A Test of Honor, Page 4

  Chapter 4

  "Constant victory breeds arrogance; failure presents a learning opportunity."

  - Quendon Franklin, 34 Joolie, 1787 AC

  "The hell was that?" The voice came from a bandit Aidan recognized. The tall man who shouldered a long-handled war hammer stepped over the rope, stalking toward Connel, who snatched his sword from the ground quick as a fox. "You craven, good-for-nothing Saukasi pig! How could you let 'im win like that?"

  "He proved his honor; I proved mine." Connel's voice sounded rough and flat through his helm's amps.

  "And what are the rest of the Nobles going to think when he brags about how easily he tricked you into giving up, hm?" A few of the tall man's comrades were stepping lightly into the ring, and Aidan took a step toward Connel to better protect him if there was trouble. "They're gonna think we're easy pickings, shit-for-brains!"

  "I warn you, Erick." Connel pointed his blunted weapon at the tall man who stopped a good three meters away. "I only spare men of honor. You certainly don't qualify."

  "And I warn you, Connel," his free hand shot from his side to the butt of the hammer as if he were preparing to swing it, "not to-"

  "Enough, Erick!" Charlene stepped next to Connel, her staff folded in half, the crescent now resting on her shoulder as she held it across her body, its barrel resting near her left hip. "You lot had better step out of the ring and find something productive to do, unless you're volunteering for target practice."

  One of Erick's friends spoke up, an arrogant sneer spreading across his weasel face. "You've only got one shot."

  "And who do you reckon I'll use it on?" She brought the musket up, aiming its faux-wood muzzle straight at weasel face. She smiled as though the whole thing were a joke. "Go on, take a guess."

  Erick waved his hand dismissively and stalked away, a company of about twenty men following him. He paused after stepping over the ropes and struck the nearest post with his gigantic hammer, demolishing it in a cloud of splinters. He smiled menacingly at Charlene, who rolled her eyes and snapped her Plaz musket back into the crescent-topped staff.

  Aidan smiled, glad his face was hidden by the helm. A hidden Plaz musket. Of course. He hadn't seen many energy weapons among the bandits, and now wondered how many of their oaken staves contained unseen Plaz rounds waiting to be discharged.

  "I suppose congratulations are in order," said Charlene, playfully punching Aidan on the shoulder and chuckling. "You won by chivalry."

  "May chivalry always bring victory." Aidan said, trying to impress upon this Bandit Queen the depth of his honor. It had always impressed other Noble ladies, but Charlene just laughed as though he'd told the most terrific joke.

  "Honestly, Rodrig," she said between giggles, "your friend walked straight out of a song."

  "Aye," Rodrig said, marching away angrily. "The song of Sir Aidan the Fool."

  "Rodrig, I-" Aidan took a step to follow, but had the distinct impression that his old friend needed space. He honestly had no idea why he was angry.

  "Connel," Charlene said, clapping a hand on the ginger-haired lad's shoulder, "your daily ritual of rubbing butter on your gauntlets isn't as lucky as you think. Find a new religion, my boy!"

  The group whom Charlene had been eating lunch with now joined them in the ring and laughed at her joke. Connel just shrugged and marched away.

  "As for you, Sir Aidan, you are welcome to join us for dinner." She took his arm as though she were really a Noble Lady. "We came into a shitload of pork courtesy of Lord Gustavson. And we have plenty of tents thanks to the generosity of a local merchant."

  "Sounds delightful." He looked to the east, toward Wishon, the seat of House Deumar. Eager as he was to meet with his family's longtime allies, the offer of food and shelter for the night was appealing. If nothing else, it will be nice to finally get this armor off. "I can't wait."

  "Now," she slapped his shoulder pauldron and let go of his arm, turning to face him as she said, "go make peace with Rodrig. I can't stand him all pouty and mopey. Make nice!"

  Aidan nodded, and one of Charlene's Lieutenants took his blunted longsword. He removed his helm and jogged after Rodrig, who was still visible in the distance. Aidan ran to catch up, stopping around ten paces when the bushy-haired horse master turned on him with eyes full of fire and bitterness.

  "Something you need, M'Lord?" He practically spat Aidan's title.

  "My victory upsets you?" Aidan decided he was not in the mood for riddles or suppositions. He had no idea why this former servant of his House was upset, so he took a guess. "You would rather I join the Redtails and pillage merchants and Nobles with you?"

  Rodrig looked at the mossy ground, as though ashamed.

  "Wait," Aidan said, suddenly realizing a horrible truth, "that is the reason? You want me to be a bandit, Rodrig?"

  "Not a bandit specifically," Rodrig snapped a branch off a nearby pine and poked idly at the ground. "I just wanted you to stay close."

  For a moment, Aidan's face and neck burned with indignant anger. That his old friend cared so little for the honor of House Franklin shocked and scandalized him, but then he remembered Rodrig's words as he bound him with sequoiavine ropes. Sometimes a man must choose between honor and eating. And he had sworn to Aidan's father that he would protect him, not that he would protect House Franklin's honor.

  "Come with me." Rodrig looked up as Aidan spoke, sadness still painted on his brown-skinned face. "I'm planning to visit the Deumars tomorrow. Come with me and keep an eye out for trouble."

  "Aidan, what do you hope that will accomplish?"

  "Well, I-" he thought about the question and realized he had no idea, so he made up a reason. "They might be able to get the claim appealed, for one."

  "Do you really think," Rodrig smiled, and Aidan recognized a shade of his old friend at last in the man who stood before him, "that claims are settled in the courts?"

  "Not with any finality, but it could be a start."

  "Here's what I know." Rodrig counted the items with his fingers for emphasis. "One, the Deumars have done nothing, far as I've heard, to press your claim since you've been away. Two, they're Royalists to the bone. They'll never side against the King - if he declared that Barrowdown's rightful Lord was a pig dressed as a man, they'd stop eating bacon!"

  "They're loyal, Rodrig, don't be so cynical!"

  "And three," Rodrig looked very serious, and Aidan dared not interrupt whatever this final point would be, "Lord Deumar is head of his House in name only. Lady Deumar has been acting head since his joints became unmanageable, maybe a year ago."

  "He has gotten worse?" Aidan's stomach turned as he asked the question. Last time he saw Lord Silas Deumar, he couldn't walk without a cane, his knees were so swollen.

  "Much worse." Rodrig shook his head. "If you're looking for Noble endorsement, you'd best look elsewhere. If the Deumars are your best prospect," he thumbed open the clasp of his cloak, gathered it into his sweeping fist, and shoved it into Aidan's chest, "then you'd be better off accepting your fate."

  Aidan clenched his jaw and made a fist but resisted his impulse to strike the man who might be his last friend in this world. He took the cloak and unfurled it, the bright-green, entwined-trees Crest standing stark against the darker-green wool of the cloak itself.

  "Thank you for your advice, old friend," Aidan said, shoving the cloak back to Rodrig, "but the reward is worth the risk, if it means retaking Barrowdown."

  He turned to walk away, but Rodrig grabbed his arm. Aidan pulled it away, but paused to hear his plea.

  "If you're going to be a fool, at least be smart about it. Send a messenger ahead, get a feel for their intentions."

  "Good idea." Aidan put a hand on Rodrig's shoulder, hoping to reassure him. "Thank you."

  Rodrig sighed, and Aidan was certain he saw tears well up in his deep-set, dark-brown eyes. He threw the cloak at him. "I'll protect you from dying of cold!"

  The old Mardoni stalked away, turning once to yell, "I can
at least do that much!" and entered a small green-denim tent. Aidan looked once again at the cloak, spreading it out to see if it would fit around his armored shoulders. It was surprisingly roomy, but still not so long that it dragged on the ground. For an outlaw's cloak, it seemed finely made.

  "Weighing your options?" A woman's voice lilted behind him. He spun to see that it was the Queen herself, Charlene McGuire. She smiled playfully, but he was in no mood for games.

  "A man's got to keep warm." He swirled the cloak onto his shoulders and clasped it by his throat, pulling the hood up to fight the chill the afternoon air was giving his ears.

  "There are ... other ways to keep warm." Her mouth curled on one side, and he blushed at her thinly veiled proposition. Is she always so forward? He grunted and began walking to where his horse had been roped to a knot on a tall oak tree. She kept stride, taking his arm. Chivalry alone prevented him from pushing her away.

  "I need a message delivered," he said sharply. "Can you help me with that?"

  "Of course. Sir Connel's the swiftest rider we have-"

  "You should not call him that."

  She blinked in surprise at his outburst, but replied, "It is his name. Should we drop your 'Sir' because you are similarly dispossessed?"

  He glared at her, and the look alone seemed enough to get her to drop his arm and take a step to the side. She continued walking with him, though, and his anger burned. He had no cause to be angry with Charlene personally, but she reminded him of his desperate situation. He hated feeling so helpless, and so hated everything and everyone who reminded him of that.

  "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Your Highness?"

  "Are you really planning on pressing your claim?"

  "Barrowdown is mine; you wouldn't understand."

  "Of course," she said, and Aidan could hear her tone shift from its lilting charm to a more hard-edged sarcasm. "What would a girl understand about owning property?"

  "Is that why you turn to banditry?"

  "I turn to banditry because I can't bring myself to bow and scrape and 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' my entire life. I'd rather be free."

  "Free to live a short life when the King sends a posse. From the size of your band, I'd say you should expect one come spring."

  "He's sent one every year for the last two years," she said. "The Nobility might claim to own the forest, but it's our home. And we're not about to leave."

  Aidan took a deep breath, smelling the fading sweet scent of sugarmoss and orange blossom. The song of the forest surrounded them - sparrows chirped and squawked, lemurs chattered and thumped shelled nuts against the sides of trees, cicadas buzzed and hissed their mating songs. In the distance he heard a hawk scream, and before he felt the gentle breeze against his warm face, he heard the leaves rustling with its promise.

  "You do have a beautiful home, and should feel honored that the woods belong to you."

  "The more time I spend in these woods, the more I'm convinced that it is we who belong to it."

  Aidan considered this, but didn't understand it. How could people belong to a place? And what would prevent men from abusing land for which they felt no responsibility?

  "How long have you lived this way?"

  "Since I was 19; eight years now." She spoke the words as if they surprised even her, as if she had previously dared not speak them aloud. "Eight years of fire building, wagon raiding, and supply tracking."

  "You raid nearby trade roads?"

  "Yes, but at a cost. A lot can go wrong in a raid."

  "Believe me," he said darkly, "I know."

  "Our band has been growing, which has helped with sacking higher-value caravans and better-protected Noble carriages. Black market fences help, but it's becoming more difficult to find merchants willing to trade with us."

  "And all those extra mouths mean more people to split loot. Smaller shares."

  "My goodness, Sir Aidan," she smiled, and despite his frustration, it put Aidan at ease, "Rodrig didn't mention you were a learned economist."

  Aidan's laugh boomed and cracked off of every branch and trunk for what sounded like a kilometer. If Troy could have heard that, he'd laugh himself unconscious. His amusement vanished as his brother's phantom suddenly consumed his thoughts.

  "Are you laughing at me?" Charlene's easy smile had twisted into a scowl. "I'll not be laughed at, Sir Aidan, and I'll piss on the title of any man what can't respect that."

  "My sincere apologies, my good Lady. It's just that schooling never really took with me. Give me a mace and a pistol over a book and an abacus."

  "Would you ever consider joining us?"

  A long spell of silence passed between them. They continued to walk, their feet squishing against the sprouting wintermoss, snapping the occasional twig. Neither looked at the other, but both gazed at the fog swirling through the trees ahead of them.

  "I cannot."

  Aidan felt his own heart sink with his answer, the terrible truth finally bringing itself into the light. I will have Barrowdown or nothing at all. He pictured Troy shaking his head, Katisha weeping into her hands, his father scoffing and going back to his scribing.

  "After three years of fighting in what I've heard is the most brutal and merciless war in history, you would still rather fight than make peace?"

  "I don't fight because I like it, I only fight when there is no other option."

  "And you are determined in your little quest? Nothing I say can dissuade you?"

  "I would not give up my family's land for the sake of my life. You can't understand."

  "Another thing we agree on." Seeing his expression, she continued. "No, Sir Aidan, don't give me the history or recite your family tree. Just forget it. I asked; you refused. Let's not complicate the issue with recriminations. The sooner you return to whatever poem you came from, the better."

  She stalked away, her feet squish-squishing against the moist soil and new moss. Aidan sighed, wishing he understood himself. He couldn't say why exactly, but as long as there was a chance that he could garner an alliance to fight for Barrowdown, it was all he would consider doing with whatever was left of his life. Duty is a pile of lumber, discipline is an axe.

  When Aidan arrived at his horse, Connel trotted to him on a swift, muscular destrier. The lean black animal whom Aidan had stolen from the Royal Guard whinnied at the approach and shook her head, either happy or upset by the presence of his fellow. Aidan patted her neck and made the sound of rushing water by blowing through almost-clenched teeth.

  "Got a message?" Connel asked, pulling back his mount's reins as he sided up to Aidan. He was dressed in a fine dark-orange doublet with tan breeches and black riding boots, a black cloak draped over his back. His clothes, while showing signs of aged wear, were still much nicer than Aidan expected.

  "I need something to write with." Aidan slid his gauntlet open, revealing the hidden space within and pulling out the original letter he'd received from the Deumars, thinking that its content and the fine-grained, off-world paper would serve as authentication. Connel handed him a small, thin, paper-wrapped stick of greased charcoal he produced from a small leather pouch on his hip.

  Hiding in woods, safe for now. Waiting to hear from you how to proceed.

  He scrawled the words slowly at first, but the grease from the charcoal started bleeding through the paper, making translucent splotches around the first few words. He scratched faster, but had to redo a few areas where the stylus left voids. He folded his note, addressed it to The Duke of Wishon Lord Silas Deumar, and handed it and the charcoal to Connel, wiping his fingers in a fold of his green cloak.

  "Please deliver this to the Gatekeeper or Castellan of Wishon." Connel nodded and snapped his destrier's reins, charging into the distance until he disappeared into the trees.

  Aidan groomed his black horse, who held her head proud and high, gazing into the forest as though searching for something familiar.

  "Poor girl," Aidan said, removing his gauntlet and stroking her neck w
ith his bare hand, "you've probably never been out of the city."

  The horse sighed, and Aidan felt the muscles in her neck relax, just a little. He thanked her for saving his life, for giving him a chance when the world had turned against him. He rested his forehead against her shoulder next to the saddle which still constricted her stomach and held tight to her lean, muscular body.

  "Let's make you more comfortable." He slid his hand between the overlap of the strap that cinched to her midsection and jerked gently on the buckle near her sternum. The horse looked to the left and raised her ears as if expecting a friendly visitor. Aidan followed her gaze but saw only a family of large marmots waddling along the forest floor in the distance. He shook his head at the simple city horse, fondly remembering Geragor, the injured Marmot he had found as a child and raised as a pet. He died on Aidan's twenty-second Naming Day, one family death that he couldn't lay at Deputy Meadows' feet.

  "You should have a name," Aidan said, pulling the strap through its steel loop and hoisting the saddle onto the ground. He scratched the animal's back with his fingernails, aerating her damp hair in little spiky clumps, and the horse sighed with happiness. She bent her head to the ground and began munching on some grassy tufts growing in the crevices of the nearby tree's root system. The glossy wet texture of her sweat that matted her hair to her back reminded Aidan of the many moonless nights he'd spent keeping watch under the New Mongolian Sky. "Midnight. Your name is Midnight."

  "A fine name."

  Aidan spun around, hand on the butt of his mace at the ready, to see Rodrig standing behind him, arms clasped across his chest and disappointment covering his face. He nodded to the old horse master, wondering idly if he had come to critique his care of his newest friend, Midnight.

  "I suppose you'll want to be changing into proper clothes." Rodrig said, simply stating the issue as a fact. "You can use my tent, this way."

  Aidan jogged a little to keep stride and walked with his old friend to a small denim tent, dark green just like the others. From a distance, Aidan wondered whether they'd look like a cluster of shrubs and bushes. The forest was so beautiful, anyone passing through would probably think they were just that.

  Rodrig's tent was cramped but organized, his bed neatly rolled and stuffed into the corner and a kneeling cushion embroidered with a multi-headed lion Crest from some House Aidan didn't recognize lying on the floor. He knelt and flicked open the small clasp at the back of his gorget, placing it on the floor nearby. The pauldrons that protected his shoulders had small clasps just under the flange where they turned up slightly near the neck, difficult for beginners to reach with gauntleted hands. He found them easily and pressed them in, which popped each thick metal bowl up slightly so that they could be removed. He next unfastened the two-stage clips to either side of his neck that held his breastplate and backplate together. After he unhooked the side clasps and unscrewed the bolts that attached them to his armored greave skirt, he removed the two plates and stacked them by the gorget.

  Mechanically, habitually, he removed every piece of his armor, sliding, thumbing clasps, twisting. With each piece he removed, his skin grew suddenly cold even beneath the Kevlan Gambeson liner, and soon his skin clenched with goose pimples. He felt along the upper shoulders of his backplate, still stacked neatly atop the breastplate. He pushed against a panel, and it popped up with a click. Sliding it to the side, it revealed another hidden space like that of his right gauntlet, but this time containing a bronze-colored doublet, festive blue undershirt, dark-blue breeches, gray woolen socks, and soft brown boots.

  He emerged from Rodrig's tent dressed in the clothes he had originally believed he wouldn't wear until after he'd visited Barrowdown's Sacred Grove and paid respects to his father's and siblings' gravetrees. I wonder which trees they chose? He had always thought of Father as an oak, implacable and rigid in his beliefs. Troy would be a willow, strong but able to flex when strong winds came, adaptable. Katisha would be a red maple, simply beautiful at first glance, but ever variant in its form and the color of its leaves.

  "You'll want some food," Rodrig said, and Aidan nodded at his terse old horse master.

  "How do I look?" He asked, arms out from his sides.

  "Much as I remember you," he said, adding with a smile, "A monster in the field, but a dandy in court."

  Aidan smiled. "What have you heard of the young Deumars?"

  "Just the usual, really. Sir Marke still has a talent for numbers, and Lady Ygretta still wishes she were born a sir."

  "She still bears a sword?"

  "And bears it well. She beat Meadows the younger last year at Klauston and Mosshill."

  Aidan nodded and smiled, glad to hear that at least some misfortune had fallen on his enemy. "That is encouraging."

  "I don't mean to give you false confidence. Duncan is still good with a blade, make no mistake." He gave Aidan a wry smile. "Better than Connel."

  Aidan nodded solemnly at the reminder of his own poor performance against the young bandit. If Connel hadn't been so impressed by his tournament chivalry, he would have bent the knee to Charlene for sure. "I've been fighting with a Plaz machine rifle for the last three years; my skills in melee have grown mossy."

  "You got away from the Capital easy enough." Rodrig picked up a stone and threw it at a nearby squirrel, narrowly missing but still scaring the animal away. Likely it had been drawn to the camp by the smell of roast potatoes and seared bacon. "Even if you did damage yourself in the process."

  Aidan stopped. He hadn't yet told Rodrig the full story of his escape. How did he know of it?

  "I don't have Sir Marke's head for figures, but I can do basic calculations." Rodrig said, stopping and looking at where Aidan was standing, wide eyed and confused.

  "What do you know of my escape?"

  "Only that you were injured, but not serious enough to need more than a night's rest."

  Aidan closed his eyes. Of course, the hollow. How did he think Rodrig wouldn't find him out? "Truth be told, I jumped from a window in the small tower, three floors straight down."

  Rodrig gave a surprised blink and shook his head a little. "And you only ended up bruised? Fall like that would kill most men, Kannitick or no."

  "It would have killed me if not for ..." he paused, uncertain whether he ought to share the truth. Many Caledonians were suspicious of off-world magic; Aidan himself feared it before the war. Best not to arouse suspicion. "There was a haystack beneath the window. I got bashed up, but I survived."

  "Must have been quite a haystack if you're still breathin'."

  Aidan thought he heard a hint of disbelief, but Rodrig said nothing more as they took their place at the rear of the mess line. Ahead of them were twenty or so bandits, men and women, lined single file in front of a fat man holding a ladle standing behind a gigantic cauldron. A Mardoni woman with sunken cheeks and blotchy-brown skin stood next to him with a basket under her arm, which Aidan presumed was filled with bread. Both wore tight-fitting caps that pulled their hair back, and the man even wore an apron, albeit one that was covered with brown stains and faded to a dingy light yellow.

  Rodrig removed two bowls from his hip pouch and handed one to Aidan. The cook ladled each person one scoop of chunky-looking soup, and the woman shoved a small piece of torn bread, so small it would last no more than three bites, into the bowl. Aidan gazed at the mixture as he received his serving - cubes of salted pork, some potatoes and carrots, and a few brown bits that he didn't recognize. The bread started swelling as soon as the woman thrust it into the soup, its cloudy brown broth receding only slightly as it soaked the tough-feeling bread.

  It tasted mostly of salt from the pork chunks, but Aidan held the bowl to his mouth and swiftly scooped the contents in with the stiff piece of day-old bread, devouring his "spoon" last. He chewed it for a long time, wondering what kinds of supply these poor beggars possibly had on hand.

  Bandits from the stories like Brave Cobb Gurero or Hooded Mig Werta were always stealing gol
d and treasure from the caravans owned by the enemies who drove them to crime. Aidan remembered the day his father, in some foul mood from something he'd studied, scoffing at a minstrel who told Hooded Mig's story, boasting of the man's riches and solid-gold sword.

  "Bandits seek food, not gold. What the hell would they do with gold anyhow, aside from making impractical weapons that won't hold an edge?"

  The poor singer became gopher mouthed at the comment and was so unnerved at the interruption that he cut his program short. Father had paid the man a full charge regardless, and apologized for his mood, but it unraveled part of young Aidan's world to know that food was the bandit's real prize. Some naïve part of him died that day, gradually replaced with stark practicality.

  "It's not much, I know," Rodrig said, scraping the inside of his bowl with a finger-sized tuft of leftover crust, "but it fills the belly. You'd be surprised how much is out there too, just walking along the road."

  After lunch, Aidan sought out a small area for meditation. The mind needs movement and freedom, not so different from the body. He walked back to Midnight holding a bag of oats that Rodrig had handed him before they parted. His friend said something about a shift change, Aidan guessed it was for the brown-cloaked sentries that paced around the perimeter.

  Midnight perked her ears forward at Aidan's approach, nickering loudly and nodding her head when he caught sight of the burlap bag of oats. Quick as he could, he unlatched the steel bridle from the leather head mount and tied the drawstrings of the bag to the hoops. Midnight licked and slurped greedily as he finished the knots; Aidan laughed at the impertinent animal and complimented her spirit as he tied the head mount on and listened to her munch with satisfaction on her lunchtime treat.

  He spent the afternoon meditating and surveying 'round the camp. There were a few circles where men and women stood idly telling bawdy stories and jokes, but their nervous expressions when he would approach made him hesitant to join them. He veered and pretended to be going in a different direction, hearing their laughter and shouts behind him.

  The sky grayed, and he returned to where Midnight was tied, removing her feed bag and replacing the bridle on its head mount. The sound of approaching hooves caught his ear, and he whipped around to see that it was Connel riding fast toward him, clutching a rolled wax-sealed paper in his mailed hand. Aidan jumped to his feet, snatching the paper and confirming the seal of Deumar - a tower with roots that snaked into the hill on which it sat.

  "Got here soon as I could, Sir. Most pleasant people, they were."

  "Glad to hear it." Aidan said idly, distantly hearing his own voice. He was engrossed in the paper, reading it over and over.

  Tonight. Sixth hour. Come alone.