Deathknight

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Their owners, Sir Falc?”

  Falc directed a pleasant look at the priest, quite young and crippled in the calf in his first year as a knight of the Order seven years ago. “Their riders were waiting for me on the road. They were sent to slay me. They failed. Their heads are on their way back to their master.”

  (“...of Ashah sees each individual as an individual, and knows that only through individuals is there that which is called society, and social order. Ashah accept me! Ashah guide me...”)

  The pryor nodded solemnly before smiling. “With our thanks, Sir Falc. There must have been four. Most impressive, brother!”

  “My sword is not blooded. My darg and I are a team.”

  “So I have heard, Sir Falc.”

  (“...does not do murder. Ashah deliver us! A Son of Ashah does not do theft. Ashah inspire us! Neither does the Son of Ashah refrain from killing. Ashah guide...”)

  “And how did you arrive at the number four, brother?”

  “Because you arrived leading three dargoni, whose bridles I can see were made or at least decorated in a certain city well east of here, overlooking the sea. You said the assassins’ heads are on their way back there. Therefore one assumes that they are borne by a fourth darg, which was presumably ridden, before the encounter.”

  “Ah,” Falc said, laying a gauntleted hand on the broad shoulder, “you have the eye of an eagle, Sir Coineval.”

  “It is ‘Pryor,’ Sir Falc; just Pryor Ashahnaraganit.”

  (“To be a Son of Ashah is not just to have faith and duty... or to be faith-wedded and duty-bound, but to be dominated by one’s duty and faith, which are one, in every aspect of one’s living of one’s life. Ashah deliver us... Ashah inspire us... Sath ride with us...”)

  “Not to me, brother,” Falc said, staring into the young man’s eyes. “To me you are ever Sir Coineval, knight of the Order Most Old, and I shall not swerve from that.”

  Coineval compressed his lips against their tremor. “With thanks, brother omo,” he said throatily. “Do stay and refresh yourself. Doubtless your darg could use the rest.”

  Falc shook his head, once. “No, brother omo. I have business down in Morazain. Oh; have you heard aught of Brother Vennashah?”

  “None.”

  “Should a monk happen to be journeying toward the High Temple, the Firedrake should be advised that in Lango I foiled an apparent plot of Holder Faradox against Holder Chasmal, and that four men in the colours of Faradox of Lango sought my life, not capture, a day east of here. Just for the sake of the information, Sir Coineval. We don’t know enough to say more.”

  “I understand. I am sorry you will not tarry here, Sir Falc. Rest aids the soul and betters a man in the service of Ashah. There will be adequate place, as a brother will be journeying within a few drips. Besides, several here would love to work out with you in the morning!”

  Falc was no longer comfortable with this man who had been knight of the Order and could no longer be because he had been wounded, and yet who still possessed the eye and the instinct — and the firmly muscle-padded shoulder. Too, Falc did dislike taking leave more than once. He turned, mounted, pulled Harr around, and with his two dargoni rode down the hill from Ashah-Naraganit-re.

  (“...Sath ride with me...”)

  A moist-eyed Coineval watched him all the way down to the main road.

  5

  Once Harr had paced through the Princehead Gateway into Morazain whose men preferred women well laden with fat, his master turned to call to the arrogant men in the roundhouse above and beside the gate of red and orange.

  “Remember my name! Keep me waiting this long next time I come to your gate,” he said, emphasising “your” with sarcasm, “and there will be trouble.”

  The omo turned his back on a shocked expression along with a glower, retort and ready crossbow, and rode directly to the temple of Avmer Tyrvena. He did pause to allow the passage of a beige-robed monk or priest of This, and bowed low. Showing surprise, the priest signed him and went on in silence. It was about then that Falc remembered, and sighed.

  “That is to say, among other things, that a Son of As hah does not lose his temper.” Well, one tries, O Ashah, one tries! The opposite of “sub-human,” after all, was not “superhuman!”

  Falc rode on to the Tyrvena-re.

  “A gift of my Order to the temple of Her whose name men do not pronounce, my sister,” he told the tiny woman with the strangely unlined face; what he could see of it above the yellow cloth covering her mouth and nose.

  “It is most kind, my brother of Ashah, but what use have we of a darg?”

  “His equipage should remain with you, my sister of the Tyrvena. He is trained, though, and at market will bring whatever your temple needs most.”

  The blue-black eyes crinkled and he knew she smiled behind the yellow concealment, this tiny not-old woman wearing an ungirt brown garment like a tent. “And who makes us this gift, brother?”

  “The Order Most Old, my sister.”

  “No,” she said quietly, with a half-shake of her head. “It is Falc of Risskor who makes it.”

  “You know me then, sister.”

  “I know your behaviour, Sir Falc, and this is part of it. I know the name of that son of Ashah who is not seen to smile. I shall not ask which two men were so foolish as to challenge you and so unintentionally make you this gift which you now press upon us.” She extended a voluminous brown sleeve at the end of which no hand showed. “Risskor lost much, when it drove away Falc into the Order Most Old.”

  Falc’s face tightened and his body showed sudden stiffness. He turned away to mount and ride from her without another word. Now he led only Longface’s darg, slung with a saddlebag of battle-won provisions and another containing four daggers. All other arms he had left with Ugly’s mount up on Naragane.

  The pryoress of Morazainit-Tyrvena-re watched him until he turned a comer and was gone, and then she wiped her eyes and took up the darg’s bridle in her small brown-gloved hand. She murmured words she knew, though they were not of Avmer Tyrvena:

  “‘The heart of a Son of Ashah does not bleed’... but Sir Falc’s does.”

  6

  “For the Arlord of Morazain, Threeford and all their environs,” the man in black wrote, “from Falc of Risskor, K.O.M.O., against the next seven years’ taxes of his Cousin Querry of eastern Zain, and in hopes that knights of the O.M.O. will not be kept waiting before the closed eastgate of Morazain.”

  The garrison commander’s aide spoke without having read the note. “You are most kind, Sir Falc.” He accepted the message and the reins of the darg formerly ridden by a nameless long-faced man of Lango; the skittish and therefore the least of the three captured dargoni. The linked knapsacks were slung over Falc’s left arm. “The Arlord will be appreciative.”

  A certain gatekeeper will not, Falc reflected with serenity.

  He would have liked to give the man one of the daggers, as glue, but it was too obviously of Secteri manufacture. He had no wish to create enmities or suspicion based on false premises.Well, one could not give presents to everyone, though as Sath Firedrake had said: “Little gifts and kindnesses are the glue to bind men to men.”

  “The Order Most Old has no enemies,” Falc said with studied sententiousness and a certain sanctimoniousness that he felt this man would appreciate, “and many friends. I am Falc of Risskor.”

  “I am Bellenevin, Sir Knight of the Order.”

  “Well met, Sir Bellenevin.”

  “Well met, Sir Falc.”

  Falc rode away from the garrison, to the inn bearing the sign of the White Horn.

  FOUR

  To seek the happiness of every individual is stupid; an unworthy and unattainable goal. Each individual must seek its own happiness. Some few are even happiest when they are unhappy; that is, under stress or in some want.

  — Writings of the Masters

  *

  Just as Falc set foot on the single front step he heard angry v
oices from inside the White Horn and recognised the sound of an overturning chair. He thrust open the door and took one pace inside. Freeing his arms of cloak, he stood staring. Two men were on their feet in bristly, combative stances, glaring at each other across the small semicircular table. Since they were broadside to him, each man’s peripheral vision noted the omo’s entry. Both glanced his way, at a face sombre as his garb. They blinked. One licked his lips. They glanced at each other. The one with the belly opened his fist and took his hand off and away from his dagger’s handle. The other pretended that he’d been intending to pour from the yellow pottery bottle he held, rather than use it as a weapon, which had been his obvious intent.

  Both sat down. Both affected not to have noticed the black-clad man.

  Falc glanced around. Other patrons were openly gazing at him. Two looked distinctly unfriendly, resentful. A couple of others, one of each sex, were obviously fascinated. The inn was like unto nearly every inn Falc had visited and guested in, except that the walls of the White Horn had recently been repainted. He found them restful, long vertical triangles of medium blue and pale yellow, alternating up and down. The suspended lichen-light globes looked new, too. Recent repairs after a quake, he mused. He had noted the lowered level of the lake as he rode in.

  He paced through the room toward the empty table he had spotted, not quite in the comer against the rear wall.

  “A decidedly timely entry, Sir Omo,” a voice said as he passed.

  It was obvious fawning, and Falc did not glance that way The innkeeper, a slender man save for his pot, arrived at the table at about the same time as the omo.

  “I am Corunden, Sir Knight of the Order,” he said, “and I am grateful that you arrived in time to save my furniture and floor!”

  Falc gave him a kindly look. “A happenstance, host. I but stood prepared to defend this life and Honour. No, no wine, thank you.”

  “They were arguing about the severity of a recent quake, Sir Omo,” Corunden said, with a smile moving the veinous purplescence of his cheeks. “One allows that it was not much of a shock. Well, I’ve endured worse, though thisun certainly cost me! But — your honour? Surely that was not at stake in such an argument!”

  Falc’s brows lifted. “Had such trouble taken place while I was here, that would have embarrassed the Order and thus diminished me.”

  The innkeeper blinked several times. “Uh... yes. Will you have food?”

  “Please,” Falc said, and sat.

  Within an hour he had both eaten and ascertained that Holder Arisan and his Housechief were still not getting on. Corunden was happy to send his son of twelve or so to the Household of Arisan with the omo’s message to Housechief Baysh:

  RISSKOR WOULD HAVE CONVERSE WITH YOU. HE STOPS AT THE WHITE HORN.

  He went for a walk, then. Naturally he was noticed as he paced along the streets, but he assumed as usual that no one knew what he was doing: being about his business. He was observing Morazain, noting sights and faces, tones and words, the condition of buildings and of people. It was the business of an omo, and yet so few took pause to consider that information had to be learned before it could be passed. Among other things, he saw unrepaired damage of the sijquake that had so recently rocked Morazain-by-the-Lake. He decided that he’d have taken the side of the arguer who said it had been severe — although like Corunden, Falc of Risskor had seen and experienced worse.

  When he re-entered the White Horn, Baysh was waiting.

  He was a shortish, bony man with a great deal of nose and mouth and large round eyes that emphasised the vertical lines of his pupils. A dark grey hat with a broad brim lay on the edge of the table, and under his big grey cloak Baysh wore a tunic purple as the bruises of love. Falc ignored the tunic and studied the face while he went to Baysh’s table, which was the same one the omo had occupied earlier. Not happy, Falc had decided, by the time he reached the comer and his fellow native of Risskor was rising to greet him. Falc thrust back his cloak, clapped the other man’s shoulder, and sat. They ordered beer and said nothing of importance until Corunden had brought the mugs and departed.

  Omo and Housechief exchanged news while they sipped. Falc noted that Baysh continued his habit of using his thumb to turn his ring of office, consistently if not constantly. The conversation meandered onto the subject of Emperor Shalderanis, and the situation of Sij and its citystates.

  “I doubt whether he is any happy man,” Baysh said, turning his ring.

  Falc shrugged. “Oh I don’t know. That youngster lives the life of the wealthiest Holder, and does nothing!”

  Baysh grinned. He was one of the very few who knew that Falc of Risskor did indeed smile, though only with the eyes. Abruptly the grin faded. “Falc... I heard that ‘a Deathknight’ was attacked, in Secter.”

  Falc recognised that as a question, but had nothing to offer. He said so. Then: “I hope it is not so. Baysh... as I said, I’ve just come from Lango.” Quietly he told the other Rissman of the need of Holder Chasmal. “An agent of his will stop here for two days, as of either tomorrow or the next day. Should you have occasion or desire to speak with him...”

  “Hmmm,” Baysh of Risskor said, pretending to consider though Falc had already seen his interest. “I am well established here...” He broke off to wait for comment. None came.

  Falc merely hinted at a shrug, the faintest rise of one shoulder. “I know of his need, and that he would value a good Housechief, not to mention a superb one.” He paused, and understood the meaning when the other Rissman sighed and looked down. “You and he would get along, Baysh That’s all I have to say. You know we monkish murdering monsters are not seeking to start trouble between excellent Housechiefs and their estimable masters.”

  Baysh rapped the table and sat back. He spoke to the tabletop, in a quiet voice: “Well you know that my lord Arisan is about as estimable as a rutting barga, old know-all.” The faint rise of one of Falc’s shoulders only hinted at a shrug. He said nothing. With a rather jerky nod Baysh leaned forward to touch the other man’s black-clad arm.

  “Wi’ thanks, Falc.”

  “Just being about my business, Baysh.”

  “This fellow serves good beer and I like the decor,” Baysh said, wearing a face of exaggerated innocence. “I may happen by here again, soon.”

  Falc nodded.

  “What do you need, Falc?”

  Falc gestured with his head. “That hat.”

  Baysh rose. “Good night, Sir Omo. Ashah ride with you.”

  Falc showed no surprise. It was not an unknown phrase, after all, and surely there were some outside the Order who had heard some and perhaps all of “Destiny Wears a Black Cloak.” He watched Baysh out before he picked up the hat and rose to go to the private sleeping room Corunden had been fortunate enough to have available.

  With the door locked, Falc began the ritual disrobing.

  The Messenger did not manifest itself.

  2

  In the morning Falc presented the innkeeper with a sack of wine and a pair of captured daggers in payment of his bill. Purple-cheeked Corunden held both palms out, but all six fingers and both thumbs were turned down, in rejection.

  “I have already been paid by your keeping order, Sir Omo.”

  Falc continued to hold out the knives. “‘Success has a handmaiden, and her name is Luck.’ And I have many weapons, good Corunden.”

  “And I have sufficient knives, Sir Falc. Such a gift far exceeds your bill.”

  “Good!” Falc said, and placed the unmatched pair of daggers on the counter, almost soundlessly. “Remember Falc of Risskor next time!”

  “Such a gift will cover several next times,” Corunden said, regarding the knives without touching them.

  “Fine. Pack me a knapsack, then, and let us stop this unseemly haggling. Oh — don’t bother putting in wine!”

  With a ridiculously full knapsack slung on Harr’s back, Falc rode out of Morazain. He did not head westward, but through the Princehead Gateway and back
the way he had come.

  On a high place overlooking the road he had used yesterday, he kept watch on that dust-coloured ribbon. Long ago he had learned that form of patience that came from doing something, almost anything, while he waited and observed. Today he quietly sharpened all his blades as he muttered psalms and homilies of the Way. The sun dragged its feet across the sky. Today’s meditation was on the first statement of the Credo: “To be a Son of Ashah is not just to have faith and duty, or to be faith-wedded or duty-bound, but to be dominated by one’s duty and faith, which are one, in every aspect of one’s life.”

  Falc kept ordering himself to dispel the unworthy and contentious thought: “Not, O Ashah, easy!” The meditation taught to the Sons of Ashah proved that the individual contained within itself the power to change itself, but... not, O Ashah, easily.

  At a bit past noon he tugged off his gauntlets, opened the knapsack, and ate sparingly of the several days’ provisions Corunden had packed. A large butterfly chanced too close and Harr snacked. The sun edged across the sky. Clouds intervened and birds complained. The sun reappeared and birds rejoiced noisily. Harr found a lovely ant-infested stump and enjoyed a late lunch. His master watched the passage below of the man he assumed to have been sent by Chasmal, in hopes of doing business with Baysh.

  Without conscious thought, Falc mentally registered the dusty orange cloak and the silly feathered hat.

  He maintained his watch. He saw no band of swordsmen, no one he deemed suspicious, and none on the darg he had sent back toward Lango. The sun lowered and began to take on the colour of the cloak of the presumed Langoman.

  When the road was clear, he rode down. This time he was admitted to Morazain without delay. Falc passed through the red and orange gateway without comment or a glance at the roundhouse. He paced Harr carefully to the White Horn. He stopped twice for others, despite being waved on. A man scowled. Falc affected not to notice. A darg hissed and Han-affected not to notice.