I will take the star sapphire,” said the princess Floria. “Though I don’t know quite what I’d do with it. Use it for a doorknob, perhaps.”
The sapphire, a remarkable dark blue color, had not been faceted, but cut as a cabochon, which made its shape something like a flattened egg. The six silver rays of the star blazed across the gem’s dome like an exploding firework, and there were times when I thought it was the finest thing in my collection.
I had not brought my strongbox to the palace, but only a selection of the largest and finest stones, each wrapped in velvet, and the whole array carried in a leather bag. For each piece I had a prepared a story, and I felt justified in doing so, as Her Highness had practically commanded me. The star sapphire, for example, I said had been set on the crown of an idol in Mirandazar, until it had been looted at the fall of the Kangavid Dynasty. I continued the gem’s history with a series of lurid murders until I sensed Her Highness growing weary of the tale, at which point I brought the sapphire to Tabarzam and put the stone into her hands, and with a candle showed her the magic of the star, the rays that moved with the light over the gem’s dome.
“It’s large enough for a doorknob,” I said, “but I think it would make a fine pendant or ring.”
“Oh, ay.” Floria turned the stone in her fingers and watched the star shift across the cabochon. “I will think of something.”
“Your Highness wishes no other gems? This may be your last chance, for I may be eaten up by a dragon.”
Her darting hazel eyes steadied as she gazed at me. “Whatever possessed you to volunteer for that quest?”
I had come to think this was an interesting question. In truth, the idea had come in a rush of inspiration, and before that moment I had had no intention of going on any adventure more perilous than a regatta. Which made me wonder if the idea had been mine at all.
According to the ancient epics of Bello and his imitators, divine beings float invisibly among us, whispering their ideas into the ears of mortals, and moving us like pieces on a chessboard, to war or love or doom—all of which I had thought a poet’s conceit, until I had met such a being. Orlanda, I knew, was working to blight my life. She had poisoned the queen’s mind against me, and caused the wreck of Royal Stilwell, and wrought I knew not what other mischief.
I had wondered if Orlanda had put the idea in my head, and was even now in the Cordillerie, teaching the fire-drake how best to encompass my ruin.
“Why did I volunteer?” I asked. “Purely out of compassion for your distressed mother.”
Floria barked a laugh, and I saw amusement on the faces of her four ladies. For we were not alone in her parlor—no royal lady would ever let herself be found alone with a man, for her chastity was an instrument of the state, and subject to the state’s necessities.
“You know,” said the princess, “you didn’t need Her Majesty’s permission to fight this dragon. You needed only to go and do it, if that’s what you wanted. The queen would hardly have stopped you.”
“I felt I should tell someone,” said I, “so that if I am lost on this adventure, someone might search for me.”
Floria was amused. “My sister has no reputation for scouring the wilderness after lost gentlemen.”
I prepared an invoice for 190 royals, offered it to Floria, and then hesitated.
“Perhaps I should give it to the lord chancellor?” I said. “Or the lord treasurer?”
“The money will come from my household accounts.” Floria took the invoice, and I felt a pang of trepidation. If a member of the royal family chose not to pay money owed, what was the remedy? I could hardly take her to court.
But I decided to trust Floria, as if I actually had a choice in the matter. And I consoled myself with the thought that, if she had intended to rob me, she would have taken my every stone.
From Floria’s parlor I went to the Chamber of Audience, the tapestry-brightened, sunlit room where Their Majesties’ thrones sat golden beneath the canopy of state. It was what I thought of as an adulation day, for there was no activity or entertainment planned, and instead the courtiers strove to outdo one another in praising the appearance, wisdom, and every single utterance of the monarchs. This was not a game that I could play, not because I was more honest than the others, but because I was beneath Berlauda’s notice, and the monarchs would rate my flattery as of less consequence than the buzzing of a fly.
I entered the room in hopes of finding His Grace of Roundsilver, who I found standing by his golden duchess. I approached them and bowed. Her Grace turned to me with concern shining from her blue eyes.
“You purpose to fight dragons now?” she said. “What prompted you?”
“I have asked myself that question,” said I, “and I have no answer. But at least I shall have a bodyguard of eleven gallant knights.” I turned to the duke. “Perhaps your ancestor Lord Baldwine employed a stratagem that would be useful?”
“That was a long time ago, in the period of the Sea-Kings,” said the duke. “He left no prescription for monster-fighting, and there are few written records of him. But the legend states that he covered himself with muck and slime, dug some sort of tunnel beneath the place where the serpent came to drink, and stabbed the drake with a sword as it passed.”
“I have seen Baldwine portrayed in a pageant,” said I, “and no muck or slime was presented.”
“Place not your trust in pageants,” said the duke, and made a slight gesture of his hand that seemed somehow to encompass the entire pageant of the great palace, the strivings and rivalries of the courtiers, and perhaps the world itself. I shook my head.
“I cannot imagine Dom Lorenso d’Abrez and the others covering themselves in muck.” I smiled. “Though I should like to see it.”
“Here comes another of your band,” said the duchess.
Approaching came the master of the henchmen, Sir Edelmir Westley. He was a self-assured man of five-and-twenty, with long, well-dressed black hair, black eyes, and a pointed beard. He clearly shared his lady’s passion for gems, for stones glittered on his fingers and belt, and he wore a pendant set with baroque pearls. He bowed to Their Graces, and then turned to me.
“Sir Quillifer,” said he, “those of us on the expedition had a meeting this morning—”
“Was I not invited?” I asked.
The black eyes did not blink. “I suppose we could not find you,” he said.
I gestured in the direction of the lake. “I was on the water this morning,” said I, “in plain sight of all.”
Sir Edelmir paused to absorb this, a picture of amiability. “I am heartily sorry that no word came to you. I was not among those who organized the meeting, and truth to tell, it was barely organized at all.”
I bowed by way of accepting the apology. “What was the substance of the meeting?”
“It was decided that we should all leave the day after the Burning Bull Festival, after meeting at Oliver’s Cross in the morning.”
“When is this festival?”
“The first of November, Sir Quillifer.”
I knew nothing of burning bulls. In Fornland this would be the Final Flowers Festival, to mark the end of autumn.
“Did the meeting decide anything else, sir?” asked I.
“That we should draw lots to determine the order in which we fight the dragon.”
I looked at Sir Edelmir in surprise. “Why don’t we fight it all together?”
He gave me an easy smile. “That would hardly be sport.”
“Sport? I thought we were to kill a dragon, not challenge it to a game of tennis.”
Sir Edelmir laughed. “I think it is better this way. If we were to fight all together, twelve knights could never agree on what to do, and we’d get in one another’s way.”
I thought all eleven of them were in my way before we even started, and was tempted to say so. But Sir Edelmir had apologized very gracefully to me, and I supposed I might in theory owe him an apology as well, for sporting with his wife. So by way of changing the subject, I complimented him on his pendant.
“I shall hardly afford another,” said he, “not after you sold those diamonds to my lady. The white stone is very pretty, but who ever heard of diamonds in that bright shade of yellow?”
“Such diamonds are rare,” said I. “That makes them valuable.”
His look was skeptical. “Possibly so, but it was a lot to pay for a pair of ear-pickes.”
Her Grace was quick to speak up. “If you like not those stones, Sir Edelmir, I might take them. I think they would suit me.”
He gave an easy laugh. “Nay, Your Grace,” he said. “My lady likes them too well, and does not rank my opinion.”
“Perhaps in this case,” said the duchess, “she is right to do so.”
“That may be,” said Sir Edelmir, and, smiling, he gave us his adieu.
I thanked the duchess for her spirited defense of the diamonds.
“I should like to own them,” said she. “I am sorry that Sir Edelmir does not know their worth.”
My mind had turned to the message Sir Edelmir had brought. “The Burning Bull Festival,” I mused. “That is nearly two weeks from now. These knights are in no hurry to find the worm.”
“Perhaps that is wisdom,” said the duchess.
“It will give me more time to prepare,” said I, “and to reacquaint myself with the arts of weapons.”
“I should buy myself a large shield, were I you,” said the duke.
“I know not how to fight with a shield,” said I.
“You need no training to hide behind it,” said His Grace. “If you are to avoid the fiery breath, you need a wall to shelter behind.”
This reasoning made uncommon sense, and I said so. “You might also consider draping yourself in wet cloths,” the duke added. “And your horse as well.”
“You are an uncommon great resource for a knight-errant,” I said.
“My father knew the last great dragon-slayer of the realm, Lawton Triphorne,” said the duke. “And I was told he always drenched himself thoroughly before a fight. He also soused the padding beneath his armor.”
“With your guidance,” said I, “I believe I may survive this adventure.”
The duke’s advice, I thought, would be of great service.
But I would never have volunteered for this mission if I had not already had a scheme or two of my own.
I made the most of the time before the festival of the Burning Bull: I put aside tennis lessons and reacquainted myself with riding, and with the wearing of armor. I bought a shield and padding and thick draperies that would hold a great deal of water. I also acquired a small wagon with a canvas top to carry supplies and stores of food for the journey. My experience in the cavalry, as secretary of the Utterback Troop, stood me in good stead, for I knew how to provision a journey.
I consulted with Coronel Lipton, and with Alaron Mountmirail the engineer, who had produced the first version of my grinder. It looked like a wooden box with an iron handle, and it crushed oak galls with ease, but the result was too coarse.
“To add a fine grinder would result in too complex a mechanism,” said Mountmirail. “It might be simpler to have two grinders, one for coarse, one for fine.”
“Perhaps something like the grindstones of a mill?” I said.
He grew intrigued. “We would need small millstones only. Do we know anyone who makes millstones?”
“Unless you can find someone with that skill,” said I, “build the fine grinder, and then we may consider a mill later.”
The court did a deal of hunting in the autumn, and I decided to join them when I could, by way of exercising my riding skills. I rode my charger Phrenzy that had brought me through the fighting at Exton Scales, and he tore through the woods and over the jumps with a vicious, sullen, persistent fury that more than justified his name. I don’t know if my riding improved, but after the terrors of one such hunt I feared the dragon less.
I did not attempt to teach Phrenzy any of the feats of the horse-ballet. He might leap or rear or kick or dance, but only when he willed it: My own commands were received with the contempt they probably deserved.
Because I knew that horses were mortal, and horses on campaign doubly so, I bought another charger called Spitfire that was scarcely less belligerent than Phrenzy, along with a palfrey for its peaceful glide over the roadway. All, along with the wagon’s draught horses and the sumpter mules, were under the care of my groom Oscar, who had looked after my beasts since I served in the Utterback Troop.
I received a letter from Kevin Spellman, and he informed me that the insurors had finally paid out on the loss of Royal Stilwell, and that our partnership’s exchequer was enriched by 19,436 royals, eight crowns, and a halfpenny. Most of this would be spent on a new, large galleon to replace Stilwell, intended for the long trade to Tabarzam and the Candara Coast.
Our other large ship, originally named after the arch-rebel Lady Tern but renamed Sovereign out of discretion, was now provisioning for that same journey, under Captain Gaunt. To him I sent some private monies, so that he might replace the gems in my strongbox. He had been privy to the business I had conducted in Tabarzam, and I trusted he would prove a canny enough agent in those foreign lands.
From the profits I sent money to Ethlebight, to relieve the suffering of those who would go hungry on account of the great storm. The price of grain had almost doubled in the kingdom, and everywhere the poor complained for lack of bread.
Lady Westley came to visit when she could, and wore her diamonds for a select audience of one.
There was one more regatta before the festival of the Burning Bull, this with the galleys under sail for the entirety of the course. This meant that one leg of the triangular route would be into the wind, which would necessitate a good deal of tacking back and forth. My crew of professional sailors, drilled by me and by Boatswain Lepalik, performed with faultless skill, and I stood to take the pennant until a bobolyne marquess from Loretto swerved in my way and would not surrender the right of way to me, even though he was on the larboard tack and I on the starboard. Because of milord’s ignorance, I was forced to come about to avoid collision, and finished second, after His Grace of Roundsilver.
You find it amusing, I see, that I hold so firmly to the rule book, when I have made so much of my reputation by defying custom. Yet when I choose to flout convention, I at least understand the convention I am flouting.
I feel that one should have perfect command of the rule book before throwing it away. That should itself be a rule.
Due to my encounter with the blundering captain I was not in the best of spirits the next day, which was the Burning Bull Festival, which opened with a parade in Howel sponsored by the guilds. Their floats came down the street, each with its orchestra or choir or a troupe of acrobats, or with actors performing a playlet of some fantastical legend. The equestrians of the horse-ballet took part, and they performed some of their tricks, to the crowd’s great enthusiasm. After their command performance before the court they had continued to perform in the stadium, and had become wildly popular. I could not imagine this pleased at all the playwright Blackwell.
After the parade the crowd went to the stadium for the main entertainment. There were more acrobats and songsters, along with ribald comedians performing gigues and knocking each other on the pate. Then the bull was brought in, a magnificent animal with a vast spread of horns all wrapped in straw and tallow, and led into a pen.
A chant began to spread over the crowd. “Red day bring the new day! Red day bring the new day!” The chant rose up and up, sounding through the cool autumn air. Men left their seats and jumped down into the stadium. They leaped and danced and chanted, and for a moment I thought there would be a riot.
The chant rose to a peak. Then a torch was touched to the bull’s horns, and the little pen opened as the horns were wreathed in flame.
The bull went mad, of course, and dashed into the stadium, through the crowd of jack-a-dandies, swashbucklers, and runagates who had flocked onto the field in order to defy fate and demonstrate their courage. The men roared and scattered. I saw one man tossed from the horns high into the air, to land lifeless on the sand like a straw poppet. Others were trampled or knocked down before the fires burned down and the bull, trembling and sweating but having suffered little in the way of permanent injury, was led off to honorable retirement.
I have since inquired as to the origin of this ritual, for we have nothing like it in Fornland, but no one could enlighten me. It is of such an ancient foundation that its purpose and intention is obscure, and no one has seen the rite performed anywhere but Howel. Yet it is enacted on the first of November, which by our old calendar was the first day of winter, and I suspect it was intended somehow to preserve the sun over the dark wintertide. And of course it is a blood sacrifice, though if the crowd is lucky, it need not be a fatal one.
Because of the heathen origins of the ritual, our pious king and queen did not attend, and the lord mayor presided over the event. I did see a number of monks in the throng, so the prohibition was not universal.
I learned afterward the identity of the man who was gored: Sir Albert Winstead, who was to quest for the dragon the next day. He died a few hours after the festival ended. Our company was reduced to eleven before we had even set out.
Perhaps this meant we would have no luck with fire-beasts. The omen oppressed our spirits as we assembled the next morning at Oliver’s Cross south of town, and our spirits were further depressed by the weather, which was chill, and the rain, which fell in a continuous mizzle all the day long. My crooked finger ached. I was not the only knight who had brought his own wagon, for some of the others seemed to have brought a small village with them; but I was the only man who had brought his own minstrel. For I had asked Goodman Knott to accompany the journey, and to provide entertainment as we crossed the countryside.
It had occurred to me, after Lady Westley brought up the matter, that I could make songs on myself, or at least that Knott could. And if I killed the fire-drake, I would quite properly deserve a laudatory ballad.
Not that anyone felt like singing as we left the crossroads and turned southeast along the right bank of the Dordelle. The rain pattered on my broad hat and on the oilskins I wore over my old cheviot overcoat. The river was gray and turbid and speckled with raindrops.
We came to an inn mid-afternoon, and as everyone was tired of riding in the rain, the decision was to halt. I viewed my bed with a careful eye, on the alert for fleas or lice, but this close to the capital the inns were very clean. That evening in the common room, the others were polite but for the most part ignored me. Some were the sons of lords, and most were knights of the great orders of chivalry; whereas I was a mere knight-bachelor and the son of a butcher. No king or queen had knocked me on the shoulder with a sword, and I wore no ribbon across my chest. I wore a duke’s ransom on my fingers, but no one was interested in buying gems, and I had not brought my strongbox, in any case.
Yet I had been knighted for military service, and of the Duisland knights I was alone in this. The rest had received the honor on account of their birth, and the great majority had been knighted on the occasion of Berlauda’s ascent to the throne, when she had handed such rich compliments to the sons of her followers. The two knights of Loretto had fought in one or another of King Henrico’s wars, though I understood that they had been knighted first and fought after.
Lorenso d’Abrez suggested that we fight the dragon in order of precedence, which would place him first, as a knight of the Seven Words, a cousin of King Henrico, and a descendant of Queen Margaretha of Steggerda. Once this became apparent, the other knights opposed his idea, and we drew lots as originally planned. Sir Brynley Wilmot, the third son of His Grace of Waitstill, drew first place. D’Abrez drew second, and I sixth. D’Abrez seemed content enough with the result.
As no one wished to talk to me, I called on Rufino Knott to bring out the guitars, and he sang and played his dextrous little figures, while I strummed an accompaniment. While we made our music, the heavens opened, and rain beat on the roof and the shutters. The others played cards and drank. I thought there would be a late start the next day, and I was proved correct.
It was midday before the company deemed the roads dry enough for our carts and wagons, and we set out into a biting cold breeze. It seemed that we had embarked on a winter campaign. We spent only four or five hours on the road before finding an inn. The next day squalls roamed over the countryside, and we spent half the day getting across the Dordelle on the ferry. The fifth day was bright and cold, but one of the wagons broke down, and we advanced only a few leagues.
Each night, there was more drinking, and more cards and dice. I began to think I had joined a traveling carouse, and not a quest at all. The only excitement came when Sir Edelmir’s horse stumbled while fording one of the Dordelle’s western tributaries, and he was pitched into the river. He flailed madly in the water, unable to swim. Aware that irony lurked in the very act of my having to rescue my lover’s husband, I turned my palfrey and was prepared to launch myself into the river to fetch him out, when two of his own henchmen swam their steeds after him and brought him gasping to the shore, his fine black hair straggling in his face like seaweed. Shivering, he was bundled into one of the wagons and changed into dry clothes, and by evening, having warmed himself with hippocras, was laughing about his misadventure. More laughter came later, when he lost a small fortune at dice.
The sixth day, in the forenoon, we arrived at Bonherbes, the house of Queen Natalie, Floria’s mother and the third wife of King Stilwell’s four wives. She insisted on providing us dinner, which dragged on into supper. Her Majesty was not at all disturbed by the existence of the dragon, and spoke merrily for hours, pausing only to ask for news of court, which news she interrupted with scandalous reminiscences of those being mentioned. She had a group of ladies to wait on her, and one lean gentleman dressed in a robe of black velvet, with a skullcap on his gray head. He was introduced as Doctor Smolt, and he spoke in a deep, measured voice, as if weighing his every word.
“Oh none of us believed little Botilda was really Count Conmouth’s daughter,” said Queen Natalie, “for everyone knew Lady Conmouth loved Sir Jasper Cherrier, and both he and Botilda had that blazing red hair. Yet Conmouth never seemed to know what was going on under his nose, possibly because his affections were directed at Lady Gildrum, and always had been.…”
Truly she was an indiscreet woman, though she never seemed to speak out of malice, but rather because she seemed unable to stem the great flood of scandalous reminiscence once it had started. Anecdote followed anecdote. I looked at her ladies and saw that some restrained yawns, while others had that glassy-eyed look that comes with trying to seem interested. I supposed they had heard all this many times before.
“It has always been an open question whether Lord Fonteynis was poisoned,” Natalie said. “But I suppose when my daughter the lady Floria is finally queen, she will have access to the archives, and we can find out.”
This statement so startled all Her Majesty’s guests that none of us knew how to respond. Her Majesty saw our expressions and laughed. “Oh, ay,” she said, “Floria will be queen. Doctor Smolt has cast her horoscope, and assured me this is true.”
“Is it not against the law,” I asked, “to cast horoscopes of the royal family, or to give out the hour of their birth?”
“Oh please,” said Natalie, “I certainly know the hour when my own daughter was born. And I am assured that it was an auspicious hour indeed.”
“Her Majesty speaks truly,” said Smolt in his deep, ponderous way. He stared intently from one to another of Natalie’s guests, as if judging our credulity.
From one of her ladies, I later learned the history of Doctor Smolt. He was a sorcerer and, being a necromancer, spoke to spirits. When Clayborne had rebelled, Smolt had become Berlauda’s philosopher transterrene. The previous holder of that office, a venerable but tedious abbot named Ambrosius, had been willing to cast spells for the safety of Berlauda and the realm, but his holy office forbade him to cause harm through his magical arts, and Berlauda wanted magic that would blast her half-brother to ashes. Smolt was less scrupulous than his predecessor, and was employed for the express purpose of laying curses on Clayborne and his supporters. After Clayborne’s defeat, for which Smolt was more than willing to take credit, he was dismissed and replaced with a monk, but the crown awarded Smolt a pension, and Natalie employed him and gave him a tower in which to conduct his experiments.
This seemed unwise to me, and I thought Smolt, with his black robe and staring eyes, was likely a mountebank.
The next day was sunny and fine, ideal for the journey, but the sense of our fellowship was that we should continue to enjoy Queen Natalie’s hospitality. Natalie was enjoying our company and did not object. And so the day was spent in idleness, or rather in more games of dice or cards. The games played were simple, if not childish, and the sums wagered would have shocked the richest mercer in the land. I could afford to lose, but I misliked losing to a mere cast of the dice and preferred a game with an element of skill. I joined a game of nine-men’s-morris and won twelve royals, but then lost it again in a game of fox and geese, with seventeen of us playing—the eleven knights, Queen Natalie, and several of her ladies.
Afterward I settled into a game of imperial, in which—as the game involved skill and I had but a single opponent—I better fancied my chances. Yet Sir Brynley Wilmot, a knight of the Red Horse and the third son of His Grace of Waitstill, was a skilled card player, and after several hours’ play, each of us having won a number of games, I managed to win but two royals, and only because he drank a deal more wine than I, and allowed me to trump his knave.
He gave me his note with ill grace. I think he viewed me as a capon ripe for plucking, and was willing to put up with my undistinguished ancestry if it promised amusement and money. Alas for him, I thwarted him of his pleasure.
Sir Edelmir Westley seemed to suffer the greatest losses in the gaming, but he lost with such easy grace that the others were probably encouraged to win more off him.
Stilwell’s former queen gave us a very fine dinner, and then, after nightfall, a supper made largely of game caught in Her Majesty’s own park. I heard talk going around the table of spending another day at Bonherbes, perhaps including a stag hunt in the park, but I’d had enough of this meandering, drunken adventure with a band of interlopers who would not treat me with civility, and so after the last remove I stood and called for attention.
I raised my glass and offered a pledge to Queen Natalie, whose noble generosity and hospitality, I said, was matched only by the grace, excellence, and charm of her person. The others thumped the table and cheered. After we drank, I addressed the others of the party.
“Gentlemen,” said I, “it has been an honor and a pleasure to travel in your company. But I have set out to kill a fire-drake, and as I have pending business in the capital, I purpose no further delay. I will set out on this quest tomorrow after breakfast, and I hope the rest of you will join me.”
Sir Brynley Wilmot spoke up, his pale mustaches bristling. “Who are you, Sir Quillifer, to decide on behalf of this company?”
“I do not decide for you, or for any of these gentlemen. I decide only for myself.” I bowed toward Queen Natalie. “I hope that Her Majesty will provide me with one of her huntsmen to serve as a guide.”
Her Majesty acceded, though clearly both she and her ladies had hoped to enjoy our company for a few more days. I was early to bed, after telling Rufino Knott and the others of my following to have the horses and wagon ready by dawn.
I encountered the other knights at breakfast. Many showed the ill effects of the previous night’s revelry, and none were in any humor to speak to me. I finished as quickly as I could, praised again the charms and hospitality of our hostess, kissed her royal ring, and made my way to the courtyard, where my minions waited with my horses and wagon. Sir Edelmir Westley had arrived ahead of me and was already in the saddle, supervising his sumpter horses as they were packed.
It must be admitted that Sir Edelmir was a capable royal officer and had prepared his own part of the expedition with efficiency. He had brought along a half-dozen of his own henchmen from the royal stables, and they were accustomed to one another and to taking his orders, and did their work well and almost without speaking—and of course they had acted to save their chief from drowning.
(“Henchman,” by the way, is an ancient title used by the grooms of the royal mews, though as these fellows are available and handy, they are used for other tasks as well. The term dates from the time of the Sea-Kings, and combines “man” with “hengest,” their word for horse. In exchange for this tidbit, you may pass the wine and kiss me.)
Sir Edelmir gave me a jaunty wave as I jumped into the saddle. I looked about the courtyard, dark in the shadow of the great house even though the sky had grown light, and saw the other knights’ followers moving vaguely about their errands. I turned to Sir Edelmir.
“Shall we move on, and let the others catch up?”
“Her Majesty has not yet sent us her huntsman.”
Doctor Smolt arrived first, padding into the courtyard in his black velvet robe. “I will cast spells for your success,” he said, “and it will take three days.”
I thanked him civilly, and he retreated to his tower to begin his chanting. In time the huntsman appeared, a gray-bearded lean man astride a dun cob, but by then most of the knights were ready, and we waited for the laggards and then set out in a troupe. I put myself with the huntsman in the lead and set a steady pace until noontide, when I allotted an hour for a cold dinner and a watering parade for the horses. Then I was back in the saddle for a long afternoon’s riding.
We were very much in the country, and there were no inns. Under the bright, cool sun of winter, the land seemed prosperous enough: Sheep spotted the pastures, orchards lay on all sides, and the farms were snug and tidy. The great storm of that summer seemed to have spared this country, tucked in the shadow of the Cordillerie. The roads were fenced with hedges, and sometimes were mere sunken tracks. We were obliged to ford the rivers, and by afternoon were in the foothills of the Cordillerie, the long folds of mountains and steep hills that formed the spine of Bonille. Here there were no great fields, but lynchets only, with terraces stepping up and down the hills.
By this point the huntsman was out of his reckoning and regularly spurred his cob ahead to get directions. It seemed that the Princess Floria had greatly exaggerated the danger to her mother, for the worm was nowhere near Her Majesty.
Before nightfall we pitched camp in a field, and the grooms took the horses off for water. Soon fires were kindled, wine was set near the blaze in pots and leather jacks to warm. Pottage was prepared, and sausages and smoked meats were grilled on skewers. My crew set up my tent beneath an awning of sailcloth, and in my old cheviot overcoat I was as warm as a cat by the hearth. Goodman Knott played his guitar and sang “The Queen of Albiz,” his fine tenor soaring over the camp.
Brynley Wilmot’s eyes glittered firelight from the far side of the camp. “Sir Quillifer,” he said, “I wonder if you will carve this ham?”
A warning note sang in my blood, clear as a trumpet call. I replied cautiously. “Do you not know how to carve?” I asked. “I had thought it was an accomplishment for all gentlemen.”
“I practice rather at carving the enemies of Her Majesty,” said Sir Brynley.
“A futile practice,” I observed. “For Her Majesty in her wisdom has married the heir of our greatest foe, and now she has not an enemy in the world.”
He glowered. “Yet I think you are more suited to carve than I.”
“Then I must teach.” I fetched a fork and a carving knife and walked around the camp to where Wilmot had draped himself in a folding chair by his own fire. One of his men had the ham on a skewer, with the trotter pointed skyward.
“First we must find you a trencher, Sir Brynley,” I said. I cast about for a platter, or at least a slab of cheat bread, but then I saw the knight’s armor laid out on a blanket by his wagon, where one of his following was oiling and polishing it. I snatched up the backplate, and laid it on Sir Brynley’s lap. He gave a start and made to rise, but I put a hand on his shoulder “Not yet, Sir Brynley, for the lesson now begins.”
I took the skewered ham from Wilmot’s minion and dropped it on the backplate. “Now rest you,” said I, “and pay attention, for I will slice you some fine collops.” I showed him my knife, passing it close enough to have thinned his yellow beard. “Now you must first of all have a knife of fine steel,” I said, “and keep it well sharpened. It need not be one of your thick heavy bilbos, for you will soon see that while my blade is thin and light, it slices very well. And for control, you must hold the knife with the thumb and forefinger steadying the blade.”
I thrust my fork into the meat. “Now it is said that the trotter should be facing upward,” I said, and touched the trotter with my knife. “But I find that is not the universal rule.” I cut several long slices from the part of the ham closest to Wilmot’s nose. Fine sizzling portions fell into the backplate. The scent of saffron rose in the air, for the ham had been cured in that spice, and its rind was golden.
When I had cut enough long slices to make a flat surface, I turned the ham so that it rested on the flat side. “Now you see I have made a fine rest for the meat,” I said. “It matters not how the trotter points. And we may now proceed without accident. For accidents”—and here I casually held the knife before his face, the point making lazy circles—“accidents are all too common.” I placed the knife against the meat. “Had this been warming longer before the fire,” I said, “I would cut along the shank end, thus—” I made some thin cuts down to the bone. “But the joint has not been on the fire long enough to be heated all the way to the shank-bone, but it is warm in the outer layer only. So I must make some thin cuts along the surface. Cuts this thin take a fine eye and a steady hand, as you will observe.”
All conversation in the camp had ceased. My lesson had become the object of all eyes. Goodman Knott’s song had fallen silent. Wilmot, I could see, was turning scarlet as the cooking fire, and he was gnawing his lip beneath his pale mustache. Words burst from him like bubbles at a slow boil. “What—!” he cried. “What is this—”
“Be careful, Sir Brynley,” I said. “You may do yourself an injury.”
Wilmot snarled. “You, sir, are nothing! You are a base—”
I pointed the blade straight at his face. “Before such words as ‘cullion’ or ‘barber-monger’ pass your lips,” I said, “you should reflect that I have a sharp knife, and you do not. I advise you to sit still, and learn your lesson.”
I cut a long series of collops. Steam and scent rose from the backplate. Wilmot trembled in every limb, like an angry boar trapped in a pen. I stepped back.
“There you have it, Sir Brynley,” I said. “You have a fine supper, and I hope you will enjoy it.”
I began the walk back to my own fire, and then there was a crash as Wilmot leaped to his feet and hurled the backplate and the ham into the dust. “I will end your sneering now, you butcher’s son!” He walked to where his armor had been laid out and drew his sword.
“Sneering?” said I. I backed away, keeping Wilmot always in sight. I stooped by my fire and picked up a jack of hot mulled wine, from which I then took a sip. At need I would hurl it in his face as he charged.
“I have not sneered,” I said. “You asked me to slice your ham, and all these gentlemen are witnesses to your request.” I pointed around the circle with my knife. “I obliged, and gave you a lesson in carving in the most civil way. Yet I am repaid with insults and threats. To this, these men are also witnesses.”
I noticed, out of the slant of my eye, that the two sailors in my company had equipped themselves with whinyards, and that Rufino Knott had circled around just beyond the light of my fire, and that he carried a heavy falchion in his hand. If Wilmot ran at me, Knott could come in from the flank with a weapon weighty enough to take off an arm.
I had never thought to find a staunch ally in a minstrel, but I was pleased to find in my retinue such a loyal supporter.
Wilmot brandished his weapon. “Pick up your sword! I’ll fight you!”
I was half-inclined to indulge him, for I was fed up with this clodpoll and his clodpoll friends, but I managed to restrain my temper, and reflected that murdering him would scarcely do me good outside the relief of my feelings.
“You have a dragon to fight first, Sir Brynley,” said I. “And I, after you. An we both survive, and you wish to pursue a quarrel, I may oblige you. But until then, it seems we must endure one another.”
The other knights stepped forward to calm Wilmot, and eventually he jammed his sword point-first in the ground and stormed off to his tent. Rufino Knott quietly put away the falchion and began again to play his guitar. I recognized the refrain to the Quillifer song, but Knott knew better than to sing it aloud.
I drank the mulled wine, and ate my own supper, and went to my tent. I took my carving knife with me, in case I needed to defend myself.
I was up at dawn for a cold breakfast warmed by a cup of brandy, but a rain squall struck us and turned the road to muck, and the party was obliged to wait a few hours for the lane to dry. During that time Queen Natalie’s huntsman struck out on his own, and found someone who agreed to guide us to the haunts of the great worm. So before we set out, the knights donned armor, in case the drake descended on us, and the others kept weapons near to hand.
I rode my charger Phrenzy and wore the breastplate and burgonet I had worn at Exton Scales, with the dimples and creases where the usurper’s bullets had nearly struck me down. I had my broadsword in its scabbard, carried a pollaxe across my saddle-bow, and bore on my back the large shield recommended by the duke. I covered myself with a thick woolen cloak, which kept me warm, and which my supporters would drench with canisters of water were we menaced by the fire-drake. More draperies covered Phrenzy, and I hoped he would not grow too hot as we traveled.
I took off my rings, put them in my saddlebags, and drew on thick leather gloves armored with articulated steel plates.
Sir Brynley Wilmot spoke only to his servants and looked at the rest of us with cold hauteur.
The squalls had passed, and the water-droplets that hung in the grass were turned to gems by the sun. We came upon shattered holly-hedges, which our guide said had been broken down by the dragon. The holly-berries were still bright red. Torn sheep lay in the fields.
“It is a vicious worm, sirs,” said our guide. “For it kills for sport, more than it can eat.”
We turned into a shadowed lane with rows of hornbeam on each side, the limbs of which had grown into an arch above us and gave the impression of a tunnel. The leaves had turned, and we were bathed in golden light as we advanced, but Phrenzy seemed to mislike the lane and rolled his eyes and snorted. I began to think he was scenting an enemy. Then our guide pointed out a place where one of the hornbeams had been knocked askew, and through the hornbeam hedge we could see the fire-drake itself, lying in a field spotted with its victims.