Knightly Virtue Albert Winslow walked quickly through Aquesta, holding his heavy cloak tightly around himself, its hood raised. He regretted not switching to boots, as his buckled shoes were treacherous on the icy cobblestones. He could have taken a carriage. The palace had a few available for hire, but walking made it easier to determine if he was being followed. Glancing back, Albert found the street empty.
By the time he entered the Bailey Inn, the fire in the common room was burning low. An elderly man slept near the hearth, a cup of brandy nearly spilling in his lap. Albert walked quickly to the stairs and up to his room. He would write out a note, leave it on the table, and then head back to the palace. Formulating the wording in his head, he took out a key and unlocked the door.
How do I begin to explain what I just saw?
Instead of entering a cold, dark room, he found a fire burning, lighted candles on the table, and lying on his bed with boots still on-a dwarf.
"Magnus?"
The door closed abruptly, and Albert spun to see Royce behind him. "You should remember to lock your door," the thief said.
Albert smirked. "I won't even dignify that with a comment. When did you get back?"
"Not long enough to get any rest," Magnus grumbled. "He drove us like dogs to get here."
"Hey, watch the boots," Albert said, slapping them with the back of his hand.
"What's happened with Hadrian?" Royce spoke sharply, his hood still up.
When Albert first met Royce, the viscount had been a drunk living in a farmer's barn outside Colnora. Reduced to selling his clothes piecemeal to buy rum, he was down to little more than his nightshirt and old rags. Wailing about the misfortune of being the noble son of a spendthrift father, he offered Royce and Hadrian his silk nightshirt for five copper tenents. Royce had made him a better offer. Riyria needed a nobleman to work as a liaison to the wealthy and privileged-a respectable face to sell disreputable services. They cleaned him up, paid for new clothes, and provided all the trappings of success that a viscount required. They gave him back his dignity, and Albert was noble once more. From then on the viscount saw Royce as a friend, but at times like this-when Royce's hood was raised and his voice harsh-even Albert was scared of him.
"Well?" Royce pressed, stepping closer and causing Albert to back up. "Is he in prison? They didn't…"
"What? No!" Albert shook his head. "You're actually not going to believe this. I just came from the Feast of the Nobles, the big opening party for the Wintertide celebration. Everyone was there, kings, bishops, knights, you name it."
"Get to the point, Albert."
"I am. Hadrian was there, too."
Albert saw Royce's hands form fists. "What were they doing to him?"
"Oh, no, nothing like that-they were feeding him. He was-they made him a knight, Royce-a knight of the Empire. You should have seen the outfit he was wearing."
At this, even the dwarf sat up.
"What? Speak sense, you crazy-"
"I swear. It's the truth! Regent Saldur even came over and told the whole table this nutty story about how Hadrian fought for the Imperialists at the Battle of Ratibor and was knighted because of it. Can you believe that?"
"No, I don't. Have you been drinking again?"
"Just a bit of wine. I'm sober. I swear," Albert said.
"But why would they do such a thing? Were you able to get near him? What did he say?"
"He wasn't able to speak freely and hinted that he was being watched, but I think he's competing in the tournament. It sounded like the regents made him some kind of deal."
"The tournament at Highcourt?"
"Yes. He made it pretty clear that we shouldn't interfere or try to help."
"I don't understand."
"That makes two of us."
"I feel ridiculous," Amilia whispered to Nimbus as she pushed her plate away.
One hundred and twenty-three pairs of eyes stared at her. She knew the exact number. She knew which rulers brought wives and which sat with courtesans. She knew who was sensitive to drafts and who was uncomfortable near the heat of the hearth. She knew which princess refused to sit beside which countess. She knew who held power and which ones were just puppets. She knew every quirk and foible, every bias and fear, every name and title-but not a single face.
They were manageable as slips of parchment, but now they were all here-staring. No, not staring. Their expressions were too malicious and filled with contempt for something as benign as staring. In their eyes she could see the exasperation and knew what they were thinking, "How is it that she-the poor daughter of a carriage maker-sits at the empress's table?" She felt as though one hundred and twenty-three wolves snarled at her with exposed teeth.
"You look beautiful," Nimbus said. His fingers kept tempo with the pavane. The tutor was apparently oblivious to the waves of hatred crashing over them.
She sighed. There was nothing to do now but struggle through the night as best she could. Sitting up straight, Amilia reminded herself to breathe, which was no easy feat in the tight bodice.
Amilia wore the gown the duchess had presented to her that morning. Far from just an ordinary dress-it was a work of art in blue silk. Ribbons woven into elaborate designs resembling swans adorned the front. The fitted bodice pressed her stomach flat and led to a full, billowing skirt that shimmered like rippling water when she moved. A deep neckline left the tops of her breasts exposed. To Lady Genevieve's dismay, Amilia wore a scarf, covering them and the exquisite jeweled necklace the duchess had lent. Perhaps to avoid a similar concealment with the diamond earrings, the duchess sent three stylists to put Amilia's hair up. They spent the better part of two hours on the coif and were followed by a pair of cosmetic artists, who painted her lips, eyelids, cheeks, and even her fingernails. Amilia never wore makeup of any kind. She never styled her hair, and she certainly never exposed her breasts. Out of respect for the duchess, she complied, but she felt like a clown-a buffoonish entertainment on display for those hundred and twenty-three sets of eyes.
One hundred and twenty-four, she corrected herself. There had been a last-minute addition.
"Which one is he?" she asked Nimbus.
"Who? Sir Hadrian? I squeezed him in over there. He's the one in purple and gold. Saldur is passing him off as a knight, but I've never met a man so unknightly."
"He's cruel?"
"Not at all. He's considerate and respectful, even to servants. He complains less than a monk, and while I am certain he knows the use of a blade, he seems as violent as a mouse. He drinks only moderately, considers a bowl of porridge a feast, and rises at dawn. He is no knight but rather what a knight should be."
"He looks familiar," she said but could not place him. "How is he coming along?"
"Slowly," Nimbus told her. "I just hope he doesn't attempt to dance. I haven't found time to teach him, and I am certain he hasn't a clue."
"You know how to dance?" Amilia asked.
"I am exceedingly talented, milady. Would you like me to teach you as well?"
She rolled her eyes. "I hardly think I will need to know that."
"Are you sure? Didn't Sir Breckton seek your favor for the joust?"
"Out of pity."
"Pity? Are you certain? Perhaps you…oh dear, what have we here?" Nimbus stopped as Sir Murthas navigated the tables, walking straight for them. Wearing a ribbed burgundy doublet that was tight in the waist and sported broad, padded shoulders, he looked quite impressive. An elegant gold chain with a ruby hung around his neck. His dark eyes matched his coal-black hair, and his goatee appeared freshly trimmed.
"Lady Amilia, I am Sir Murthas of Alburn." He held out his hand covered in thick rings.
Confused, she stared at it until the man awkwardly let it fall. Amilia noticed Nimbus cringing beside her. She had done something inappropriate but did not know what.
"I was hoping, dear lady," Sir Murthas pushed on, "that you would honor me with a dance."
Amilia was horrified. She sat rigid and stared at him without saying a word.
Nimbus came to her rescue. "I believe her ladyship is not interested in dancing at the moment, Sir Murthas. Another time, perhaps?"
Murthas gave the tutor a loathsome look, and then his face softened as he returned his attention to Amilia. "May I ask why? If you are not feeling well, perhaps I could escort you to a balcony for some fresh air? If you don't care for the music, I will have them play a different tune. If it is the color of my doublet, I will gladly change."
Amilia remained unable to speak.
Murthas glanced at Nimbus. "Has he been speaking ill of me?"
"I have never mentioned you," the tutor replied, but his words had no effect on the knight.
"Perhaps she's put off by that bit of rat hair on your chin, Murthas," Sir Elgar bellowed as he, too, approached the table. "Or perhaps she is waiting for a real man to ask her to the floor. What do you say, My Lady? Will you do me the honor?" Elgar dwarfed Murthas and brushed the smaller knight to one side as he held out his hand.
"I'm-I'm sorry." Amilia found her tongue. "I choose not to dance."
Elgar's expression darkened to a storm, but he said nothing.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, 'tis I she is waiting for," Sir Gilbert said, striding forward. "Forgive me, My Lady, for taking so long to arrive and leaving you in such company."
Amilia shook her head, stood, and hurried away from the table. She neither knew nor cared where she was going. Frightened and embarrassed, her only thought was to get away. Afraid of catching the eye of another knight, she focused on the floor, and it was in this way that she stumbled once more into Sir Breckton.
"Oh my," she gasped, looking up at him. "I…I…"
"We seem to be making a habit of this," Breckton said with a smile.
Amilia was mortified and felt so foolish that tears welled up and spilled down her cheeks.
Seeing this, Breckton's smile vanished; he fell to one knee, and bowed his head. "Forgive me, dear lady. I am a fool. I spoke without thought."
"No, no, it's all right," she told him, feeling worse than ever. "Please, I am only trying to get to my chambers. I-I've had my fill of feasting."
"As you wish. Please, take my arm and I will see you safely there."
Amilia was beyond resisting and took hold of the knight as they continued down the hall. Away from the noise and the crowd, Amilia felt more like herself. She wiped her cheeks and let go of his arm.
"Thank you, Sir Breckton, but I do not need you to escort me to my room. I have lived in this palace for a long time and know the way quite well. I can assure you there are no dragons or ogres along my path."
"Of course, forgive me again for my presumption. I only thought because-"
Amilia nodded. "I know. I was just a little overwhelmed. I'm not used to so much attention. Despite the title, I am still a simple girl, and knights…They still frighten me."
Breckton looked wounded and took a step backward. "I would never harm you, My Lady!"
"Oh, there I go again. I feel like such a fool." Amilia threw up her hands. "I-I don't know how to be noble. Everything I say is wrong. Everything I do or don't do is a mistake."
"I am certain it is not you, but I who am at fault," Breckton assured her. "I am not accustomed to the courts. I am a soldier-plain and blunt. I will once more ask your forgiveness and leave you alone as, clearly, I am a terror to you."
"No, no, you are not. You are most kind. It's the others I-you are the only one-" She sighed. "Please, I would be honored if you would escort me."
Breckton snapped smartly to attention, bowed, and offered his arm once more. They walked silently to the stairs and up to the fifth floor. Passing by a set of guards, they proceeded to a chamber door. Breckton nodded and smiled at Gerald, who responded with a salute-something Amilia had never seen the guard do before.
"You are well protected," Breckton remarked.
"Not me, this is the empress's chambers. I always check on her before retiring. To be honest, you shouldn't even be on this floor."
"Then I will take my leave."
He started to turn.
"Wait," she said, reaching out to touch his arm. "Here." She pulled off her scarf and handed it to him.
Breckton smiled broadly. "I will wear it at the tournament proudly and represent you with honor."
Taking her hand, he gently kissed the back of it. Then the knight bowed and left. Amilia's gaze followed him until he reached the stairs and disappeared from sight. When she turned back, she found Gerald grinning. She raised an eyebrow and the guard wiped the expression from his face.
Amilia entered the imperial bedchamber. As always, Modina was at the window. Lying on the stone in her thin, white nightgown, the empress looked dead. Amilia found her this way most nights. The mirror was still intact and Modina was merely asleep. Still, Amilia could not help but think that one day…She pushed the thought away.
"Modina?" She spoke softly as she rocked the empress's shoulder. "Come, it's too cold to lie there."
The girl looked up sadly then nodded. Amilia put her in bed, covered her with a blanket, and gave her a kiss on the forehead before leaving Modina to sleep.
Hadrian was squeezing melted candle wax between his fingers and listening to the rhythmic snores of the earl. Even his shadows looked tired, although they were different men since the shift change. He wondered how long he was expected to remain in the hall.
He saw Sir Breckton return to the feast, but rather than resuming his seat, the knight struck up a conversation with Nimbus. He watched them for a moment, and then noticed movement at the head table. To Hadrian's dismay, Regent Saldur picked up his wine goblet and walked directly toward him.
"You've done well," the regent said while taking the seat across from Hadrian. "Or at least it appeared so from over there. Sentinel Guy and Lord Marius speak highly of you."
"Lord Marius? You don't mean Merrick Marius?"
"Yes, you remember him, don't you? He was at our little meeting. Oh, how foolish. Perhaps we forgot to introduce him. Marius said he was extremely impressed with a recent assignment that you and your partner performed on his behalf. By the sound of things, it was quite difficult. He even told me that he thought only you two could have accomplished such a feat."
Hadrian clenched his teeth.
"I've been thinking…Perhaps when this business with Breckton is over, you might find working for the Empire preferable to exile with Gaunt. I am a pragmatist, Hadrian, and I can see the benefit of having someone like you aiding in what we are trying to accomplish. I'm sure you've heard any number of terrible things about me or what I may have done. But you need to realize I'm trying to rid our world of problems that plague all of us, commoner and noble alike. Roads have gone to ruin. You can hardly travel in spring due to mud. Banditry is rampant, which hampers trade and stifles prosperity. Every city is a cesspool of filth and few have adequate fresh water. There are not enough jobs in the north, not enough workers in the south, and not enough food anywhere."
Hadrian glanced across the hall and saw Breckton and Nimbus leaving the feast together. A little while later, Murthas, Elgar, and Gilbert downed their drinks and left in the same direction.
"The world of men has many enemies," Saldur droned on. "When petty kings war with each other, they weaken the nations with their childish feuds. I have long believed these squabbles leave the doors open for invasion and invite destruction. You might not know this, but the Ghazel and Dacca have been raiding from the south. We don't publicize this information, of course, so few know just how severe it has become, but they have even invaded Tur Del Fur."
Hadrian glared. "If you didn't want the Ghazel as neighbors, you probably shouldn't have invited them."
Saldur looked at him curiously for a moment and then said, "I did what was necessary. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Not everyone can keep what they have if things are to change. There must be sacrifices. I have tried to be reasonable, but if a leg is infected and cannot be saved, it must be removed for the good of the body. I hope you can see past these small costs and recognize the larger implications. I am not an evil man, Hadrian. It is the world that forces me to be cruel but no more so than a father forcing his child to swallow an unpleasant medicine. You can see that, can't you?"
Saldur looked at him expectantly.
"Am I allowed to leave?" Hadrian asked. "The feast, I mean."
Saldur sighed and sat back in his chair. "Yes, you can go. You need to get plenty of sleep. The tournament begins in two days."
Pinecones and holly garland, the remnants of wayward revelers, littered the hallways along Hadrian's path to the knights' wing. Rounding a corner, he found Nimbus slumped against the corridor wall. The courtier's tunic was torn and his nose bleeding. Sir Gilbert stood above him, grinning. Through the doorway of the common room, Hadrian spotted Sir Breckton. Armed with only his dress dagger, the knight defended himself against Murthas and Elgar, each of whom wielded a sword as well as a dagger.
"Look who's joined the party," Gilbert said as Hadrian approached.
"Given this situation," Hadrian asked Nimbus while keeping his eyes on Gilbert, "how much generosity am I required to extend to these fellow knights?"
In the common room, Murthas swiped at Breckton, who caught the sword with his little blade and cast the stroke aside.
"Given the situation," Nimbus said quickly, "I think the virtue of generosity is not applicable."
"Indeed!" Breckton shouted. "They have forfeited their right to honorable treatment."
Hadrian smiled. "That makes this a lot easier." Drawing his own dagger, he threw it into Gilbert's thigh. The knight cried out and fell to his knees, looking up in astonishment. Hadrian punched him in the face, and his opponent collapsed. Taking both his and Gilbert's daggers, Hadrian advanced.
Elgar sneered as he turned to face Hadrian, leaving Breckton to Murthas.
"I hope you joust better than you wield a sword," Hadrian said, approaching.
"We haven't even fought yet, you fool," Elgar bellowed.
"That's hardly necessary. You hold your sword like a woman. No, that's not true. I've actually known women who can swordfight. The truth is, you're just terrible."
"What I lack in style, I make up for in strength." Elgar charged Hadrian, raising his blade over his head and leaving his entire chest exposed. Hadrian's training made him instinctively want to aim a single thrust at the man's heart, which would kill Elgar instantly. He fought the urge and lowered his weapon. Saldur and Ethelred would not approve. Besides, Elgar was drunk. Instead, he dodged to one side and left a foot behind to trip the knight. Elgar fell, hitting his head on the stone.
"Is he dead?" Nimbus asked, watching Hadrian roll the big man over on his back.
"No, but I think he might have chipped the slate. Now that's a hard head."
Hadrian sat down next to Nimbus and inspected the tutor's wounds.
"Shouldn't you help Sir Breckton?"
Hadrian glanced up as Murthas made another lunge.
"I don't think that's necessary, nor would it be proper to step into another man's fight. However…" Picking up Elgar's sword, Hadrian yelled, "Breckton!" before throwing it across the common room. Breckton caught the weapon and Murthas stepped back, looking less confident.
"Damn you!" Murthas shouted, taking one last swing before fleeing.
Hadrian could not suppress the temptation to stick out his foot once more, tripping Murthas as he ran by. Murthas fell, got back to his feet, and ran off.
"Thank you," Breckton said, offering Hadrian a slight nod.
"It's Murthas who should be thanking me," Hadrian replied.
Breckton smiled. "Indeed."
"I don't understand," Nimbus said. "Murthas lost, why would he thank you?"
"He's still alive," Hadrian explained.
"Oh," was all Nimbus said.
Hadrian managed to stop Nimbus's bleeding. The tutor's nose did not appear broken. Even so, none of them was interested in returning to the banquet hall. Hadrian and Breckton escorted Nimbus to his room, where the slim man thanked the two knights for their assistance.
"You fight well," Breckton said as he and Hadrian walked the palace corridors back toward the knights' wing.
"Why did they attack you?"
"They were drunk."
"Where I come from, drunks sing badly and sleep with ugly women. They don't attack rival knights and courtly gentlemen."
Breckton was quiet for a moment then asked, "Where do you come from, Sir Hadrian?"
"Saldur explained-"
"Some of the men that fought with Lord Dermont and survived the Battle of Ratibor joined my army in the north. Captain Lowell was one of them. His accounting of that day in no way resembles the tale Regent Saldur described. I would not embarrass the regent or yourself by mentioning it in public, but now that we are alone…"
Hadrian said nothing.
"What Lowell did tell me was the entire Imperial Army was caught sleeping on that rainy morning. Most never managed to strap on a sword, much less mount a horse."
Hadrian simply replied, "It was a very confusing day."
"So you say, but perhaps you were never there at all. A knight taking credit for another's valor is most dishonorable."
"I can assure you, I was there," Hadrian said sincerely. "And that I rode across the muddy field leading men into battle that morning."
Breckton stopped at the entrance of his own room and studied Hadrian's face. "You must forgive me for my rudeness. You have aided me this evening, and I have responded with accusations. It is unseemly for one knight to accuse another without proper evidence. I will not let it happen again. Good night."
He offered Hadrian a curt nod and left him alone in the corridor.