middle, Tarli walked over to his mount, which was scored with lance hits. A stubby board projected from under each side of the saddle. He studied them. "If these were bigger, I'd say they were wings."

  He turned to face Moran, his face alight. "It's supposed to be a dragon, isn't it? You're training us to fight dragons, like in the classroom tapestry."

  Good guess, Moran thought. Once that was probably true; now the drill was kept to honor Huma and to make beginning squires feel clumsy and humble.

  Aloud he said only, "Spotters," and passed the ropes to the boys. "When I give the signal, raise the mounts into the air. Riders, mount up, take reins and shields, and fasten your lances."

  The two combatants straddled their mounts. Saliak sat easily and comfortably with bent knees, the unmistakable pose of someone who had owned and ridden horses. Tarli could only reach the stirrups by half-standing.

  They set the lances in the saddle-mounted swivels. The greater weight of the lance was in front. Tarli kept his weapon upright by putting nearly his full weight on the butt end. He swung the point up clumsily.

  Saliak swung his sideways, up, down, and circled it. He smiled at Tarli. "Say good-bye."

  Moran paused before signaling the start. "Yes?" he said to Steyan. "Did you want to say something?"

  Steyan, who looked as if he hadn't slept in nights, glanced back at Saliak speculatively.

  "Nothing," he mumbled finally. Several of the other novices looked relieved.

  Moran turned to the riders, dropped his raised hand. "Now." The spotters tugged on the ropes. The mounts swung into the air.

  Tarli nearly dropped his lance when his mount jerked upward; his spotters had pulled too hard, possibly intentionally. He recovered, but his lance popped out of the swivel, and he was forced to bear its full weight. The tip dropped to where it couldn't threaten anyone except Tarli's own spotters.

  Early days, thought Moran. Let him make his mistakes here, where he might survive.

  On the riders' first pass, Saliak speared Tarli's shield, knocked it to the ground. His classmates cheered.

  Tarli stared down at the shield, then, brushing his hair out of his eyes, he looked up at the exultant Saliak. Tarli's expression was excited and confused, but unafraid.

  At a tug on the reins, Saliak's spotters dragged him backward, then launched him straight at Tarli.

  Saliak swung his lance sideways. Tarli crouched against the saddle, avoided being slashed.

  By intention or by accident, Saliak sliced through Tarli's reins. Tarli's spotters, given no signals, tugged wildly.

  Tarli lurched from side to side, trying to avoid being smashed against the courtyard walls. He glanced at Moran, the boy's eyes asking for help or advice.

  Moran watched silently.

  Saliak pulled back on his reins and hung motionless, watching Tarli's flight. Drying his palms on his legs, Saliak grasped the lance firmly. His spotters slowly pulled him backward, preparing for his forward arc.

  Tarli glared in frustration at the lance he could barely hold. Suddenly, he took the reins in his mouth. Holding the lance crosswise, like a balance pole, he smashed it against the saddle pommel. The lance broke in two.

  The watchers gasped. Tarli threw down the lance point, tied the broken reins hastily around the butt, and whirled the stick over his head by the leather thong. The stick whirred like a living thing. Tarli's mount swung crazily. Saliak dove toward him.

  Saliak aimed the lance straight for Tarli's unguarded chest.

  Tarli leaned away, brought the whirling lance end down on Saliak's lance, breaking it. The pieces bounced over Saliak's shield, struck him in the forehead.

  Stunned, Saliak dropped his reins. Tarli shifted his small body to the center of the saddle, whirled the lance butt faster.

  The mounts, both out of control, swung past each other. Tarli got in four more good hits before Saliak fell off into the arms of his spotters.

  Tarli slid off his mount easily, catching the footrest and lowering himself to the ground to shorten his fall. He ran to where Saliak sat, dazedly rubbing his eyes.

  Tarli bent down and patted the bigger boy. "Don't cry."

  Moran had seen one man look at another as Saliak did at Tarli. It was in a seaside tavern in Tarsis. The ensuing fight involved marlinespikes, and the memory made Moran queasy still.

  Saliak staggered to his feet, turned away. Tarli shrugged and went to join the others, but they edged over to Saliak. Even the tall, thin one and the fat one, possibly fearing their classmates, shunned Tarli.

  Moran looked impassively at them all. "Drill is over until we can repair the mounts." The other boys looked more relieved than disappointed. "Go to your barracks."

  Tarli stayed behind to pick up the thonged stick he had made. He looked up and noticed the knight standing over him.

  "I've made an enemy," the boy said.

  Moran nodded. "Only one?"

  A grin flickered across Tarli's tired face. "Saliak is the best-liked boy in Xak Tsaroth. Maybe in the world. His father hosts his own festival in autumn. His father and grandfather were both knights."

  For just a moment, Tarli sagged. "I wonder what that feels like, to have a father so important that everyone respects you before you even do anything."

  He left the courtyard, swinging the stick on the thong. Moran stared after him, aching inside.

  They walked through the market by evening, Loraine tugging on his hand.

  They looked more like father and daughter than lovers.

  From time to time, a breeze would sweep the marketplace, and she would carefully, almost primly, pat her beautiful hair in place over her ears.

  Moran loved watching her. he enjoyed telling her about the market's various wares.

  "That gadget, that's gnomeware from Mount Nevermind… it's probably illegal to sell it, and it's certainly dangerous. that axe, the dwarves use those up north to cut firewood. The blades'll last a dwarfs lifetime, let alone ours. That hammock, that's made by net weavers from Tarsis. Talisin and I went there once, when I was young…" He stopped.
Loraine reached up and touched his arm.

  "You miss him all the time."

  "When I was young, he was everything to me. He took me everywhere, and people were good to me just because I was with him. I learned all I know of the world from him."

  "He was like a father to you. Everyone needs someone like that." she regarded him critically. "You'd make a wonderful father."

  He looked down at her nervously. "What makes you say that?"

  She laughed and swung on his arm like a small girl.

  "Because it worries you. You don't like jokes, do you? Someday, 'Sire,' I'll make you laugh again."

  Late that night, Moran stood brooding in the courtyard. He had dined with Rakiel, then watched the novices from one of the Manor of the Measure's observation niches.

  Moran expected hazing and abuse, but the novices seemed cruder than those in past years. To some extent, Tarli was to blame. Tarli's presence, Moran corrected himself. Novices always attacked those different from themselves, and Tarli was so different…

  As if Moran had conjured him, Tarli appeared in the barracks window. "Good evening, Sire. By the way, I did you a favor."

  "Favor?" Moran was learning, already, to be leery of Tarli's initiative.

  The boy nodded. He must have been standing on tip toe to be seen from below. "I made you more of those short lances like I used today."

  "Did you, now? Wait. Made them how?"

  "From the other lances. I told you they were too long. I broke them into thirds, mostly… some halves for the larger boys."

  "You broke the lances?" Moran gasped. Huma, pray for us all! "All of them?"

  Tarli shifted uncomfortably. "I did my best. Besides those on the rack, I found just the one storeroom full — the one with the lances in colors. Was that all?"

  Sweet Paladine! "The ones in colors… You mean red, silver, and gold? For parade dress, for the full knights?" Moran shook his head, not wanting to believe. "Those were locked up."

  Tarli waved a hand. "Don't thank me. They weren't locked up that well. It was easy." He dropped from the window; he must have been standing on a stool. "Good night, Sire."

  Moran dashed, panic-stricken, to the weapons store. He spent the evening going through the lances and confirming that they could not be reassembled.

  The treasury would cover replacing the lot, but the paperwork would be a quest in itself.

  In the end, Moran gratefully accepted Rakiel's offer to write the requests to release funds. Rakiel's help almost, but not quite, made up for the cleric's sour I-told-you-so smile.

  "Breaking and entering should be a handy skill for the boy's future. Tell me, can the treasury really afford to train a bastard AND a vandal?"

  "The treasury," Moran snapped, "could afford to replace the entire manor."

  "Really. Just with the funds available to you?" Rakiel raised an eyebrow, not believing. "Well, let's hope Tarli isn't that ambitious."

  Rakiel moved a spy across the grid. "So what are they calling him?"

  Moran munched a breakfast roll. " 'Kender Stew.' They claim he's not human." He moved a footman, casually speared the spy. "They've hung his pack above his reach, and they call him an animal and chain him up. I'm not supposed to know."

  Rakiel stared at him, shocked.

  Moran buttered another roll. "Oh, and the tall one, Steyan, is 'Mount Nevermind.' Night before last, they sawed partway through his bed legs and, when his bed broke, made him stay up fixing it. Maglion, the fat one, is 'Gully Gut.' They make him eat table scraps and pretend that he's part gully dwarf and that they're doing him a favor."

  "Aren't you going to stop them?"

  Moran looked surprised. "Why would I? I spend all day drilling them to death, then chew them up and spit them out. They're frustrated all the time. They take it out on each other at night."

  He pointed the butter knife at Rakiel. "Then, one night, one of them will start to think about the Measure. Really think about it. He'll be afraid, but he'll stand up to the others and say, 'This is wrong. We shouldn't do this.' The next day they'll all be living the Oath."

  Rakiel's expression was dubious.

  "It happens every year," Moran assured him.

  "And in the meantime," Rakiel retorted, "you let them torment each other, even when they pick on your own — "

  "My own what?" The butter knife was still a butter knife, but suddenly the blade glittered in the light from the window.

  "Nothing," Rakiel said with a nervous smile. "I can't imagine what I was thinking."

  As with all unceremonious business of the knights, the classes were taught in the language known as High Common. Only the beginning part was in the old tongue. Moran took a place in the first row of novices as they said, "Est Sularus Oth Mithas" and sat.

  Moran stood between Tarli and Saliak, who had ended up sitting next to each other for the term. Neither boy wanted to look cowardly by moving away from the other. Besides, Saliak often enjoyed himself by punching and prodding Tarli when the older boy thought Moran wasn't looking.

  Instead of moving to the table, Moran sat on the bench and turned to Saliak after the recitation of the Oath. "Why did you say those words?"

  "You make us," Saliak answered nervously.

  Someone giggled.

  "Why do I make you?"

  "Because the Oath is important," Tarli said.

  Moran turned the full force of the Mask on the boy. "What makes it important?"

  Before Tarli could answer, Moran snapped his head around to the second bench. "You, Maglion. What makes the Oath important?"

  Maglion turned bright red. "Wh-what it means…"

  "No." Moran stood, walked to the front, slowly and deliberately.

  "The Oath," he said quietly, "does not mean anything. The Oath IS everything. Day, night, waking, sleeping, honor is your life.

  "Once you know that, you can no more do wrong than you can rise from the dead unaided." He eyed Maglion coldly. "Do you understand?"

  "Yes." But Maglion sounded unhappy.

  "You do," Moran agreed, "and maybe you don't like it"

  The boy turned even redder. "Well — I mean — so, if a knight has been insulted, let's say wronged repeatedly" — he took great care to look away from Saliak — "then a knight should fight the person that wronged him? A duel? For revenge, I mean?"

  "For honor. Never for revenge."

  "If you're fighting him, either way, what's the difference?"

  Moran leaned forward, hands on the table. "Suppose someone tormented you for months and you challenged him and demanded an apology. If he didn't give one, you could fight him. But if he apologized sincerely, you'd have no choice but to accept it and not fight. That's the difference."

  Steyan muttered under his breath.

  "Is that a problem?" Moran asked quietly.

  The tall boy scratched his head, looked from side to side for help, and finally said, "It's hard."

  "It is." Moran intentionally dropped the Mask and spoke as a simple human being. "Honor, when it's easy or you can't avoid it anyway, tastes better than food or drink. When you don't want it, it eats at you, day and night."

  Tarli, looking unusually solemn, said suddenly, "What if one kind of honor fights with another?"

  Moran did not reply immediately. Finally he said, slowly and carefully, "Learn this, and learn it well. There is only one kind of honor. Don't ever believe that a conflict with the Oath or the Measure means that there's a conflict of two honors."

  He relaxed. He alone knew what a crisis of faith that sort of question produced in a man. "There are, however, conflicts between kinds of duty," he added.

  Late in the summer she said playfully, "Are you a family man?"

  "I've told you." Moran had shown her his family tomb, recited most of his ancestors' history.

  She poked him in the ribs teasingly.

  "I mean, would you be good to a child, no matter who the child is, or what it's like?"

  "Of course I would."

  She
waved her arms, laughing at him, but there were tears in her eyes, too.

  "I mean look after and train, and see to its needs. Do you promise, even if that child comes between you and something else you want to do?"

  Her laughter faded.

  "Please — "

  Unhesitatingly he said, "I'd do all that and more. no matter what I had to give up."

  He picked her up easily and kissed her repeatedly. He promised that he would always, for her sake, "Look after and train" children.

  Looking back, he realized that his promise had made him the best teacher the knights had ever had.

  Out in the courtyard, Moran squinted at the sun. "Awfully bright, don't you think?" he asked casually. In the past month, the novices had learned to dread his casual questions.

  He stared around in surprise. "No? Ah. You're young. You don't notice. Don't worry. I'll take care that you don't hurt your eyes by squinting."

  He handed each boy a blindfold, told him to put it on. With some misgivings, he gave Tarli's to Saliak. The older boy tied it around Tarli's head, all but planting his foot in Tarli's back to pull the knot tight. Tarli, raising his hands to his head, made a small, startled sound.

  "Something wrong?" Moran asked.

  "Not really." Finally Tarli said hesitantly, "This is so tight, it hurts."

  "Think of the pain as a distraction. You may have to fight in pain someday." He held the boy's shoulder, mostly to keep him still. "Now you tie on Saliak's blindfold."

  Saliak flinched. He hadn't thought about that. Tarli, his skin puckering beneath his own blindfold, grinned. Saliak didn't make a sound when Tarli tightened the blindfold, but Moran saw the older boy grimace in pain.

  Moran passed each blind and groping boy a dagger. Maglion yelped when he pricked his finger on the point; the rest jumped at the sound.

  Moran guided each of them, stood them against one of the walls. "And now," he said calmly, "all you have to do is walk across the courtyard without being stabbed. Simple enough, I'd think."

  It was. If you used your ears and remembered that defensive weapons were as important as offensive, the task wasn't hard at all. The novices began to shuffle tentatively across the courtyard.