DragonKnight

  He heard one scrubwoman speak to the other. “Do you think he should be doing that?”

  “Don’t worry about it, dearie. Even soaking wet, you can tell that one’s important.”

  “He does look somewhat like a prince, doesn’t he?”

  “It’s the fine clothes. Maybe he is a prince.”

  Bardon crossed the room with the large, rusted key ring in his hand. “A knight, ladies. I’m to be a knight, not a prince. And I’m only a squire now.” He entered the opening to the stairway.

  “That explains it,” said one of the women. “A knight would have the right to be messing about with the keys, don’t you think?”

  Bardon raced down the steps and didn’t hear an answer. Walking much more quickly than they had the night before, he reached the end of the underground passageway. He unlocked the last door and swung it open.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, not bothering to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  “I was arrested, Bardon.” Granny Kye sat on the floor of her cell, combing a girl’s wet hair. “Surely you remember. You came last night and brought us food and these blankets.” She gestured at the folded piles. Three of the children sat on the small blanket towers. Two lay stretched out on the floor, playing a game with sticks and small stones. Bardon strode across the entryway and grasped the iron bars.

  “You weren’t here. The harbormaster came to get you out, and”—he paused and spoke slowly, distinctly—“you were not here.”

  “He came to get us out? How nice.”

  Bardon sought to calm his voice, soften his voice, remove all vestige of emotion from his voice. Finally, he spoke. “Where were you?”

  “Giving the children baths. Those nice women who were here yesterday were here again this morning. We all agreed the children needed washing. So we took them to the prison laundry room and bathed them all, including their clothing.” She went back to combing the urchin’s wet locks. “I think we should get them new garments, Bardon. Perhaps we can go to the market on the way back to the inn.”

  Bardon dug his fingers into his hair and pulled. “N’Rae is at the market with Holt.”

  “Those two really should be chaperoned, young Squire. Of that much, I agree with Jue Seeno. I don’t think Holt is a bad boy, but natural, healthy attraction does happen between young people. Perhaps you’d better go find them.”

  “First I must go back to the harbor and disturb Mayfil once more on your behalf.”

  Granny Kye merely nodded.

  Bardon ground his teeth. “Do you think you could stay here long enough for me to get you out of here?”

  She tilted her head. “Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect sense,” he answered. “I want to get you legitimately released so you won’t be arrested again for breaking out of jail.”

  Granny Kye laughed. “What a ridiculous thing to say!”

  “Will you stay here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Bardon turned to leave. Granny Kye’s voice stopped him. “Because I worry, dear…on your way to the harbor, would you go through the market to see if you can find N’Rae?”

  Bardon faced the prisoner again and bowed, stiff as usual and without the grace of Sir Dar. “Yes, it would be my pleasure.”

  21

  A SLIPPERY ENCOUNTER

  Rain drenched the city. Bardon splashed through the market, not bothering to look closely at the few people out on the streets. N’Rae wouldn’t be strolling through a downpour. Holt would not want to be uncomfortable and, therefore, would have holed up someplace warm and dry. As Bardon neared the docks, the torrent increased. Water poured off his head, down his neck, and dribbled under his tunic. His soaked socks squished inside his boots. However, he dashed through fewer puddles as he neared the wharf.

  Better drainage. A nursery rhyme came to mind, one that must have been planted in his ear before he was six. He couldn’t remember anyone chanting nursery rhymes at The Hall.

  Drip, drip makes a drop

  Tiny raindrops never stop

  Flowing to the ocean

  Downhill, downhill

  Never standing still.

  Not exactly great poetry. No wonder children’s ditties were not required reading.

  He stopped under an overhang of a warehouse building. In a few more steps he’d be on the wooden planks that ran the length of the waterfront. The sheet of rain blurred the outlines of ships docked at the closest piers. He couldn’t see beyond a hundred feet. Just ahead of him, it looked as though someone had dropped their bundles and run. Not a soul could be seen in either direction.

  Odd…There isn’t anyone about.

  He waited. The spring rain definitely had a chill to it, and a shiver ran up his spine.

  I’ll be drinking one of Granny Kye’s tonic teas tonight. That is, if we get her out. At least Mayfil’s office will be warm, and the rain is letting up.

  He dashed across the remaining cobblestones and leapt onto the wharf.

  His boots slipped. “Whoa!” he hollered and caught himself before he fell. He headed toward the three-story building that housed the office of the harbormaster. With his head ducked to keep the rain from pelting his eyes, he could see little but the boards under his feet. He caught sight of the abandoned bundles in front of him and only had a moment to wonder if they were rags or mops before the mass split into two forms and lurched to stand.

  Quiss! Two quiss!

  Neither of the creatures stood taller than the squire, but the quick motion to stop and retreat landed Bardon on his back. The beasts towered over him, waving their tentacles. His feet scrabbled against the slick wood as he propelled himself backward.

  I can’t let them touch me!

  One leaned over him, and Bardon rolled toward the street, falling off the platform and landing three feet below on hard cobblestones. He ignored the shock to his body, rolled farther away, and sprang to his feet. He had difficulty pulling his sword from its wet leather scabbard. But by the time the ungainly quiss had managed the drop to the street, he was armed. With a knife in one hand and a sword in the other, he faced the approaching quiss.

  He charged, passing on the left and swinging his sword through that beast’s squirming appendages. Before the creatures could react, he circled back and lopped off the outside tentacles of the other beast. He discovered he was most likely to slip when his sword first impacted the creatures. He took care to be prepared. The last thing he wanted was to go down at the feet of a quiss. Since the bold charge worked, Bardon put his knife away and made several more passes, swiftly dismembering the creatures until only a few remaining arms waved over their stiffened limbs. On the next charge, Bardon held his sword parallel to the ground and sliced one quiss in half.

  As he turned to finish the last beast, his foot snagged on something. He looked down. A severed quiss tentacle wrapped around his boot. With the point of his sword, he peeled it off and hurled it across the pier. He danced out of the mass of appendages writhing in the puddles around his feet. A grunt warned him of the surviving beast’s approach. He swung his sword in the direction of the noise, missed, and on the backswing slashed the quiss’s upper body. It recoiled, and he thrust his sword through the creature’s bulbous head. It fell.

  Bardon surveyed the ground around him. For the first time since the battle began, he noticed the rain had slacked off to a light shower. The corpses and dismembered appendages seeped blood into the standing water. Those tentacles severed first had ceased to writhe. The others moved sluggishly. The pavement glowed red.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as he had been trained to do, to replenish his taxed supply of life-giving air. The swordmasters claimed the exercise purified the soul from the defilement of taking life and repaired damage done to the muscles by excessive exertion. The squire’s lungs filled with the smell of death and the acrid fumes of rapidly disintegrating quiss. His stomach lurched, and he ran for the edge of the wharf to heave.

  Leaning
against a thick piling, he breathed in shallow, quick gasps. He glanced around, wondering when the dockworkers would reappear. A few feet from where he recovered, another quiss grasped the pier’s deck and hauled itself up. The quiss breathed with a hiss of air taken in through wet, spongy flesh.

  Bardon pushed away from the support and studied the beast. A scraping noise from behind jerked him around to face the other direction. Four more quiss climbed out of the harbor water.

  You know, Wulder, I could use some help here.

  “Argh!” Bardon charged the nearest quiss and thrust his sword through the beast’s middle, then dragged the blade off to the side. He ran on, and turned back to see the beast fall. He shuddered. As he’d rushed past, the quiss’s arms lashed out at him. Several had grasped at his sleeve. He wouldn’t try that again.

  That was too close. Better to methodically disable the beast and then go for the heart. I know very little about the anatomy of these things. I assume the heart is in the massive chestlike area beneath the head. He kept his eyes on the blundering beasts as they stumbled a bit before getting used to standing. Bardon remained cautious, knowing their clumsiness did not make them any less deadly.

  Bardon circled the small, bumbling group, seeking a plan of action. It would be a good idea to attack now before they become less awkward. One at a time. Yes, foul creatures, I prefer to battle you one at a time. Would one of you be so kind as to stagger away from the others?

  One did sway, stumble, and lurch across the wharf platform to fall on the street. Bardon took advantage and attacked as the creature struggled to its feet. Three downward blows and a thrust through the chest finished it off.

  Panting, Bardon turned to pick his next victim.

  Oh no! Where there had been three quiss, there were now six. The original three stood solidly on their legs. The additional three still swayed unsteadily.

  He heard shouts and saw a line of men pouring out of the harbormaster’s building. They ran to join the fight. Bardon cheered and then looked closely at their weapons. They carried long chains and clubs tied to ropes. One man had what looked like a heavy teapot at the end of his rope.

  He soon saw the effectiveness of this odd weaponry. Two or three men would surround a beast, well beyond reach of the dangerous tentacles. They then twirled their chains or bludgeons. Bardon watched the man with a teakettle. He held the end of the rope above his head and swung the pot around and around, gaining momentum with each circle. He edged closer, and the kettle smashed into the creature’s head. The head exploded much like a large, soft gourd hit with a sledgehammer. Messy, but effective.

  Bardon remained on the street and watched the men slay the beasts. The slosh of a foot dragged through a puddle, the slurred breathing, and the heavy smell of seawater warned him. He whirled to find a giant quiss a few feet behind him. This creature stood at least seven feet tall. He had never seen nor heard of a quiss this size.

  The beast reached for him, and Bardon swung his sword. The arm fell to the ground between them. Without so much as a flinch or a grunt, the animal extended another tentacle. Bardon lopped it off, this time backing away. The creature followed. It became a rhythm of sorts. The quiss reached, Bardon cut off the arm, he stepped back, and the animal followed. They repeated the macabre dance several times until Bardon realized he’d allowed himself to be pushed against a building wall. The arms threatened at a faster rate, and Bardon concentrated to keep up the pace.

  The lack of room to swing the sword presented another problem. It took a great deal of skill to produce a short swing, draw back, aim, and swing again. Bardon realized his reflexes were slowing and that each successive arm was thicker and harder to slice through. The writhing arms at his feet whipped his boots. He thought perhaps he would chance dodging to one side or the other, hoping he could spring far enough away to miss getting caught by one of the remaining appendages. He gathered his strength.

  The monster before him burst and fell. Bardon looked at the heap of mangled flesh at his feet and then to beyond where the beast had stood.

  Holt smiled at him as he wound up the rope of his weapon. “Thought you might appreciate a helping hand.”

  “Yes,” said Bardon. “Thank you.”

  “That was a big one.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “I think that’s the last of them.”

  Bardon looked over the scene. “Yes, it would seem so.”

  The rain had completely stopped. N’Rae came running down the steps of the harbormaster’s office, the ever-present basket bouncing on her arm. The slight girl zigged and zagged to get through the increasing crowd. She reached Bardon, threw her arms around his waist, and hugged.

  “We could see from the building. Master Mayfil organized the men and helped them find weapons and showed them how to use them. It all took so long!” She sobbed, let go of him, and wiped her eyes. An uncertain smile quivered on her lips. “I thought you would die.”

  She looked up at him, and suddenly her eyes widened, and her lips parted with a little gasp. With both hands she grabbed his head by the ears and forced his face down toward hers. She kissed him soundly on the cheek and then allowed his head to bob back up, but her hands still cupped his ears. Slowly, her fingers moved away, but Bardon felt her placing his long, wet hair over his ears as she released him.

  He heard Holt’s short bark of laughter.

  “Trying to hide the halfling’s pointed ears? Too late, N’Rae. They’ve been seen.”

  22

  PROBLEMS MULTIPLY

  Holt glanced over his shoulder. Mayfil stood among his men, shouting cleanup instructions.

  “We must dispose of the bodies immediately,” barked the harbormaster. “They will putrefy within the hour.” He wrinkled his nose. “Already the stench is formidable. The fumes are poisonous. Take precautions against lengthy exposure. Shovel up the remains and transport them by wagon to an open space. Burn them, cart and all.”

  The marione farmer’s son looked from the decaying quiss to the men who would have to dispose of the bodies and screwed his face into an expression of disgust. He turned his attention to Bardon.

  “What’s so bad about being a halfling?”

  Bardon forced himself to relax. “It opens the door for impolite people to ask prying questions.”

  Holt laughed. “You’ve got no reason to take umbrage at my words, Squire. I’m a sort of halfling myself.”

  N’Rae scowled at him. “How is that, Holt? Both your mother and father are mariones.”

  He smiled at her, and Bardon saw her frown melt under the warmth of the young marione’s charming expression.

  “My mother is a lady, and my father is a boor. Thus you have”—he used his hand to sweep down in front of him, indicating his own person—“a boor with beguiling manners.”

  Keeping his face in the careful, noncommittal mask he found useful, Bardon waited. He felt certain that Holt would continue to press him. He was not mistaken.

  “So, Squire, you are emerlindian and o’rant. Was your father the o’rant?”

  Bardon’s jaw hurt. Underneath the calm expression, he raged. He’d been channeling the tension inward by grinding his teeth together. He relaxed and breathed, then answered in a level tone. “I have never been told.”

  “Aha!” Holt smiled sympathetically at Bardon and then with charm at N’Rae. “You see, that is the problem. Not that uncouth fellows like me—rather half-uncouth, half-polished louts like me—ask questions, but that there are no answers to the questions. That would gall anyone. May I make an observation?” His eyes twinkled as he looked again at Bardon.

  It would be such a pleasure to punch this young dorker in the nose. Bardon screwed the corner of his mouth down before countering, “Can I stop you?”

  A good-natured laugh pealed from Holt’s throat. “I propose that you accept your mysterious background and build a persona around it. Use it to increase your appeal, your stature as a knight.”

  It’s a wonder his nose is
still straight. I think someone should have broken it for him years ago. Bardon cleaned his sword on a rag and sheathed it. “Holt, I don’t deliberately calculate actions to project an impression on the people I meet.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Bardon tightened his fists.

  Holt chortled again. The sound grated on Bardon’s nerves.

  “See?” said the marione. “You are doing it now. You are working to appear calm, when you really want to give me a sound thrashing and perhaps even toss me in the harbor.”

  N’Rae’s head swiveled as she watched the two young men. Bardon saw her swallow and knew the prospect of a fight between two men she trusted frightened her.

  He looked Holt in the eye. “Tossing you in the harbor is an extremely attractive idea. I hadn’t thought of it.” He let a small smile touch his lips. “But there is something fundamentally wrong with your analysis of my feelings. You see, I don’t endeavor to appear calm for those around to observe. I endeavor to be calm for my own benefit. You employ courtesy to make the way easier for yourself. I have been trained to employ courtesy to make the way easier for another.”

  He offered his arm to N’Rae. “I have found Granny Kye. We still need to rescue your grandmother from the jail. Shall we approach Harbormaster Mayfil?”

  She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. “I knew you would. At first I wanted to search the market. But Holt kept looking at things instead of people, and then it was so wet. I thought you might still be at the harbormaster’s office, so we came here.” She bounced on her toes. “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “She’s in the jail cell she’s supposed to be in. Earlier, she was in the prison laundry room—”

  N’Rae held up a hand. “I can guess. Washing urchins and their clothes?”

  Bardon laughed. “Exactly.”

  They started toward a knot of men. Harbormaster Mayfil stood in the center.