by Джеффри Лорд
The Feathered Ones could be trained for war, to attack horses or even Lords with their poisoned daggers. They could also be trained to fight more formal duels with each other. Enormous sums of money could change hands in bets on these duels. In the last twenty years alone, more than a dozen Lords had been completely ruined through losing bets on monkey duels.
The fighting monkeys were trained to be loyal to their own side. The dueling monkeys were trained, even more thoroughly, to be loyal to their masters and no one else. From Gennar's description, there could sometimes even be something like a telepathic link between a master and his monkey. Such a link was regarded as extraordinary proof that the man stood high in the favor of the Father of the River.
«I begin to understand,» said Blade. «The Feathered Ones who attacked you were from your own Duchy?»
Gennar started. «You do not see into other people's thoughts the way one of the Feathered People can, do you?»
«No. I do not think I reveal anything when I say that I have traveled through many lands and fought in most of them. I have seen this sort of thing happen elsewhere. Usually it means there is treachery involved, and sometimes treachery in a place where it is hard to fight it.»
«It is just that way here,» said Gennar. He went on with his explanation, now talking fast, in jerky sentences with occasional hard looks at Blade. In spite of this nervousness, Gennar told the rest of his story clearly. He was one of the Lords in the patrol Blade saw riding back to the village in the evening. «We wanted to catch the villagers returning with their valuables. We hoped for better loot or at least a few more women. We found only death.»
On the way back to the village the pack horse carrying the Feathered Ones broke away and vanished. Just outside the village the Lords were ambushed by a band of the Feathered Ones. Only Gennar and one other Lord got free, and the other Lord was dying from a poisoned dagger slash. Gennar stayed with him until he died, then fought off a band of outlaws and rode up into the pass.
«In the darkness we could not see whose Feathered People our attackers were. We thought they might be of one of our enemies, the Lords of Faissa. Then we found two of ours today where they should not have been, and this horse. I think it is possible that some of our Feathered People were turned against us.»
«You say were turned? They did not act on their own?»
«All the Fathers forbid! If they are coming to have that kind of will of their own, we are all in danger! No, I think it was our Master of the Feathers. Why, I do not know, and I would rather not speak of what I only suspect. Does this violate my oath?» He looked anxiously at Blade.
Blade shook his head. «No. The Master of the Feathers has so many opportunities for treachery every year that all a man's fingers and toes are not enough to count them. If he is proud or ambitious as well, as they often are…» That was as much as he dared say without knowing what a Master of the Feathers was.
«Very true. Not that a Master of the Feathers has no right to pride. He bears a great responsibility, watching over some five hundred of the Feathered People and their work. But I agree-they often think they are worthy of a higher place, and if someone offers it to them in return for a little help…»
They moved on in silence. So the Master of the Feathers was a Duke's chief monkey trainer? He certainly would have all sorts of chances for nasty kinds of treachery against anyone he saw as an enemy.
Blade had no doubt the monkey trainer of Duke Cyron would see him as an enemy, the moment word of this day's events got out. The man would have even more chances for treachery against a strange Lord wandering into the duchy from nowhere, one who didn't dare ask too many questions for fear of revealing that he wasn't a Lord at all!
Blade wasn't particularly worried; he'd survived more plots than most men ever read about. But he still knew that during his first few weeks among the Lords of the Crimson River, he'd better walk even more carefully than usual in a new Dimension.
Chapter 7
They reached the camp of Duke Cyron's Lords just before dark. Blade was beginning to wonder if they would be having dinner on what was left of the sausage, then saw the campfires ahead. A moment later he heard a sentry hail them.
«Who goes there?» The almost universal words, which Blade had heard in more lands and Dimensions than he could remember.
«Lord Gennar, the only survivor of Lord Fingo's party. I have with me the Lord Blade, an outlander under oath of secrecy.»
This announcement caused a considerable uproar. The sentry ran back into the camp, bawling the news at the top of his lungs. From the camp dozens of men came rushing, some tripping over trailing bootlaces and nearly falling into the campfires. Many were Lords, some were Helpers, and some wore so little it was impossible to guess their rank. Blade also saw half-naked women peering out from the door of a large tent. The uproar and the smell of garbage and open latrines told him that Duke Cyron's army had the usual loose discipline of medieval warriors. In battle they might be hardly more than an armed mob, even if most of the individual Lords in the mob were good fighters.
Eventually a squarely built Lord of medium height pushed his way through the crowd and shouted for silence. Gennar whispered to Blade, «That is Lord Alsin, Marshal to Duke Cyron.»
Alsin drove the spectators back with bellowed oaths, but Blade was still aware of curious eyes on him while Alsin and Gennar talked. For the first time since arriving in this Dimension, he wished he had more clothes on. He'd been so glad not to be stark naked that he'd almost forgotten that his present outfit might also look odd.
When Alsin and Gennar were finished, the Marshal turned to Blade and had him tell his version of the day's events. At last Alsin shook his head grimly. «This treachery you both describe means trouble for the duchy, of a kind we have long expected but hoped would not come so soon.»
«I am sure I can fight the-«began Gennar.
The Marshal interrupted him. «I am sure you will fight no one for several weeks, and if you will not swear this I will have you tied to your bed!» He lowered his voice, apparently trying to avoid Blade's hearing him. Blade's sharp ears made this futile. He heard the Marshal add, «I ask nothing against your honor, only that you think of more important battles to come.» Then Alsin turned to Blade.
«Lord-Blade. You have made a friend of a man more truthful than most, in saving Gennar from-the dangers he faced. I think you also have another Lord in this camp who will speak for you to the Duke. You must be the man who fought Lord Ebass after he'd been wounded.»
«The Lord whose opponent was slain by a Feathered One?»
«Yes!»
«I am that man,» said Blade. «I would not have fought Lord Ebass at all, but he seemed to be leaving me no choice.»
«That is so, and he admits it. He also admits that after learning what you must have done afterward, he owes you an honorable forfeit.»
«Doubtless we can speak of this when he is healed,» said Blade. «He will heal, I hope?»
«Some teeth are gone forever, and he will be muddleheaded for a few days. But otherwise he will heal. Lord Ebass is harder than most to kill,» Alsin added wryly. «Now, as for you-I hope I am not speaking too much against your honor when I ask you to give your word that you will not seek to escape. Then you may ride with us as a free Lord to meet the Duke at Castle Ranit. Otherwise… «Alsin's voice trailed off, as if the alternative was too shameful to mention unless Blade forced him to do so.
«I will ride with you, and lift a weapon against no man among you,» said Blade. «By the Fathers I swear it. I will even ride with only this knife, if you will swear that no man will be allowed to raise sword against me.»
«Most surely I swear it,» said Alsin.
«And I will guard-«began Gennar, before a glare from the Marshal silenced him.
«You will guard your tongue before anything else,» said Alsin sharply. «I am quite serious about binding you to your bed, if you go on showing no more wit than a boy.»
Gennar looked sulky, un
til Blade gripped him by both shoulders. «Come, my friend. I have put a good deal of work into bringing you home. Don't waste it by not taking proper care of yourself.»
There was enough light from the campfires for Blade to see Gennar blushing. «I am sorry,» he said. «My tongue is quick, even when my sword cannot be.»
Alsin rolled his eyes up to the stars. «To think I've heard him admit it!» He laughed. «All right, Gennar. To the doctors with you. Blade, come with me. Some clothes first, then a meal.» Blade followed the Marshal through the crowd, realizing suddenly how good the idea of food sounded.
On the whole, he could be satisfied with his position. Without giving up his masquerade as a Lord, he'd managed to place himself under Alsin's protection. That could give him at least a few days' security against whatever plots might be brewing in the Duchy of Nainan, while he used his own eyes and ears to learn his way around.
Like the Lords themselves, Castle Ranit would have looked at home anywhere in fourteenth-century western Europe. When Blade saw it two days later, silhouetted against the dawn on its hilltop, he again had the feeling he might have traveled in time as well as in Dimensions.
A dry moat protected the castle on three sides. On the fourth side the hill plunged a hundred feet straight down to a meandering tributary of the Crimson River. The castle itself was a huge square, with towers set at intervals around the yellowish stone walls. In the middle a round keep towered at least a hundred and fifty feet, and Blade saw the roofs of outbuildings peeping over the walls all around it. From the flagstaff on the keep streamed Duke Cyron's banner, a clawed green hand on a silver field.
The Lords rode through the village at the foot of the hill at a brisk trot, while chickens, pigs, and small children scurried in all directions. Blade remembered the day before, when he'd seen the Lords gallop through a village and trample a little boy into the mud. He could only grit his teeth and ride on, not daring to help or even rein in. Along the Crimson River those who weren't Lords were expected to get out of the way of Lords. If they didn't, anything that happened to them was their own fault.
The drawbridge across the moat swung down and the riders clattered in through the dark, musty gate into the castle's courtyard. Blade reined in hastily to avoid a stray dog, then two grooms were holding his horse's head so he could dismount. As he did so, he noticed that most of the castle's outbuildings were wood, with thatched or shingled roofs. Even the stone hall with its slate roof had high windows and a wide, unbarred doorway. This castle wasn't expected to stand a full-scale siege. Otherwise the outbuildings would have been stouter, or at least more fireproof.
Alsin led Blade straight into the hall, while the other Lords were still dismounting. The hall was hung with tapestries, some of them explicitly erotic, and crowded with polished wooden furniture. At the far end of the hall stood a chair almost large enough to be called a throne, made of intricately carved stone inlaid with ivory and decorated with gold leaf. On it sat a white-bearded man, who had to be Duke Cyron.
Blade expected heralds to sound trumpets or at least announce names, but Alsin simply strode down the hall toward the Duke. Again Blade followed. If Marshal Alsin didn't know the proper etiquette, no one did. Blade also remembered the casual way the Lords treated each other on the march. Along the Crimson River every Lord was equal to every other Lord. If another Lord's behavior offended you, you either ignored it or challenged him to a duel.
When they reached the throne, Alsin went down on one knee. Blade went down on both knees, figuring that as a complete stranger on parole, he ranked as low as a Lord could. As the Duke exchanged greetings with his Marshal, Blade studied the older man.
The Duke was about the same size and shape as the Marshal, half a head shorter than Blade's six feet one but nearly as broad across the shoulders. He wore a kneelength green robe with red borders over dark blue hose, and the legs inside the hose still showed a good deal of muscle. His head was nearly bald, but a bushy white beard reached down to the middle of his chest. The brown, wrinkled face above the beard was so much like an older version of Marshal Alsin that Blade found himself looking cautiously from one man to the other, making sure the resemblance wasn't just a trick of the light.
It wasn't. If the Duke and his Marshal weren't blood kin, Blade knew he'd like to hear the explanation for their looks. However, he hadn't heard a word on the matter from any of the Lords, who'd been looking at Alsin and the Duke every day for years. If this was one of the things that Nice People Didn't Talk About, then Blade would be one of the Nice People.
The greetings finished, Alsin told the story of the battle and what Blade did. By the time he'd finished, most of the Lords of the war party had crowded into the hall and were listening as intently as if they'd never heard the story before. Blade also noticed that some of them kept looking nervously over their shoulders toward the hall door.
«-like a Lord, so it seemed that his story was worthy of belief,» finished Alsin. «Your Grace, I lay the matter of Lord Blade in your hands.»
The Duke stared at Blade, who now realized that the man was extremely nearsighted. It didn't affect his dignity, and Blade doubted that it affected much else. He was the sort of man who would look twice as hard to compensate for seeing only half as well!
«Certainly you have the look of a Lord, and I have never known Alsin to be less than truthful. So you shall kneel like a Lord, not like a Helper.» Blade cautiously shifted to one knee. «Now, Lord Blade. Tell me the story of your deeds on the day of the battle in your own words, and be brief.»
Blade was halfway through his story when a sudden commotion behind him made the Duke look past him toward the door of the hall. Blade turned to see a darkhaired man, who must have been nearly seven feet tall, shouldering his way through the crowd of Lords. As they gave way before him, Blade saw that the man wore a suit of leather and had one of the Feathered People perched on each shoulder. A broadsword dangled from his waist, looking hardly larger than an ordinary man's dagger. Blade didn't need the whispers to tell him that this was Orric, the Master of the Feathers to the Duke of Nainan. He also didn't need Duke Cyron's suddenly frozen face to tell him that right now Orric was about as welcome as a man-eating tiger.
«Who mumbles lies about me into His Grace's ear?» roared Orric. His voice was in proportion to the rest of him.
Before either Alsin or the Duke could speak, Lord Gennar limped out of the crowd. He stood straight, even if he needed the help of a cane to do so. «I say the truth about what happened to me, and I would not have lived to tell of these things save for Lord Blade,» said Gennar firmly.
«I say that what is said against me and my loyalty to Duke Cyron is not true.» Orric rested one hand on his sword hilt. «By this steel I swear it.»
There was a long silence, and Blade got the distinct impression that everyone was waiting for somebody else to speak. Then Lord Gennar gripped his own sword and drew it.
«By this sword I swear that my words are the truth,» Gennar said.
«Then you have spoken words against the honor of a Lord,» said Orric, pronouncing the ritual phrase slowly and carefully. Each word was like a stone dropping into a well. He lowered his voice and said almost casually, «My honor. I will prove on your body that your words are false.»
Blade saw Lord Gennar swallow, but his voice was steady as he replied. «I shall prove upon your body that I speak the truth.»
This time the silence was broken by occasional mutterings. Blade heard the word «champion,» and saw a look pass between Alsin and the Duke at the word. Blade drew his knife and took two steps forward.
«I claim right to stand as champion to Lord Gennar. It will be some time before he is fit to fight Orric. Without a champion he must spend all that time bearing the name of 'liar,' or else fight and lose, to meet disgrace as well as death. That will be no true judgment of the Fathers, whatever Orric may have done or left undone.»
The Master of the Feathers glared at Blade. «This is no fit champion for Lord Gennar
. He is no Lord.»
Marshal Alsin's sword was out of its scabbard before the echo of Orric's words died. «He is a Lord, for I have brought him before the Duke as one. He is a fit and lawful champion by the laws and customs of the Duchy of Nainan.»
«And I have received him as a Lord,» said the Duke, with a sideways look at his Marshal. «Therefore he is a Lord, by my will and judgment. Will you dispute this, in order to pick a fight which will prove nothing but that a healthy man is stronger than a wounded one?»
Blade rather wished the Duke hadn't added the last sentence. From the murmuring it seemed he had the Lords on his side, but Orric was growling like a hungry bear and looked ready to start swinging his sword at any moment. Blade measured the distance to the Master with his eyes, and shifted a couple of steps to the right, to make sure he was between Orric and the Duke. He also hoped Gennar would keep quiet. All they needed to set Orric off now would be another well-intentioned remark from Gennar.
Apparently Orric could also estimate the odds he would face if he openly defied the Duke. He drew his sword and saluted Blade with such elaborate courtesy that it was like a slap in the face. «So be it. If Lord Gennar consents, I shall fight Lord Blade as his champion. Does he consent?»
Gennar's head jerked in an angry nod; apparently he didn't trust himself to speak.
«Very well. I do not imagine that the Lord Blade will have long to enjoy his rank, nor Lord Gennar to enjoy the reputation of a truthful man. But that is as the Fathers will it.» He sheathed his sword with more elaborate flourishes, bowed to the Duke, bowed again to all the Lords, and stalked out. Blade noted that in spite of his size he moved with grace and precision.
Then everyone was crowding around, pounding him on the back and shoulders, packed so densely that Gennar with his wounded leg and arm was in danger of being knocked down. Above the close-cropped heads of the Lords, Blade saw Alsin and the Duke exchanging more looks. As soon as he could, he pushed his way through the crowd to Gennar. «I hope I didn't kick you out of the frying pan into the fire by offering to be your champion.»