“If you tell me Kaen’s standing right behind me—”
Janel snickered. “No, he’s not.”
“So why are you both looking at me like that?”
Janel exhaled. “Let’s just say I don’t think Kaen’s going to be a problem.”
“But don’t worry!” Qown tapped the table with his knuckles for emphasis. “We’ll have whole new problems to replace him. And they’re just as bad, if not much, much worse.”
“If you were trying to be comforting—”
“Not really.”
“Oh good. Fantastic job, then.”
More cheers from the people playing their strange throwing game distracted Kihrin.1 The large man tried enticing others into a new round, but no one proved interested.
Brother Qown laughed into his tea. “What a shocking conclusion,” he said. “He wins every game, and then is surprised no one else wants to play.”
Janel grinned. “Wait for it.”
“Will no one dare challenge me?” the man boasted, throwing out his hands. Groans and laughter met his question, with a few people throwing cloth napkins at him. “Come on, people, this is just for fun!”
Then the bartender leaped over the counter, using one hand as balance, and plucked a throwing stone from the winner’s hand. The wiry woman reminded Kihrin of the female members of his old criminal band, the Shadowdancers, who specialized in burglaries and knives. She had dark red-brown skin and shoulder-length maroon hair shaved to the scalp along one side. The rest of her hair fell forward to cover half her face.
The crowd made an ooooh noise, followed by shouted encouragements.
Kihrin had no idea how the game’s scoring worked, but the game itself involved bouncing rocks to hit a target. The woman skipped the rock against the stone floor. It made a birdlike chirp before landing in a perfect bull’s-eye at the board’s center.
She bowed to the crowd and made a rude gesture to the gray-skinned man on her way back behind the bar.
Kihrin chuckled as he turned back around. “I feel like I should be betting metal on this.”
“Why not? Everyone else is,” Janel agreed.
“Something to think about later, when the dice come out. In the meantime, tell me more about this Black Knight,” Kihrin said.
Janel’s Turn. The tournament grounds in Mereina, Barsine Banner, Jorat, Quur.
By the time I led Brother Qown and Dorna back down to the tournament grounds, the sun had peaked overhead. The festival contests paused for the midday meal while everyone behind the scenes regrouped. As I suspected would happen, Captain Dedreugh hadn’t been involved in any more matches; his opponents forfeited their challenges, walking away embarrassed but living losers. Only an idiot could fail to notice how the crowd’s mood had turned nastier.
While Tamin’s Black Knight had been on the field of honor just after Sir Xia’s death, trying to distract the crowd from Dedreugh’s actions, he was absent when we returned. I suspect his exit had been a fast one, as the angry crowd had begun expressing their displeasure with thrown vegetables and spoiled wine. If he had retreated, his shelter options were limited to the azhocks behind the grounds.
The tentlike azhocks formed a temporary, traveling encampment that moved from city to city with each tournament. Despite its roaming nature, it maintained a pattern of streets and addresses as constant as visiting taxmen just after the harvest.
Dorna guessed the secret of just who we were visiting when we passed a band of horses—stallions—being kept well away from any mares. The single fireblood stallion in their number stood out like a giant redwood among dwarf pines.
She saw the fireblood and snorted. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”
“Be nice,” I warned her, and then walked inside a tent marked with red spiderwebs.
“Hello, Sir Baramon,” I said as I flipped back my sallí cloak’s hood.
The man who looked up from his Eamithonian plum wine looked well past his prime, by the kindest definitions. He possessed blue roan skin and a magnificent black mustache whose ends trailed past his chin. He still wore his Black Knight armor; the helmet rested on a small portable table next to the man’s rope bed and more liquor bottles.
The man looked up, surprised at our entrance. “You’re not supposed to be in here—”
“Well, look at you.” Dorna walked into the tent behind me. “Fatter than I remember you being, last I saw you.”
“And you’ve grown no prettier in your dotage, you old sow. I haven’t—” But then all the color fled from his face as he shifted his attention from Dorna back to me.
He’d recognized me.
The knight didn’t even look as Brother Qown slipped into the tent. He ignored Dorna even though they had just traded barbs. I had his full attention.
“From your reaction, I’ll assume I don’t need an introduction.”
Sir Baramon barked out a laugh and wiped his mouth. “Oh no, lord. You don’t. Frena would be proud, to see how you’ve grown.”
He poured himself another drink.
I grabbed his arm. “We don’t have time for that.”
He tried to snatch his arm away, but he’d have had an easier time bending an iron statue. He scowled, his gaze flicking from his trapped arm back to my face. He might have been old and out of shape, but he was still a stallion. “What do you want?” he sputtered.
“Do you remember when last you saw me?”
“Of course.” A sick look stole over his features. “You were…” His gaze dropped down to his arm. “Let me go.”
I did. “Lonezh Canton,” I said, “with the demons at our gates. And you ran.”
“That’s not what happened—”
“Ran,” I continued, “with Talaras, in the middle of the night. You deserted your post and lied to the guards at the postern gate. You told them you had a mission from my father and they should let you out. So they did.”
“I remember what happened.” Sir Baramon’s stare hardened as he sat the bottle down and leaned back in his chair, which creaked in protest.
Sir Baramon’s silence drowned in emotions. He worked his jaw for a moment before leaning forward again. “I tried to take you with me. Do you remember?”
My throat tightened. “And I yelled and kicked and wouldn’t let you.”
“So that’s why you’re here?” His gaze landed on Dorna. “Come to mock the coward?”
I pulled a second chair away from the azhock tent wall and sat down on it, facing him. I smiled at the old, fat knight. “Now why would I mock you, Sir Baramon? You alone had any sense.”
Baramon’s head jerked as he stared back at me. Whatever he’d thought I would say to him, I rather doubt it had sounded anything like my actual words. “What?”
“They were fools.”
Baramon blinked. I rather think Dorna and Qown might have too.
“Fools,” I said again. “I love my father, but he was an idiot. I haven’t the slightest clue why he decided to stand and fight. If I had gone with you?” My voice cracked on the last word. I swallowed and turned my head to the side, fighting what-might-have-been’s emotional storms. I inhaled deeply. “You escaped the massacre. No one else did.”