Deathknight

by Andrew J Offutt

  “Holder?”

  Daviloran turned at that voice; Jinnery’s. Wearing a little frown, she was gazing past him at the dark man in the bed. “Our patient needs medication and a rewrapping of his wounds, Holder. Holder, Sir Mandehal, I beg you... may I be so rude...? He needs these things now.”

  “In the name of Ashah, aye!”

  “Oh, ’f course,” Daviloran exclaimed.

  The two departed. Jinnery stepped aside for them, looking most respectful. Ridiculously overdonely respectful, Falc thought. Then she entered and closed the door before wheeling on him.

  “Why in... in... why ever did you tell them you have decided you will need ‘a few weeks’ to recover? And what ‘dreadful medicine’? I force nothing on you, ungrateful cousin!” He spoke briskly. “I commend your swift comprehension and devising a way to get them out of here, Jinn. Please find a way now to bring the Holder back, alone. Perhap you might say to Sir Mandehal that as he knows, only a man may — oh, see my head. Then talk with him while the Holder comes.”

  Jinnery put her head on one side and stared at his coif-covered pate. “Only a man! But you said before that —”

  “Yes, Jinn, and that was true; no one sees the head of a Son of Ashah, no one at all. But you see I think Mandehal will not know that. Please — go and send in Daviloran. This is most important.”

  “Falc?”

  He thrust out an arm with extended finger pointed at her and gave her pomposity: “These things are good in little measure and evil in large: yeast, salt, and hesitation!” Then he relented: “Please, Jinn. Now.”

  She sent a loud breath gusting through her nostrils. “I didn’t know you knew that word,” she muttered.

  She hurried over to set down the tray before leaving him with swift steps. Falc didn’t even think to check the contents of the tray. Moving as rapidly as he could, he fetched his weapons belt into the bed with him, and covered it and the sheathed blades. He sat up in the bed, staring at the door.

  Ashah be with and guide me now, for I may have found it!

  Suddenly it occurred to him that in his situation undercooked red meat would be as much value to him as the presence and guidance of his god. He snatched up the tray and began a most unmannerly eating.

  He had just gotten rid of the grease on his hands and swallowed the last wolfed bite when Daviloran appeared. Falc was on his feet, staring darkly.

  “My lord Holder, that man may be Mandehal, but he is not Sir Mandehal and he is not of the Order Most Old. He is an impostor and likely the murderer of Kaherevan; that is, one of them, for it would take more than one such as Mandehal to slay one of us.”

  Staring open-mouthed, Daviloran took advantage of his first opportunity to speak: “What?!”

  “Holder Daviloran: In the event that he might be nearly as good as an omo, I suggest that my lord send household peacekeepers for him, numbering four. Bid them take care not to endanger my cousin Jinnery. I further urge my lord to have them bind his hands behind him and bring him here — where you, too, will be. I shall prove that he is an impostor, and we shall try to learn a few little things together. All this I beg, Holder Daviloran, for the good of the Order and society — and my lord Holder’s estimable self.”

  “Sir Falc — oh, certainly, esteemed Falc, of course. May I ask how you are so sure that he is not of the Order Most Old? Do you know the name of every member?”

  Falc nodded, mouth tight and grim. “I believe I do. He must be wary right now, for certainly he never intended to meet a real omo here! Thus care had better be taken in the manner of his detaining. Doubtless he does know considerable; and yet he was so stupid as to make the simplest mistake. It’s a natural one to anyone not of the Order, I suppose, particularly its enemies. Aside from the matter of his accent: it is Darsinian, and through what I’ve been assured is mere coincidence, no Son of Ashah is Darsin-born. More definitively, he referred to me as a Deathknight. We do not call ourselves that, Holder, ever. We do not think of ourselves so. Understandably, we dislike the term.”

  “Uh, as you say, Sir Falc: understandably.”

  Falc continued to gaze at him until the fat man nodded, swallowed, nodded again, and bethought him to turn and quit the chamber. Immediately Falc of Risskor returned to the bed and hurriedly muttered the Words of the Blades while he buckled on his weapons over the robe. He listened to untoward noises from below, and on the steps. He heard no ring of weapons, and no cry of pain. He was standing before the window, weapon belt girding the maroon robe, when a man in Daviloran’s colours bustled through the open doorway. Stepping to one side in an attitude of readiness, he joined Falc in watching two others hustle in the supposed omo.

  Mandehal’s hands were bound behind his back. He glared at Falc. Daviloran followed the others, and then Jinnery. She looked at once pale and yet satisfied. Jinnery had been given a mission and she had carried it out.

  So had the lightedhearted and usually jovial master of Cragview, to whom it had not occurred that a knight of the Order Most Old had taken control of him and his household.

  “He had to be taken physically, Sir Falc, but no one is wounded.”

  “Brother! What means this!”

  Falc’s gaze was on Daviloran, ignoring Mandehal. “Understandable, Holder. He is hardly so dangerous as a trained omo.” Moving slowly, he used his left hand to push up the right sleeve of his robe. He held that hand out, palm up.

  “See the scar on my wrist? Who knows what it is?”

  “I know,” two voices said; Jinnery and one of Daviloran’s peacekeepers.

  Falc looked at the man. “Say it.”

  “It’s the scar of Sath,” the fellow said, glancing around in embarrassment at being the centre of attention of six people. He was close to middle-aged, but his cleanshaven face was open and youthful. “It is a part of the ritual of the Order Most Old. All omos have one, right there. My wife’s cousin Sench of Southradd is a knight of the Order.”

  “Indeed he is,” Falc said, realising that this man and his wife did not yet know of the murder of her cousin. “Would you — excuse me. Lord Holder, would you please have this man show me the scar on Mandehal’s wrist?”

  “Damn you, Deathknight!” Mandehal struggled violently. He was held. The man he kicked kicked him back.

  Daviloran’s eyebrows were up. “Hmm! After that outburst, I s’pose we needn’t bother. But do show us that wrist, Chalan.”

  The household guardsman did. Mandehal had to be held, and forcibly turned. Everyone present saw his scarless left wrist.

  “He’s a damned rotten impostor!” Chalan burst out, obviously scandalised.

  “I’d say you know better than anyone that no Son of Ashah is going to refer to self or anyone else as ‘Deathknight,’ Chalan,” Falc said quietly.

  “’Ndeed! Cousin Sen — that is, Sir Sench sure let us know that, Sir Knight of the Order!”

  “We do indeed have an impostor,” Falc said quietly, “and I’d say he is one of those who murdered Sir Kaherevan in Lock, and kicked and beat him, and stripped him, and dumped his naked body into the river with the sewage.” He paused, noting how that grim catalogue stirred up everyone just as he wished. The dark glances and glowers Mandehal received were nothing compared to what these people would obviously love to give him. “My lord Holder?”

  “Uh — the Query Chamber I maintain below the House, Sir Falc?”

  “Just the place, I’m sure. Please, my fellow men of weapons, please don’t rough him too much. Your lord and I shall want to hear a number of things he has to tell.”

  One of the two holding Mandehal chuckled.

  “I’ll tell you nothing, you grim-faced swine!”

  This time all three peacekeepers chuckled.

  “Out,” Daviloran said. “To the Query Room with — that.”

  “My lord Holder,” Falc said, “I need a brief conference with my cousin, and then I shall join you to visit with that source of sausage.”

  At last a smile returned to Daviloran’
s face. Then it fled, replaced by a look of concern. “You sure you’re strong enough, esteemed Falc?”

  “Holder, I have just grown immensely stronger,” Falc assured him.

  *

  Over her objections, Falc had Jinnery tape him tightly so that he could move about and dress.

  “Thanks, Jinn. Now you must wait outside.”

  “Oh, Falc! I can help you — think how often I’ve seen you with much less than your full... uh, habit.”

  “I know, cousin. But an omo must dress ritually, and that you must not see.”

  She gave him a look, but left the chamber. Falc locked the door. Then, for the first time in many days, he began the ritual and the words of attiring himself.

  When at last he emerged, Jinnery and Daviloran were both impressed and shaken by how sinister he looked, the poor invalid in bed suddenly become the tall grim omo, all in black. This was no patient. This was Sir Falc of Risskor, O.M.O. Long jet cloak fluttering about his ankles, he paced to Jinnery and surprised her anew by gripping both her shoulders fondly. Then he turned to Holder Daviloran.

  “Holder, this man must be questioned on behalf of the Order and I think all Sij. If you accompany me you may see things you would prefer to have missed, and hear things you will wish you did not know.”

  Daviloran put his head on one side. “We’re going to question him, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he’ll speak up right away?”

  “No.”

  Holder Daviloran smiled. “Good.”

  Jinnery put her hands over her mouth. The crinkles at the edges of her eyes showed that what she was concealing was not shock.

  “May I try to extract Holder’s promise that if after a time I ask to be alone with the prisoner, you will humour me?”

  “So long as it isn’t too soon, Sir Falc. Don’t think you’re going to be rid of me if you’re going to whip or burn that swine a bit! The only thing I might see that I’d wish I hadn’t,” their ever jovial and almost cherub-faced host said, “is if the murdering turd-pile speaks up right away.”

  It proved to be Falc of Risskor who was shocked: Jinnery’s laugh burst through her hands.

  5

  Holder Daviloran’s gently-named Query Chamber lay beneath the rear of his manse. There he and Falc stood by while two uniformed men happily relieved Mandehal of the uniform of an omo. When the prisoner sought to resist, an unfriendly knee shot upward to come to a jolting halt at the apex of his thighs. Mandehal went delightfully pale, and sagged. He was swiftly stripped.

  “Leave the coif,” Falc said.

  He received a couple of glances, but his face remained immobile and Daviloran’s peacekeepers obeyed him. When Mandehal wore only the black skullcap, they swiftly chained him upright to a thick wooden slab, a broad door-like surface. A horizontally attached cylindrical projection across the small of his back forced him to arch his naked body away from the frame. The guardsmen stepped back, shooting hopeful looks at their employer and the omo who had risen from bed to become a dark and sinister questioner with a face of cold iron.

  “Afraid not, lads,” Daviloran said cheerfully. “Go along, now. Take those clothes to the seamstress. Remember that patch she put in Sir K’s leggings last month? Ask her to look for it. When you have her words, come back and knock twice-then-once. We won’t be responding to anyone else. Sir Falc and I believe this source of sausage knows things no one should, but we’ll try to be heroic about it.”

  “Whoremongering son of a guhh!”

  “Hope it was all right, me denting his gut that way, my lord Holder sir.”

  “It’s all right, Sarminen, all right. If we learn what a son of a guk-k-hh is, we’ll be sure to tell you.”

  Sarminen and Chalan left chuckling. While Daviloran secured the door against needless interruption, Falc stepped before the prisoner. Before he could speak, Daviloran did.

  “Falc.”

  The omo replied by turning a questioning face toward the Holder.

  “Everyone here liked Sir K, Falc. That’s nearly all we called him. We were friends.”

  Falc saw no reason to say anything. With a nod, he turned back to the impostor.

  “You appeared here in a stolen uniform and arms of the Order Most Old, seeking the post of a man few people know is dead. You did not learn of his death the way I did, but you did know. It isn’t possible not to believe you guilty. We will soon know from this Holding’s seamstress whether you wore the uniform of Sir Kaherevan. It doesn’t much matter. What we want to know is the name of your employer. You can tell us now or you can make us work for it.”

  Mandehal said, “Shi-i-it.”

  Falc’s calm nod showed no emotion.

  “Touch of the whip?” That cheerily spoken suggestion came from behind him.

  Falc spoke without turning from Mandehal. “I’m just out of bed, Holder. I doubt whether I’m up to whipping.”

  “I am!”

  “It’s dramatic and a good enough punishment,” Falc said, looking into Mandehal’s eyes, “but usually a waste of time in getting a man to talk. Burning usually brings swift results, but I see no brazier aheating. Are we equipped with a lobster?”

  “Right here.” Quickly Daviloran produced that device called the Lobster’s Foot. Merely a pair of pliers whose business end consisted of two iron blades some seven centimetres long. The sharpened blades were serrated. The resemblance to a lobster’s claw was apparent.

  “Of good Silkevare manufacture, too,” Falc observed at a glance, and gave the prisoner all his attention. “Mandehal, you can answer me before or after you spend the rest of your life branded with notched earlobes. Understand that once I’ve started, it will be both ears before I take time to listen again.”

  “Going to enjoy it, aren’t you, you black-winged vulture.”

  “Oh yes,” Falc said calmly, and reached for Mandehal’s left ear.

  Mandehal rolled his eyes to see Falc’s immobile face and steady stare. The prisoner’s dull eyes shifted their gaze to Daviloran. Very bright of eye, the Holder was smiling.

  “I’d say this is both stupid and wasteful,” Falc said quietly, pinching up an earlobe. “We’ll snip your septum next, whatever your name is from Darsin. You will embarrass and dishonour yourself by weeping and urinating. Then you will either tell us somewhat or we’ll try something that doesn’t merely hurt, but debilitates.”

  “You have all the emotions of a dragonel, haven’t you!”

  “I’m not doing this merely for pleasure, Mandehal. I know of the plot. The Master of the Order knows of the plot, and as of last night every omo does. Your fellow murderers are going to go down and then your employer will. You, meanwhile, will have suffered not for honour but for your own ego... and you will be an ugly cripple.”

  “You’re right; this is stupid and wasteful,” Mandehal said, and Daviloran looked disappointed when Falc paused, without taking the lobster away from the prisoner’s lobe. “I was given the uniform in Lock and sent here from there. The man who gave it me and told me what to do and say is Holder Stavishen.”

  “Stavishen!” Daviloran said, not quite in a gasp. “The very man into whose bloody hands I sent poor Sir K! Ah, damn, damn. It fits, too. That devil Stavishen lusts after more than one slave and facility of mine and my rental property in Lock, too. He murdered poor Kaherevan and tried to put this spy here in his place... and might well have succeeded but for you, esteemed Falc!”

  Looking thoughtfully at their prisoner, Falc nodded. “One thing does seem to follow the other, doesn’t it. Now I make my special request, Lord Holder.” He turned to face his host. “Please leave me with this man, just for a time. I assure you I don’t intend to kill him.”

  The master of Cragview showed his reluctance and disappointment with a sour look, but went along because he had promised earlier.

  When the huge door was closed behind him, Falc hesitated, but would not lock a man’s door against him. He turned, removing his gauntlet. H
e drew off Mandehal’s coif and ran his hand over the bald head. He found stubble.

  “Many probably know that a Son of Ashah has no hair on his pate, murderer. What few know is that hair does not grow on our heads. It can’t; it is permanently eradicated and further growth inhibited. The method is a secret of the Order. I tell you because you will never report to your master, whoever he is. Not young Holder Stavishen, 1 think, else you’d not have babbled it so fast. No, pitiful tool, I believe someone else charged you to submit to a little pain if you were caught out, and then to pass on that lie. Falc of Risskor tells you this, and you had best heed. Tell me who really hired you, and I guarantee you incarceration, which you may prefer to death. If you do not, spy and assassin, I guarantee you pain worse than you can presently conceive. Believe that, murderer.”

  That statement was the more chilling for being so calmly delivered, but the impostor was strong enough or stupid enough to say the wrong words.

  “It was Stavishen damn you, Stavishen!”

  “I think not. You have become far too anxious that I believe the Stavishen story. Heed me, Mandehal or whatever your slime-born name is. I am going to run this needle up your nose. See it twinkle? Either tell me right now, or don’t seek to stop me before the needle has come out the side of your nostril.”

  “Gods, Falc! Torture is torture and part of life, but do you have to mark me?”

  “I have never murdered, or stolen, or hurt the innocent. How can I be concerned with your appearance when your people are murdering men and you can help me stop it? All I seek is the swiftest route to any destination without going over or through anyone innocent. With you I don’t need to worry about that, do I.”

  “You pompous son of a syphilitic she-barga!”

  Falc sighed. “I will admit to pompous. It has long been a fault. I try to fight it. Usually I’m successful. Usually I’m successful at holding in check my pleasure in giving pain, too. You don’t try to help much, do you?”

  The prisoner surprised him then; he yelled for the Holder. On the instant, Falc clamped his chin with his right hand. With his left, the omo did as he had promised.