Roland Green: Knights of the Rose

Hawkbrother studied the moonlit canyon rim until he found what seemed to be a promising gap in the rock. It was also far enough from the sentry circle that if he was wrong, he could try again.

Belly as close to the ground as a snake’s, knees and elbows moving with the precision of a well-greased mill, Hawkbrother crept toward the canyon rim.

As Gildas Aurhinius strode toward the scene of the riot (or whatever name the law counselors might later give it), he knew that he could not really cut an imposing figure for long, moving at this pace. Too many years of good living had taken their toll-and for the last ten of those years he had been drinking more than a wise man should.

What was wisdom, though, against the frustration of doing justice to all folk and saving your men in the bargain, only to be sent farther and farther from Istar with each new command? It had been three years before Aurhinius realized how the rest of his life would be shaped by Waydol’s War. He’d taken wounds in the field that hurt less than that realization. For wounds of the body, there were healers. For wounds of the spirit, there was only wine.

Nemyotes was in glaring contrast to his commander. The secretary was short and small-boned, but he had the lean fitness of a hunting dog, as well as the cropped hair, permanent tan, and scars of a seasoned fighter. His armor no longer fit him like a man’s gear on a boy; he could afford to have it made to order.

I wrought better than I knew, the day I saved him from drowning on the north shore, Aurhinius thought, not for the first time. I gave Istar a notable soldier and, the True Gods willing, the kingpriests a formidable foe.

By now the commander and his secretary had acquired a respectable escort. A score of soldiers formed a square around them, hemming them in so closely that Aurhinius could barely see what lay ahead. He was about to protest this delicacy when Nemyotes pushed his way through the rank, shouldering aside two soldiers each twice his size. The square halted, the soldiers opened out-holding their weapons at the ready, Aurhinius noticed-and the commander was allowed to contemplate the scene.

Two kender stood over the corpse of a third-it had to be a corpse, with such wounds. Kender were tenacious of life, but even they were beyond healing when cloven from shoulder to belly with a sword or axe. Beyond the kender stood a line of Aurhinius’s soldiers, and beyond them he saw the shaggy hair and leather-helmeted heads of the cutpurses and burglars who had been renamed sell-swords and sent to collect taxes from the Silvanesti.

“Who is senior here among the tax soldiers?” Aurhinius snapped. It hurt his tongue like the edge of a broken tooth to use formal titles under these circumstances, but one might as well begin with politeness.

“I am,” said a voice that was hauntingly familiar. Then a tall man in richly decorated armor pushed through both ranks to face Aurhinius.

Aurhinius at once knew why the voice had been familiar.

“Captain Zephros. I see you have risen in the service of-Istar, since we last met.”

The last time they had met, Zephros slaughtered a Black Robe wizard, fearful that she was trying to enspell Aurhinius. With her died much knowledge that might have served Istar well. Aurhinius had dismissed Zephros from his service, hoping the dismissal would end his career in the hosts of Istar, and prayed that at least their paths would never cross again.

The hopes had been in vain and the prayers had gone unanswered, or so it seemed.

“It seems so,” Zephros replied. “Or I would not have come here as commander of this new band of tax soldiers. Is this the sort of order kept in your camps, my lord?”

“This camp is not mine, as you well know,” Aurhinius snapped. “Its discipline is a matter for its own captains. But incidents such as this are a matter for all who have come on this campaign. They can make us unwanted enemies.”

“Kender are friends to no human,” Zephros said. Aurhinius thought he saw the kenders’ fingers twitch, and noticed that they were both armed.

Justice, in this case, would probably be letting them carve on Zephros until he was in the same state as their friend, thought Aurhinius. So, forget about justice; consider how to keep order.

“Kender,” Aurhinius said. “What have you to say for yourself and your friend?”

One of the kender (he wore a blue-embroidered vest, which was all that set him apart from his comrade) nodded. “Edelthirb was trying to do a hurt man a favor. He’d fallen and was going to be trampled-”

“Edelthirb or the man?” Aurhinius asked. He also prayed silently to every god whom he could name in one breath that for once a kender would speak briefly and to the point.

That prayer at least was answered. It seemed that Edelthirb had tried to pull an unconscious man clear of the riot. (The kender offered no opinions on the cause of the riot; Aurhinius did not ask.) Possibly he had looked as if he was “handling” the man, turning out his pockets and pouches for the odd valuable or curiosity.

Then along came Zephros, who drew his sword-a desert-style scimitar, with a heavy curved slashing blade-and cut Edelthirb down. The kender’s death cry awoke the unconscious man, who had run off and hidden himself in the tent city of the sell-swords.

“Wonderful,” Aurhinius said. “Zephros, is this true?”

He had been prepared for a blustering denial that any kender could count fingers in front of his face, let alone identify a swordsman. Instead, Zephros nodded.

“It wasn’t handling, it was plain theft. Anybody who thinks the two aren’t the same knows nothing about kender. And theft is a crime that I can punish with summary justice, even death, under the warrant given me and the other tax officers.”

Aurhinius immediately rejected the simplest solution, which would have been to serve Zephros as he had served the kender. But the warrants did give the commanders of the sell-swords unusual discretion in discipline-probably the only way such a flock of cutthroats and wastrels could be kept in any sort of order.

Zephros had at least a respectable portion of a case. More than enough to make his summary execution out of the question.

“That warrant applies only to people under your command,” Aurhinius said.

“Or defending them.”

“Have you identified the man who was being handled?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know he was under your command, or anybody else’s? He may have been a bigger thief than any kender, for all we know.”

“Are you saying the kender was under your authority, Lord Aurhinius?”

Nemyotes laughed so loudly that everyone, including the kender, stared at him. “Friend Zephros, have you ever tried to claim authority over kender?” That drew laughter, even from the kender.

“No, but it might be worth trying, with the help of this.” Zephros patted the hilt of his scimitar. Aurhinius noticed for the first time that it still had drying kender blood on it.

He took a deep breath.

“Zephros, turn your band over to your second and consider yourself confined to your tent. Nemyotes, I want you to collect Zephros’s scimitar, Edelthirb’s body, and any witnesses, especially the alleged victim of the handling.”

“Alleged!” Zephros erupted. “It was happening there in plain sight, common theft-”

“Silence!” Aurhinius bellowed. He succeeded in silencing more than Zephros. For a moment it seemed as if the whole desert was listening for his next words.

He chose them carefully. “By the laws of Istar, theft and handling are not the same. Handling is not a capital offense, even in the field in wartime. Wanton killing, however, can be. You are-”