The Thief's Tale (2 page)

Jager blinked. 

“But the church teaches that a man should only lie with his wife,” said Jager.

“I know,” said his father.

“And you said the knights and lords were valiant men, that we should be honored to serve them,” said Jager.

“And we should be,” said Hilder, hands folded behind his back.

“You told me that if I lay with a woman before getting married,” said Jager, “that I would regret it.” God knew he certainly had had the opportunity, and fighting the impulse had gotten harder as he grew older. “You said…”

“Enough!” said Hilder, and Jager fell silent, surprised again. His father never raised his voice.

“What are we going to do?” said Jager.

“Nothing,” said Hilder, his tone controlled as he turned around. “We will do nothing. Sir Alan will overlook this…incident, Jager, if you promise to keep your silence. One of the duties of a good servant is to protect his master’s secrets, and you now have that opportunity.”

“Incident?” said Jager. “But I thought he was sick. That’s the only reason I looked in his room. God knows he sounded like a dying boar!” 

“He knows you had his best interests at heart,” said Hilder. “So do I. But you need to keep quiet about this, Jager. Our lord is an important man, and his sons shall rise higher. He needs to rely upon the discretion of his servants. Can you do that?”

“You said our lords were noble and just men,” said Jager. “How can we believe that? Sir Alan isn’t going to marry that woman. He’s just carrying on with her. If she gets with child, he’ll shuffle her off somewhere with a stipend and forget about her. And you’ve said he’s done that before! How is that honorable and just?”

Hilder sighed. “Does not the Dominus Christus teach that all men are sinful?”

“That Dominus Christus also teaches, as I recall, that a man should only lie with his wife.”

“Jager,” said Hilder, “it is time you understood something. Our lords are not perfect. No men are. Yes, Sir Alan has his sins, as does every man – whether human, orcish, or halfling. But ask yourself this. Does anyone go hungry in Caudea? Does Sir Alan mistreat his servants? Is he a cruel and a brutal master?” 

“No,” said Jager. Sir Alan was often drunken, and sometimes shouted at the servants, but as far as he could tell, Alan Tallmane did not terrorize his freeholders or his tenants. 

“This is something you must come to accept,” said Hilder. “We are sworn to service…but sometimes the objects of our service are unworthy. Nevertheless, that does not mean our traditions are worthless. Rather, it means we must hold to them all the more tightly. Will you protect Sir Alan Tallmane’s secrets, my son? What he did was wrong, yes. But it is not our place to reprove him for it…and it is not our place to betray his confidences. Not if we want to keep to our oaths.” 

Jager sat in silence for a moment.

“All right,” he said. “I will not tell the priests of Sir Alan’s…indiscretions. Nor anyone else. Not even Dagma.”

Hilder nodded. “Good. Your sister has a kindly heart, but she could not keep a secret to save her life. And this must be secret, Jager.”

“I know,” said Jager, but it still troubled him.

A few months later, Jager reached his twentieth birthday, and he was officially sworn into service of the House of Tallmane, clad in his own black coat and trousers and boots. Sir Alan gave him the oath, and Jager could not help but remember the old man sprawled across his bed. It took all of Jager’s strength not to laugh, to keep a straight face, but he managed it. 

Sir Alan gravely welcomed him into the service of the House of Tallmane, and called for wine. 

Jager turned and saw his father smiling at him, and was so proud that he could burst.

It lasted almost a month.

###

As winter came, a party rode for the domus.

Sir Paul Tallmane, Sir Alan’s oldest son, had returned home. He had left for Castra Marcaine in the Northerland years ago to serve as a squire in the court of Dux Gareth Licinius. After years of loyal service, Dux Gareth had knighted Paul at the age of eighteen, and Paul had accepted a position as one of the Dux’s household knights. He would return to winter with his father at Caudea, and come spring he would proceed back to the Northerland to take up his service in the Dux’s court.

The entire household assembled to greet Sir Paul home. Old Sir Alan leaned upon his cane, and had even managed to squeeze his armor and surcoat over his bulk. The servants, humans and halflings both, assembled below the domus, along with the elders of the village.

Sir Paul Tallmane reined up before the steps to the domus and vaulted out of his saddle in a single smooth motion, his armor clanking. Grooms hurried to claim the horse, and he handed over the reins with insouciant grace. Jager had not seen him since they had both been boys, but Paul had grown into a strong man. Unlike his father, he looked every inch the knight of Andomhaim, tall and strong with his blond hair close-cropped and his black eyes hard and clear. He wore a green surcoat with a white hart, the colors and sigils of the Dux of the Northerland, over his gleaming armor. 

This was what a lord and knight ought to look like, Jager thought. Perhaps Paul was a true and a just knight, a better man than his deceitful and adulterous father.

That pleasant hope lasted until Paul opened his mouth. 

“Father,” said Paul. “So good of you to see me home.” He looked over the domus. “I see the old pile hasn’t changed. If you hadn’t been so busy seducing every farmer’s daughter for twenty miles in all directions, perhaps you could have exerted yourself to undertake some repairs.” 

Alan sneered at his son. “And has all the fine living in Castra Marcaine corrupted you, boy?”

Paul barked a laugh. “Don’t be absurd, you fat old fool.” Hilder shifted a bit, but said nothing. “Castra Marcaine is the arse-end of the realm, populated with ignorant rustics. The Dux himself is little better. When I left, his court was all aflutter because the Dux’s newest Swordbearer killed a female urdmordar in single combat.”

“Really,” said Alan. “That is news. Who?”

“Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand,” said Paul. “I met the fool. Cold and arrogant and much too concerned about his own honor and piety, as you would expect from a son of Leogrance Arban.”

“But at least he has won renown for his family name,” said Alan. “What have you done? Have you slain an urdmordar?”

Paul scoffed. “Don’t be absurd, Father. Ridmark Arban is a Swordbearer. A sword of mortal steel would be about as useful against an urdmordar as harsh words.” He sneered, his expression a mirror image of his father’s. “Perhaps I could give myself over to gluttony as you did, and sit upon an urdmordar until it choked to death.” 

“Do not be impertinent,” said Alan, waving his cane as if he threatened to beat Paul with it. “You are wearing the colors of the Dux of the Northerland?”

“Yes, Father,” said Paul. “Because I have taken service in his court. You might have heard.”

Alan scowled. “You ought to be wearing the colors of the Dux of Caerdracon.”

“Dux Samothus can’t stand you, Father,” said Paul. “It’s likely the smell, I think. And your crude manners. But I’ve made friends with Samothus’s heir, Sir Tarrabus. Unlike you, I know how to make myself useful to more powerful men, and Sir Tarrabus will need loyal men at his side when he becomes Dux.” He grinned. “Perhaps I’ll have you shuffled off to a monastery once Tarrabus succeeds his father. It would be amusing to watch you try and seduce the freeholders from a penitent’s cell…”

Alan growled. “Impudent boy. I will teach you to keep a civil tongue in your head.” 

Quick as a snake, he raised his cane and swung it for Paul’s head. But Paul caught the blow in a heavy fist, and a moment later the two men struggled, shouting curses as they staggered back and forth, the cane pinned between them. Paul was young and fit, but Sir Alan was still strong, despite his age, and father and son strained against each other. 

Hilder coughed into his hand. Jager watched, aghast and embarrassed. These were the lords of Andomhaim? These were the men who had converted the orcs to the church, vanquished the dark elven princes, and thrown down the urdmordar?

No. Their ancestors had done that.

Finally Alan and Paul broke apart, both breathing hard.

“Bah,” said Paul. “You’ve still got a grip, old man.”

“Don’t forget it, boy,” said Alan. “I might be old and fat, but I can still thrash you.”

Paul spat at his father’s feet. “Though not as you did when I was a boy.” 

“No, I suppose not,” said Alan, wiping sweat from his reddened forehead. “Well, at least you’ve grown into a strong man, and not a weakling.” He snorted. “And if you impress Tarrabus once he becomes Dux of Caerdracon, you won’t need Caudea. The new Dux will give you benefices and offices of your own.”

Paul waved a hand at the domus. “Leaving you to live in this old wreck and to romp with your millers’ daughters and farmers’ wives.”

Alan shrugged. “A man needs something to keep him occupied in his old age.”

“I suppose so,” said Paul, watching as the grooms led his horse away to the stables. “I don’t suppose you have a decent body servant for me.”

“Hilder!” said Alan, rapping his cane against the ground.

Hilder stepped forward at once, calm and impassive in his servant’s blacks. “I am here, my lord knight.” He bowed. “Sir Paul, it is an honor to see you at home once…”

Paul burst out laughing. “You, Hilder? By God, Father, you’ve kept his old fossil on?” Jager felt his hands start to curl into fists, and then remembered his father’s lessons in decorum. “He did love his little speeches.”

Hilder’s calm remained unruffled. “It is an honor to serve, my lord knight.”

“Do you have someone for Sir Paul or not?” said Alan.

“Yes, my lord,” said Hilder. “Jager?”

Jager took a deep breath and joined his father. 

“This is Jager, my lord knight,” said Hilder. Jager bowed to Paul. “It shall be his honor to serve you.”

Paul squinted down at him. “Runty little rat, isn’t it?” Jager kept his face calm, as his father did. “Well, you might as well make yourself useful.”

“It would please me,” said Jager, “to show you to your…”

Paul snorted. “I know where my room is. Follow me.”

He strode off, and Jager had no choice to follow, leaving Sir Alan and Hilder and the servants standing outside the domus. Paul let himself into the house, climbed the stairs to his room, and threw open the door. The room was only a little less lavish than Sir Alan’s, with a wide bed, a broad window looking toward the Lake of Mourning, and gleaming wooden furniture.

“Adequate,” said Paul. He pulled of his surcoat and armor, and Jager winced as the dropped steel dug gouges into the floorboards. “I don’t have a squire, so I suppose you’ll have to serve. Attend to my armor and sword, and have a bath drawn up. Too much damned road dust. And bring me some food, too. Bread and ham, if Father’s servants had the wit to put any away before winter.”

He unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it to the floor, the weapon bouncing. 

Jager hurried forward and picked up the sword. “Perhaps, my lord, if we put the sword on the sideboard, it would be easier on the woodwork.”

Paul stared at him, face blank.

Then he snarled, his fist a blur.

The blow slammed into Jager’s jaw and threw him against the wall, the sword belt tumbling from his hands. He stared at Sir Paul, frozen with shock and pain. Before he could recover, Paul punched him again, his fist sinking into Jager’s stomach. Jager doubled over with a wheeze and fell hard, his entire body clenching as his lungs tried to draw a breath.

He heard a slithering, steely rasp, and felt the cold point of a sword against his throat. 

“I suggest you listen carefully,” said Paul. “Don’t question me. Don’t ever question me. You will do exactly what I say, and you will do it at once. Bad enough that I have to take lip from my fat pig of a father. But I won’t take it from a cringing halfling rat. Do you understand me?”

Jager opened his mouth, intending to protest that he only wanted to look after Sir Paul’s things, to make sure his armor did not rust and his sword did not damage his floor. But one look at Paul’s flat, dead eyes convinced him to stop talking. If he did not agree, Paul was going to kill him then and there.

“Yes,” whispered Jager.

Paul’s boots gave him a sharp jab in the ribs. “Yes, my lord knight.”

Jager nodded. “Yes, my lord knight, yes, I…”

“Stop sniveling,” said Paul, returning his blade to its sheath. Jager scrambled to his feet, watching Paul warily. “Now bring me my food! Move, you rat! Move!”

Jager took a shuddering breath and hastened to obey.

###

Later, much later, after Alan and Paul had drunk themselves to incoherence and staggered off to their respective beds, Jager sat in his father’s room, holding a cloth to his swollen lip.

“There,” murmured Dagma, wiping off Jager’s forehead. “You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“Will I?” said Jager. “They’re monsters, both of them.”

Hilder frowned. “They are our sworn lords and masters, and we should speak respectfully of…”

“Respectfully?” said Jager. “Sir Alan is a lecher.” Hilder glanced at Dagma in alarm, but she did not seemed surprised. Likely she had already heard of the old knight’s behavior. “And Sir Paul is a thug and a bully.” 

“They are not,” said Hilder. “Sir Alan and his son are…”

“They are!” said Jager, shaking his head. “Father. Look me in the eye and tell me they are not. That they are equal of the great heroes who freed our ancestors and defeated the urdmordar.”

Hilder stared at him for a long moment, and then sighed and looked away.

“They are…weaker than I would hope,” said Hilder. 

Jager scoffed and glared at the wall.

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

“I am going to leave,” said Jager.

“What?” said Hilder. “And go where, precisely?”

“I don’t know,” said Jager. “I will go to Tarlion or Cintarra, to one of the great cities. The merchants and nobles there have halfling workers and servants. Or…maybe I shall strike out on my own, become a merchant.” He scowled. “Then I shall have no master but myself.”