"So, Vaijon. Are you ready?"
The question came in a gently sardonic voice, and the
golden-haired young man standing before the mirror in the
chapter house's entry vestibule turned quickly. A faint
flush touched his cheeks as he recognized the voice's
teasing edge, but he bent his head in a small bow.
"I am, Sir Charrow."
His reply was proper enough, but irritation lingered in
his expression. Not overtly; it was more subtle than any
scowl, little more than an extra bit of tension in his
jaw, more sensed than seen, perhaps, with just the tiniest
edge of challenge under his courteous words. Sir Charrow
Malakhai, Knight-Captain of the Order of Tomanak and
master of its Belhadan chapter, hid a sigh as he wondered
if the youngster even realized that edge was there. Sir
Charrow had seen other arrogant young sprouts-more of
them, in fact, than he had any desire to contemplate-
during his years with the Order. Fortunately, Tomanak's
Order, as a rule, had a way of knocking that sort of
attitude out of its brethren; unfortunately, the process
seemed to have gone awry this time.
"Good, my son." The knight-captain made his words a gentle
reprimand and was rewarded by seeing the younger man's
flush darken. Whatever else he might be, Vaijon wasn't
stupid. He recognized a rebuke even when he truly failed
to grasp the reason for it. "This is a very important day
for our chapter, Vaijon," Charrow went on in a more normal
voice. "It is up to you to represent us-and Tomanak-
properly."
"Of course, Sir Charrow. I understand. And I'm honored by
the trust which led you to select me for this duty."
Vaijon went down on one knee and bent his head once more,
and Charrow gazed down at him for a moment. Then he laid
one scarred hand, blunt fingers still strong and calloused
from regular practice with sword, bow, and lance, upon the
gleaming gold hair.
"Go then with my blessing," he said, "and with that of the
God. May his Shield go before you."
"Thank you, Sir Charrow," Vaijon murmured. Charrow's mouth
quirked in a small smile, for there was a trace of
impatience in the younger man's voice now to mingle with
his lingering irritation. Clearly, if he had to do this,
he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.
The master of the chapter considered pointing out that
this was not precisely the correct attitude for one being
sent forth on the War God's business, but then he thought
better of it. Vaijon's attitude, after all, was one reason
he'd selected the young knight-probationer for this
particular task, and so he settled for patting him on the
shoulder and left.
When he looked back from the doorway, Vaijon was back on
his feet and gazing once more into the mirror. The knight-
captain shook his head with another smile. It was a wry
smile, and if the young man before the mirror had been
even a little less involved with his reflection, he might
have felt a twinge of alarm at the sparkle of amusement in
his superior's eyes.
At twenty-five, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas, Baron Halla,
fourth son of Earl Truehelm of Almerhas and cousin to Duke
Saicha, Royal and Imperial Governor of Fradonia, was a
handsome young man. He was also a very large one (he stood
six inches over six feet, with broad shoulders), and as
the son of a great noble and heir to a barony in his own
right on his mother's side, he had begun his weapons
training early. He moved with the trained grace of a
warrior, his muscles had much the same solidity as well-
seasoned oak, long hours on the training field had gilded
his complexion with a bronze which lingered even in
midwinter, and the deep green surcoat of the Order of
Tomanak set off his hair and flashing blue eyes admirably.
Sir Vaijon was well aware of all those facts. Indeed,
although it would have been unbecoming to admit it, he
knew he took a certain pride in them. As his father was
fond of pointing out, after all, one had a duty to one's
blood-and, of course, to the Order-and presenting the
proper appearance was part of discharging that duty. When
one looked the part of a knight of the Order and spoke
with the confidence of a gentleman, one's words carried
additional weight even with one's peers and impressed
lesser folk into obeying one without bothersome argument.
In moments of honesty, Sir Vaijon was prepared to admit
that his pride in his birth and appearance stemmed from
more than a simple awareness of how they served him in the
performance of his duties. To be sure, the administration
of justice was the primary purpose of the Order, and it
was clear to Vaijon that an imposing presence and the
judicious use of his aristocratic titles would ...
encourage others to defer to him when he stepped in to
settle disputes. He couldn't change who he was, anyway, so
why shouldn't he embrace his identity and use it to the
Order's benefit?
Yet as he listened to the door close behind him and used
the mirror to check his grooming one last time, Vaijon
knew Sir Charrow disagreed with him. The knight-captain
considered his firm sense of who he had been born to be a
flaw, though Vaijon had never been able to see why. Or, at
least, to see that it detracted in any way from the
performance of his duties. Not even Sir Charrow could
fault his passion for truth and justice; indeed, the
master was more likely to suggest in his gentle way that
Vaijon might want to temper his quest for justice with a
bit more compassion. Nor could he fault Vaijon as a
warrior, for it was a simple fact that no one had ever
bested him-in training or actual battle-since his
seventeenth birthday. Which was only to be expected in an
Almerhas of Almerhas, of course. And in one who had known
almost from the day he learned to walk that he was
destined to be a knight of the war god.
Yet the master seemed to have reservations even there, as
if he thought Vaijon's confidence in his abilities
constituted some sort of overweening pride, even
arrogance. But how could simply admitting the truth of
one's own capability be arrogance? And it wasn't as if
Vaijon thought that he alone deserved all the credit for
his prowess. He knew how much he owed his instructors for
his superlative training, and he was well aware of how
fortunate he was in terms of the size and native strength
with which Tomanak had blessed him. Indeed, that awareness
of the favor the Sword of Light had shown him was one of
the reasons he longed to administer justice among the
little people of Orfressa, which was why he was often
baffled by the master's concern when all he sought was to
be worthy of the trust Tomanak had chosen to repose in
him.
When Sir Charrow spoke, Vaijon always listened, of course.
It was his duty as a knight-probationer, and no Almerhas
of Almerhas ever failed in his duty. Yet closely as he
listened and hard as he pondered the master's words, he
could not convince himself Sir Charrow was right. Justice
was justice, truth was truth, and skill at arms was skill
at arms. To deny or compromise any of them was to undercut
all the Order stood for.
And as far as his birth was concerned, Vaijon had never
claimed precedence over any other member of the Order,
however low born those others might be. Indeed, he took a
certain pride in the fact that he never had. Unlike many
other chivalric orders, the Order of Tomanak stood open to
all, and fitness for membership was judged solely on the
applicant's merits. It was, perhaps, regrettable that such
a policy allowed the occasional lowborn embarrassment
entry, but it also meant that only the most qualified
warriors from the ranks of the gently born were admitted,
as well. And however common some of his brother knights
might be, Vaijon knew their hearts were in the right
place, else they had never been admitted in the first
place, which made up for a great deal. Besides, the better
born and more sophisticated members of the Order-like, for
example, Sir Vaijon of Almerhas-could normally cover their
occasional public gaffes, and Vaijon defied anyone to name
one time when he had treated any of them with less than
true courtesy.
And so far as those who were not one's brothers were
concerned, neither Tomanak's Code nor any law or rule of
the Order specifically required one to actually socialize
with inferiors so long as one saw to it that they received
justice. Still, he couldn't escape the notion that Sir
Charrow felt he should be more ... more-
Vaijon couldn't lay his mental grip on the exact word to
describe what Sir Charrow wanted of him, but he knew it
was there. The knight-captain didn't lecture him-that
wasn't the way of the Order-but there had been enough
elliptical references to the character traits of a true
knight to leave Vaijon with no doubt that Sir Charrow was
unconvinced he possessed them all in proper proportion.
More, Vaijon remained only a knight-probationer after
almost three full years. He knew his failure to advance
beyond that status had nothing to do with his prowess,
which could only mean Sir Charrow had delayed his
promotion for other reasons, and Vaijon had noted (though
no proper knight could admit he had) that the master had a
tendency to single him out for particularly onerous duties
from time to time. Not dangerous ones, and certainly not
ones to which a knight of the Order could object, yet
subtly ... demeaning? No, that wasn't the word either. It
was as if ... as if Sir Charrow hoped that by burdening
him with tasks better fitted to the more humbly born he
could force Vaijon into some sort of insight.
If that was, indeed, the master's purpose, Vaijon had no
intention of objecting, for Sir Charrow was his superior
in the Order. He was also one of the noblest, and
certainly one of the holiest, men Vaijon had ever met, and
the younger knight did not even blame the knight-captain
for his own lack of promotion. He might not agree with it,
but decisions on advancement were properly made by the
master of a chapter, and it was the mark of a true
gentleman to accept the decisions of those placed in
authority over him whether he agreed with those decisions
or not. And if Sir Charrow wished Vaijon to learn some
lesson or attain some insight which had so far eluded him,
then the younger knight was earnestly willing to be
instructed by him. That, too, was one of the traits of a
man of noble birth, and hence, by definition, of an
Almerhas of Almerhas.
Unfortunately, he had yet to obtain so much as a glimpse
of whatever Sir Charrow intended him to learn, and there
were times when he found the knight-captain's notion of
his proper duties more objectionable than others. Like
now. Not that there was anything ignoble about this task,
but the morning was little more than an hour old, and six
inches of fresh snow had fallen overnight. A knight must
be hardy and inured to discomfort, yet there were very few
places Sir Vaijon of Almerhas would rather be on a morning
like this than buried in a nice, warm nest of blankets.
Certainly the last place he wanted to be was down at
dockside, and in the full regalia of the Order to boot.
He gave the set of his surcoat one last, finicky twitch of
adjustment and grimaced as he listened to winter wind moan
just beyond the stout front door. His silvered chain
hauberk (a gift from his father when he earned his
probationary knighthood) glittered brightly, and the gems
studding his white sword belt (a gift from his mother on
the same occasion) sparkled, yet he suspected he was
fiddling with his appearance at least in part to delay the
moment he had to step outdoors. The deep green surcoat,
woven of the finest silk, emphasized the splendor of his
accouterments ... but it wasn't very thick. Just this
once, Vaijon thought longingly of the plainer, cheaper
surcoats the Order provided for those knights who lacked
his own family's private resources. They were far more
plebeian-rather drab, in fact, with minimal embroidery in
barely adequate colors-but there was no denying that they
were warmer.
Perhaps so, he told himself, but a nobleman must hold to a
higher standard, especially on important occasions. And if
his surcoat was thinner than he might have wished, at
least he had the arming doublet under his hauberk and the
otter-trimmed cloak his mother's ladies had sewn for him.
Of course, once the wind moaning outside the chapter house
had a chance to sink its teeth into the steel links of his
mail they would nip right through his arming doublet, but-
He shook his head and scolded himself for thinking about
such things at a time like this. However much the
weaknesses of the flesh might make him long to avoid
exposing himself to the chill-and this early, to boot!-the
task he had been assigned was a great honor for a knight-
probationer, and Vaijon drew another deep breath, swept
his cloak over his shoulders, picked up his gloves, and
headed for the door.
Evark Pitchallow laid his schooner alongside the pier with
a master's touch. Wind Dancer ghosted in under a single
jib, then kissed the fenders guarding her hull from the
pilings like a lover, and a dozen longshoremen caught the
lines her crew threw ashore. Thicker hawsers followed, and
it took no more than a handful of minutes to wrap them
around the mooring bollards and lower a plank from the
pier. It angled steeply downward, for the schooner's deck
was much lower than the edge of the wharf, but heavy cross
battens promised plenty of traction for those who had to
use it.
Evark spent a few more minutes making certain Wind Dancer
was properly snugged down, then tucked his thumbs in his
belt and marched over to where his passengers stood in the
waist of the ship with their meager belongings at their
feet. He paused in front of them, rocking back on his
heels to regard them properly, and Bahzell smiled down at
him.
"Well, I've seldom seen a scruffier pair," the halfling
allowed after a moment, and Bahzell's smile grew
broader. "Aye, all very well to stand there with a witless
grin, fishbait! But this is the big city, not some ratty
little town in the back of beyond, and the Belhadan
Guard's not exactly known for viewing vagrants with
affection. If you want my advice, you'll lie up somewhere
out of sight and see about at least getting yourselves
some clothes that pass muster."
"'Vagrants' is it, now?" Bahzell laid a hand on his
massive chest, and his foxlike ears flattened in
dejection. "You're not after being one to smother a man
with flattery, are you now?"
"Ha! Calling you two that probably insults real vagrants!"
Evark snorted, and there was more than a little truth to
his words.
Bahzell's gear had been passable enough when he fled the
Bloody Sword city of Navahk, but since then he'd covered
the full length of Norfressa, north to south, on foot,
through a particularly rainy autumn and the onset of
winter.