Corbenic by Catherine Fisher Page B

Come on.”
    At the end of the battlements was a small door marked PRIVATE . Ignoring that, Hawk opened it and led them in, and in the sudden dimness Cal saw he was in a tower room, the floor made of planks of wood, an apple-wood fire burning in the great hearth against one wall. He saw the blond-haired woman turn to him, and then, sitting by the fire, the man in the tweed suit, who looked up as they came in. He had a grave face, and for a moment Cal thought he seemed like a university type, a lecturer. And then he thought, No. A soldier.
    The man had Cal’s sword on his knees. “So,” he said, looking hard at Cal, his voice soft. “This weapon was given to you? You must be someone very special.” The sword gleamed, its red stones bright in the flame light.
    â€œAnd you must be Arthur,” Cal said.
    Arthur stood. “Yes,” he said mildly. “So I am. This is Gwen, my wife. And my seneschal, Kai.” The tall man. So handsome that Cal hated him on sight. And the long dark coat had to be Armani, at least.
    Kai smiled, slightly mocking. “Your face is cut. Why did the bird attack you?”
    â€œMy business.” He took a step forward and held his hands out. “That’s my sword. I want it.”
    â€œDo you?” Arthur gestured toward Hawk. “My nephew tells me you want to sell it.”
    â€œThat was yesterday. Things are better today.”
    â€œBut what will you do with it?”
    â€œLearn to use it.” Cal glanced at Hawk. “I’d like to learn. If you’d teach me.”
    â€œWe’ll all teach you, laddie,” Hawk said heartily.
    â€œIndeed,” Kai said acidly. “You’ll need all of us.”
    Cal turned to Arthur, who held the sword out in both hands.
    â€œThen take it back, and everything that it means, and be one with us, Cal.”
    Slowly, Cal reached out and took it, the weight of the metal, warm from the fire, put his fingers around the blade, held it tight.
    Arthur smiled. “Welcome to the Company.”
    Behind him, Kai folded his arms. “Maybe now we can eat,” he muttered.

Chapter Eleven
    â€œGo thy way,” said she, “to Arthur’s court, where are the best of men, and the most generous and bravest.”
    Peredur
    D ecember was already halfway over. The weather had chilled; as he waited on the corner of Otter’s Brook, Cal saw that the last few leaves which had clung onto the trees only yesterday were gone now, blown away by the blustery wind. As he watched them their stark bare shapes offended his longing for order—trees were so haphazard; he wanted to straighten them up. Plunging his hands in his pockets he paced the pavement, kicking rotten leaves into the gutter. He didn’t know what any of the trees were called. In Sutton Street there had never been any, just the stubborn weeds that sprouted every year from the cracks in the paved yard.
    Hawk’s van rattled around the corner. Cal picked up the sword in its canvas case and ran over.
    â€œSorry.” Shadow had the door open, breathless. “Couldn’t get it to start. We daren’t stop.”
    Cal jumped in, putting the sword tidily onto the heap of weapons and books and blankets and other junk under the seats. Hawk shuddered the gears, muttering to himself in exasperation. Then he said, “In the old days people knew how to travel. Horses. Fine carriages. Not these foul-stenched tin cans.”
    â€œJust because you can’t afford a good one.” Shadow reached out and tickled his neck. He gave a yelp; the van swerved unnervingly. Grinning, he said, “In the old days I had the best. Warhorses, chargers. Men ran out of castles to help me dismount. Squires removed my armor in sumptuous chambers, and there were women, lady, beautiful women. And feasts.”
    Shadow looked at Cal and rolled her eyes. He smiled back briefly, but the whole idea reminded him of Corbenic, and as the van roared