The Knight: A Tale from the High Kingdom (25 page)

‘The master beam is warped. And those joists over there, on the right, are about to give way. You need to reinforce them but it would be simpler to tear it all down.’

Lorn asked in surprised:

‘Are you an expert, then?’

‘A little bit. My father is a carpenter. He wanted to teach me the trade and it seems I have a good eye but, well … It was thanks to a cousin that they found me a place in the archives. It’s boring but I prefer it to carpentry.’

‘And what is it you dislike so much about carpentry?’

‘Splinters,’ the boy answered, without hesitation.

Lorn looked at Daril, then at the tower’s timbers, then at Daril again.

He smiled.

5

Days went by, during which Lorn continued to clear out the tower. He worked alone, sometimes sweating blood, but never giving up. He knew he was being watched and that the rumours about him were growing. In fact, he made sure they did. Although he spoke little, explained nothing to anyone and allowed free rein to interpretations of all kinds, he willingly made a show of himself. He noted with satisfaction the curious faces at the windows of the neighbouring houses and left open the small door he had kicked in when he arrived. It would have been ideal if he could have lowered the drawbridge to allow passers-by to have a look into the courtyard, but the mechanism was jammed with rust and dirt.

Nevertheless, the news that the Black Tower had a new occupant and that the occupant was exerting himself to restore it did not take long to spread beyond the Redstone district. Indeed, Lorn was counting on it soon becoming common knowledge throughout the city. And he did not doubt for a second that word had already reached the Palace.

One evening, Lorn went to the inn where he had adopted the habit of ordering his meals. But instead of paying and leaving with the basket of victuals that was waiting for him, he sat down at a table and called for a pitcher of beer. A thick silence fell, everyone watching the mysterious occupant of the Black Tower from the corner of their eyes. But since he said nothing and did nothing except drink his beer in the shadows, there were merely some awkward clearings of throats before conversations resumed and the inn regained its usual atmosphere.

They forgot about him. Or almost.

After a moment, two men took up places at a neighbouring table without noticing Lorn’s presence. One was a tall bearded man, a former soldier by the look of him, and the other a workman with calloused hands and hair whitened by plaster. They had barely sat down when they were joined by a young man, as badly dressed as he was badly nourished, who worked as a public scribe. They ordered drink and, very soon, the conversation turned to the topic of Lorn.

And more specifically, of his signet ring, the focus of every sort of speculation.

‘It’s made of onyx,’ said the scribe. ‘With a wolf’s head upon crossed swords. And a crown over it. And all of that in silver.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ asked the workman.

‘I heard it from the woman who came to see me this morning for a promissory note. Wife of one of the militiamen the knight showed his ring to, the day he arrived.’

‘The wife of a militiaman. You have dealings with those sorts of people, do you?’

Lorn had already had occasion to observe that the militiamen in Redstone were hated and feared by the population.

The young man shrugged by way of excusing himself.

‘What would you have me do? A man has to make a living.’

‘The crown and the wolf’s head are the personal emblems of King Erklant,’ said the former soldier pensively. ‘The wolf’s head and the crossed swords were those of the Onyx Guard. But there only exists one ring that bears both the king’s coat of arms and that of the Onyx Guard.’

‘Which is?’ asked the scribe.

‘That of the First Knight of the Realm,’ said a man, listening to the conversation.

It was Cadfeld, an old white-haired man whose thick drooping moustache was dark grey. He was also an inhabitant of the neighbourhood and a regular at the inn. Dressed in filthy rags, he lived off public charity and the little he earned from selling second-, third- or even fourth-hand books. Lorn had seen him walking the district’s streets, a bag full of tattered dog-eared volumes over his shoulder.

‘The First Knight is both the captain of the Onyx Guard and the representative of the High King,’ explained Cadfeld. ‘That’s why he bears both coats of arms. But he must renounce his own and those of his family.’

‘For good?’ asked the workman in surprise.

‘Yes,’ said the former soldier. ‘Until his death.’

‘For as long as he remains the High King’s representative,’ corrected the seller of old books.

He took his glass and, leaving the small table where he’d been sitting on his own, went over to join the trio. His glass was empty. He filled it from their jug of wine and said:

‘In the beginning, the kings of Langre only named a First Knight on special occasions. A tourney, for example. Or a duel in an affair that obliged the king to defend his honour, weapons in hand – something he could not do, since he was the king. It was an immense honour to represent the king, but a fleeting one. After the tourney or the duel, the king withdrew the title and the First Knight went back to being … himself. Because we say, for convenience’s sake, that the First Knight is the representative of the king. But it’s actually much more than that. He
is
the king. He embodies him. He becomes his physical person.’

‘Really?’ said the scribe.

‘Consult the legal texts,’ said Cadfeld. ‘What the First Knight does, the king does. What he says, the king says. And what happens to him, happens to the king. The only power the king does not abandon to his First Knight is that of reigning. But everything else …’

He drained his glass, poured himself another, and then added in a conspiratorial tone:

‘You need more convincing? Then listen to this …’ The three other men leaned forward over the table, silent and attentive. ‘There’s mention in the
Chronicles
of a king who was wounded in the course of a hunt. This king was named … No. I forget his name, but it doesn’t matter … That same evening, a ball was to be given at the Palace and the queen was eager to dance there. Something which the king was incapable of doing, because of his injury. On learning this, the queen grew angry, cried, threw a tantrum and made impossible demands. But in vain. A queen of Langre is only allowed to dance with her spouse, so she would not dance at all that evening …’ Cadfeld had a gulp of wine before resuming his tale. ‘Who was it who had the idea of naming a First Knight for the duration of the ball? Some say it was the king, in order to please his wife. Others say it was the queen, and that she herself chose the knight. In any case, the king named a First Knight of the Realm. So the queen had a partner. And she could dance as much as she pleased. But the story does not end there …’

Cadfeld paused at a carefully calculated point.

Lorn, who was taking care to go unnoticed without missing the smallest scrap of the story, could not help smiling.

‘For during the ball, the king retired to his apartment to rest for a while and fell asleep. Fatigued by his wound, no doubt. Or perhaps it was the remedies the queen had given him against the pain … Be that as it may, at the end of the ball, the First Knight was still First Knight. And he remained so the following morning, when he was caught discreetly leaving the queen’s chamber …’

There was another pause and another draught of wine. The bookseller wiped his mouth on his sleeve and continued:

‘The affair was hushed up to avoid scandal. But the First Knight was never brought to justice, although he lost the king’s trust and was exiled at the first opportunity. Yet, neither the queen nor he had done anything reprehensible. She had slept with her husband and he had slept with his wife. That night, in the eyes of the law, the queen had received the king in her bed. Little did it matter that the king, at that very instant, was sleeping in his own …’

Quite proud of himself, Cadfeld punctuated his anecdote with a last quaff and sat up. The others straightened up in turn, smiling. The old man had drained their jug of wine, but his story had been worth it.

There was a silence, which the scribe broke:

‘So the rumour is true,’ he said. ‘The High King has indeed named a First Knight.’

Lorn winced. He had not been aware that this particular detail had spread.

‘And he’s here,’ said the former soldier. ‘In Oriale.’

‘That’s what I have the most trouble believing. I don’t know who this man is who has taken possession of the Black Tower. But I cannot believe his signet ring is authentic, or if it is, that he did not steal it … The king has named a First Knight. Very well. But what would he be doing here?’

‘The Black Towers belonged to the Onyx Guard. The one in Redstone is the last one standing. What would be more normal than for him to return there?’

‘In that ruin, Liam? When he could lodge at the Palace?’

The veteran had no answer to that. He shrugged.

‘And a First Knight of the Realm would break his back rebuilding a tower, alone, with his own two hands?’ insisted the workman.

There again, the former soldier had no answer.

Yet, he had the feeling that all this had a meaning. Like most people, he’d felt abandoned when the king had retired to the Citadel and left the government of the kingdom to the queen and her ministers. The High Kingdom, at that point, was already doing poorly. But since then, the situation had only grown worse, especially for the people. Liam, the veteran, was one of those who only asked to believe, who still hoped that the High King had not totally forgotten them.

‘During his first campaigns,’ said Cadfeld, ‘the king saddled his own horse. And he let no one else furbish his weapons. He slept in a tent or under the stars, among his knights and his squires.’

‘That’s true,’ said Liam. ‘And the men with whom the king surrounded himself were made of different stuff than … the ones the queen coddles. They knew what sweat and blood were. They knew what effort was and they did not hesitate to strain themselves, up to their knees in the mud, if necessary …’

‘Those men cannot have all disappeared,’ observed the scribe.

‘No. But it seems their era is over.’

Their era was also that of the former soldier. He seemed so bleak that Cadfeld tried to comfort him with a friendly hand on his shoulder.

Lorn stood up.

The four men noticed him then and fell silent. It was obvious he’d heard everything. The workman turned pale. The scribe froze. Liam and Cadfeld, for their part, looked at Lorn and waited.

Expressionless, he walked towards the exit, passing their table.

But then he halted.

Changed his mind, and went back to them.

‘The cuckolded king,’ he said to Cadfeld, ‘was Galandir IV.’

Whereupon he tossed a coin to the innkeeper and declared:

‘They’re my guests.’

And then he left, taking his basket with him, followed by the eyes of everyone at the table except for the bookseller.

His back to the door, Cadfeld did not even give any sign of wanting to turn round. He remained pensive, his eyes lost in a blurred distance.

‘He’s right,’ he said at the end of a long silence. ‘It was indeed Galandir IV.’

Upon his return to the Black Tower, Lorn found Daril and his father the carpenter waiting for him in the courtyard. The boy made the introductions and, after a handshake, the man said to Lorn:

‘So you have a problem with the timbers?’

Lorn’s gaze passed between father and son, halted for a moment upon the son, and then returned to the father. Tall, massive and paunchy, the carpenter seemed to be a fine fellow. His handshake was firm and his palm calloused.

‘It seems so, yes.’

‘I can take a look, if you like.’

‘All right,’ said Lorn, after a moment’s thought. ‘Follow me.’

The carpenter entered the tower at his side, followed by Daril, grinning from ear to ear.

6

One evening, having brought back some documents to Sibellus and spent a long while conferring with him, Lorn was returning alone from the Royal Archives when, passing before an alley, he heard a stifled moan. He halted, listened carefully, examined the alley in the light of the Great Nebula, and noticed, lying on the ground, an old leather bag which he immediately recognised: it was Cadfeld’s. He picked it up. The strap was broken and books in a very piteous state were strewn all over the paving stones.

Without thinking about it, Lorn stuffed the books back in the bag. Then he pursued his investigations a little further and, in a back courtyard at the end of the alley where they had dragged him, he came upon some militiamen who were beating the old bookseller. They were taking their time and aiming their blows carefully, out of playful cruelty.

The vision of another poor wretch being brutalised, one festive night behind a tavern in Samarande, struck Lorn like a slap in the face. The memory of his own cowardice resurfaced too. A cold anger seized him.

‘Leave him alone.’

Surprised, the militiamen turned round. Since it was night, Lorn was not wearing his spectacles. They did not recognise him beneath his hood.

‘Clear off.’

‘I said: leave him alone.’

‘Clear off, or you’ll regret it.’

Lorn did not move an inch.

‘Leave him. And sod off yourselves.’

The militiamen spread out, snickering, while Cadfeld painfully stood up.

There were four of them, wielding heavy lead-filled clubs.

Lorn was alone and unarmed. He did have a knife on his belt but, Oriale being a fairly safe city, he had not taken his sword with him to the Archives.

On the other hand …

The bag full of books whirled round at the end of its strap and caught one of the militiamen beneath the chin. The man toppled over, stunned, while the split bag flew free, spilling the books in a cloud of printed pages. Another militiaman was already attacking. Lorn parried the blow with the bag’s strap, held horizontally. He stepped back, pivoted, gave a shove with his shoulder and then looped the strap around the wrist of the third militiaman … whom he sent stumbling over the one lying unconscious on the ground. Before the fourth man even realised what was happening, with a feint and two swift moves Lorn had forced him to his knees, then passed behind him and choked him with the strap.

The militiaman whose blow Lorn had blocked was preparing to attack again. And the one who had fallen over the body of his stunned companion was getting back up, rubbing his wrist with an evil expression.

But Lorn announced threateningly:

‘One move, and I’ll break his neck.’

To show that he meant business, he tightened the strap a little more. Scarlet-faced, his prisoner squealed, drooling, and his eyes rolled upwards.

The two militiamen hesitated.

‘Throw down your clubs. Now!’

They let go of their weapons as if they had suddenly grown red-hot.

‘Daggers too.’

They obeyed.

Lorn felt his prisoner starting to weaken: the man slumped forward and was clawing less vigorously at the leather choking him.

It was time to end this.

Lorn freed the man and pushed him roughly forward in the same movement. One of his companions helped him rise to his feet as he coughed, spat and struggled to catch his breath.

Lorn picked up a weighted club and pointed to the other militiaman still stretched out on the ground.

‘Take him and piss off.’

He did not need to repeat himself. The militiamen lifted their colleague and fled, shamefaced. It was not until they were about to vanish around the corner of the alley that one of them threatened:

‘We’ll be seeing you!’

‘Yes,’ Lorn replied to himself. ‘I’m sure of that.’

Lorn waited to be certain that the militiamen were not coming back before worrying about Cadfeld. The bookseller had not managed to stand up. He’d dragged himself over to a wall and was sitting with his back against it, his nose and mouth bloody, and his face swollen with bruises.

Dropping the club he’d picked up, Lorn crouched down near him and leaned over to briefly examine his wounds.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Not really.’

‘Where do you hurt?’

‘My head. My ribs. My belly. Just about everywhere, in fact.’

‘I think your nose is broken.’

‘I’d be surprised if it weren’t. Do you think the ladies will still find me attractive?’

Lorn felt the old man’s flanks through his rags. Cadfeld grimaced and moaned.

‘They also broke two of your ribs.’

‘They know their job and are fairly skilled at it. But one always performs best when one enjoys the work, don’t you think?’

Lorn straightened up but remained crouching.

‘Why were they beating you?’

The bookseller could not refrain from giving a pained smile.

‘It seems I haven’t paid my taxes.’

‘How’s that?’

‘I’m a shopkeeper, according to them. So I must pay tax.’

As far as shops went, he had a small shack made of rickety boards, tightly squeezed between two houses, where he slept and kept his meagre belongings.

‘By the way,’ added Cadfeld. ‘Thanks. Without you …’

‘Can you walk?’ Lorn asked.

‘Not on my own.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘Why don’t we ask that fellow over there to lend us a hand?’

Lorn turned round and saw Daril who was standing in the alley, looking embarrassed and awkward, not knowing where to put his hands.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I … I was following you and …’

And changing tone abruptly, the boy exclaimed, eyes gleaming:

‘Bloody hell, my lord! I saw the whole thing! There were four of them, with clubs. And you, you were on your own, and you—’

‘Are you finished?’ Lorn interrupted him.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Because if you’re finished, I could use your help over here.’

Daril hurried over and between the two of them they eventually managed to get Cadfeld on his feet. He was heavy and, legs feeble, was in a great deal of pain. He nevertheless managed to put one foot in front of another, supported by Lorn and Daril.

When they emerged from the alley, they hesitated over which way to go.

‘A doctor should examine you,’ said Lorn.

‘A doctor,’ Cadfeld asked mockingly. ‘In Redstone? You’re in the wrong neighbourhood, my lord …’

‘There’s Father Eldrim,’ suggested Daril.

‘I don’t care much for priests,’ the old man grumbled.

Lorn ignored him.

‘Father Eldrim, you say?’

‘He runs a little dispensary for the ill and the destitute,’ the boy explained.

‘Is it far?’

‘It’s in Elm Square.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Couldn’t you take me home instead?’ asked Cadfeld.

‘You need care,’ Lorn replied. ‘Besides, nobody asked for your opinion.’

Lorn knocked several times on the door.

Despite the late hour, a nun came to open it and, upon seeing the state Cadfeld was in, raised no objections to letting them enter. Lorn and Daril carried the old man inside the dispensary and to a room with ten beds adjoining one another, all of them occupied by two or three patients. A small cot had to be unfolded for Cadfeld.

Following which, Lorn and Daril were asked to wait in a very pleasant little courtyard. Ivy climbed the walls and the columns of an arcade. Benches and lawn chairs were set out here and there, beneath the night sky and the Nebula’s pale constellations. The air was warm and the silence soothing.

Tired from hauling Cadfeld practically on his own, despite Daril’s well-meaning efforts to assist, Lorn let himself drop into a lawn chair. He asked only for some relief to his aching back and, heaving a sigh, closed his eyes. His breathing grew very regular, to the point that the boy – who for his part had trouble remaining still – thought he’d fallen asleep.

But Lorn, without stirring, his hood over his eyes, said suddenly:

‘So, you were following me.’

Daril trembled.

‘P … Pardon me?’

‘Before, in the alley. You said you were following me.’

‘Yes. I mean, no … Well, yes!’

Lorn removed his hood.

He slowly turned his head towards the boy and waited.

Daril swallowed.

‘I … I wasn’t following you really. But I was going to the same place as you. To your place. We were taking the same route, is all.’

‘And what were you going to do at my place?’

‘To see you, by gum! But …’ He hesitated. ‘But I don’t think it’s the right moment to tell you … to tell you what I want to tell you.’

Intrigued, Lorn turned on his side, propped up on one elbow.

‘I’m listening, Daril.’

‘Here? Really? Are you sure?’

‘You have something better to do?’

‘No, no.’

The boy, standing, tugged on the cloth of his tunic and, his back very straight, announced:

‘I’m bored at the Archives. Nothing ever happens there. The others, they like it there, but not me. And I spoke to Master Sibellus about it and he’s agreeable to letting me enter your service.’

Lorn refrained from smiling.

‘My service. Nothing less than that.’

‘Yes, my lord. As a valet. Or a squire, since you’re a knight. You are a knight, aren’t you?’

‘I am. And Sibellus has given you leave?’

‘He said my only virtue, as an archivist, was punctuality. And all that meant was he knew what time the catastrophes would commence. But he also said I would probably make a good valet.’

‘Or a good squire.’

‘You need someone in your service, my lord. To take care of your horse and your weapons. To clean the house. Run errands. To do a little of everything in fact …’

‘And your father, what does he think?’

Daril looked down.

‘To tell you the truth, I was hoping you would be there when I told him. And that you might say it was your idea …’

Lorn gazed at him, unable to explain the affection he felt towards this young man who seemed to have grown up too fast, as if expelled from childhood by an excess of impatience.

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Lorn.

‘Really?’

‘I haven’t said “yes”! But there is a task you could carry out right now.’

‘Anything you say, my lord!’

‘Do you know where Cadfeld’s cabin is?’

‘I’m from Redstone, my lord.’

‘In the future, whenever possible, answer with a “yes” or a “no”.’

‘Then, yes. I know.’

‘Go there and bring back everything Cadfeld might need. Or anything that might have a little value. I’d be surprised if there’s a lock on the door.’

‘Understood, my lord.’

And Daril hurried off, almost jostling Father Eldrim who was coming out into the courtyard.

‘Pardon me, father!’

Lorn stood up.

Tall, thin and with a stiff bearing, Father Eldrim was about thirty but seemed younger. He was wearing a black robe, for like all the priests of the Church of the Sacrificed Dragon-King, he was in mourning for the deceased deity. The Church of the Dragon-King had supplanted the worship of the other Divine Dragons almost everywhere. In Oriale, as in the rest of the High Kingdom, only the Church of Eyral, the Dragon of Knowledge and Light, could still compete with it.

‘Good evening, father.’

‘Good evening, my son.’

‘I am—’

‘I know who you are: people in the neighbourhood talk about nothing except you, these days. I was planning to come and visit you soon. But more importantly, I know what you did this evening for poor Cadfeld, and I thank you.’

Lorn wondered what the black priest’s motive might have been for a visit. A courtesy call?

Not likely.

‘How is Cadfeld?’

‘He’s sleeping. I made him drink a potion for the pain and I’ve bandaged his ribs.’

‘Will he recover?’

‘He’s no longer a young man but he’s still sound enough. Let’s hope that a good long rest will be enough. Other than that, we can only pray. It’s up to the Sacrificed One to decide.’

Father Eldrim signed himself by brushing the effigy of the Dragon-King that adorned his chest with his index finger: a vertical line from the head to the tip of the tail, then a horizontal line linking the extremities of the spread wings. The Dragon-King had been the wisest and most powerful of the Divine Ones. By sacrificing his own life, he had put an end to the Shadows and allowed victory over the armies of Obscurity and Oblivion – which had in turn sealed the decline of the Ancestrals. But according to the black priests, he had also purified the souls of men, who since that time could aspire to eternal salvation.

Lorn did not believe his soul was eternal. And still less that there was salvation in store for it.

‘According to Cadfeld,’ he said, ‘the militiamen were demanding that he pay a tax. What’s going on here?’

The priest sighed and indicated that Lorn should take a seat.

‘What’s going on,’ he replied once they were seated, ‘is that our district prefect is greedy and corrupt.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

Father Eldrim gave a faint, resigned smile.

‘More or less, yes. Especially since they are no longer designated by the city council, but appointed by the queen. Our prefect, Talinn Yorgast, excels in his category. He is crushing Redstone with the weight of taxes, skimming off an enormous share for himself and enriching himself still further through various forms of trafficking.’

‘Can nothing be done against him?’

‘He is the nephew of Esteveris, the queen’s minister. Which means he’s untouchable.’

Lorn raised an eyebrow.

Taking on the nephew might be a good way of reaching the uncle. Perhaps there was a card there to be played …

‘And if anyone takes a mind to protest,’ the black priest continued, ‘Yorgast has the militia on his payroll.’

‘I thought members of the militia were chosen from the inhabitants of the district. And by them.’

‘As far as militias go, Redstone’s is only one by name. Yorgast has turned it into his own private guard by recruiting thugs – sometimes taking them out of prisons – whose cruelty you witnessed this evening. And at their head, he appointed the worst of the lot: Andara. He’s the one responsible for imposing terror on the streets around here.’