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HONOR? HONOR IS JUST a word men use to justify their actions.
—Yolan Manespike
* * *
AFTER LEAVING FARGIN’S house, Hangric seemed uncomfortable looking Onin in the face. Did the big man also harbor resentments, Onin wondered as his friend walked away.
Fargin’s accusations had rattled Onin. His feelings were raw, and he wanted to drink himself into a stupor to forget the pain as well as the pain of his friends. However, experience taught him the value of temperance. A night of revelry may seem cathartic, but the next day brought the inevitable hangover with the problems precipitating the binge unresolved. Still, much as he thought the situation over during the walk home, he came to the opinion perhaps a drink or two would not be out of order.
With the thought of ale firmly in mind, he accepted the goblet proffered by Howle as he crossed the threshold of his home. Onin immediately retired to the terrace. He wanted to feel the cool breeze and hoped it might cleanse his mind of its dark thoughts somehow. Onin finished his wine in just a few gulps but refused when offered a refill.
His mind preoccupied with thoughts of his friends, Onin struggled with the disappearance of Rabbash and the fact that the Fargin he knew and loved seemed to be no more. He also felt self-conscious, wondering if there might be truth to his wounded friend’s accusations. Was he somehow responsible for Fargin’s loss? It had been his idea to go into the underbelly to search for Rabbash. Onin’s memories also conjured another old friend, a smiling one with sharp wit and sharper tongue. Onin hadn’t thought of Flea in years, but his recent grief made his friend’s absence ache within him.
Onin looked out over the city below him. As the manor of a Great Family, his home sat well above the lower sections of the city, where the common people lived. In the evening, many lights could be seen, and the bustle of the city’s inhabitants continued undeterred. Onin considered the many people living in those lower levels and knew yet another level, another city, existed deep below, where the light of the sun never reached at all. The immensity of the Heights staggered him in the moments he thought of it, and it did something to turn him away from darker thoughts.
"You look well for someone who’s supposed to be dead."
Onin turned to see his father-in-law, Torreg, stepping onto the terrace. He embraced Onin warmly and held him at arm's length, appraising him. After satisfying himself the younger man was whole, Torreg looked deeply into his eyes.
"I take my compliment back. You don’t look well at all."
Onin had no response to the comment but didn’t doubt its truth. Instead of speaking, he gestured for Howle to bring wine for Torreg and accepted a refill of his own goblet. Within moments, the two were seated comfortably, enjoying the breeze while sipping wine. Neither spoke for some time, but eventually Onin broke the silence.
"It’s not even the same man," he said. Onin rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "Fargin was always so . . . full of hope."
Torreg nodded solemnly. "The injuries of battle are not confined to the body," said the older man. "I’ve seen men under my own command survive a battle without a scratch but later be unable to lift a sword for the trembling of their hands. His wounds were grievous, and he must now face the prospect his days as a Guardsman are over."
It hurt to hear the truth out loud, but Onin couldn’t refute it. The circle of friends worked so hard together over the years, he couldn't accept that one would not be able to continue on the same path. Fargin lived but had lost the primary thing he lived for.
"I’m sorry for your friend’s pain," continued Torreg. "But I confess it is overshadowed by the happiness of your return. You know I love my daughter, but if she were the only person to talk with around the manor, I might get myself reassigned to the Midlands again."
“Whatever are you talking about? You’re hardly ever here, even now that you’re home.”
“Well, that’s true. It seems every detail of the order is mired in bureaucracy these days. Every little suggestion has to pass a dozen reviews from as many officials. More time is spent in formalities than productive work.”
“Watch yourself. Isn’t that the kind of talk that had you assigned to the Midlands?”
Torreg gave him a disgusted look. “At moments, that fate doesn’t seem so bad. The Midlands is far away from all this pointless bureaucracy. But what else am I supposed to do? I must persist or these problems only become worse.”
"What news from the order, then?" said Onin, changing the subject. "I’ve been away for some weeks now. Have we received confirmation yet?"
Torreg broke into a wide grin. "Indeed, we have," said his father-in-law. "My promotion to commander is official. The ceremony is next week. I’m being assigned the palace detail, which is something I wanted to speak with you about. I’m hoping you’ll accept reassignment to palace duty."
"Palace duty?" said Onin. "Isn’t there a long list of applicants? It’s our most prestigious assignment."
"Yes, but these applicants you speak of want the assignment for the wrong reasons," said Torreg. His lips curled in a sneer. "Palace detail has become the easy, no-risk assignment of any Guard. Those guarding the king and successor never face danger, and they have almost constant access to the wealthy and powerful of the Heights. It’s a fawning conniver’s dream." Torreg paused to drain his goblet and have it refilled by the dutiful Howle. "The men currently on palace detail see it as an opportunity for social advancement, not a sacred duty. Despite the large numbers of men to be found there, security around the king is astonishingly lax. My goal is to change that, to restore discipline and vigilance, and I need men who recognize the need for proper measures around the king."
"I can see your point," said Onin. "But you have said yourself in the past, why would anyone target the king? It would make no sense and ultimately have no effect. The successor would ascend to the throne, and everything would be back to normal."
"Who knows?" said Torreg with a shrug. "But just because we can’t think of a reason doesn’t mean one can’t exist. As Guards, we have no idea what may happen or why, but we must prepare for all the possibilities we can foresee. By my reckoning, the king is vulnerable. Did you know he’s never even trained with a sword?"
With that, Torreg slammed his goblet on the table between them and clapped Onin on the shoulder.
"So say ‘yes,’ my son," said Torreg. "Help me to restore the sacred duty that is the reason for our order’s existence."
* * *
THE CHICKEN WAS COOKED to perfection, each bite juicy and succulent. Sensi could tell it had been braised with butter while roasting. To one side sat cooked vegetables and a selection of dried fruits and nuts, as yet untouched. The wonderfully prepared fowl occupied his attention, almost to the point he couldn’t listen to the words being said.
"The current cost of raw iron is at an all-time high," said Tamzor, his assistant in charge of requisitions. Tamzor might be a terrible bore, but Sensi appreciated his keen attention to detail. "The Guard have requisitioned one thousand new blades of the strongest steel. To purchase the iron and pay blacksmiths is beyond the budget. In order to fulfill it, we would need to siphon funds from elsewhere."
Sensi knew ripples would emanate throughout the king’s service at the suggestion. To divert funds from other budgets to support the Guard would be an unpopular move. However, they were beholden by law to provide the Guard with the materials and funds requested.
"What about the iron in the king’s storehouses?" Sensi asked around a mouthful of chicken.
"We have sufficient iron in storage to fill the order," said Tamzor. "But just barely. I have already mentioned this fact to the captain in charge of the order, but he insists we must not use the iron in storage. We have a royal decree stating that we must keep a certain amount in the king’s storehouses. We would go far below that amount using the iron for this project."
Sensi sipped wine from a simple silver goblet. It complemented the seasoning of the chicken.
"And you have calculated how much iron we can take from storage without dropping below the threshold," concluded Sensi. "How much of a deficit are we looking at?"
Tamzor seemed pleased with himself. "We can cover roughly one third of the order."
Sensi leaned back and thought things over. "Then place one third of the order. Purchase no iron, and use whatever we can from storage."
"Won’t the Guard insist on the entire allotment?" asked Tamzor.
"They will get it . . . eventually," said Sensi. Satisfied with the chicken, he began to pick at the dried fruits before him. Sensi could never pass up a taste of something sweet, and he settled on some sugared raisins. "We must provide them what they ask for, but we will not impact other operations of the king’s service to do it. We’ll give them what we can now and fulfill the rest of the order when we can acquire iron at a reasonable price."
Tamzor nodded but did not seem pleased. "I see the reason behind your decision. But I feel the captain in charge of the order will not. I fear he will be intractable on this issue."
"A difficult captain? Forbid the thought," said Sensi wryly. "What is this captain’s name?"
"Torreg," said Tamzor. "A most disagreeable sort, I can assure you. He spent many years serving below, mingling with Mudlanders. The crudeness seems to have rubbed off on him."
"Deliver my decision," said Sensi. "If Captain Torreg persists, I’ll contend with him. Now if there is nothing else, I have someplace else I would like to be."
Tamzor inclined his head politely before withdrawing. Sensi left the remaining food where it was; his servants would see to its removal. Sensi had more responsibility than ever before but also enjoyed greater benefits than ever before. While substantial, most of his workload could be delegated to members of his staff.
Sensi wrapped a light cloak around his shoulders and left his office after a short discussion with his staff. His assistants were competent and well trained, and he felt confident leaving daily affairs in their hands.
Though he considered hiring a sedan chair for the trip, Sensi decided he would rather walk. It seemed more fitting for the occasion. The weather was sunny and bright, but the steady breeze kept the heat from being oppressive. Even still, Sensi was unused to physical exertion and was sweating profusely long before he reached his destination.
As he entered the chapel, Sensi dropped a handful of coins in the offering box. The attending priest made a gesture of blessing over him as he entered the mausoleum. Square stone panels covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Most had a tiny plaque with a name on it.
Sensi stood before one, his head slightly bowed. He remained silent for a long time but eventually spoke.
"Mother," he said. "It’s been some time since my last visit, I know. Now, though, I don’t have to be so concerned about your safety." She would have appreciated the dark humor in her younger days. "I never thought you were happy to see me. As a matter of fact, I don’t know why I continue to come here at all. You refused my help at every turn." Sensi felt tears in his eyes and wiped them away angrily.
"I could’ve pulled you out of there," he said. "You could have lived somewhere better. But you refused to leave that place. Why? Did you really believe he would come and find you? What a fool."
Sensi heard the priest greet some other parishioners for evening prayers. He composed himself and cleared his eyes before speaking again, this time in a conspiratorial whisper. Sensi leaned closer to the plaque with his mother’s name.
"My father has had every chance to recognize me. He never has, not even the slightest. I’ve no love for the man, and he has earned my contempt for letting his own flesh and blood rot away in the underbelly. One day, he will come to regret his decision."
Sensi touched his fingers to his lips then to the cold stone plaque. Feeling the fatigue from his walk, he went outside and hired a sedan chair to convey him to his home.
* * *
ONIN FIDGETED IN FULL ceremonial dress, but palace detail required it. Onin had spent quite some time combing his hair and trimming his beard to prepare for his first day but still felt unkempt and crude. Howle, who had served Torreg for years before Onin came along, had polished his armor to a bright shine and had proven instrumental in arranging the long cloak in the appropriate bundles and layers. The intricacies of formal dress were beyond Onin, and he was glad for the help.
Like all Guards before him, Onin had memorized the layout of the palace soon after being inducted, so he did not have to contend with finding his way about, thank the gods. Many Guardsmen were about at any given time, but they hardly took the duty seriously. Most slouched against a wall or talked incessantly with one another or the servants. A few seemed to drop the pretense of being on duty at all and lounged about on the furniture when they thought no one of authority watched.
He made his way to the location of Torreg’s office, as he had been directed. When he arrived, he saw Captain Bolg already seated in the office but no sign of Torreg. Bolg's ugly face broke into a grin when he caught sight of Onin, and the two clasped hands warmly.
"Aye, it’s good to see you, lad," said Bolg. "I heard you had some trouble recently."
"Nothing to get excited over, I assure you," said Onin.
"A fortnight-long drunken bender, if your wife is to be believed," said Bolg with a harsh laugh. He furrowed his brow in apology, but Onin just waved it away.
"Yolan and I fight; everyone in the Heights knows that by now. But I’d rather hear what is going on in the Midlands. You can’t have been back long."
"Two days now," said Bolg. "Things are far from peaceful, I’m sad to say. We’ve had five attacks by feral dragons in the last two weeks. During one attack, they succeeded in bringing down a verdant dragon. It’s the second one this year."
Onin whistled. "Two in a year. I wonder what is making the ferals so bold."
"Old stories say this happens from time to time. Old timers will speak of such things, but I’ve not seen it in my days as a Guard."
Torreg entered the room. Both men rose to greet him, and they took turns clasping hands.
"Commander Torreg," said Bolg, placing emphasis on the title.
"I’m glad the two of you are here at the same time. We’ve something to discuss." Torreg took a moment to make sure his door latched. He motioned for the two men to follow him to the seats nearest the hearth. "I hope the sound of the fire will obscure our conversation," he whispered. "Keep your voices low, we may have eavesdroppers."
Onin was shocked at the implication. He had never considered such clandestine activities going on within the palace itself. He didn’t like the thought of looking over his shoulder everywhere he went. He did as instructed, however, and the three men bent their heads together to talk in hushed whispers.