bruised, hardly any cut. Moran supposed that the exercise might be
judged a success.
Saliak tugged angrily at his blindfold. “It won't come off.” Several boys tried to untie
Saliak's blindfold, but every tug made the knot tighter. Finally Janeel asked Tarli for a
dagger.
Tarli shrugged and tossed it, lightly and easily, without having to look, then he cut his
own blindfold off, picked up his ever-present duffel and thonged stick, and walked to
lunch alone, whirling the stick, listening to it hum.
Saliak, rubbing the marks out of his head, stared viciously after him. “I'll kill the
little animal. I'll kill him. I'll kill him.”
Moran, standing behind him, said coldly, “Saliak.” Saliak spun, reddening. “Sire.” “A word
of advice: Don't attempt it blindfolded. You'll hurt yourself.” Steyan laughed aloud. Saliak shot him a nasty look.
Moran thought sadly, He'll pay for that laugh. Rakiel watched the boys limp out of the
courtyard. “Tarli's hearing is amazing - for a human,” he commented.
“It's a common enough human talent,” Moran retorted irritably. “My own hearing - ” He
stopped.
“You were about to say something about your hearing?” Rakiel prodded him.
“It's fairly good.” He looked pointedly at the cleric, daring him to continue. Rakiel
smiled, shrugged, and walked off. As soon as he was alone, Moran began sorting and
counting the daggers. The count was woefully off. A trip to the barracks - and Tarli's
duffel - replaced only a few of them. Tarli was vague about what had happened to the rest.
A search of the manor produced no more daggers.
Moran spent the evening in more paperwork, helped by a sarcastic and skeptical Rakiel. A
late-night bout of Draconniel, in which Moran lost seven footmen to Rakiel's suicide
squadrons, did nothing to improve the knight's temper.
*****
“Another expense?” Rakiel asked a week later.
Moran grunted. This one was for missing pots and pans - Tarli had used them in the nightly
barracks battle, for “armor.”
“Doesn't anyone ever ask you if you're overspending?” the cleric demanded.
“No.” Moran gritted his teeth, then said calmly, “Knights trust one another. I write the
forms, I sign and seal documents, and I hold the gold and silver in the treasury room below, not far from the novices' barracks and ... Oh, Paladine!” It was the first
time in twenty years that Moran had sworn aloud.
Rakiel watched, amazed to see an old man run so fast.
By the time the cleric arrived, puffing and panting from his exertions, Moran was standing
in the open door, staring at the shelves laden with sacks of gold, coins, caskets, bowls,
and chalices. There were noticeable gaps.
Moran started down the hall, then turned back around. “Here.” He tossed Rakiel the key.
“Make an inventory, then lock up as tight as a dragon's ... Tight.” Rakiel nodded dazedly.
“Then sit against the door till I come back.”
Moran was planning for a long search, but it was all too short. He found the missing items
standing on a stone windowsill in the barracks.
A golden chalice, encrusted with gems, tapered into a griffin's foot, clutching a silver
semispherical base.
A marble chest was inlaid with onyx. The top handle was in the shape of a red dragon
swooping down on a knight and horse. The dragon's eyes were rubies; the knight's shield
was a single multifaceted emerald.
A tray, inlaid with pearl, jet, and diamonds, portrayed the tomb of Huma by moonlight. The
tray was propped up so that the diamonds, catching the sunlight, reflected onto the
ceiling.
“Aren't they beautiful?” Tarli was sitting on the bed in the comer. The bed legs had been
removed, or maybe he had traded beds with Steyan. He was alone in the room, calmly
whittling on the thong-stick.
Moran pointed to the articles in the window. “Are those ... Did you ...”
“Put them there? Yes. I borrowed them.”
judged a success.
Saliak tugged angrily at his blindfold. “It won't come off.” Several boys tried to untie
Saliak's blindfold, but every tug made the knot tighter. Finally Janeel asked Tarli for a
dagger.
Tarli shrugged and tossed it, lightly and easily, without having to look, then he cut his
own blindfold off, picked up his ever-present duffel and thonged stick, and walked to
lunch alone, whirling the stick, listening to it hum.
Saliak, rubbing the marks out of his head, stared viciously after him. “I'll kill the
little animal. I'll kill him. I'll kill him.”
Moran, standing behind him, said coldly, “Saliak.” Saliak spun, reddening. “Sire.” “A word
of advice: Don't attempt it blindfolded. You'll hurt yourself.” Steyan laughed aloud. Saliak shot him a nasty look.
Moran thought sadly, He'll pay for that laugh. Rakiel watched the boys limp out of the
courtyard. “Tarli's hearing is amazing - for a human,” he commented.
“It's a common enough human talent,” Moran retorted irritably. “My own hearing - ” He
stopped.
“You were about to say something about your hearing?” Rakiel prodded him.
“It's fairly good.” He looked pointedly at the cleric, daring him to continue. Rakiel
smiled, shrugged, and walked off. As soon as he was alone, Moran began sorting and
counting the daggers. The count was woefully off. A trip to the barracks - and Tarli's
duffel - replaced only a few of them. Tarli was vague about what had happened to the rest.
A search of the manor produced no more daggers.
Moran spent the evening in more paperwork, helped by a sarcastic and skeptical Rakiel. A
late-night bout of Draconniel, in which Moran lost seven footmen to Rakiel's suicide
squadrons, did nothing to improve the knight's temper.
*****
“Another expense?” Rakiel asked a week later.
Moran grunted. This one was for missing pots and pans - Tarli had used them in the nightly
barracks battle, for “armor.”
“Doesn't anyone ever ask you if you're overspending?” the cleric demanded.
“No.” Moran gritted his teeth, then said calmly, “Knights trust one another. I write the
forms, I sign and seal documents, and I hold the gold and silver in the treasury room below, not far from the novices' barracks and ... Oh, Paladine!” It was the first
time in twenty years that Moran had sworn aloud.
Rakiel watched, amazed to see an old man run so fast.
By the time the cleric arrived, puffing and panting from his exertions, Moran was standing
in the open door, staring at the shelves laden with sacks of gold, coins, caskets, bowls,
and chalices. There were noticeable gaps.
Moran started down the hall, then turned back around. “Here.” He tossed Rakiel the key.
“Make an inventory, then lock up as tight as a dragon's ... Tight.” Rakiel nodded dazedly.
“Then sit against the door till I come back.”
Moran was planning for a long search, but it was all too short. He found the missing items
standing on a stone windowsill in the barracks.
A golden chalice, encrusted with gems, tapered into a griffin's foot, clutching a silver
semispherical base.
A marble chest was inlaid with onyx. The top handle was in the shape of a red dragon
swooping down on a knight and horse. The dragon's eyes were rubies; the knight's shield
was a single multifaceted emerald.
A tray, inlaid with pearl, jet, and diamonds, portrayed the tomb of Huma by moonlight. The
tray was propped up so that the diamonds, catching the sunlight, reflected onto the
ceiling.
“Aren't they beautiful?” Tarli was sitting on the bed in the comer. The bed legs had been
removed, or maybe he had traded beds with Steyan. He was alone in the room, calmly
whittling on the thong-stick.
Moran pointed to the articles in the window. “Are those ... Did you ...”
“Put them there? Yes. I borrowed them.”
Similar Books
