The Thief's Tale (3 page)

“And how will you do that?” said Hilder. “You have no experience in such things and only a little money.” 

“I don’t know,” said Jager. “But it would be better than staying here to serve that fat old drunk and that cruel thug…”

Hilder slapped the top of his desk. “Do not say such things about your sworn lords! It is ill to talk of them that way.”

“Why?” said Jager. “It is also ill to speak lies, Father. To call them valiant knights is a lie.”

“Yes,” said Hilder. “But I told you, Jager, that our lords are often less than perfect. All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, is that not what the church says? We both know that it is true of ourselves, if we are honest and look into our own hearts. Why should it be any different for our lords?” 

“Aye, I am a sinner, as are all men,” said Jager, “but I have never beaten a man because he offered to help me with my armor. No. I am going.”

“Listen to me, I beg of you,” said Hilder, his lined face drawn. “You are a man grown and I cannot gainsay you. But it is a dark world. Do you think the lords and merchants of Cintarra and Tarlion shall be any more kindly disposed to you? And Caerdracon is a safe duxarchate. There hasn’t been a war here since the days of the Frostborn, and the pagan orcs and the creatures of the dark elves were driven out long ago. There are creatures that would make you a slave, or that would simply devour you, if they but had the chance. Would you really choose to live away from the protection of the Magistri and the Swordbearers?”

“Tarlion and Cintarra have known peace as long as Caerdracon,” said Jager. “I am not likely to meet an urvaalg or an urdmordar within their walls. And when was the last time a Magistrius came to Caudea? Or a Swordbearer? If there are no urvaalgs or spider-devils here then it hardly seems we need the Two Orders’ protection.”

Hilder sighed. “You were always better with words than I am, my son. But do not go. Our oaths, our traditions of service…they carry great meaning. Even if the object of our service is unworthy. Our ancestors were slaves, and Sir Alan’s ancestor made us free. Shall we forget that debt? Are we less honorable than our forebears?”

Jager hesitated. The ache in his father’s eyes unsettled him. Hilder had dedicated his life to his service of the House of Tallmane. For his son to turn on his back on it would be a grievous blow. And many of his father’s arguments had merit. What would happen if he went to the cities and was unable to find work? At least in the domus he had enough to eat and a roof over his head. If he went to Cintarra, would he have to sleep in alleys and beg for his bread? 

“It is only through the winter,” said Hilder. “Sir Paul is still in service to the Dux of the Northerland. Once spring comes, he will ride back to Castra Marcaine.” 

“And once Sir Alan dies and Paul inherits the benefice?” said Jager.

Hilder shrugged. “May God grant Sir Alan many healthy years. But when he does die…I suspect Sir Paul will find Caudea too small for him. Likely he will stay at Castra Marcaine and only visit Caudea to collect his rents. Or if he is indeed close to Sir Tarrabus, likely he will spend all his time at Castra Carhaine.”

“What do you think?” said Jager to Dagma.

“I think Father is right,” she said. “Yes, Sir Alan is an old lecher, and Sir Paul is a thug. But we are halflings. We are servants. It is what we have always done, for centuries and centuries. If you leave, Jager, I fear what might become of you.”

He hesitated. Something about that answer rankled him. There was honor in loyal service, yes. But what if he wanted more than that? What if he wanted to see the realm, to become more than the servant of a minor knight in a quiet village?

But perhaps Hilder was right. 

“I…will stay,” said Jager. Hilder smiled, and Dagma clapped her hands in delight. “And I will try to deal with Sir Paul.”

“It will be hard, I know,” said Hilder. “The path of service is often a challenge. But I will help you however I can.”

###

Bit by bit, Jager learned to manage Paul Tallmane.

The big knight drank to excess almost every night, save for evenings when he wanted to go hunting the next morning. Whether suffering from a hangover or not, he wanted food and drink brought to him at once when he awoke. On days he stayed at the domus, he practiced his sword work for hours in the atrium, facing off against some of Sir Alan’s men-at-arms. On days when he practiced the sword and the lance, he wanted spiced wine ready at hand to quench his thirst. On days when he preferred to ride around Sir Alan’s benefice, he desired food immediately upon his return. 

Gradually Jager learned Paul’s routine. Paul punched him twice more, once when Jager spilled a cup of wine, and again when his wine had not been spiced to satisfaction. Jager hastened to correct the errors, and Paul started to ignore him. Jager preferred it that way. He realized Paul saw him as simply part of the furniture, a tool to be ignored.

Like a pack animal, he thought bitterly. Paul likely valued his horse more. Was this how Hilder had spent his life? At least Sir Alan had never hit Hilder.

Or maybe Alan was simply too old and fat to beat the servants now.

On mornings when Paul went hunting, Jager accompanied him on a donkey. Someone had to carry the weapons and clean the kills, after all, and Hilder had taught him how to do so. Jager didn’t mind. The hunting expeditions always put Paul in a good mood, and he rarely spoke to Jager save to give commands.

But when he failed to find a kill, his temper darkened.

“The hell with this,” muttered Paul one morning, about two months after he had arrived from Castra Marcaine. It was a cold winter day, a thin blanket of snow covering the ground. “Where have all the deer gone? If those damned freeholders have been poaching again I’ll have them hung.”

Jager said nothing. He knew better.

“I wanted meat for dinner, damn it,” said Paul. “Proper, fresh meat. Not more of that salted leather that has been sitting in your father’s pantry since Malahan Pendragon arrived from Old Earth.” He growled and turned his horse. “Come. Back to the domus. I may as well get drunk.” 

“As you wish, my lord knight,” said Jager, turning his reluctant donkey around.

They rode through the fields west of Caudea, past patches of forest and pastureland. Paul ignored the roads and rode through the fields, heedless of the ground beneath him. Jager shuddered to think of the damage Paul would do if he went hunting in the spring, after a crop had been sown. But perhaps his horse would throw a shoe in the rough ground, and Paul would fall and break his neck.

There was a pleasant thought. Though a fall from a horse would likely do nothing to his master’s thick skull.

“Here, now,” said Paul, reining up. “What’s this?” 

A small cottage stood nearby, a flock of goats milling in a stone-walled pasture. The cottage looked deserted, no smoke rising from the chimney, and Jager saw no sign of anyone.

“Well, well,” said Paul, his smile returning. “Wild goats. What a fortuitous coincidence, eh?”

“But my lord knight,” said Jager. Hunting was once thing. Stealing livestock was quite another. “They clearly belong to that herder.”

“Wild goats,” said Paul.

“But they’re branded,” said Jager, pointing, “you can see the…”

Paul glared at him, his short bow in his hands, and Jager had the sudden feeling that the knight was thinking about putting a shaft through Jager’s heart. A cold wave of fear went down his spine. He had suffered beatings from Paul before, had thought that Paul might have him dismissed from service…but he had never feared that the knight would kill him.

Until now.

“Wild goats,” said Jager.

“Wise man,” said Paul, turning in the saddle.

He drew an arrow, set it to the string, and released. One of the male goats fell dead with an arrow in its breast, blood spilling upon the ground. 

“Gather it up,” said Paul. “No, wait, don’t bother. I suppose you’re too small and weak, and that donkey is no better. Wait a moment.” He dropped from the saddle and vaulted over the stone wall, heading towards the dead goat. The surviving goats fled to the other side of the pen, bleating in terror from the smell of blood. Jager looked around, his heart racing. If the herdsman happened to come home, or if someone saw Paul stealing the goat…

The door to the cottage banged open, and a man of about thirty stormed out, a club in his hand, a woman and a pair of small children hovering in the doorway.

“Thief!” roared the man, brandishing the club. “Thief! Thief!”

“Be off, churl,” said Paul. “I am no thief, but Sir Paul Tallmane, the son of your lawful lord, and I claim this goat as my rightful due.”

“I am a freeholder,” said the herder, scowling at the knight, “and I already paid my scutage for the year. You’ve no right to take that goat without paying.”

“I have every right,” said Paul. “I am the son of your lord. I am your better.” A cold glint, almost like glee, came into his black eyes. “And I am the stronger, and that gives me the right to do with you and your chattels as I please. Sir Tarrabus always said so, and he is a wise man.” He jerked his head. “Now go back to your wife and your brats. Do it now, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Don’t threaten me,” said the herder. “Take that goat, and I will complain to the Comes in Westhold.”

Paul’s expression darkened. “You would? And you think the Comes would listen to a ragged goat humper?”

“All of Caerdracon knows your father is a lazy rogue,” said the herder, “and that the Comes hates him. Aye, if I appeal to the Comes, I think he will listen. Better to leave my goats in peace.”

“Do not think,” snarled Paul, “to threaten your lawful lord.”

“Aye, and maybe you can herd goats yourself,” said the herder, “once the Comes dispossesses your father and…”

There was no warning. Paul raised his bow, drew back the string, and released. There was a horrible wet tearing sound, and the herder fell to his knees, gagging on his own blood, the shaft of an arrow jutting from his chest. The woman screamed and ran from the cottage, the children wailing as they toddled after her. 

Jager stared in horror as the herder gagged once more and collapsed to the ground, his blood soaking into the earth. The woman fell to her knees next to him, screaming as she grabbed his arms. Jager wanted to go to her, to the children, to find a way to help the dead man.

He looked at Paul, and felt a wave of hatred and loathing such as he had never known.

And fear. Paul had just murdered a man, and Jager had witnessed the crime. Surely Paul would kill Jager to silence his testimony. He might even kill the poor widow and the dead man’s children to ensure their silence. 

But Paul simply picked up the dead goat and slung it over the back of his horse.

“Come, halfling,” he said. “You can skin the goat when we return home. The noise is tedious.”

Numb, Jager obeyed, and he followed Paul back to the domus, the new-made widow’s cries ringing in his ears.

###

“He killed him,” Jager whispered.

Night had fallen, and Alan and Paul and their men-at-arms were getting drunk in the dining hall. Jager sat with Dagma by the kitchen door. He knew he ought to attend to Sir Paul, but he did not want to go anywhere near the man, not now.

“I believe you,” said Dagma.

Hilder had not. At first he had accused Jager of making up stories due to his dislike of Sir Paul. Then he had said that Jager must have been mistaken, that he had misunderstood what he had seen. The son and heir of Sir Alan Tallmane might be a crude and boorish man, but not a murderer.

“Thank you,” said Jager.

“What are you going to do now?” said Dagma.

“I don’t know,” said Jager.

###

But as it turned out, Jager needed to do nothing at all.

He spent the next three days in a daze, avoiding his father and going through his duties with Paul as quickly as he could without earning a beating. Jager’s heart veered between terror and disgust and guilt. He knew he ought to do something, but what? If he tried anything, Paul would kill him as he had killed that freeholder. Yet Paul himself showed no sign of concern, went about his usual routine as if he had not just killed an innocent man and stolen his property. 

Then the letter arrived from Westhold.

The widow had gone to Rilmar Cavilius, the Comes of Westhold, and appealed to him for justice, claiming that Sir Paul had murdered her husband. The Comes found these accusations grave enough that he would come in person to investigate, accompanied by a party of knights. As Sir Alan’s liege lord, he commanded that Sir Paul remain at the domus for questioning.

That night Jager stood with Hilder in the great hall, waiting upon his master as Sir Alan raged at Paul. 

“Well?” thundered Alan, his face nearly purple with fury. “Is it true?”

Paul shrugged. “I cannot be bothered to remember.”

“Damn it, boy!” said Alan. “Is it true?”

“I took the goat, and the ragged commoner tried to stop me,” said Paul. “He received his just due.” 

“Damn it!” said Alan, flinging the letter against the floor. “How could you have been so stupid?”

Paul shrugged. “I wanted the goat, and he refused to deliver it to his rightful lord.”

Alan quivered with fury, and for a moment Jager wondered if he had been wrong about the old knight. Perhaps there was a true and worthy knight of Andomhaim under years of neglect, the sort of knight who would have followed Malahan Pendragon and waged war against the dark elves, the sort of man who would have followed the Dragon Knight into battle against the Frostborn. 

“Do you have any idea how bad you’ve made me look?” said Alan, and Jager’s hope withered away. “Rilmar hates me, and he’s always been looking for an excuse to reclaim my benefice and give it to someone he likes. Since you had to murder that damned goatherd, you’ve given him just the excuse he needs. Couldn’t you have killed that widow?”

Jager looked at his father, but Hilder’s face remained impassive. 

“There didn’t seem any reason to kill her,” said Paul. “Who would believe some goatherd’s slattern?”