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now very well have a son not much younger than
Chenosh. He'd fathered children in a good many Dimensions and even knew the
fate of one of them-Rikard, who might still be ruling the land called Tharn.
None of this was quite the same as being able to raise, teach, and send out
into the world a child of his own.
"Well," he said. "The Fathers send each of us where they will. The only thing
we can do is the best we
can wherever they send us. You've certainly lived your life that way, and I've
tried to do the same.
Perhaps that's what draws us together."
"Perhaps," said Chenosh. Then, seeing Blade's embarrassment, he changed the
subject. If he was going to fight without a shield or with only a small one,
what about special armor for his right arm? A piece of heavy plate extending
from the elbow down to the wrist would make it harder for an opponent to draw
blood. It would also balance the sword in his left hand, and perhaps even let
him use his right arm as a weapon. The arm itself was sound enough; it was
only the hand which was crippled.
By the time they'd mounted their horses and were riding back to Castle Ranit,
Blade was so interested in this new subject that he'd forgotten the
embarrassing moment in the field.
Then there were dinners with Miera.
Sometimes Chenosh joined his sister, sometimes there was only the girl herself
with her nurse as chaperone.
It was after dinner one evening, and they were nibbling salted nuts and
drinking beer. Wine was the more lordly drink, but Miera preferred beer. They
talked of the day's news and events.
"What have you heard about the Captain of the Duke's Guard?" asked Miera.
"Only the same thing everyone's heard. He fell from his horse last night and
smashed one leg so badly he may never walk right again."
"Have you heard that he was drunk?"
"Are you telling me or asking me?" replied Blade, with a grin. He enjoyed
these verbal games with
Miera, even though he knew they were considered highly improper for an
unmarried woman. However, Miera didn't care a fig for propriety, and for once
her grandfather and Marshal Alsin seemed willing to let her have her own way.
"Asking," she said. "By all the stories I've heard he was a fine rider, too
good to fall unless he was drunk."
"I haven't heard that he was drunk, either," said Blade cautiously. He was
aware of the nurse at the other end of the table, well within hearing. He was
also aware of his desire to go on treating Miera like a human being, instead
of the way the Lords of this land were expected to treat even the best-born
women. "It was raining a little," he added. "The road might have been wet, and
he was riding fast the way he always did."
"Yes. It might have been wet." A man would have to be deaf not to hear the
skepticism in Miera's voice.
Then she smiled, her familiar mixture of innocence and sensuality. "I will not
press you to tell me what you could not even if you knew it. You have already
told me more than anyone except my brother would tell a woman." She reached a
hand across the table and rested two fingers lightly on Blade's wrist. Then
she jerked the hand back, as they both heard the nurse hissing like an
indignant snake.
Finally, there was getting a Feathered One of his own.
Blade wasn't sure he needed or wanted one, but he seemed to be the only person
who thought that.
Everyone else assumed that a Lord of his qualities would want his own
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Feathered One. Even Miera
joined her voice to the chorus, one of the few times he'd heard her agree with
her grandfather and Alsin in public.
So finally Blade rode off to the ancient castle where the Duchy's Feathered
Ones were bred and trained.
The castle was the original seat of the Dukes of Nainan, turned over to the
Masters of the Feathers when
Castle Ranit was finished a century ago.
Since the Duke hadn't appointed a new Master to replace Orric, the place was
in charge of Romiss, the
Breeder. Romiss was not a Lord by rank, but unlike other non-Lords Blade had
met in Nainan, he paid a
Lord no unnecessary deference or servility. He knew he was a master of a
skilled and demanding craft, and in the matter of choosing Feathered Ones he
considered himself the equal of any Lord or even the
Duke himself.
"This place is not what it was," said Romiss at once. "I'll say nothing
against you for killing Orric. That was Lords' business. But the Duke's going
to have to put someone in his place. I'll thank you to say as much the next
time you have his ear."
"Orric knew his job, I understand." Blade wanted to draw Romiss into talking
about his late master. He wasn't the sort to talk freely, and so far the Duke
saw no reason to have him imprisoned and tortured. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]