8: THE FOOL

Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since the Stone of Shackles was destroyed

“You are the Black Knight. I knew it.” Kihrin leaned back in his ch8air, pleased with himself. His theory about Janel looked increasingly probable.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no.”

“What? But you just said—”

“I was the Black Knight,” Janel corrected. “At any time, there are as many Black Knights as there are active tournaments.”

Kihrin paused. “You’re not the one Duke Kaen is offering a bounty to kill?”

Janel looked toward the bar, then returned her attention to Kihrin.

“No,” Janel said.

“Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I am. I came here to find that person. Duke Kaen of Yor has a significant bounty out on their head. More metal than most people will see in their whole lives. I figured that anyone Kaen wants dead so badly is someone I want as an ally.”

But even as he made his proclamation, Janel and Qown gave him a very odd look.

“If you tell me Kaen’s standing right behind me—”

Janel snickered. “No, he’s not.”

“So why are you both looking at me like that?”

Janel exhaled. “Let’s just say I don’t think Kaen’s going to be a problem.”

“But don’t worry!” Qown tapped the table with his knuckles for emphasis. “We’ll have whole new problems to replace him. And they’re just as bad, if not much, much worse.”

“If you were trying to be comforting—”

“Not really.”

“Oh good. Fantastic job, then.”

More cheers from the people playing their strange throwing game distracted Kihrin.¹ The large man tried enticing others into a new round, but no one proved interested.

Brother Qown laughed into his tea. “What a shocking conclusion,” he said. “He wins every game, and then is surprised no one else wants to play.”

Janel grinned. “Wait for it.”

“Will no one dare challenge me?” the man boasted, throwing out his hands. Groans and laughter met his question, with a few people throwing cloth napkins at him. “Come on, people, this is just for fun!”

Then the bartender leaped over the counter, using one hand as balance, and plucked a throwing stone from the winner’s hand. The wiry woman reminded Kihrin of the female members of his old criminal band, the Shadowdancers, who specialized in burglaries and knives. She had dark red-brown skin and shoulder-length maroon hair shaved to the scalp along one side. The rest of her hair fell forward to cover half her face.

The crowd made an ooooh noise, followed by shouted encouragements.

Kihrin had no idea how the game’s scoring worked, but the game itself involved bouncing rocks to hit a target. The woman skipped the rock against the stone floor. It made a birdlike chirp before landing in a perfect bull’s-eye at the board’s center.

She bowed to the crowd and made a rude gesture to the gray-skinned man on her way back behind the bar.

Kihrin chuckled as he turned back around. “I feel like I should be betting metal on this.”

“Why not? Everyone else is,” Janel agreed.

“Something to think about later, when the dice come out. In the meantime, tell me more about this Black Knight,” Kihrin said.

Janel’s Turn. The tournament grounds in Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.

By the time I led Brother Qown and Dorna back down to the tournament grounds, the sun had peaked overhead. The festival contests paused for the midday meal while everyone behind the scenes regrouped. As I suspected would happen, Captain Dedreugh hadn’t been involved in any more matches; his opponents forfeited their challenges, walking away embarrassed but living losers. Only an idiot could fail to notice how the crowd’s mood had turned nastier.

While Tamin’s Black Knight had been on the field of honor just after Sir Xia’s death, trying to distract the crowd from Dedreugh’s actions, he was absent when we returned. I suspect his exit had been a fast one, as the angry crowd had begun expressing their displeasure with thrown vegetables and spoiled wine. If he had retreated, his shelter options were limited to the azhocks behind the grounds.

The tentlike azhocks formed a temporary, traveling encampment that moved from city to city with each tournament. Despite its roaming nature, it maintained a pattern of streets and addresses as constant as visiting taxmen just after the harvest.

Dorna guessed the secret of just who we were visiting when we passed a band of horses—stallions—being kept well away from any mares. The single fireblood stallion in their number stood out like a giant redwood among dwarf pines.

She saw the fireblood and snorted. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”

“Be nice,” I warned her, and then walked inside a tent marked with red spiderwebs.

“Hello, Sir Baramon,” I said as I flipped back my sallí cloak’s hood.

The man who looked up from his Eamithonian plum wine looked well past his prime, by the kindest definitions. He possessed blue roan skin and a magnificent black mustache whose ends trailed past his chin. He still wore his Black Knight armor; the helmet rested on a small portable table next to the man’s rope bed and more liquor bottles.

The man looked up, surprised at our entrance. “You’re not supposed to be in here—”

“Well, look at you.” Dorna walked into the tent behind me. “Fatter than I remember you being, last I saw you.”

“And you’ve grown no prettier in your dotage, you old sow. I haven’t—” But then all the color fled from his face as he shifted his attention from Dorna back to me.

He’d recognized me.

The knight didn’t even look as Brother Qown slipped into the tent. He ignored Dorna even though they had just traded barbs. I had his full attention.

“From your reaction, I’ll assume I don’t need an introduction.”

Sir Baramon barked out a laugh and wiped his mouth. “Oh no, lord. You don’t. Frena would be proud, to see how you’ve grown.”

He poured himself another drink.

I grabbed his arm. “We don’t have time for that.”

He tried to snatch his arm away, but he’d have had an easier time bending an iron statue. He scowled, his gaze flicking from his trapped arm back to my face. He might have been old and out of shape, but he was still a stallion. “What do you want?” he sputtered.

“Do you remember when last you saw me?”

“Of course.” A sick look stole over his features. “You were…” His gaze dropped down to his arm. “Let me go.”

I did. “Lonezh Canton,” I said, “with the demons at our gates. And you ran.”

“That’s not what happened—”

“Ran,” I continued, “with Talaras, in the middle of the night. You deserted your post and lied to the guards at the postern gate. You told them you had a mission from my father and they should let you out. So they did.”

“I remember what happened.” Sir Baramon’s stare hardened as he sat the bottle down and leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest.

Sir Baramon’s silence drowned in emotions. He worked his jaw for a moment before leaning forward again. “I tried to take you with me. Do you remember?”

My throat tightened. “And I yelled and kicked and wouldn’t let you.”

“So that’s why you’re here?” His gaze landed on Dorna. “Come to mock the coward?”

I pulled a second chair away from the azhock tent wall and sat down on it, facing him. I smiled at the old, fat knight. “Now why would I mock you, Sir Baramon? You alone had any sense.”

Baramon’s head jerked as he stared back at me. Whatever he’d thought I would say to him, I rather doubt it had sounded anything like my actual words. “What?”

“They were fools.”

Baramon blinked. I rather think Dorna and Qown might have too.

“Fools,” I said again. “I love my father, but he was an idiot. I haven’t the slightest clue why he decided to stand and fight. If I had gone with you?” My voice cracked on the last word. I swallowed and turned my head to the side, fighting what-might-have-been’s emotional storms. I inhaled deeply. “You escaped the massacre. No one else did.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he mumbled, bowing his head.

Brother Qown sat down on the rope bed’s edge. The ropes creaked. The sound broke the spell. As soon as Sir Baramon looked up to see who had caused the noise, he turned back to me with a hard expression on his face.

“What is it you want?”

“A boon,” I explained. “I’m going to take over your role as Black Knight for the day.”

Sir Baramon laughed outright in surprise, but his expression sobered as he realized I hadn’t shared his laughter. “Are you—? What? You’re not—” He cleared his throat and started over. “We’re not the same size, my lord.”

“You and a rhinoceros ain’t the same size either,” Dorna said, “but I don’t see it stopping you from trying to impersonate one.”

“Dorna,” I chided. “Stop it.” I turned back to the knight. “In all fairness, the armor is a bit, hmm, small for you. It doesn’t need to be a perfect fit. I have a shanathá mail shirt I’ll wear under it.” I opened my sallí cloak, revealing the blue mail underneath.

Sir Baramon stared at the metal. His look wasn’t lascivious—he didn’t run with my sex—but rather one of shocked recognition. “That’s your grandfather’s mail.”

“Was my grandfather’s mail.”

His expression clouded. “I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“His heart gave out.” I fought to keep my expression placid. Just because he’d died in his sleep didn’t mean my wounds had healed. I’d been given no time to mourn.

“You have my sympathies. He was a good man.”

“Thank you.” I picked up the helmet left on the table and gazed at the black painted metal. Most of the core armor pieces used in tournament fighting are every bit as sturdy as any armor soldiers might wear on the battlefield. Tournaments aren’t without risk, even in bouts less calculated than Captain Dedreugh’s demonstration. Sir Baramon might have been a drunkard on his last legs, but he hadn’t shaken his training; the helmet was well maintained and practical. It would serve.

I set it down. “Do you think Talaras would let me ride him? Arasgon is willing, but someone might notice he’s not the same fireblood.”

“Arasgon’s here?” He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Silly of me. He never leaves your side.”

“He did once.”

Sir Baramon didn’t take the bait. He picked up his wine bottle and jammed the stopper back in. “Why would you want to play the Black Knight? It’s an ugly crowd out there. And with the way this tournament is going, leaving while you can sounds like a better use of your time.”

“It’s a matter of idorrá. Besides, if I don’t do this, you’ll have to face the choices you made at Lonezh Canton a second time.”

Dorna’s face went gray. “What?”

Sir Baramon stood and snatched the helmet back, which I let go rather than fight over. “What foolery is this? You shouldn’t try to scare people with ghost stories.”

“Oh, don’t claim you’re a skeptic. How often have you listened to the new Baron Barsine claim his banner is overrun with witches and their summoned demons?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Just how do you think a Hellmarch starts?”

“This witchcraft business is just the paranoid delusions of a child still mourning his father.”

“Oh no,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “It’s much worse.” I’d admit I hoped it would be easier to sell Sir Baramon on this idea. I suppose I’d hoped he’d jump at the chance to regain his honor. But …

Demons. Could I blame him for flinching?

It meant I would have to play a harder game.

“Don’t make me take what I need, knight. I won’t be denied this.”

“You’re a little girl,” Sir Baramon chided. “A little girl who needs to go home.”

“You abandoned my mother to die.”

He flinched. “That was uncalled for.”

“If my father were alive, he’d disagree. My grandfather would disagree. You failed the Theranons. When we needed you, you deserted, thinking of yourself—”

“No!” Sir Baramon’s eyes were wet. “That’s not true. Frena ordered me to go. Your mother begged me to take you and get you to safety. She said the gods demanded it. The demons couldn’t be allowed to have you under any circumstances. You were the hope of the world. I—” His voice broke off in a choking sob.

Dorna handed the man a handkerchief and patted him on the shoulder, her expression unreadable.

I blinked and stepped back, not saying another word. My mother had ordered Baramon to take me to safety? If true, then on some level, she’d known fending off the demons was hopeless. She never would’ve sent me outside the castle’s walls if she thought we’d repel the demonic onslaught. It implied something terrifying …

I’d grappled with this guilt for years, you understand; the suspicion that my capture by the demons, my possession by Xaltorath, wasn’t coincidence. That Xaltorath had searched for me, rather than picking out a little girl at random. I know, I know—we all want to think we’re special. But this sort of “special” would have given me nightmares, if I dreamed. I found the idea as horrible as it was arrogant: that half of Jorat and Marakor combined had fallen to the Hellmarch as demons searched for one girl. And only ended when Xaltorath decided she was done playing.

I didn’t outrun the demons, you see. Not even close.

But I couldn’t let myself be distracted.

“Now I need your help,” I said. “You were my grandfather’s best knight, and now? You’re my grandfather’s last knight. I need your aid. I call you back to serve the House of Theranon. I call you back to repay your debts.”

He wiped at his eyes with the handkerchief and scowled. “I serve—”

I shook my head. “No. You don’t. Not anymore. Tamin isn’t worthy of you. You’re my man now, as you always should have been.”

His jaw tightened, and he stared at me until I started to wonder if I’d made a mistake.

Sir Baramon held out the helmet. “The strap’s a little loose.”

Dorna intercepted it. “Well, now. Just you let me take care of that.”