L. Modesitt - Ordermaster

“You did the honorable thing,” Hagen pointed out. “More than once.”

“No one else thought so. Not Charee, not Warrl, not Arthal.” Kharl sipped the wine. “Especially not Arthal. He said I never listened and that nothing could be worse than staying with me. I should have stopped him.”

“For how long?” asked Hagen. “He would have left when you were not around.” His laugh was sad and rueful. “That was what Narlan did. He left a note. He wrote that since I could talk him out of anything, he couldn’t say good-bye except in writing.”

“You said … you lost him …” offered Kharl.

“He sailed with a Delapran merchanter-except it wasn’t a merchanter. She was a sometime pirate, and one of the black ships of Recluce sank her in less than a season after he left.”

“I’m sorry.” What else could Kharl say?

“It was a good ten years ago. You don’t ever get over it. It always hurts. It just doesn’t hurt as often.” Hagen offered a faint smile. “You have to remember, Kharl, hard as it is, hard as it will be, that young men make their own choices. We did, and they will. When you’ve done your best-and you’re a man who always tries to do what’s right-in the end, they have to choose for themselves. The hard thing is when they don’t choose well, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

What could Kharl have done differently? He still couldn’t see ignoring Sanyle or Jenevra. Nor could he have not tried to help fight the fire that had threatened Tyrbel’s scriptorium. After that … nothing would havechanged, and Arthal would never have understood, no matter what Kharl had said.

Yet …

He looked at the wine. That was no answer, either. He was just glad that Hagen was there.

Each day brought Kharl greater recovery, and by threeday, he was only occasionally finding holes in his vision, and the sight-daggers had become infrequent, and more like momentary wasp stings. He still brooded about Arthal, wondering if there had been anything he could have done that would have persuaded his son against leaving the cooperage. Even if Arthal had waited … for a later ship … anything … Every time he recalled their parting, he came to the same conclusion that Hagen had voiced. Arthal had been so angry that nothing short of chaining the youth would have stopped him from taking the billet on the Fleuryl .

And then, to find after his death, that his son had been within a handful of kays, and Kharl had not even known it.

Slightly after midday, Kharl was sitting alone in the small dining room, sipping light ale from a beaker and waiting for his meal when Norgen entered and walked over to his table.

“Might I join you, ser Kharl?”

“Please do.” Kharl gestured to the seat across the table from him. He was more than glad to see the commander of Ghrant’s personal guard. Everyone else, except Hagen, had been most polite, most courteous, and most distant.

“Thank you.” As Norgen seated himself, he absently brushed back the thin and fine hair that had once been far redder. He gestured to the serving girl. “An ale, here, when you have a moment.”

“Yes, ser.”

Norgen smiled at Kharl. “You’re looking better. Your face was blistered all over after the battle.”

“An eightday’s worth of rest helps. Or almost an eightday.″

“That can be a long time. I imagine it’s been rather quiet for you.” Norgen paused as the server set a beaker of ale before him. “Thank you,” he said to her.

The server inclined her head and slipped away.

“Not many people wish to talk to you, I’d think, and those few that do aren’t the ones you’d wish to exchange words with.”

Kharl raised his eyebrows. “Those words come from experience.”

Norgen laughed, a harsh sound, for all that the laugh was not that loud. “Commander … surely you could have prevailed without losing so many lancers? Commander, if you had been more effective, Lord Ghrant might not have had to rely so heavily on the mage …”

“That’s not the lord-chancellor,” Kharl said.

“No. It’s lords like Vhint and Ferosyl. They had to supply lancers and armsmen to replace casualties in the personal guard. Like all armsmen in a battle, some didn’t survive, and now the lords are complaining-as if casualties in battle were a great surprise.”

“I did the best I could,” Kharl said.

“Ser Kharl … you’ll get no complaint from me. If you hadn’t prevailed, all of our forces would be ashes, and I’m not sure that the ones with Hensolas and Fergyn wouldn’t still have been as well.”

Both men looked up as the server returned and set platters before each, and a basket of bread between them. Dark bread, and freshly baked, Kharl noted with satisfaction. On each platter were three cutlets in brown gravy, cheese mashed potatoes, and soggy-looking beans.

“Thank you,” Kharl said to the server, offering a smile.

“Yes, ser.” The young woman’s eyes avoided Kharl’s, even as she half bowed and backed away.

“The terrible mage,” murmured Kharl.

“It’s the same folk who want you-or me-to use whatever force is necessary so that their lives can go on, undisturbed,” said Norgen cheerfully. He broke off a section of the dark bread and handed the basket to Kharl. “I’ve been in service long enough to see how fickle folk are. When there’s peace, they see no use for lancers-or mages. When there’s war, they’ll promise you anything and look the other way if what you do is too bloody for their sensibilities. But if you suggest that a campaign will be too bloody, you’re accused of cowardice or sympathizing with the enemy. Afterwards, they all say that you didn’t have to be so brutal … or something like that.”

After taking a chunk of bread, Kharl set it on the edge of his platter. “Gratitude doesn’t last long.”

“If you get it at all,” replied Norgen. “Most people are like small children. They want things their way, and they don’t like to be reminded of their duties, or that they should be grateful to those who have protected them. Children don’t ever appreciate their parents, not until they have children of their own. The problem with ruling-or fighting for a ruler-is that most people never get that kind of responsibility. So they never understand the choices and the costs.” He took a sip of the ale before continuing. “There are folktales that go back as long as people have told them. In them, most rulers are evil and greedy. Ever hear one that talks about evil and greedy subjects?” He laughed.

“You don’t think much of people, then?” asked Kharl.

Norgen smiled, sadly. “I’m one of them. I get as greedy and as upset as the next person when things don’t go my way. You remind yourself of that, and don′t expect people to do more at their best than you at your worst, and you’ll be pleasantly surprised in life. People are people. Those who expect goodness from everyone all the time-they′re the ones who die bitter and unhappy.”

“Do most commanders think the way you do?”

“The good ones do-like Casolan-not that I’m as good as he is.”

“You both believe in doing the best you can,” observed Kharl.

“So do you, ser mage. I’ve seen that.” After a pause, the lean commander added, “What else is there in life, other than doing your best? Youth doesn’t last. Neither does good fare or ale. Gratitude certainly doesn’t. Fame doesn’t. About all that does is the satisfaction of knowing you did your best.”

“You should have been a scholar,” Kharl suggested.

Norgen grinned sheepishly. “I was for a time. Don′t tell people. Upset my folks something awful. Couldn’t stand all the older scholars arguing about things they’d never known and couldn’t prove. Far as I know, you only get one life. Decided I’d rather live mine than study and write about the lives and acts of dead men and women. Or about the way languages or laws have changed. Or …″ The commander shrugged.