The Reign Of Istar (10 page)

“Something wrong?” Moran asked.

“Not really.” Finally Tarli said hesitantly, “This is so tight, it hurts.”

“Think of the pain as a distraction. You may have to fight in pain someday.” He held the
boy's shoulder, mostly to keep him still. “Now you tie on Saliak's blindfold.”

Saliak flinched. He hadn't thought about that. Tarli, his skin puckering beneath his own
blindfold, grinned. Saliak didn't make a sound when Tarli tightened the blindfold, but
Moran saw the older boy grimace in pain.

Moran passed each blind and groping boy a dagger. Maglion yelped when he pricked his
finger on the point;

the rest jumped at the sound.

Moran guided each of them, stood them against one of the walls. “And now,” he said calmly,
“all you have to do is walk across the courtyard without being stabbed. Simple enough, I'd
think.”

It was. If you used your ears and remembered that defensive weapons were as important as
offensive, the task wasn't hard at all. The novices began to shuffle tentatively across
the courtyard.

It wasn't as dangerous as it sounded; most boys were afraid to strike at all, sure that they were exposing their hands to a blade.

Moran moved among them with a short sword, occasionally parrying a novice's thrust, more
often touching a novice's back to remind him he was exposed.

Tarli, from either uncommon sense or recklessness - Moran couldn't decide which - skipped
halfway across the yard before the others had gone a step. Alone in the center, he cocked
his head, listening carefully and stepping around each of the approaching novices, who
were tiptoeing and shying away from each other, striking at nothing and ducking from the
same.

Tarli reached the opposite wall in record time and stood listening. Moran felt a burst of
pride in him.

Saliak, nearly halfway across, called softly, “Here, kender. Little Kender Stew, come on,
boy.” He clucked his tongue. “I've got something for you.” He sidestepped away from the
target spot his own voice had defined.

Tarli smiled and stepped back into the courtyard. He moved behind Saliak and matched him
step for step.

Saliak called in a sweet voice: “Here, kender. Don't be afraid, little fella. Do you want
my surprise?”

Tarli licked one of his fingernails, then reached up and pressed it against Saliak's neck.

“Depends. What is it?” Tarli asked conversationally.

Saliak froze at the feel of what he thought was the cold point of a dagger.

Faron, hearing Tarli, shuffled toward him, dagger thrust out.

Tarli stepped back from Saliak, who all but leapt away.

Faron made a quick thrust, low enough to pierce Tarli's heart.

Tarli, his head cocked, caught the rustling of cloth. He turned and smacked Faron's wrist
with the dagger's hilt. The other boy yelped, dropped his dagger, and Tarli snatched it up.

Faron fell to his hands and knees, searching for his weapon. Tarli stood beside him and
called loudly, “Janeel!”

Janeel lurched toward him, fell over Faron, and lost his dagger as well. Tarli stepped
between them and shouted, “Paladine help me! Steyan! Somebody! They've got my arms pinned.”

A number of boys advanced on what they thought was easy prey. After the first few went down in a heap, the rest were inevitable victims.

Gradually the groans and mutterings of the defeated pile of arms and legs sank to nothing.
Except for Tarli, only Saliak, feinting determinedly around the empty courtyard, was still
upright.

“Dein?” Saliak sidestepped. “Faron?”

Faron and Dein, half-buried in the pile, were cursing each other and Tarli.

Saliak had wrapped his shirt around his arm in a makeshift shield and used his dagger as a
probe to find someone. “Janeel?” He sounded afraid. “Anybody?”

Then he did something that impressed Moran. Saliak ran end-to-end in the courtyard, his
fingers outstretched. When he touched the far wall, he spun around and ran the other way.

As luck would have it, both times he missed the pile of novices. He stood still and called
out, “Is everyone all right? You sound like you're in pain. Do you need help?”

The worst among them is becoming a knight, Moran thought with satisfaction.

Saliak was now thoroughly frightened. “Answer me!” He leapt to one side, as though
something he couldn't see had lunged at him. “Sire, tell me they're all right!”

Although he remained silent, Moran was moved. Tarli tiptoed over to Saliak.
“Booga-booga-booga!” Tarli yelled and poked Saliak in the ribs with his finger. Saliak screamed and slashed wildly. Tarli leapt back laughing. The others, hearing the noise, struggled to stand, grunting and cursing.

Moran viewed glumly the shambles of the exercise. “All right, take off your blindfolds.”

Those who could helped those who couldn't. They gaped at what they saw: themselves,
unarmed, in the center of the courtyard, and Tarli, still blindfolded, standing
confidently over a stack of daggers.

Most of the boys were bruised, hardly any cut. Moran supposed that the exercise might be
judged a success.

Saliak tugged angrily at his blindfold. “It won't come off.” Several boys tried to untie
Saliak's blindfold, but every tug made the knot tighter. Finally Janeel asked Tarli for a
dagger.

Tarli shrugged and tossed it, lightly and easily, without having to look, then he cut his
own blindfold off, picked up his ever-present duffel and thonged stick, and walked to
lunch alone, whirling the stick, listening to it hum.

Saliak, rubbing the marks out of his head, stared viciously after him. “I'll kill the
little animal. I'll kill him. I'll kill him.”

Moran, standing behind him, said coldly, “Saliak.” Saliak spun, reddening. “Sire.” “A word
of advice: Don't attempt it blindfolded. You'll hurt yourself.” Steyan laughed aloud. Saliak shot him a nasty look.

Moran thought sadly, He'll pay for that laugh. Rakiel watched the boys limp out of the
courtyard. “Tarli's hearing is amazing - for a human,” he commented.

“It's a common enough human talent,” Moran retorted irritably. “My own hearing - ” He
stopped.

“You were about to say something about your hearing?” Rakiel prodded him.

“It's fairly good.” He looked pointedly at the cleric, daring him to continue. Rakiel
smiled, shrugged, and walked off. As soon as he was alone, Moran began sorting and
counting the daggers. The count was woefully off. A trip to the barracks - and Tarli's
duffel - replaced only a few of them. Tarli was vague about what had happened to the rest.
A search of the manor produced no more daggers.

Moran spent the evening in more paperwork, helped by a sarcastic and skeptical Rakiel. A
late-night bout of Draconniel, in which Moran lost seven footmen to Rakiel's suicide
squadrons, did nothing to improve the knight's temper.

*****

“Another expense?” Rakiel asked a week later.

Moran grunted. This one was for missing pots and pans - Tarli had used them in the nightly
barracks battle, for “armor.”

“Doesn't anyone ever ask you if you're overspending?” the cleric demanded.

“No.” Moran gritted his teeth, then said calmly, “Knights trust one another. I write the
forms, I sign and seal documents, and I hold the gold and silver in the treasury room below, not far from the novices' barracks and ... Oh, Paladine!” It was the first
time in twenty years that Moran had sworn aloud.

Rakiel watched, amazed to see an old man run so fast.

By the time the cleric arrived, puffing and panting from his exertions, Moran was standing
in the open door, staring at the shelves laden with sacks of gold, coins, caskets, bowls,
and chalices. There were noticeable gaps.

Moran started down the hall, then turned back around. “Here.” He tossed Rakiel the key.
“Make an inventory, then lock up as tight as a dragon's ... Tight.” Rakiel nodded dazedly.
“Then sit against the door till I come back.”

Moran was planning for a long search, but it was all too short. He found the missing items
standing on a stone windowsill in the barracks.

A golden chalice, encrusted with gems, tapered into a griffin's foot, clutching a silver
semispherical base.

A marble chest was inlaid with onyx. The top handle was in the shape of a red dragon
swooping down on a knight and horse. The dragon's eyes were rubies; the knight's shield
was a single multifaceted emerald.

A tray, inlaid with pearl, jet, and diamonds, portrayed the tomb of Huma by moonlight. The
tray was propped up so that the diamonds, catching the sunlight, reflected onto the
ceiling.

“Aren't they beautiful?” Tarli was sitting on the bed in the comer. The bed legs had been
removed, or maybe he had traded beds with Steyan. He was alone in the room, calmly
whittling on the thong-stick.

Moran pointed to the articles in the window. “Are those ... Did you ...”

“Put them there? Yes. I borrowed them.” Tarli, stick in hand, walked to the window. “The
room needed something cheerful, and - can you believe it? - these things were just sitting
on shelves in the dark. I thought they'd remind some of us of our training,” he finished
quietly.

“Are these the only things you ... borrowed?”

“They were all I could carry.” Tarli looked around the bare, dismal room critically. “I
could go back for more - ”

“No!” Moran said, then, more calmly, “Don't go into that storeroom again. Don't take
things out of it again. Don't do anything at all in relation to the storeroom, unless I
give my written permission to do so.”

“All right, Sire.” Tarli looked puzzled.

“And now I'll take these back.” Moran gathered up the chalice, the chest, and the tray.

“Why? They won't do anyone any good, shut up in that room.”

Moran said delicately, “The knights prefer that these things be locked away, to discourage
thieves.”

“No!” Tarli was shocked. “Thieves? Here?” A monstrous idea occurred to him. “Among the
novices?”

“It's been known,” Moran said dryly.

Rakiel had completed the inventory when Moran returned. The cleric quickly added the last
three items. “Do you want to see the list - ?”

Moran shook his head. He sat heavily on an oaken chest whose lock, he noted thankfully,
was rusted shut and intact. “That's the lot. Sorry to put you to the extra work.”

“No trouble.” Rakiel crumpled the list and stuffed it in his robes. “I assume it was Tarli
who stole them. Have you noticed - ?”

Moran cut him off. “Go to the basement. Bring me a handful of spikes and a hammer. I'm
sealing this door.”

Rakiel did not move, eyed him grimly. “Have you noticed,” he said determinedly, “that the
novices are right about his being like a kender? He doesn't have the pointed ears, of
course,” he added hastily, “or the topknot hair, and he is a little taller, but his
habits, and his recklessness, and his ...”

Moran glowered at the cleric. “Loraine was human. Very short, a bit odd, but human. Go.”

Rakiel left. The knight, alone on the trunk, sagged and closed his eyes, too tired even to
dream of Loraine.

*****

Moran sat clearing away his manuscripts. Drill reason was nearly over.

The game of Draconniel was over as well; last night Rakiel's forces, depleted over months
of ruthless tactics, withdrew in disorder. Moran killed and captured as many as mercy and
logistics allowed, then accepted Rakiel's sullen congratulations and gladly slipped
downstairs to check on the novices.

In retrospect, he wished he had stayed with Rakiel.

Hidden in his niche, Moran listened to the boys in the barracks. This was their last
night. In the morning, the novices would be given squires' tunics and the names of the
knights they would serve.

The boys had smuggled in cakes and ale - Moran had known - but they didn't feel like
eating or drinking. It was no longer fun breaking the rules.

Unfortunately, none of them felt that way yet about bullying their three victims.

Janeel, with false heartiness, said, “Gully Gut can celebrate for us.”

Dein and Faron had bound Maglion's arms to his bed. By now he offered only a little
resistance, mechanically pushing the others away. Only his eyes showed anger and pain.

Steyan, his legs doubled up behind him and his body stuffed into an open trunk, watched as
best he could. His head and neck were bent forward to fit in the trunk, which was labeled,
“Gnome's Shortening Device.”

Tarli was chained, muzzled, and gagged. Set in front of him were a gnawed bone and a sign:

beware! kender bites!

Tarli watched the others with patient indifference.

“Mustn't leave you thirsty.” Janeel poured a full flagon of ale down Maglion's throat,
some of it foaming into the fat boy's nostrils. He choked and sputtered.

“And now” - Janeel waved a cake in front of Maglion like a conjurer - “a nut cake! Made
with real honey. Don't you want it? Or should I feed it to Kender Stew?” He held it to
Tarli's nose. “Poor Kender Stew. Has to beg for treats.” He spun, and mashed it into
Maglion's face. “Gully Gut gets them for nothing.”

He pulled the fat boy's hair, forced open his mouth, and shoved the entire cake in. Then
he mashed Maglion's jaw up and down on the cake. A single angry tear leaked from the fat
boy's eyes.

“Wait.” The voice sounded weary, embarrassed, and ashamed. To Moran's surprise, it was
Saliak who spoke. “This is wrong. I've been wrong.”

He wiped Maglion's face clean, using one of his shirts as a towel, then untied his arms.
The fat boy took the shirt from him without a word and finished cleaning himself. “I thought it was fun.” Saliak bent
down and undid the strap buckles on Steyan's knees and elbows. “I thought, they're strange, and we're not,
and it's only ... fun.”

Steyan, free of the trunk, stumbled and fell. Saliak massaged Steyan's arms and legs to
bring the feeling back.

“We all thought that.” Saliak looked around anxiously. “Didn't we? We all laughed.” He
looked as far as Tarli and looked away, flushing. When Steyan groaned and rolled over,
Saliak stepped to Tarli.