Duty (Book 2) (9 page)

“Emry,” Morgan said as they entered the shop, “these are Gerand Kildan and Volney Torunne, Apprentices to the Dark Guard. This is Lord Blackshire, Protector of the Holy Chalaine.”

Emry’s mouth dropped and he stood rooted in the doorway. Gerand and Volney grinned widely. Gen stepped forward and offered his hand. Emry took it and shook it, still stunned.

“Lord Blackshire!” he exclaimed. “Well, I should bow, right Pa?”

“Don’t bother,” Gen interjected quickly. “We are all friends here. Your father says you watched me at the Trials.”

“Yes, sir!” he exclaimed, eyes brightening with the memory. “It was the best thing I’ve seen in my whole life. You were so fast. I ain’t never seen anyone so fast.”

“I’m glad I could entertain a little, at least. Here.” Gen removed the dagger from his boot and handed it to him. It was thin and finely crafted, a silver rose etched into the ebony blade. “Find me in two years, and if you can throw the dagger and hit a target at twenty paces, I’ll teach you a little of the blade.”

Emry took the dagger reverentially. Morgan smiled and thanked Gen for the gift, as Emry was too engrossed in examining it to respond.

“Thank you!” Emry said after a helpful nudge from his father.

“You are most welcome. We had best be going. Just send word to the castle when you need me again. Good day.”

Cowls up, Gen and his companions walked quickly back into the street. As they turned onto the road, they could faintly hear Emry yelling excitedly to his friends on the frozen lake.

“You are irritatingly good with people,” Volney commented, “no matter what everyone says about your personality. I would have never thought to do that for his son. He has just become the most popular of all the boys on the street. Are you serious about taking him on as an apprentice after the prophecy is fulfilled?”

“Yes. He is built for it, as long as he doesn’t lose his agility. He could still be trained to good effect, even so.”

The snow had persisted during their visit and showed no signs of abating. Gen turned to go back toward the castle, but Gerand brought him up short.

“You aren’t on watch for another four hours, correct?” Gerand asked.

“Yes. Why?”

Volney grabbed his arm and steered him in a different direction. “Then for your inaugural trip into town, we shall introduce you to a wonderful establishment called the Quickblade
.
”

“Is that really a good idea?” Gen asked. “You warned me of being mobbed, and Protectors are not allowed to drink.”

“The Quickblade is close to the castle and gets its name from the number of castle guard and Dark Guard who frequent it,” Gerand explained. “So you won’t be so put upon there as you would be elsewhere. Jaron is there often. And you don’t have to drink anything but water if you don’t want to. Jaron doesn’t seem to mind a little ale now and then, though. Come on. You need to relax a bit. Besides, Volney has someone
special
there he likes to see whenever he gets the chance of it.”

“Shut up, Gerand,” Volney growled darkly.

“It doesn’t sound like he’s very excited about it,” Gen returned. Volney studiously ignored them both.

“As it turns out,” Gerand said, “there is a certain Innkeeper’s daughter who, unlike the rest of the young ladies in the city, is completely unimpressed with
apprentices
to the Dark Guard. This annoys him greatly, especially as he is smitten by her.”

Gen smiled. “And what about you, Gerand?” he asked. “I imagine a handsome princeling from Tolnor would have his pick of the ladies.”

Gerand’s countenance immediately fell. “I was promised to be married to Oelia Mukor, and I still hope to be able to someday.”

Oelia was the younger sister of the Queen of Tolnor and was reputedly very beautiful. The war and Gerand’s apprenticeship to the Dark Guard had thrown his hopes and his parents’ plans into some difficulty. Gen sympathized with him, and he wondered if Torbrand's daughter, Mena, had heard that the man she hoped her father would win for her had won a place as an apprentice to the Dark Guard.

The Quickblade
was a clean, bright, two-story establishment constructed of light-colored stones and mortar. It sat just south of the castle walls, puffing smoke from four of its eight chimneys. As it stood at the termination of a steeply ascending street, it possessed a Church-like quality. Friendly lights beckoned to them through clean window panes on a mid-afternoon turned mid-evening by glowering clouds.

“By the way, gentlemen,” Gen said offhandedly to his two dispirited companions, “we have been followed all afternoon. Do not look! He followed us out of castle and is behind us about forty paces.”

They went inside quickly, and a boy waited just inside to take their cloaks. As soon as he saw Gen’s face, he grabbed the cloaks and ran into the common room shouting that Lord Blackshire had come. Volney rolled his eyes and Gerand shook his head.

“Might as well get this over with,” Volney sighed, ushering Gen forward. Gen stepped inside slowly, not quite sure what to expect. The bard stopped playing, all talk died, and every eye turned toward the entryway. An impossibly thin man ran out of a door in the back, wiping his hands on a heavily stained apron.

“Lord Blackshire!” he said grandly. “Welcome to the Quickblade
.
We had so hoped you would come one day and, well, here you are! I am Innkeeper Cedric, and I am at your personal service!”

Gen was about to reply his thanks when the bard started playing a song. Everyone joined in the tune, and Gen guessed that all the servants and cooks in the establishment were abandoning their posts to rush into the common room and join in the impromptu choir.

Here’s to the man of great reknown,

Who, when Chertanne sailed into town

And tried to have his sweet Chalaine,

Served him up a plate of shame.

Gen, Gen the dead-faced man,

Voice of thunder, sword in hand.

Chertanne’s a King, or so they say,

But Gen’s the one who gets his way.

Gen defied the demon trance.

Chertanne turned pale and wet his pants.

Gen fought and bled and nearly died.

Chertanne fell on the floor and cried.

Gen, Gen the dead-faced man.

Eyes of stone, sword in hand.

Chertanne’s a King, or so they say,

But Gen’s the one who gets his way.

Chertanne can play and hold his beer

But cannot stomach demon fear.

The Chalaine’s Chertanne’s, as is his right,

But who stays with her every night?

Gen, Gen the dead-faced man.

Nerve of iron, sword in hand.

Chertanne’s a King, or so they say,

But Gen’s the one who gets his way.

Chertanne is grand when times are fun,

But come a fight, then Gen’s the one.

“They add a verse every couple of weeks or so,” Gerand commented as the song ended in clapping and cheering. Gen waved to everyone and took a seat at a table near the fire. To his chagrin, he noticed several people leaving quickly and had no doubt that the Quickblade’s
patronage was about to double. He tried to settle in and be as nondescript as possible, although he had a difficult time ignoring the constant glances popping at him from all sides of the room.

A nubile young woman with chestnut brown hair and brown eyes sauntered to the table with a smirk on her face. Volney saw her approach and immediately pretended to inspect the fireplace to his left. His strangled, uncomfortable demeanor betrayed his feelings for the woman, and Gen grinned. To see an apprentice to the Dark Guard, a formidable fighter, reduced to such squirming was a pleasant reminder of the person beneath the uniform.

“Welcome to the Quickblade, Gerand and Volney. Would you like to introduce me to your new companion?”

“He doesn’t need an introduction, for pity’s sake,” Volney grumbled, avoiding her gaze.

“But
I
do!” the young woman returned with asperity. Volney’s face turned red.

“Lord Blackshire,” Gerand said, standing, “this is Gina, the Innkeeper’s daughter.”

Gen stood. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

She stared at the scars on his face. Gen wondered if she heard him at all. “The pleasure is all mine,” she finally said. “Forgive me for staring. It’s just that, well. . .”

“No need to explain,” Gen soothed as he returned to his seat. “I know my appearance is a little frightening.”

“No, no!” she blushed. “It’s not that. It’s just there are so many stories and descriptions of you! It’s hard to believe that one man could do as much as you have. I think everyone just wonders what someone is like who has done such amazing things! You guard the Chalaine! You’ve fought a demon!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gen spotted the man who had followed them that day enter. He refused to doff his cloak, choosing to sit alone in a corner across the room. He was horribly conspicuous, and Gen realized the man could not be a professional spy—or if he was, he was extraordinarily bad at it.

“I assure you,” Gen told Gina, “that I am quite ordinary.”

“If you say so, though I doubt anyone here will quite be convinced of that. What can I get such a fine gentlemen today?”

Gen ordered water, while Gerand and Volney ordered ale, Volney speaking so softly that Gina had to prod him to speak up.

“Volney,” Gen said after Gina left, “I thought you liked the girl. I hardly doubt that acting sullen will help you win her affections.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through. What she said to me!” Volney whined. “You have it easy. You don’t even have to try to get women to offer their attentions to you anymore. You're up in the castle swimming in a lake full of beautiful women begging for you to dive in.”

Gerand shot Gen a look that Gen interpreted as, “Drop it.” Gen turned his attention to the man in the corner. He hadn’t ordered anything, sitting rigidly in his chair, face hidden in a cowl, the dark opening pointed in the direction of Gen’s table.

Gina returned with the drinks, and, as Gen had predicted, people started filling the inn to overflowing. Soon Gen found he could hardly take a sip in between shaking hands and receiving compliments, congratulations on his elevation, and nervous curtsies from every young woman from every household within a comfortable walking distance to the inn.

“I’d better leave,” Gen yelled to Gerand above the roar. “This is getting out of hand. Cedric will never want me to return.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gerand yelled back. “He’s scraping up more money this evening than he earns in a week.”

Gen stood to go anyway, and when he did, the bard launched into another rendition of “Gen’s Song.” The patrons stood and danced, swirling around and gradually pushing Gen toward the front of the room. The roar of so many voices and the smell of pipe smoke and beer were overwhelming, and Gen felt uneasy. Days and nights of solitude in the castle had unaccustomed him to such revelry. Gen managed to work his way back to his own table by the end of the last verse.

The bard, a plump, puffy man with fine pleated pantaloons and a multicolored shirt and hat rose from his stool and silenced the crowd.

“I know we are all glad that Lord Blackshire finally graced us with a visit to Cedric’s fine establishment that has served as host to many men of renown and great courage through the years. I believe I speak for everyone when I say that we thank him for his service. I think we should have a speech! A few words, Lord Blackshire, if you please!”

Gen tried to wave off the opportunity, but the general clamor became so insistent that he felt compelled to say something or risk offending at least a hundred people.

With some prodding from the bard, Gen stood atop his table and stared into a sea of expectant, anticipatory faces. Gen cleared his throat and searched for something to say.

“Tell us about the demon attack!” someone yelled before he could squeeze a word out.

“Well,” he said, “if you would like.” A general shout of approval was the reply, and Gen launched into the story, feeling grateful for the chance to finally tell it like it was—the demon smashing him several seconds into the whole affair. While he began falteringly, Rafael’s training returned to him, and before long, his gesturing, intonation, and vivid descriptions held his audience captive as he puppetted their emotions through the intense story. So enthralled were the patrons, that when Gen concluded, no one spoke for fear of breaking the spell.

“Well,” Gen ended loudly, “it is close to the time for my watch, and I shouldn’t keep the Chalaine waiting.”

The man that had been following him slid out of his booth and walked quickly toward the door as the crowd expressed their disappointment.

“But you’ve got to tell us about killing Cormith!” Another roar of approval. Gen settled them with his hands.