Knights Magi (Book 4) (40 page)

Tyndal, how is your tutoring going?
asked his Master.

Fine, Master.  I now know more about the ducal houses than I ever wanted to know. 

Bunch of inbred buggers aren’t they?  Look, I’ve got a problem.  I need your help.

How may I be of service, Master?
Tyndal asked, using his best court manners.  Sire Cei had required them to use such formal address as much as possible.

Impressive. 

Thank you , Master!
Tyndal said, pleased.

Not you, Sire Cei.  I didn’t think he could teach you and Rondal manners.  The Westwoodmen brought a report to me today.  It seems one of their hunters was ranging south west of Sevendor and came across something troubling.  Someone in the next domain over seems to be secretly mining snowstone.

Snowstone?  Are you certain?

No, which is why I am speaking to you.  Whatever I did to create it in the first place wasn’t concerned with my property rights.  From what I can tell, there are outcroppings of snowstone in at least two other domains.  The larger of the two is this one.  Taragwen.  The lord of Taragwen is a vassal of the Lord of Sashtalia, so he’s not going to be pleasantly disposed to an embassy from Sevendor.  Not after what we did to his ally, the Warbird.  But he might not take too much notice of a small hunting party or such.  The estate is supposed to be great hawking and fox hunting territory.

I don’t know how to hunt, Master,
Tyndal confessed.

I’m sure you’ll get around to it.  But you don’t need to hunt.  I want you and Sire Cei and Rondal to take a gentleman’s stroll down there and see what is actually happening.  The last thing we need is for the Dead God to get his nonexistent hands on it.  You’re more than a day closer than I am, and I think between the three of you I can get a good report. 

I shall inform Sire Cei of your orders, Master.  Is there any other service I might do for you?

How are things between you and Ron?
he asked quietly.

We’re . . . civil, master,
Tyndal replied cautiously. 
No more incidents.

See that there aren’t,
he ordered. 
I’ve got enough going on without the two of you clawing at each other’s eyes like a couple of five-year-old girls.  The war is heating up in Gilmora again.   A lot of raids, and always where we expect them least.  No dragons yet, but it’s early in the season.  We might be making another quick trip back there, if things don’t quiet down.

Yes, Master. 
Tyndal didn’t feel comfortable revealing to Master Minalan the issue at the root of the animosity – his botched handling of the Inarion Affair.  He was just going to have to be on his guard with his fellow apprentice, and hope the usually mild-mannered boy did not snap.  There was something dangerous in his eyes now, something Tyndal was wary of.

Tyndal outlined the orders to Sire Cei and Rondal over dinner that evening.  Cargwenyn Manor was much smaller than the great hall at Sevendor Castle, much more intimate, but with the hivesister and her two apprentices dining along with Lady Estret and her daughter, the two old servants who brought their meal had to dodge and weave quite a bit around the trestle.

“Taragwen, eh?” Sire Cei said, stroking his chin as he glanced over at a map on the wall in place of a tapestry.  The map was at least a generation out of date, Tyndal could see, but the essential features hadn’t changed.  “Part of Sashtalia’s domain now.  A marginal estate, if I recall, though better off than Sevendor.  But it does extend into the Uwarris a ways behind the ridge.”

“And we can just walk right in, introduce ourselves as fellow nobles, ask to take a look around, and maybe get invited to lunch?”

“Nearly,” conceded Sire Cei.  “Only we’ll ride.  We are gentlemen of some means.”

“But they will just let us wander in?” Rondal repeated skeptically.  Peasants who did that sort of thing often got a beating for their trouble, or worse.

“The rules of hospitality demand it,” agreed Sire Cei.  “To refuse such a reasonable request without cause would cause talk amongst the lord’s peers.”

“For just any wandering knight who happens by?” Tyndal asked in disbelief.

“If he is of gentle birth and begs the boon,” Sire Cei said, cutting a rind of cheese to lay between he and Estret on their common trencher, “then it would be a failure of hospitality, and call the lord’s honor into question.  A knight could request to spend a full day there, perhaps several, without note.”

“Free of charge?”

“It would be inhospitable to charge for a mere night’s board.  Longer than a night, and the guest may be asked to assist in some minor chore as a service – which he likewise could not refuse, after accepting hospitality.”

“So a knight could, theoretically, just go skipping from castle to castle, getting free meals and a fire . . .” Tyndal began.

“. . . and drink for free, and stable his horse . . . just because he’s a knight,” Rondal said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Exactly,” Sire Cei said, satisfied.  “Further, asking leave to hunt or fish is a common practice, and the lord is almost obligated, save under special circumstances.”

“I think I just understood a lot more about knights,” Rondal said, his eyes wide.  Tyndal knew what he meant.  Such rights were sold to the commoners for dear coin; to have them granted to a fellow knight as a matter of course was a huge economic boon.  It also explained all the spare chivalry he’d seen clogging up some castles. 

“At least about errantry,” agreed Tyndal.  “It’s like a free meal under every
manor!”

“Gentlemen, you make it sound so sordid,” Lady Estret chuckled.  “Knights travel for many reasons, and being able to count on the hospitality of their peers allows them to do so without fear of the perils of the public house.  Under the codes of chivalric hospitality, a landed knight who turned away a fellow without good cause would himself lose honor by forcing an errant into an inn, or worse.  When you have been riding for days, the last thing you want to do is fight with some bandit over your dinner.”

“But . . . couldn’t you just keep traveling like that, from manor to manor . . . forever?”

“Some do,” Estret admitted.  “There are always ‘gentlemen of the road’ who cannot seem to find a lord to serve.  If they stay in any region long enough, their reputation spreads.  There are ways to take care of such presumptions.”

“Like what?”

“Like requiring him to assist in some noble but tedious task – like collecting rents, or evicting a tenant.  In a time of war, his sword is put to use.  And he must comply . . . or expect the accommodations to become less gracious.  Hospitality demands food and drink and shelter . . . it does not specify what kind.”

“I . . . see,” Tyndal said, calculating just how long he thought he could keep up such a pleasant-sounding lifestyle.

“Errantry is no feast day,” Lady Estret said, shaking her head.  “Many a knight has found himself between castles at sundown . . . and he is more of a target on the road, due to his station alone.  Some errants turn to banditry or pillage to survive, if they become unwelcome and will not move on.  Others are content to stretch whatever stipend they have as a legacy until they can secure a position.”

“So is this mission considered . . . errantry?” asked Rondal.

“Yes,” agreed Sire Cei.  “We are specifically on an errand for our lord.  But we are also on an errand to further the noble pursuit of hunting.  It would not be uncommon for three good friends to take to the road with a few bottles and scout good hunting grounds . . . particularly if they had harridans for wives.” He smiled good-naturedly at his bride.  “Something I have no experience with, I’m afraid.”

“So a knight doing anything that is not actually riding to battle or managing an estate . . . any knight on the road is an errant?”

“Essentially,” agreed Sire Cei.

“It sounds like a recipe for trouble,” Rondal said, his brows knit.

Tyndal smiled.  “I was thinking the very same thing.”

*                            *                            *

The three set out the next day, with food for a few days prepared by the staff. Lady Estret bade them a formal farewell . . . to help the boys practice.  Her belly was starting to show, and Sire Cei seemed genuinely loath to leave her, but she assured him that she was safe and in good hands.  It would be a few months yet before the baby (a daughter, Tyndal knew, although he wasn’t sure if Cei did) was due.  He deserved a few days relaxing on the road, she insisted.  Reluctantly, and only because their master bid him so, did Sire Cei take his leave.

The three road south, stopping that afternoon at Fulanor Manor.  The lord, a tenant knight in his twenties called Sir Merendol, was a friend of Sire Cei’s and a cousin of Lady Estret.  He leapt at the chance to avoid the laborsome chore of overseeing the summer hayfields.  Leaving the matter in the hands of the reeve, he wasted no time in packing a bag and having his horse saddled.  He brought along a brace of brown hunting dogs as well.

Sir Merendol proved a boon traveling companion.  He was Master Minalan’s age, or thereabouts, a good country knight of noble lineage but modest station.  He had welcomed Sire Cei warmly when he learned that his cousin had wed the Alshari knight, and the two had become friends and good neighbors as Cei had consulted him about the running of the estate.

Tyndal found Merendol a welcome companion largely because of the large sack of wine he brought.  Tyndal was quite fond of wine, and counted it as one of the better benefits of the life of a noble.  They toasted each other’s health for miles before they settled into a good traveling pace. 

Sir Merendol was full of news of the region, and was happy to share it with the boys.  He oversaw Fulanor Manor as a vassal of the Baron’s son, paying for the privilege of running the lucrative estate.  He had yet to take a wife, and seemed in no hurry to, although he discussed his prospects at length.

That evening they came to the frontiers of Sendaria, the domain of Birchroot.  Just as twilight was setting in, Rondal grinned widely and rode ahead, stopping at a small building just shy of the river.  A woman outside greeted him warmly . . . and from the shape of her belly, she was just a few months ahead of Lady Estret.

“Dear Ishi!” he swore, without mentioning the goddess of love’s breasts for once in deference to Sire Cei, “did Rondal go and put a foal in some maid’s stable when we weren’t looking?”

“It appears there are indeed things about him we don’t know,” agreed Sire Cei. 

“She’s comely enough,” agreed Sir Merendol.  “But where in seven hells did that
bridge
come from?  It’s been two years since I’ve been this way, but I could have-”

“Ah!  That explains it,” Sire Cei said, snapping his fingers.  “Sir Rondal was tasked with building a bridge in Birchroot, as part of a bargain of Magelord Minalan’s with the Baron last year. This must be the famous bridge.”

“Famous?” asked Merendol.  “How famous?  I didn’t even know it was here!”

“Famous because the mage knight enchanted it,” explained Sire Cei.  “He ran into some trouble while building it.  So he used magic to repair the problem.  Now it is said that when regarded from Sashtalia, all one sees is a menacing-looking fortress.  From here, a pleasant little inn.”

The
Birchroot Inn
was pleasant, though crude and under construction.  And apparently Rondal did know the proprietor and his family, and made a point of introducing them like old friends. 

Even more impressive., the man insisted on treating them all to bed and board that night at his own expense, saying that Rondal’s coin would never spend there. 
Baston was a stout fellow, a former highwayman, from what he said, although Tyndal doubted it.   But he knew his way around a crock of ale.

It was odd, though, seeing Rondal as the object of gratitude and respect like that.  Not that he wasn’t worthy of it, Tyndal reasoned as he grew sleepy by the fire, but he had rarely seen his fellow apprentice so animated and social.  After the cool demeanor of the last few weeks it was a startling change.

“At least you know it was not he who tupped the innkeeper’s wife,” Sir Merendol murmured, watching the three of them talk around a table.  “She only has eyes for her husband.  A rogue, perhaps, but an entertaining one.”

“He brews well enough,” admitted Tyndal, draining his glass.  “And the stew was good.”  He couldn’t bring himself to voice suspicions of the friendly man, but anyone who treated Rondal that respectfully had to be up to something.  He fell asleep near the fire considering just what the innkeeper was plotting with his fellow apprentice.

The next morning he woke unmolested, unravaged and unrobbed, to the smell of biscuits and hot tea.  They left with fond well-wishes and blown kisses.  Tyndal did have to admit, when they’d crossed the bridge and he’d looked back at it, that the enchantment his fellow had crafted was impressive, and grudgingly told Rondal so.  He thanked Tyndal graciously, which made it all the more irritating.

They approached their goal before he realized it.  Taragwen was a sliver of an estate that stood on the other side of the southwestern ridge of Sevendor.  Part of the Lord of Sashtalia’s domain, Taragwen, like Sevendor, had been passed from one henchman to another over the years.  Unlike Sevendor, it had not
suffered neglect.  It was just remote, small, and had little arable land.

It was not a particularly healthy estate.  With only two hundred odd acres under cultivation – mostly rye and barley, with some wheat – it grew enough to support the village of Taragwen and the small fortress there . . . but little more. 

Sir Merendol informed them of its scant history as they rode toward the squat tower-and-keep on the hillside. Once part of the great Lensely landholding empire, Taragwen had been calved off of larger domains, mostly to reward loyal retainers with some sort of estate for their upkeep.