There’s a hundred-mile stretch of road between the Ducal Palace of Aramor and the farming village of Carefal. It’s a nice two-day ride if you like listening to the sound of horses grunting up and down rolling hills, in between periodically slipping on the broken gray shale that peels off from the narrow mountains like the scabs from a leper’s arms.
“Your roads could do with some repair, Sir Shuran,” I called back to the Knight-Commander riding close behind me with his men. He had taken the time to introduce me to all nine of them, but since none had been willing to shake my hand I’d decided to reciprocate by instantly forgetting their names.
“The state of the roads in Aramor isn’t exactly a Knight’s responsibility,” Shuran replied. “Was it the practice of the Greatcoats to sweep the stairs and mop the floors at Castle Aramor?”
“Give him time,” Brasti said, leaving Kest’s side and riding up next to me. “I’m sure Falcio will get to it once he’s done doing the rest of the Dukes’ dirty work for them.”
“Be quiet, Brasti,” Kest said, more out of habit than from any evidence that his admonitions did any good.
If you find a hundred miles on horseback fighting nausea passes too quickly, one solution is to bring along a man who, nominally at least, is supposed to be your subordinate, and have him carp at you like a fishwife the entire way.
I’d hoped that Dariana might save me by subjecting us all to one of her elaborate polemics on the quality of Brasti’s manhood. Unfortunately, she and Valiana had chosen to ride behind us and all I heard from them were occasional spurts of laughter. It shouldn’t have bothered me that the two of them were forming a bond, but it did. Dari was an effective enough instructor for Valiana and she could even be affable in her own way (although that usually involved talk about maiming people), but beneath her Saints-may-care demeanor she was a blood-soaked killer who slaughtered her opponents without a second thought. My horse slipped on a piece of shale and nearly threw me off, reminding me to keep my eyes focused on the road ahead.
One of Shuran’s men said something I didn’t quite catch, which was followed by a loud snort. It took me a moment to realize the Knights were still enjoying Brasti’s barb. Knights apparently derive a great deal of entertainment from listening to Greatcoats insult each other. I suppose watching us beat each other to death would amuse them too, and that was looking more and more like a distinct possibility.
Shuran looked at me as if he were about to broach a sensitive subject, then finally spoke up. “I confess, First Cantor, that I’m not sure I understand your chain of command. If one of my Knights spoke to me in such a manner he would face a severe reprimand.”
“I’ll get to it when I have time.”
“Perhaps you could simply dock his pay?” Shuran offered helpfully.
Brasti’s laughter was so sudden and high-pitched it bordered on giggling. “There has to be pay for someone to withhold it.”
Shuran looked surprised. “You don’t pay your men?”
“Do I look like a King?” I said. “What, do you pay your men?”
Shuran turned to the Knight who had laughed earlier. “Sir Elleth, who pays your weekly wage?”
“And should you be wounded, who pays the healer?”
“You do, Knight-Commander.”
“If you should fall in battle, who will pay the pension to your family?”
“You will—”
“Hold on a second,” I said. “Doesn’t he work for the Duke?”
“He serves the Duke,” Shuran said. “We all do, but it is the responsibility of the Knight-Commander to pay his men.” Shuran’s voice became noticeably pious. “It would sully the sacred bond of our service to the Duke should our lord be required to pay us compensation. It would be like asking the Gods to give us a salary in exchange for living our lives well.”
“Finally! A religious doctrine I could support,” Brasti said. He held his horse’s reins between his hands as if in devout prayer. “Oh great Goddess Love, I shall walk the long and lonely roads of this country bringing your message of compassion to anyone who needs it. I will bow my head at every sign of beauty and sing your praises morning, midday, and throughout the night.” He turned to us with a wicked grin on his face. “In exchange I’d like a weekly salary of twelve silver stags with a bonus of two stags on market days. Also, a small cottage would be nice. Nothing too grand, you understand, just—”
“Be quiet, Brasti,” Kest and I said together.
The Knights were having a grand time of it, and Brasti didn’t seem to mind. He liked being the center of attention, even if that attention came from Ducal Knights, each and every one of whom he despised, just on principle.
The idea of the commander paying his men from his own pocket struck me as odd. And expensive. “Wait a second. If you have to pay every Ducal Knight under your command, who pays you?”
“The Duke, obviously,” Brasti said.
“But would that not sully the service he provides?” Kest asked, finally taking an interest in the conversation. In addition to being the best swordsman in the world, Kest has an unnatural fascination with bureaucracy.
“It would indeed blemish my service were I to be paid,” Shuran said. “We are holy men, after all.”
Brasti started to say something rude, but Kest interrupted him. “So am I right to assume that it does not diminish your service should the Duke, on occasion, grant you a gift in admiration for your noble character?”
Shuran gave a small smile. “Such a gift would be an affirmation of my fulfillment of my God’s will.”
“And should such gifts happen with some degree of regularity—?”
“Well, I do try to be noble on a weekly basis.” His smile widened. “I am known to be especially noble on Wednesdays.”
I tried to calculate in my head what kind of gift was required to support the pay of more than a thousand Knights, but sums have never been my strong point. Eventually I gave up. “So you pay your men from the Duke’s ‘gifts’?” I asked.
“That’s part of it, but that would only cover the barest salary and expenses of my men.”
“Then where does the rest come from?”
Shuran signaled the others to slow and pulled back on his horse’s reins. “That,” he said, “is a matter that requires a lengthier conversation.”
Valiana brought her horse up close to ours. “Why are we slowing down?”
Shuran pointed to a two-story wooden building about a hundred yards ahead, nearly hidden by trees. “There’s an inn up ahead. They don’t have much for rooms, but we can get food and drink and make camp nearby.”
“I’ve traveled this way before with my mother . . .” She shook her head as if trying to clear it. “I mean, with the erstwhile Duchess of Hervor.” There was a note of sadness in her voice. It had only been a few weeks since Valiana had discovered in singularly unpleasant fashion that she wasn’t the daughter of a duchess. “Anyway,” she continued, “I’m fairly certain there’s a much better inn ten miles down the road that would have rooms for us.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” Shuran said, “but it’s getting late and I prefer not to work the horses too hard. We’ll stay here tonight and make for the village of Carefal in the morning.”
“If they haven’t got rooms for us, then what’s the point?” Brasti asked.
“There’ll be food, for us and the horses, and they’re known to have entertainment that I suspect you’ll appreciate.”
“And the Duke’s hammer came down,” the storyteller said. Despite his youthful appearance, his voice deep and resonant, as if Saint Anlas-who-remembers-the-world himself were channeling his words through the man. The light of the fire cast shadows about the large room, illuminating his handsome features as if he were some creature born of magic. Straight dark hair reached down to his chin, and he sported the short mustache and beard common among troubadours. They probably think it makes them look wise. Or dashing. Actually, I’m not sure why they do it. He wore a blue shirt under a black waistcoat that matched his pants; I noted that they were patched in several places.
The woman sitting on a stool next to him plucked at the strings of a short traveling guitar in accompaniment to his story. She also wore blue and black, but she was in every other way a contrast to him: sandy-brown hair framed a round, plain face, set atop a thick body that showed neither curves nor sensuality. But the music that came from her instrument, mostly simple arpeggios performed expertly, made the storyteller’s otherwise banal performance enthralling.
“But did our hero fear the Duke’s power?” the storyteller demanded of his audience. “Did he move even an inch as the Duke’s soldiers came for him?”
The thirty or forty farmers and tradesmen who currently filled the tables of The Inn at the End of the World were far too rapt—by either the story or their drinks—to respond, and the troubadour took this as license to continue, waving his hands through the smoke emanating from patrons’ pipes. “He feared not, friends, for his sword arm was strong, yes, but his voice . . . his words—they were mighty indeed. You might say he was something of a troubadour!”
That got a laugh, mostly from Brasti.
“What’ll you have, Trattari?” the barman asked, quietly, so as not to disturb the story being told at the other end of the common room. “We’ve got beer at three black pennies per, or a decent wine for five. We’ve got some beef for dinner at only one silver steer.”
I let the “Trattari” slide. Half the people in the countryside don’t even know that it means tatter-cloak, or that it’s an insult. Or maybe they just don’t care.
“We don’t get beef around here so often,” the barman went on, leaning in as if he were letting us in on the deal of the century. “It’s nigh as rare as mutton.”
“Possibly because we’re ‘at the End of the World’?” Kest asked.
“Uh, well, aye, I suppose.”
“We’re not actually at the end of the world,” Brasti said. “I mean, it’s certainly not far from the south, but it’s not the end of the world by any means. And if it was, pretty much every inn from Baern to Pertine would have to be called ‘The Inn at the End of the World’.” Brasti looked around. “Come to think of it, this isn’t actually an inn so much as a tavern, is it?”
“It’s got a room,” the barman said tersely. “That makes it an inn.”
“Where’s the room?” Brasti asked.
He pointed outside. “Over there. It’s got a bed ’n’ everything.”
“Isn’t that a barn?” Kest asked.
“There’s no horses in it,” the barman replied.
“Yes, but still, it’s not actually—”
“Look, Trattari,” the barman said, “if you and your little company don’t want a room, you don’t need to pay for a room. If you want to call this a tavern instead of an inn, you’re welcome to do so. So what’ll the three of you have? The beer at five pennies per, the wine for seven, or the beef for a silver and three pennies?”
“Wait a second, you said—”
“Those were inn rates. These are tavern rates. Happy?”
I reached into one of my pockets for five silvers, feeling for the ones with the silver steer of Aramor embossed on them. I put them on the bar one by one. “We’ll have five beef dinners,” I said, “and you’ll throw in the five beers.”
“What? That’s not near enough. What’re you doin’, robbing me now, Trattari?”
I pointed to some of the shabby-looking patrons at the tables eating their dinners. “Those men didn’t come in here with silver and they seem to be eating just fine, and drinking, too. Neither beef nor mutton is rare in these parts, perhaps because Aramor is known for its livestock,” I said, pointing a finger at the steer imprinted on the silver coin. “And finally, if the next phrase out of your mouth includes the word ‘Trattari’ I’ll pay you your extra black pennies but you’ll have to shit them out in the morning, along with your front teeth, to count them.”
The barman looked less aghast than annoyed. “Fine. Fine. Five dinners for five silvers.”
“And ten beers,” Brasti reminded him.
“Aye, and five beers. I’ll pour them into ten cups if it pleases you.” As he turned away from us, the barman muttered, “You might be Greatcoats, but you’re no Falsios, I’ll tell you that much for free.”
Falsios?
Brasti pulled me by the shoulder toward the last empty table in the common room, where the girls were waiting for us. It was in the far corner, away from most of the other patrons and deep in the shadows, which suited us fine. Shuran had taken food from the inn (which the Knights, apparently, weren’t expected to pay for) and gone back to the camp where his men were setting up for the night. Apparently the entertainment here wasn’t all that interesting to them.
The female troubadour was strumming her guitar so smoothly it was almost impossible to tell where one chord changed to another, even as her little finger plucked a melody over the top of her partner’s song.
“She’s incredible,” Valiana said, watching every movement of the musician’s hands.
Dariana shrugged. “She stays in tune. That’s more than I can say for the singer.”
“No, you don’t understand. When I lived in Hervor we often had troubadours come to perform in the palace. They were skilled, all of them, or else my moth—the Duchess would never have allowed them to play. This woman, she’s something else . . . her fingers are like water gliding over river rocks.”
“Well, I’ve no ear for such subtleties,” Dariana said. Then she winced. “Though I may well have to kill her partner if he goes flat again.”
I turned my attention back to the performance, listening both for the masterful guitar playing and the uneven singing.
And lo, the light broke through the dark,
The wolf’s howls stayed by the song of the lark,
His words, once spoken, forever would stand,
And make their way ’cross this troubled land.
The singer stopped but the woman continued to strum softly, easing the audience out of the performance. “And thus ends my story, friends and countrymen. May it warm your hearts and give you courage when the darkest nights are upon us. If you think it might, perhaps you would give a coin or three to a troubadour long absent from his home and hearth.”
One of the patrons shouted “Coin? For a story? This beer’s all the courage that’ll do for us!”
“Aye,” another said, “keep your silly girls’ songs.”
The man next to him punched him in the shoulder. “Leave be, Jost, there’s nothing wrong with a story now and then. T’aint the point t’were it true or not.”
“Ah,” the storyteller said, his voice still smooth, “but I’m one of the Bardatti, my friends.” He looked around as if that revelation should produce a reaction in the audience. It didn’t. “The tales I tell are more real than that moon you see outside, and more honest than even the strong trees in the forest.”
At this point Jost stood up. “You’re tellin’ me that whole thing is true? That some fool managed to rile up the Duke hisself, what? And the people all just stood up and saved some little girl just on his say-so?”
Jost swallowed his remaining beer and looked as if he might be thinking of throwing the cup at the bard.
“Don’t you go makin’ trouble now, Jost,” the barman said as he laid down plates in front of us. I noticed the beef was severely outmatched by the onions and potatoes. A lithe young woman with red hair set down our beers and gave Brasti a smile. Brasti smiled back and was about to speak, but I jabbed him with my elbow.
Jost threw up his hands. “Ah, leave me be, Berret, ah’m not doin’ nobody no harm. Just don’t like people what lie to me and then ask for coin, that’s all.”
“Then you’re in the wrong tavern!” someone else chimed in.
“Inn,” Berret said angrily. He turned to me. “See what you’ve started?”
“Friends! Friends!” the storyteller said, standing. He looked nervous, realizing his chance at coin was slipping away. The woman with him paid no attention, just continued picking out a low, sweet tune. “Pay me or not, it’s your choice. But question not the word of a true Bardatti”—and here he made his voice deeper, as if it might terrify the crowd into tossing him their money—“for it’s ill luck to slight a man of Saint Anlas-who-remembers-the-world. I tell you the story is true, and only I know it so well, for I was there that day.” He put one foot up on the stool and pointed southwards as if he were captaining a ship. “Aye. I was in Rijou that very morning. I saw him speak. I was one of his twelve. And here, if you need more proof.” The troubadour raised his fingers and a coin appeared between them. It was gold and had the King’s symbol on it—a seven-pointed crown, along with a sword behind it. My mouth went dry. It was a Greatcoat’s coin, the ones we give jurors who risk their own lives to uphold verdicts. A single gold coin could feed an entire family for more than a year.
There was a kind of gasp that emerged from the audience. “So it’s true . . .” Jost said, his hand reaching out of its own accord toward the coin.
The troubadour made it disappear again. “Every word.”
“Well then,” another man said, standing up and looking around at his tablemates to see how much support he could drum up, “seems to me a man with a gold coin can afford to buy all of us a round, eh?”
“No,” the storyteller said, “a true juryman would never part with his coin. And I would sell my very soul before I gave up this one, given to me by the Greatcoat himself.”
“Then where is he now, this hero of yours? Lives in some castle with a dozen wives, does he?”
The storyteller looked over at us and for a moment I thought he might point us out to the crowd, but the woman with the guitar hit a slightly discordant note and the man turned back to the crowd. “That I don’t know, my friend. No one does. But wherever he is, I pray Falsio is somewhere warm, eating a fine meal and enjoying good beer tonight.” Then the troubadour lifted his cup high in the air. “To Falsio Dal Vond!” he said.
The crowd raised their cups. “To Falsio Dal Vond!” they said in unison.
I looked at Brasti, who was staring at me with a ridiculous smile on his face. “Put down your damned cup, you fool,” I said.
“What’s the problem? We’re famous! And not for the usual things like, you know, murder, cowardice, and treason.” Brasti glanced around the room, probably looking for the redheaded waitress.
“I’m not sure how Falcio’s fame extends to us,” Kest said.
“Don’t you recall? We were right there with him—twenty, no, fifty ducal guardsmen came rushing for him when you and I stepped up and saved Falcio with my bow. I killed fifteen of them in the first few minutes.”
“And how many did I kill?” Kest asked.
Brasti pursed his lips and looked up as if he were counting sums in his head. “Two,” he said finally. “Maybe three.”
“That’s—”
“Enough,” I said.
“Now, now,” Brasti said, “no need be so—”
“Shut up.” I thought through the details of the troubadour’s story, wishing I’d listened more carefully from the start. I didn’t know whether he’d been in Rijou or not, but he wasn’t one of the jurymen, that I would have remembered. What was really bothering me was that Brasti was right. It had been years since any of us had heard a tale about the Greatcoats that didn’t involve accusations us of cowardice and betrayal. I was surprised the troubadour dared say anything good about us in public—and yet the audience had applauded. They appeared willing to believe I was some kind of hero, standing up to the Dukes. I couldn’t imagine such a story would find favor with a man like Isault. Ah, hells.
“What is it?” Kest asked.
“I know why Isault sent us to deal with this village uprising.”
“Because of the troubadour? It’s just one story, Falcio.”
“It won’t be just here,” Valiana said. “If such a ballad’s made it to a little backwater tavern like this, it’s being told all over. Falcio’s right. Word must be spreading that the Greatcoats are coming back and Isault is afraid that the common folk are starting to admire all of you again.”
Admire all of you again. I heard it in her tone and saw again that sadness in her eyes that told me that she considered herself an outsider. I considered saying something, but right now I had more urgent matters to deal with than Valiana’s feelings. Behind her I saw Dariana’s eyes catch mine, and she mouthed the word “idiot.”
“Admire us,” I said and clapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this mess. We’re all in the same soup.”
She smiled, just a bit, and Dariana mouthed better at me.
“Fine,” Brasti said, still trying to attract the attention of the pretty waitress. “We’re all in terrible, terrible trouble. People like us again. Whatever will we do?”
“You don’t understand,” I said. “This is why Isault wanted us to come out here. It’s not to prove we can be trusted to enforce the laws. He wants us to put down the village rebellion and then he’s going to make sure the whole world hears about it. He’s using us to destroy our own reputation.”
Brasti gestured to the redheaded waitress, who was now standing near the door, and when she smiled back at him, rose from the table. “Well, you worry about it if you want, Falcio. But don’t spend too much time on it. It’s just a story, after all.”
Brasti never did understand how powerful a story could be.