The Red Knight

They spent five days riding over the mountains to Morea. They came down the pass north of Eva and the captain took them south and then east over the hills to Delf. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Gawin and Alcaeus were of the same mind, and Tom and Ranald saw the whole trip as an adventure, riding high on the hillsides, searching out caves . . .

‘Looking for a fight,’ Mag said in disgust. ‘Can we get home?’

‘Home to our company of hired killers?’ said the captain.

Mag looked at him and shook her head. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘If you must. Aren’t you – excited? Hopeful? Interested?’

He was watching the two hillmen ranging high above them. Alcaeus had purchased a good goshawk from a peddler and was flying him at doves. Gawin was riding ahead, feet crossed over the pintle of his saddle, reading.

He shook his head. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve just been enlisted by one mighty Power to fight another in a war not of my making, over things I don’t understand.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I swore off being a tool when I was a child.’

‘The Wyrm is good.’ Mag put a hand on his arm. ‘I can feel it.’

The captain shook his head. ‘Mag, what do my thoughts of good and evil mean to the worms in the road? I can be the most honourable knight who ever lived, and my horse’s iron-shod hooves will crush their soft bodies every step, after a rain.’ He smiled at her. ‘And I won’t even know.’

Down in the deep valley ahead of them, he could see rows of tents; a palisade; neat circles of heavy wagons, and over all, a banner, black, with lacs d’or worked in gold.

‘Damn you,’ she said. ‘Why can’t we just act? Why can’t we simply win?’

The captain sighed. ‘Men love war because it is simple,’ he said. ‘Winning is never simple. I can win a fight – together, we can win a battle.’ He rubbed his beard. Down in the valley, men were pointing and messengers were mounting horses. ‘But turning victory in battle into something that lasts is like building a place to live. So much more complicated than building a fortress.’

He pointed at the riders. ‘Luckily for me, those men are bringing me word of our contract. A nice little war.’ He forced a smile. ‘Something we can win.’

Harndon City – Edward

Edward finished his first rondel dagger – a fine weapon with a precise triangular blade and an armour-piercing point – and handed it to Master Pyle with trepidation. The older man looked it over, balanced it on the back of his hand, and threw it at the floor, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Hand it to Danny to be hilted. I’ll have a project for you in a few days – until then, cover the shop.’

Well – shop work was clean and dull, but Edward was courting his Anne in the long summer evenings, and shop work allowed him to dress well – fine hose, a good doublet, not shop-worn linen stained in nameless chemicals and burned with a thousand sparks.

Anne was a seamstress, and her hands were always clean.

Most evenings she would dance in the square by her house, and Edward would swagger his sword and buckler against other journeymen – he was becoming a good blade.

He was designing himself a fine buckler – sketching in a sure hand with charcoal – when the shop door opened and a small man came in. He was middling. And not very memorable.

He smiled at Edward. He had odd black eyes, and he tapped a gold coin on the heavy oak table where customers examined the wares. ‘Fetch me your master, young man,’ he said.

Edward nodded. He rang a bell for another shop boy and sent him to the yard, and Master Pyle appeared a few minutes later. The dark-eyed man had spent the time looking out the window. Edward couldn’t tear his eyes away, because the man was so very difficult to look at.

He turned just a moment before the master appeared, and met him at the counter.

‘Master Pyle,’ he said. ‘I sent you some letters.’

Master Pyle looked puzzled. Then he brightened. ‘Master Smith?’

‘The very same,’ said the odd man. ‘Did you try my powder?’

‘I did. Scary stuff, and no mistake. Shot a hole in the roof of my shed.’ Master Pyle raised an eyebrow. ‘Not very consistent, though.’

The man’s dark eyes sparkled. ‘Mmm. Well, perhaps I didn’t explain entirely. Try wetting it with urine after you’ve mixed it. Dry it in the sun – far from fire, of course. And then grind it back to coarse powder, very carefully.’

‘If I was an alchemist, all this might entertain me, Master Smith. But I’m a blade smith, and I have many orders.’

Master Smith appeared confused. ‘You make weapons, though.’

‘All kinds.’ Master Pyle nodded.

‘The very best in Alba, I’ve been told,’ Master Smith said.

Master Pyle smiled. ‘I hope so.’

Master Smith rocked his head back and forth. ‘Is this a matter of more money?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’ Master Pyle shook his head. ‘It’s just not my trade.’

Smith let out a sigh. ‘Why not?’

Edward looked at Master Pyle very hard, willing him to turn his head.