Sir Apropos Of Nothing Part 8

That b.i.t.c.h.

"That b.i.t.c.h," I said out loud, as if simply thinking it wasn't enough. "That d.a.m.nable b.i.t.c.h."

Had any of it been real? Our lying together, the emotions that had been stirred . . . had she done it in order to put me off guard, so that I would lead her straight to my nest egg? For that matter, had she been the one who had stolen the money from my mother, seeing the corpse and figuring she'd have no need of it . . . and then lay with me to augment her riches? Was she capable of doing such a thing? Well, h.e.l.l, maybe. The truth is that, even though I had known her my entire life, I didn't really know her. In fact, I was becoming increasingly certain that I didn't know anyone, or anything about anyone.

I let out a ragged cough, and then another. My lungs spasmed as the last of the ashes which had gotten in there were propelled out. Other lads my age had complained about having their mothers getting in their hair, but I seriously doubt that any of them had ever meant it quite so literally.

She had left me my staff. Now, wasn't that a sweet thing of her to have done. The way things were going I was surprised she hadn't picked the d.a.m.ned thing up and used it to stave in my head once and for all. I bent over, nearly stumbling again, before getting a grip on the staff and using it to steady myself. Then I limped toward the door of the stables, and out. The fact that it was raining was of no consequence to me at all.

I stood out there in the rain, the heavy drops pouring down, and I stretched my arms out and raised my face to the sky. My mother's ashes were washed off me, although some remained in my clothes, discoloring them permanently. And there, in my fallen state, I laughed. Because it had been all so ridiculous. The cynic had lowered his guard. I had listened to the siren call of l.u.s.t and love, and for just the briefest of moments, I had surrendered the eternal vigilance that was my credo. Naturally, I had paid for that, paid for it with the loss of all the money I had saved up. Astel could have gone anywhere by that point, in any direction. She had a head start of hours. She'd probably even arranged for a mount, for she had most certainly planned this ahead of time; on horseback, she could be miles away.

She had a head start, she had my money, and I had absolutely nothing except the clothes on my back and a few pathetic possessions in a small bag inside the barn. All that . . . and the taste of ashes in my mouth. How cla.s.sically Apropos.

I had no idea what the h.e.l.l I was going to do. I could seek out the shelter of the Elderwoods, go crawling back to Tacit. But that wasn't going to happen. I could seek out Stroker's help, but I doubted he was going to think much beyond the notion that, whatever had happened to me, I deserved it. Who knew, perhaps he was right.

"You have a destiny," she'd said to me. Perhaps I did, but at that moment, I had no purpose at all. No plans, no direction, and nothing in particular to do. Nothing except a burning need for vengeance against those who had done me wrong.

I wiped the soggy ashes from my face, very likely making a bigger mess than before, and decided at that point that I might as well seek vengeance on he who had murdered my mother. That need burned more brightly than wanting redress for the ills that had been done me by Astel. In a way, I was almost grateful to her, for she had driven home to me the remarkably useful lesson that one must never relax, never trust, not for a moment. It had cost me money now, but with any luck, it would save me money in the future. I would trust no one, ever again, and put my needs, wants, and desires ahead of everyone else's. That was, after all, the way of the world. My aching head was more than sufficient reminder of that.

The wrong that had been done to Madelyne, however, needed avenging. Not only had she been deprived of her life, but also I had been deprived of her company. Much to my surprise, I found that I missed it, and her. Someone had to pay for that. It was not a matter of honor in particular, for I had none to defend. It was simply a matter of the natural order of things. Personal grievances require response.

But I knew that I, alone, could not possibly seek satisfaction from Meander's Journeyman. Even if I managed to find him, from what I'd heard he would make short work of me, and where would be the point in that? I had been toying with the notion of employing a sword-for-hire, and there were certainly enough of them about. Some bruiser with a huge blade who could act on my behalf while I watched from a safe distance. Such men did not come cheaply, though. Had I the money I'd been stockpiling, it would have been an easy matter. But I was now a pauper, devoid of any funds, and I would never be able to afford such an individual.

No, the idea bandied about earlier seemed to be the way to go. I would go to the court of King Runcible and seek redress of grievances there. I would demand the head of the marked man who had slain my mother, and Runcible would certainly listen to reason and acknowledge the fact that his subjects could not, should not, be treated in such a cavalier fashion. An attack on a freewoman would not be tolerated. Yes, definitely the king would see to that.

I would go to King Runcible to seek justice, to avenge my mother's death . . .

. . . and, truth be told, to kill time, because I had nothing better to do.

As for Astel, wherever she was, I hoped that she would have a long and lingering death, and that said death would involve multiple open sores and scabs, preferably in the vicinity of her private regions.

It was not a gentle notion, but it brought me some small measure of comfort.

Chapter 8.

The long journey to Runcible's palace went without incident. That was certainly a refreshing change of pace.

I couldn't help but notice the change in the realm of Isteria as I drew closer to the king's palace. The quality of homes and places of business enjoyed a definite upswing. I was not simply approaching the power of Isteria, I was also approaching the center of money. If one is looking for the true places of puissance, one need look no further than to see where wealth is concentrated. I suppose that is the fundamental difference between places where the rich dwell and places where the poor dwell. The wealthy are grouped together because it gives them a warm feeling to look upon others of their own kind. The poor are lumped together because they have no choice.

I drew within sight of the castle, and truly it was a most impressive affair . . . at least, from what little I could see of it. There was no moat around it, as I had heard some other such structures had. Instead there was a high and extremely st.u.r.dy-looking wall that ringed its perimeter, and I could see-if I looked very carefully-bowmen casually strolling along the upper recesses. For guardsmen they seemed rather relaxed. I could only a.s.sume that if danger presented itself they would be a bit more on their guard. As for the castle proper, I could see very little except for hints of the tops of towers, with flags bearing the Isterian crest fluttering in the vagrant breeze. It was a lovely day, for what that was worth, the blue sky bereft of clouds.

At what I perceived to be the main gate, there were a goodly number of people hanging about. There were also several rather self-important-looking guards who were not letting them through. I strode up to them with as much swagger as I could muster considering I had a limp and said, "I wish to see the king in the Hall of Justice."

The guard looked me up and down. He did not seem impressed. "You'll have to wait."

"Until when?"

"Until the day that he sees commoners in the Hall of Justice. That would be noon tomorrow. And he only sees ten people on judgment days, so you'll have to wait your turn and hope you get in." He indicated the others who were milling about. "Why don't you go stand with the others . . . presuming with that crippled leg, you can make it that far." Then he chortled at his impressive lack of wit.

At first I was going to raise my voice in protest, but then I realized that there was no point. This was simply a brainless guard, following orders, given a smidgen of power and savoring it like a fine wine. He wasn't worth my time, and it would only amuse him, even empower him, to see me objecting to cruel or callous treatment. Without a word I turned and walked over to the others who were waiting. I hoped they wouldn't notice that my belly was already growling. The only food I'd had to eat was some provisions that I had managed to swipe from Stroker's before setting out. Two skins full of water, some a.s.sorted table sc.r.a.ps. I'd rationed them carefully, but they were starting to run low, and my stomach was definitely drawing that to my attention. Furthermore, because of my exhaustion, my lame leg was sorely tired from the long walk it had taken me to get there, and it felt as if I were dragging along a slab of iron rather than something approximating a human limb. I endeavored to conceal it as best I could, but the limp was still even more p.r.o.nounced than it usually was. I heard the snickering of the guards and did my best to ignore it.

The others glanced at me briefly before returning to either talking among themselves in low voices or, more prevalently, simply standing in silence. Every so often some new n.o.ble or important person would ride up to the gates, and they were naturally ushered in immediately. Rank had its privileges, although I had to admit that a few of our number truly did smell rather rank. As for our group, I did a quick head count and found that there were approximately twenty people ahead of me. This did not bode well. Perhaps some of them were together, and the number of cases the king had to face was fewer than it appeared, but I still didn't like the look of it. If I didn't get in this go-around, I might have to wait around until the following week. By then my supplies would have long run out, and I frankly wasn't entirely sure how I was going to go about replenishing my stock. Certainly I'd learned sufficient woodcraft during my time with Tacit that I could take to a forest and hunt game, but I wasn't overwhelmed with the notion. More likely I'd probably just resort to stealing money or food from others. That, of course, carried its own risks. I wasn't seeing a large number of choices being presented to me, though.

As the sun drifted lazily toward the horizon, dark clouds began to roll in. More foul weather was clearly on its way. I couldn't quite understand it. Isteria had a rainy season, but this wasn't it. Generally, around this time of year, the weather in Isteria was quite mild, bordering on warm. In recent weeks the weather had been unseasonably foul. It bothered me, and it also bothered me that it bothered me.

Before long the skies opened up. This time, however, there was no thunder. Instead cold rain, quickly transforming itself into frozen rain, began to fall.

There were loud profanities from the others in the group, whose number had swelled to about thirty. Several of them had brought lean-tos or other means of convenient shelter. As for the guards at the wall, they had small guard booths into which they could step, keeping them safe from inclement weather.

I had nothing. I simply leaned on my staff and endured it. I wasn't about to go running around, trying to find someplace where I could hide from the frozen rain.

From their shelters, I could see the guards pointing and snickering at me. Let them. As if I cared what they had to say.

The frozen rain came down harder and harder. I felt my hair stiffening, icicles forming on my eyebrows. I didn't move. I remained utterly stoic, as if I was challenging the G.o.ds to throw their worst at me. As for the others in our waiting group, the weight of the collecting ice soon became so overwhelming that the lean-tos collapsed. There were moans of frustration, more cursing, as the crowd shook their fists at the sky and howled over their bad luck. As for me, I said nothing. What was the point? Since the loss of my mother, my virginity, and my life's savings, all in rapid succession, I felt emotionally numb. I had run the gamut and was simply exhausted from it. I couldn't even muster enough emotion to get upset over slowly becoming coated with ice.

The icy rain showed no sign of letting up and one by one the crowd began to scatter. Whatever issues they felt they wanted to take up with the king, apparently they decided that it could wait for a time when the weather was going to be more cooperative. Although the first few departed with reluctance, within minutes the rest of them were in full flight. Soon I was the only one remaining.

For the first time in a while, I moved. My clothes felt stiff and partly frozen to me. I made my way to the closest point to the gate, where the ones who had previously been first in line had been standing. Then I planted my staff resolutely and took up my vigil once more.

The guards had stopped laughing by that point. They simply watched me, as if I was some sort of oddity. Later that night, with the rain still coming down, there was a changing of the guards. The newcomers looked at me with open curiosity as the others whispered in their ears, pointing at me. There was no laughing, no snickering.

My tattered cloak, the only protection I had against the weather, hung heavily around my neck. It was frozen solid. There were icicles decorating my lips, and I sucked on them, appreciative of the moisture and glad that it meant I didn't have to dip into my water skins for a bit longer. Sometime around midnight, I think it was, I fell asleep. Yes, I slept standing up, leaning on my staff for support. At one point I partially woke up and was convinced that I was dead, for I couldn't open my eyes. It took me a few long moments to realize that they had frozen shut. I also became aware, however, that the rain had stopped. It was quiet as the grave. I forced my eyes open, and could hear the ice cracking as I did so. I maintained my posture, continued to stand there as immobile as a statue. It was still dark, but I sensed that the sun would be rising soon.

And rise it did. It was nice to know there were a few things one could count on. The chill that had brought the frozen rain the night before was now gone, replaced by a glowing warmth. The ice was melting off me, collecting in puddles at my feet. I gave it no more heed than I had given it when it was forming upon me in the first place. I just stood and endured.

As the sun climbed higher on what promised to be a glorious day, my wet clothes slowly dried on me. But I began to feel a chill to my bone. The extremes of cold and hot were wearing on me, and it was becoming that much more of an effort to cling to the staff and not tumble over. I was stubborn, though. There was another changing of the guards, and the ones who had been on post when I first arrived returned. They made no pretense at that point of doing anything other than just staring at me, and then they looked at each other and shook their heads.

Slowly people started approaching the gate. I recognized many of them from the night before. They were the ones who had fled when the weather became too much for them. It was approaching noon, and one of them . . . a burly individual . . . strode up to me and jerked a thumb behind himself. "Back of the line, cripple," he said.

It was everything I could do to repress my shivering. I was loath to let him think somehow that I was trembling out of fear. If I had in fact been feeling anything other than exhaustion, I would indeed have been afraid. More than likely, I would immediately have acquiesced to his demand. He was a head taller than I was, and infinitely better rested.

At that moment, however, I was too exhausted to give a d.a.m.n about anyone or anything. Furthermore I was concerned that if I tried to walk, I might fall. That's how tired I was. "You left," I said. They were the first words I'd spoken in nearly twenty hours. My lips were cracked and a bit blistered, and what I'd said came out as something of a croak. "You left," I said again. "I stayed. I'm front of the line now."

"The h.e.l.l you are," said the burly individual. "Move, cripple. Now." And he grabbed me by the arm.

There is no sound in the world quite like the sound of a sword being drawn from a scabbard, particularly when it's a big sword. It was that very distinct noise that froze everybody in their place, as a guard-the one who had spoken tauntingly to me the day before-pulled his weapon and held it in a casual fashion. He appeared physically capable of separating one's head from one's shoulders with minimal effort, and from an emotional point of view would do so with impunity.

"Let him go," the guard said evenly.

"But . . . but he-"

"He," the guard continued, in a voice surprisingly soft for one of his size, "is now the front of the line. Remove your hand from his shoulder, or I will remove your arm from your shoulder." He was tapping the flat of his blade gently into his palm. He looked like someone who hadn't used his blade in a while, and was eager for an excuse.

Just like that, the restraining hand was gone from my arm, and the rest of the crowd took up its position-in most desultory fashion-behind me. I wasn't quite sure how to react to what the guard had just done, and I looked at him with clear confusion on my face. He simply tapped his blade to his forehead in a sort of salute to me, and then sheathed it and went back to his station.

I didn't know what to make of it. As far as I was concerned, I had displayed the questionable attribute of not knowing when to come in out of the rain. And because of this, the guard was suddenly treating me as if I was worthy of respect. Only in this world of topsy-turvy att.i.tudes could outright stupidity, such as I had displayed, be something that got me high marks. I had an amused glimmering of a notion at that point: If I ever turned out to be a complete and utter fool, I could wind up running the whole kingdom. It was something to consider.

I heard a bell chiming the noon hour from somewhere behind the walls, and the guards stood back as the great doors opened of their own accord. Another guard was now standing just within, but unlike the others his tunic was deep purple. I guessed from that, along with the self-important way that he was carrying himself, that he was from the king's personal guard.

The guard at the door whispered something to him, and the purple guard's gaze flickered in my direction for a moment. Obviously I was the topic of discussion, but both of them were trying to be subtle about it. They weren't terribly successful.

The purple guard then paced out the people waiting on line, selecting the first ten who had issues and disputes they wished to bring before the king. As I had suspected, it wasn't a one-for-one. Some had come in couples, and one was a group of three. All in all there were about eighteen of us, but there were still a number of frustrated individuals who had to turn and walk away. I couldn't help but notice that the burly fellow who had tried to send me to the back of the line had fallen just below the cutoff . . . all thanks to me. He growled in my general direction. I ignored him. It was easy.

The inner city, the city within the walls, was also called Isteria, the same as the kingdom. We entered through the gate and I could immediately see the palace much more clearly. There was a main street that cut through the center of Isteria, which lay within the walls. There were shopkeepers, vendors. Two blacksmiths, and three weapons makers. Four pubs, which frankly astounded me. What could people possibly need more than one pub for?

I also noticed something else. There was no poverty in Isteria. No hint of want, no sign of crime prompted by desperation to put food on the table or bread into one's stomach. No matter where one wandered in the rest of the outer realm, want and need were represented in some way, shape, or form. Beggars here and there, or stores that were shuttered for lack of business. A former pickpocket, wandering about forlornly because two fingers of his right hand had been chopped off in punishment. And of course, there were always the smells. The aroma of a charnel house wafting from one direction, perhaps. Or the odor of excrement, sometimes human, sometimes animal. One always had to watch where one walked. And mud. Mud everywhere, particularly after some nasty weather such as we'd been having lately.

But in the capital of Isteria, there was none such. It seemed pure and perfect. The main street was layered with a sort of hardened clay, smoothed off for easy transport. There was no c.r.a.p anywhere about, and not a whiff of any offal odors. All the people seemed happy and healthy and just pleased to be alive. It was as if I were looking upon a world that never existed, and yet here it was all laid out for me.

Some of it could be ascribed to money, of course. Isteria City had the highest concentration of wealthy individuals, from the king and queen on down. It was likely that even the guard who was escorting us, as far down as he was in the grand scheme of things, probably earned as much in a year as the average citizen of Isteria proper earned in five or ten years. I had mixed feelings about it, which I found disconcerting, because usually I had such a steady and endless wellspring of cynicism that my feelings-except for flashes of genuine affection for my late-if-benighted mother-were uniformly consistent. On the one hand, I looked with contempt upon a capital city that so poorly reflected the land that it ostensibly represented. On the other hand, I was envious and wondered what it would be like to be a part of it.

The palace only seemed to get larger as we drew closer, spires reaching so high from this angle that they seemed to be scratching the sky. Flags fluttered in the breeze. I felt my legs start to buckle, and the guard noticed and steadied me. "Quite a few people get weak-kneed from being impressed," he told me in a low voice. The sentiment was much appreciated, although in my case I was simply hungry and exhausted.

Without preamble, we were escorted directly into the palace itself. I was immediately struck by how cool the air was. Perhaps the reason it was so striking was because it caused me to shiver even more. I didn't like the feel of the raspiness building in my lungs. More than anything, I would have simply liked to lie down on a bench for an hour or so. Obviously, however, that was not an option.

"In here," said the guard, and we were ushered into a room that was fairly stark. A table had been set up at one end with small refreshments. I was the first one at the table, gobbling down whatever I could, even shoving aside an old woman to get at a small morsel of food which others would have considered an appetizer, but for me was an entire meal. I gorged myself on what amounted, comparatively, to little more than table sc.r.a.ps.

Unfortunately, because I gulped whatever I could down, my stomach was caught off guard. I felt it starting to heave, but with sheer force of will I kept everything down. I engaged myself by looking more closely at the others in the room with me. I was struck by the variety of expressions they bore. Some seemed hopeful, as if this was the culmination of a lifelong dream. Others appeared apprehensive, fearful of what they would experience. Still others appeared resigned, as if they were convinced that this entire endeavor was simply a waste of time. I wondered where my own expression fit into the array.

The door opened and this time another purple-clad guard was there. He pointed at me. "You. Come."

I did as instructed, limping after him as best I could while trying to keep my shoulders squared and what I laughingly referred to as my dignity intact.

I was struck once more by the coolness of the castle. Cold air kept things preserved. That made sense, of course. It was entirely to the advantage of the n.o.bility to preserve the status quo, to keep things entirely as they were. After all, since they were at the top of the heap, what advantage was there to risk knocking out any of the supports?

Knights pa.s.sed me by. I wouldn't have recognized them as knights at first, since they weren't wearing their armor. Nor was there reason for them to be. They were "off duty," as it were, the castle not under attack. Nor were they planning to ride out at the moment and enforce the king's justice, or perhaps rape some poor helpless trollop in the city.

Elaborate tapestries hung along the walls, with depictions of adventure and feats of derring-do portrayed upon them. On most of them, words were interwoven along the borders, and the words were always some sort of uplifting comment. JUSTICE ABOVE ALL, proclaimed one. PURE OF MIND, PURE OF BODY, PURE OF SPIRIT, said another. All charming phrases designed to educate and impress anyone foolish enough to buy into them.

Two knights were approaching, engaged in conversation. I wondered if either of them was my father, and tried to see something of myself in their faces. One of them had eyes that reminded me of my own, while the other had reddish hair that was evocative of mine.

It was hopeless. A hopeless game that existed only in my mind. As the knights pa.s.sed me by without giving me a second glance, I knew all too well that the notion of determining who was my true father was purest folly. First of all, I had no way of knowing whether he was even still alive. There had been skirmishes, quests, and such during the intervening years, certainly. My father might have fallen to an opponent's arrow or a blast of dragonflame. Anything was possible. Being a knight was not the safest of occupations, after all. And if he was alive . . . if he did lurk somewhere within these walls . . . did he even remember that night? The night that I had been so violently conceived? Was it all a drunken blur to him, indistinguishable from who knew how many other nights of revelry and debauchery? Did he remember Madelyne's face at all? Had she meant anything to him?

As my erratic footsteps echoed in the great corridors of the palace, I became convinced-with greater clarity than I'd ever known in my life-that the answer to all of those questions was no. None of it meant anything to these protectors of justice and morality. Perhaps I had an abundance of siblings wandering about from similar evenings of entertainment by these great and just individuals; all of those siblings equally meaning nothing. The slight fluttering in my stomach from before was replaced by a slow, burning anger. In a way, I almost welcomed it. It made me feel truly alive.

I heard voices up ahead, laughter echoing. Powerful laughter, the laughter of strength and confidence. For a moment-just a moment-I envisioned going in there and pointing an accusing finger at the a.s.semblage. "One of you," I saw myself stridently declaring, "is my father!" And the reaction to that would be . . . what? Shocked looks? Embarra.s.sment? Shuffled feet, scuffed toes, an inability to meet my gaze or the critical stare of their fellows?

Nonsense. Very likely they would laugh at me derisively before throwing me out. Very likely, they wouldn't believe me. They probably bought into the nonsense of their little homilies about truth, justice, and morality.

Or even worse, they would believe me . . . and simply not care. The notion of being laughed at by these . . . these holier-than-thou mighty knights was more than I could bear. So I resolved to say nothing of my parentage, preferring instead to focus on the matter at hand, the slaying of a freewoman of Isteria by one of the minions of the mad king, Meander. Perhaps it would lead to a full-blown war, which would result in the death of whichever one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds present-if any-happened to be my father. It wouldn't be much in terms of evening the scales of true justice, but it would be something.

I was ushered into the main hall and looked expectantly to the throne. There were twin thrones, although one was a bit smaller than the other . . . presumably that one being for the queen. Both, however, were vacant. Instead, there were several knights grouped around, and they were dressed a bit more formally than the others I'd seen roaming the halls. They sported nicely adorned tunics, one of them with gold epaulets. They were also armed with short swords hanging from their hips, although considering the number of guards standing about at the ready, I could only a.s.sume that this was more for show and ceremony than anything else.

What truly caught my eye, however, was the huge tapestry that hung behind the thrones. I couldn't quite believe it, and just for a moment, I felt a winter chill finger my spine. It was unmistakably a representation of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of its predecessor. Moreover, someone was astride it. It was impossible to make out the details, for the bird was so large that it dwarfed its rider by comparison. Perhaps "rider" was too generous a word, for to call it such would be to call a flea a jockey.

"She would have loved to see this," I said.

I sensed an immediate change in the atmosphere of the room. Until that moment, there had been relaxed chatting, albeit in muted tones. When I spoke, however, there was immediate silence. I looked around, making no attempt to hide my confusion.

One of the knights, the one with the epaulets, had a foot propped on one of the steps leading to the thrones. He had an air of confidence about him, and he looked at me as if I provided him with amus.e.m.e.nt. "You speak out of turn, young sir. Youth may excuse much . . . but not everything."

I supposed that, had I a brain in my head, I would have taken my cue to be properly quavering. Instead I said, "I thought that, since the king isn't here yet . . . well, there was no harm . . ."

"The king?" The knight sounded properly entertained, and there was now a ripple of laughter through the court. There were several ladies in waiting, and their high-pitched giggling was added to the mix. For some reason I found that even more irritating than the sneering of the men. "The king is not in attendance at the present time, young sir."

"But I . . ." The confusion must have been all over my face. "I . . . thought this was the time when he heard pet.i.tions, complaints . . ."

The knight sauntered to a podium that stood somewhat left of the throne. He moved with a fluid and easy grace. He was not especially tall, and his black hair-tied back in a tail-was streaked with gray. His eyes glittered with a cold intelligence. "The king is the court of last resort. Most matters are not of sufficient moment to warrant his attention. I am his chief magistrate, Sir Justus. Whatever issues you have, you will tell them to me and I will settle them."

"But I was told the king-"

He cut me off, politely but firmly . . . a bit more the latter than the former. "I am telling you differently. Since I am here, and whoever told you otherwise is not, I suggest you attend to me, not him. If you wish, think of me as the king, in that I speak with his authority . . . and therefore, in that sense, you are dealing with him. Now . . . what weighs on you, young sir."

I realized that I wasn't going to get anywhere demanding to see the king. Furthermore, I started to feel slightly light-headed, as my exhaustion began to catch up with me. If it hadn't been for the small amount of food and drink I had managed to grab, I likely would have pa.s.sed out right then.

"My mother," I said slowly, "is dead. Her name was Madelyne, and she worked at a pub called Stroker's."

I was hoping that some reaction would accompany that announcement. I wasn't quite sure what, but . . . something. But there was nothing. Simply blank stares.

Sir Justus affected some vague interest. "What was her position there?" he asked.

"She . . ." I could have come up with a lie, but Sir Justus had pale green eyes that seemed to penetrate into portions of my mind that I would have far preferred to keep private. So instead I said, "I . . . do not think that is especially relevant."

"She was probably a wh.o.r.e then," said another knight, and there was rough laughter from all around. All of a sudden I would have liked nothing better than to crush their skulls if there was a way to take all of them at once.

"Yes," I said, making no attempt to hide my annoyance. "She was." I wanted to shout out, And a group of you raped her years ago, and I was the result, you sanctimonious pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! And a group of you raped her years ago, and I was the result, you sanctimonious pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Instead I restrained myself sufficiently, and simply inquired, "Do any of you have a problem with that?" Instead I restrained myself sufficiently, and simply inquired, "Do any of you have a problem with that?"

If there had been a surprised silence before, the quiet that greeted my newest outburst was positively deathly. "Have a care, child," said the knight who had just spoken. He was a burly fellow with a bristling mustache.

I wasn't backing down. I was too tired and not thinking clearly enough to worry about normally overwhelming concerns such as my continued health. Considering what was truly tumbling through my mind-the accusations, the vituperation-what I was allowing myself to say was incredibly restrained. "It is a simple enough question, milord." There was nothing in the way I said the honorific that could have implied any true respect on my part.

It was Sir Justus who replied. "All creatures serve their purpose in their own way, and in that respect are equal. She was what she was, and I see no point in dwelling on it. Am I correct in a.s.suming that the manner of her death is why you are here?"

"Yes." Clearly he was endeavoring to move on, and probably I should follow his lead. "She was slain by a Journeyman."

"One of King Meander's men." He didn't sound surprised.

"You know? You know of Meander's presence?"

"Of course." There were nods from the other knights now. There were no longer any expressions of contempt or annoyance. Apparently Meander's presence was something that they took rather seriously.

"Well then . . . I demand justice for her. Her life was ended, brutally, tragically, and prematurely. She was a freewoman of Isteria. There must be a . . . a balancing of the scales."