Knights Magi (Book 4) (45 page)

“I . . . I’d favor the divine in that debate,” Rondal agreed with a sigh.  He still rode like a sack of meal, despite some improvement.  “Ever since . . . well, Yule, but especially ever since Inarion, I’ve felt like my life was one long tragically comedic epic.”

“Like being sent home through country you’ve never heard of without a guide, on a mission of vague importance, and being judged by Duin-only-knows what standards by our masters?”  Tyndal snorted.  “The tale would be worth a drink, at any rate.  But I was asking, I suppose, what do you think of all of this . . . knights magi business?”

“You’re reconsidering your profession?” asked Rondal, surprised.  “Seems a little late for that now.”

“No, no,” Tyndal said with another snort.  “I’ve got ambition, and the gods have given me a worthy path.  But . . . all of these rules.  All of these expectations . . . about a job no one has really had before.”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Rondal said with a shrug.  “They can’t really say we’re fouling it up, without anyone to compare us to.”

“And yet . . . I get the distinct impression that we’re just on this side of utter failure,” Tyndal pointed out.  “If we’re the first, or among the first, shouldn’t we get a say in just what a knight mage is?  What he does?  What he doesn’t do?”

“If you are attempting to institutionalize your way out of guard duty and other shit work, Ifnia’s luck be with you,” Rondal chuckled.  “Not that I’m unsympathetic, mind you, but I don’t see a way for us to avoid it.”

“Well, at least this part isn’t so bad,” Tyndal admitted, as they rode out of the village along the southern road.  “But all of that other stuff . . . the social obligations, the legal obligations, the arcane obligations, and all of it wrapped up with chivalry, which has precious little to do with magic.  The magelords of old didn’t have to contend with chivalry.”

“And see what happened to them?  Really, I thought you of all people would be eager to don the mantle of chivalry,” Rondal said, surprised.  “Most days you can’t be pried out of the practice yard.”

“If it was just fighting and swordplay, I’d be fine – better, perhaps.  But everything else . . . well, it makes me wonder how knights have any fun.”

“Are we supposed to have fun?” Rondal countered.

“I damn sure am,” Tyndal said, sullenly.  “I’m due some fun. 
Without
someone looking over my shoulder.”  He looked at Rondal warily. 

“Why are you looking at
me?
” snorted the other apprentice.  “I’m not your bloody warden!  Go bugger virgin goats, if you’d like.  I’ll refrain from judgment,” he said, unconvincingly.

Tyndal snorted back.  “What?  You’d really not tell Master Min or Sire Cei if I, ah, took some creative liberties with their carefully laid plans?”

“You’re your own idiot,” Rondal assured him.  Then he paused a moment.  “Why?  What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing felonious,” Tyndal assured him.  “I think.  I hadn’t any particular crime in mind.  I’m just proposing that we be open to adventure.”

Rondal shrugged, which surprised Tyndal.  “Isn’t that the nature of errantry, supposedly?  So you just want to follow the road and see what kind of trouble you can get into?”

“
We
can get into,” Tyndal reminded him.  “And I’m not saying we ignore our errand.  Merely that we enjoy it as much as we can.  If that means risking a little trouble . . .”

“I just said I wouldn’t tell and I wouldn’t judge,” Rondal said, quickly.  “By all means, do what you please.  I’m sure it will be instructive to watch.  But . . . well, don’t expect me to hold the
down the goat while you do it.”

*
                            *                            *

As fortune favored them they had little in the way of adventure for the rest of that day as they rode south.  They came to a prosperous manor late in the day and – for the first time – traded on their knighthood for a night of room and board.

Despite Tyndal’s dreams of luxury, the matron of the manor asked that he split some wood for the fire, as her servant had injured his shoulder.  Rondal was tasked with bringing in water from the well.  Dinner was adequate, a hot stew of beans and chicken served on day-old trenchers.  There was no cheese with their meal, but some butter that was not quite yet rancid.

At supper, they shared a table with the cream of the manor’s ladyhood.  None were younger than thirty, and all seemed to have the sort of face that Sire Cei graciously called “unfortunate.”

So where are the dewy-eyed maidens?
Rondal teased his fellow apprentice. 

I think they must be in the stew,
grumbled Tyndal. 
I’d figure there would be at least a maid or two about.  This lot looks like a crone’s wake.

The next morning they thanked their hostess, received a stirrup cup after praising her hospitality, and accepted a modest lunch for the road.  Biscuits and the leftover stew from the night before.

“So where is this first manor we’re to find?” Tyndal asked, as they discovered the fare was better after a night’s rest.  “Ramoth’s Wood?”

“From what I understand, it is one of the estates belonging to the lord of Lormyr,” Rondal supplied. “Which you would know if you had listened to half of what our hostess said at dinner last night.”

“I was paying attention,” protested Tyndal, annoyed.  Rondal seemed to pick the most inane things to reprove him over  “I didn’t ask who owned it, I asked where to find it.”

“Oh,” Rondal said, taken aback.  “It should be down this road, then west at the next crossroad.  That will take us into Lormyr, and Ramoth’s Wood should be on the east side of the road.  From what Sire Cei told me, the tenant lord is Sir Gamman the Red.”

“That . . . is a foreboding sounding name,” admitted Tyndal.  “So . . . any points of interest between here and Lormyr?”

“I think there’s an inn at the next village,” Ron answered.  “But we really should—”

“Be pursuing an errant’s life of adventure?” Tyndal interrupted.  “I couldn’t agree more.  All of this study . . . training . . . practice . . . don’t you want to use some of that great store of knowledge in the field?” he teased. 

Rondal looked uncomfortable – a common expression on the boy’s face – but shrugged.  “I suppose,” he admitted.  “But . . . I don’t want any trouble.”

“That’s your problem,” Tyndal said, shaking his head sadly, “you
never
want any trouble.”

“Trouble gets people killed,” Rondal pointed out.  “And imprisoned.  And fined.  And captured.  And—”

“And experienced,” he soothed.  “That’s why Sire Cei sent us out here. 
Seasoning
.”

“And if I do not feel the need to be seasoned?”

“Then you are working against your liege’s orders,” pronounced Tyndal.  “Didn’t Master Min say he wanted us to be independent and self-reliant?”

“I thought his emphasis was more on training and instruction,” Rondal said, as they clopped along.

“This is training and instruction in self-reliance and independence,” Tyndal rationalized.  “It’s just an inn.  Two dashing young errants having an ale on the road.  What could happen?”

Rondal’s groan was a pleasing sound in Tyndal’s ear.

*                            *                            *

It being market day, the inn was crowded and bustling with traffic when they arrived.  The boys tied their horses and paid a lad an iron penny to watch them.   They followed the trail of peasants and merchants within.

The inn was called the
Rampant Rabbit
, and featured a colorful sign over the door: a buffoonish, somewhat effeminate rabbit in a jousting helm and scarlet shirt threatening a powerfully muscled bull with a limp carrot.  Behind the rodent was a pretty lady rabbit, elegantly gowned, who seemed far more interested in the bull than her erstwhile protector.   Tyndal found the sign highly entertaining, and wondered who had painted it. 

As busy as the trade was on a market day, their mantles and swords told them out as gentlemen, and that got them some attention quickly.  Before long their host, Goodman Rogal (who seemed far too skinny to be a real innkeeper) ushered them to a good table near to the window, and soon ale and bread and game pies were put before them, along with a plate of the local cheese.

“Now this is living properly,” Tyndal said with a sigh as he sipped the rich, nutty ale.  Far better than the last tavern’s.  “No pressures, no worries, just a couple of mates in an inn, enjoying a meal.”

“This does seem to be the first time we’ve been without our masters and betters around, in a while” Rondal agreed, almost sounding enthusiastic about it.  “And this is truly excellent ale.  Strong, too,” he said, sipping it slowly.

“I sometimes wonder if this is truly all a man needs,” Tyndal said, philosophically, as he looked around the friendly hall. 

“A woman’s favor would be nice,” Rondal murmured, as he watched a trio of local village girls burst into the place.  One of them might even be pretty, Tyndal decided with an expert eye, at least for another few years yet.  They were not the type of maidens Tyndal found himself drawn to, but Rondal’s attention had been captivated.

Tyndal considered.  He had no understanding of why his fellow apprentice resented him so.  It was a mystery to Tyndal, but clearly there was still some secret issue between them.  Perhaps, he reasoned, if he endeavored to assist his comrade with one of his largest deficits – understanding the mysteries of femininity – then he would see that Tyndal was not inherently antagonistic. 

And if he failed, well, at least that would be entertaining.

After what they had been through, he felt he at least owed Rondal the attempt at correcting his presentation, when it came to girls.  Although the lad was sullen, moody, and oftentimes cranky, he was still a fellow apprentice under the same master, and he was still Bovali.  If Tyndal found him irritating and plodding, he had to admit that Rondal had never resorted to the sorts of bullying or underhanded behavior that some apprentices had to fear from their fellows.  In fact, most of the time Tyndal didn’t mind Rondal’s company at all, when he wasn’t being aggressively sullen. 

“What would you say if I told you how to seduce yon maiden that your eyes suddenly can’t seem to leave alone?”

“What?” Rondal asked, struck out of his reverie.  “What?  Who? 
Her?
Me?
What?
”

“Let us begin with your
appalling lack of eloquence,” Tyndal said, smoothly.

“Wait!” Rondal sputtered.  “Why do I need
your
help to seduce her?  And who said I wanted to seduce her at all?”

“Perhaps the gentlemen with the portly figure is more to your liking?” suggested Tyndal.

“No, you idiot, I like girls plenty.  And . . . yes, that one is fair,” he admitted, embarrassingly.  “But I don’t need
your
help to woo her.”

“Then by all means, have at it,” Tyndal approved, sipping his ale.  “Go ahead.  I
shall observe your stunning victory.”

“Who said I
wanted
to pursue such a dalliance?” demanded Rondal quietly.  His eyes flashed angrily, and he held his drink in front of his lips protectively. 

“Your eyes, for one, and the way you have your jaw clenched up, like you did around . . . around . . . around girls you like,” he said, not able to mention that it was Estasia’s presence that had brought the signal to his attention the first time.  “Then there’s the uncomfortably awkward way you are shifting in your seat, as if you suddenly have a hot coal in your lap.  But no, they are all liars.  I’m sure you’re just considering taking holy orders,” he teased.

“That doesn’t mean that we have the time or—” Rondal sputtered.

“I’m not saying
marry
the girl – Ishi’s twat, no!  But she’s . . .
almost
comely, particularly when she’s standing in such forgiving light and so near to her unfortunately-faced friends, so . . . at least go get
her name
,” Tyndal demanded.  “Put a word with the breasts and face the memory of which you will be consoling yourself to sleep by tonight.”

“It’s not that simple!” Rondal hissed, his eyes darting around. 

“Boy,”
Tyndal said, gesturing toward Rondal with one long finger, before turning it on the maiden. 
“Girl.
It’s really no more complicated than that.  You cannot finish the hunt you never start,” he said, quoting from one of the many commentaries on Sire Rose’s Laws. 

“So why do you have to learn how to hunt women like game?” asked Rondal, sourly. 

“Because they don’t just fall into your bed of their own accord,” Tyndal countered, amused at his fellow’s naiveté.  “At least not usually, and rarely the worthy ones. 
They
need to be persuaded.  Coaxed.  Charmed.”  He grinned wolfishly.  “Pursued. 
Hunted
.  But gently, ever so gently.”

“Lied to,
you mean,” Rondal accused.  “That’s all that ‘Sire Rose’ is counseling: how to lie creatively to women.”