Gene Wolfe - The Wizard

I nodded.

“He knows about Toug and Etela and Lady Lynnet getting lost in Aelfrice, and you coming there, and Sir Garvaon and Sir Svon. He already knows you can read that book.” Wistan gulped.

“Of course he does. But can he read it as well? That’s an interesting point.”

“I guess so. He wouldn’t have it if he couldn’t read it, would he?”

“Of course he would. Books are extremely valuable. It takes a copyist years to copy one, and who know what errors he will introduce? Every book is valuable, and the older a copy is the more valuable it is. If the Earl Marshal couldn’t read it, he might hope to find someone who could.”

Wistan nodded again. “I’ll try to find out.”

He had suggested another test, and I called Uri. She stepped out of the fire, slender and quite naked. Wistan took it with more coolness than I expected and strove to keep his eyes off her—or when she spoke, on her face. She, who had always been beautiful, this night seemed more lovely than ever, willow-slender, graceful, and glowing; I soon realized that having learned she could not seduce me, she was exerting herself on Wistan. I told him then that he must leave.

He hesitated, his hand on the latch. “There’s something else. I’ll tell you when I come back, all right?”

“I’ll be asleep. Tell me now.”

“I had them put down your name for a lot of things in the tournament, Sir Able. I knew you’d wanted to, so I found the pursuivant and told him I was your squire and he did it. That’s why I said they’d flog me if you didn’t take me back.”

“As they would have, I’m sure. You did well, however. What events?”

“Bow, halbert, joust, and melee.”

“You said there were many. Only four?”

“Bow is two, really. Dismounted and mounted.”

I nodded and waved him out.

As soon as the door had shut, Uri abased herself and pleaded for mercy. I made her stand, adding that I had not decided whether I would spare her life. That was a lie—I had no intention of killing her—but I felt it might be good for her to keep her in suspense.

“I have always loved you, Lord. More than Baki. More than—than anyone.”

“More than Queen Disiri of the Moss Aelf.”

“Y-yes, Lord. More than sh-she.”

“This though she never betrayed me.”

“She was no slave to S-Setr, Lord. I was.”

“Baki was Setr’s slave as well.”

“Y-yes.” She would not meet my eyes.

“When Baki’s spine was broken, you would not bring me to her to heal her.”

She stood a trifle straighter. “Another brought you, Lord, but you did not heal her. The boy did it. Not that boy. The other.”

“Toug. I’m going to ask three things of you, Uri. If you do what I ask, I’ll spare your life. Not otherwise. Do you understand? Two are just questions, and none are hard.”

She bowed. “I am your slave.”

“The first. Why did you come, when you knew I might kill you? You could have stayed in Aelfrice.”

“Because you will not always be here, Lord. In Aelfrice you would have hunted me down, you with your hound,” she gestured toward Gylf, “and the queen with her pack. I hoped to save my life by obedience and contrition.”

“You talk bravely,” I told her, “but your lip trembles.”

“In fear of one it would p-prefer to k-kiss, Lord.”

“We’ll let that go by, Uri. You came. I appreciate it. It’s a point in your favor, undeniably.”

Org had edged nearer, and I saw that he intended to catch her if she tried to flee.

“Here’s the second. The Earl Marshal has a book written in Aelfrice.”

I saw that I had surprised her.

“I want you to discover whether he can read it, and what his connection with Aelfrice may be.”

“I will try, Lord. I will learn all I can.”

“Good. Here’s the last, and the other question. It’s in two parts. As I was getting to sleep, someone warned me there was magic in the gifts Wistan brought. Was it you?”

She nodded. “I will always seek to serve you, Lord.”

“Why didn’t you remain and tell me more?”

“I was in fear. That—that has not changed, Lord.”

“Of the magic?”

She shook her head. “Of you, Lord.”

“Is the magic in all my gifts? Or in one alone?”

“You ask what you already know, Lord.”

“So you get an easy answer, and save your life.”

Gylf raised his head and looked quizzically at me.

“In one, Lord. In the helm. You know it.”

“But I do not know whose gift it was. Do you?”

“Yes, Lord. Borda gave it. I watched the giving.”

“Have you any idea why she gave it?”

“No, Lord.”

I studied Uri’s face, although I could seldom pick up on her fabrications. “None at all?”

“None, Lord. Shall I try to find out?”

“Not now. I’ve worn the helm. Nothing took place. Do you know its secret?”

Uri shook her head. “I do not, Lord. If I discover it, I will tell you.”

“Are you afraid of it?”

“Yes, Lord. As of you.”

I glanced at Org, trying to tell him with my eyes that he was not to harm her. When it seemed he understood, I got out the old helm. When I straightened up, she was struggling in his grasp. I told her to be still, and put on the helm.

Org held a writhing thing shaped of flame and offal, of dung and blazing straw and such tripes as might be taken from a goat a week dead. Gylf snarled as if he saw it as I had, and he was a dog of gold with carnelian eyes.

Several days intervened between the night I saw Uri writhing in the grip of a monster of swarming vermin and the opening of the tournament. They held little of interest. Uri I let flee as soon as I took off the helm. I did not put it back on in that time, nor did I call for her again. If I must refer to any of those days as my account goes on, I will describe it when I need it.

The first day was for quarterstaff competition among churls. I could have entered, and I was tempted to. If I had, my participation in the joust and the melee would surely have been called into question. I watched with interest instead, as did some other knights. It was the custom of the castle to match the man thought most likely to win with the man thought least likely, number two in the standings (judged by the pursuivant) with a beginner, and so on.

Thus the first round, in which everyone fought at the same time, was over quickly, and quicker because no armor was allowed except a jerkin and a leather cap. In the second each pair fought alone, the pairing determined by the order in which each man had won in the first: the one who had won first fought the one who had won last, and so on. Speed and agility count a lot with the quarterstaff, so none of the matches were long; even so, some lasted longer than it might take to saddle a restive horse. In two, the fighters were slow to close. They were circled with a rope drawn tighter by the pursuivant’s servants until one went down.

The second day was archery on foot. If I had still had the bowstring Parka cut for me, I would have won easily. I did not, and although my score was good, several others did better. One dined with King Arnthor and Queen Gaynor, but I did not.

The third was the day for mounted archery. We shot at a false target of braided straw, which held the arrows well and did not damage the heads. Gilt stood for the boss in the middle, and to strike the gold (that was how they said it) scored highest of all. Each rider rode full tilt at the false target and shot when he wanted to. Those who did not spur their mounts got a penalty, but many chose slow horses. I rode Cloud, and might have overtaken a swallow that flitted along the bailey. Fast though I rode, my first arrow hit the gold, and the onlookers cheered. As we trotted back to the starting line, I heard a dozen voices ask about the knight with a dragon on his shield—and Wistan’s answer: “He’s His Grace Duke Marder’s Sir Able of Redhall, and I’m his squire.”