a smile. He had a young man’s natural skepticism about matrimony, compounded by the obvious but unspoken fact that he had mislaid his boyish virtue sometime between leaving Boval Vale and arriving at Timberwatch. When a young man first discovers the pleasures of the flesh, it’s often hard to make taking a wife seem appealing. Especially a young man whose life has been steeped in danger and adventure and exotic places. I understood that.
In fact, I was understanding that all too well. Hence my long discussions with Captain Rogo. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Alya – I did – and I wanted to marry her. I just knew ass-all about being married, save what my Dad had imparted to me. And he wasn’t around.
“The pleasant part?” Rogo asked, sitting back in the saddle and dropping the reins to remove his riding pipe. “The pleasant part is this: riding back after battle, bone-tired and weary, knowing there’s a warm hall, a hot kettle, and a warm ass to back into on a cold night.”
“An inn and a whore will provide as much and for less coin,” Tyndal said, crudely.
“A whore wouldn’t dice with Ishi nine times to prove seven stout children,” Rogo countered. While he didn’t seek to correct the new-made lordling, I could tell he wasn’t pleased with Tyndal’s attitude.
Tyndal looked as if the notion appalled him. “Children? All the more reason to stick with whores!”
“Comfort and love are all the reasons you need to wed,” countered Rogo. “You can’t trust a whore. Nor will an innkeeper hold you in the middle of the night when the terrors come.”
“But a wife just grows old and fat!” my apprentice dismissed with a face. “And plain! Even the noble ladies I’ve seen, they get old and fat just like the goodwives. You can find a new whore every night, each younger and prettier than the last! And with a whore the only argument you have is the price . With a wife . . . the argument is the price!”
I didn’t know a lot about his home life, before I discovered his Talent, but apparently Tyndal’s parents had not been the ideal of matrimony the gods had intended. His sire was long dead now, and his mother a refugee caring for his half-sister (paternity unknown) in the south.
Rogo smirked knowingly. “Nay, lad. You’ve got it wrong. The argument is the prize , not the price . But you’ll learn. I remember being your age myself, and always thinking with my shaft. If you’re lucky enough and don’t die a glorious hero, perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate the comfort of a goodwife compared to the charms of a whore.”
“May the gods save me from any other fate!” he said, disgusted. Tyndal was enchanted with errantry, even after all he had seen and done at Timberwatch. His youthful passion wasn’t dampened by even that horrid bloodbath. And ennobling him hadn’t reduced his ego one bit. I was about to intercede – the conversation had turned from the friendly bantering between camp-mates on campaign to coming dangerously close to being insulting to one of them – when one of Rogo’s younger Nirodi scouts came galloping back from the vanguard, and nearly skidded to a halt in front of us.
“My Lord!” he said, quickly and earnestly, “trouble ahead! A conveyance of supplies from Wilderhall has entangled with some gurvani, apparently. The men are mere militia, but they have the band pinned to one side of the road ahead.”
It took me a moment before I realized that the scout was talking to me . He’d addressed his report to ‘ my lord’ , and that meant . . . oh. Me. I was a lord now, too. By the Gracious Hands of Rard and Lenguin, Dukes of Castal and Alshar, a Magelord and Knight Magi of the Realm. I’d been ennobled, and I wasn’t quite used to that yet. Particularly being called by title.
I can’t say it had shrunk my ego much, either.
"Gurvani, you say?” I asked, the prospect of
In fact, I was understanding that all too well. Hence my long discussions with Captain Rogo. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Alya – I did – and I wanted to marry her. I just knew ass-all about being married, save what my Dad had imparted to me. And he wasn’t around.
“The pleasant part?” Rogo asked, sitting back in the saddle and dropping the reins to remove his riding pipe. “The pleasant part is this: riding back after battle, bone-tired and weary, knowing there’s a warm hall, a hot kettle, and a warm ass to back into on a cold night.”
“An inn and a whore will provide as much and for less coin,” Tyndal said, crudely.
“A whore wouldn’t dice with Ishi nine times to prove seven stout children,” Rogo countered. While he didn’t seek to correct the new-made lordling, I could tell he wasn’t pleased with Tyndal’s attitude.
Tyndal looked as if the notion appalled him. “Children? All the more reason to stick with whores!”
“Comfort and love are all the reasons you need to wed,” countered Rogo. “You can’t trust a whore. Nor will an innkeeper hold you in the middle of the night when the terrors come.”
“But a wife just grows old and fat!” my apprentice dismissed with a face. “And plain! Even the noble ladies I’ve seen, they get old and fat just like the goodwives. You can find a new whore every night, each younger and prettier than the last! And with a whore the only argument you have is the price . With a wife . . . the argument is the price!”
I didn’t know a lot about his home life, before I discovered his Talent, but apparently Tyndal’s parents had not been the ideal of matrimony the gods had intended. His sire was long dead now, and his mother a refugee caring for his half-sister (paternity unknown) in the south.
Rogo smirked knowingly. “Nay, lad. You’ve got it wrong. The argument is the prize , not the price . But you’ll learn. I remember being your age myself, and always thinking with my shaft. If you’re lucky enough and don’t die a glorious hero, perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate the comfort of a goodwife compared to the charms of a whore.”
“May the gods save me from any other fate!” he said, disgusted. Tyndal was enchanted with errantry, even after all he had seen and done at Timberwatch. His youthful passion wasn’t dampened by even that horrid bloodbath. And ennobling him hadn’t reduced his ego one bit. I was about to intercede – the conversation had turned from the friendly bantering between camp-mates on campaign to coming dangerously close to being insulting to one of them – when one of Rogo’s younger Nirodi scouts came galloping back from the vanguard, and nearly skidded to a halt in front of us.
“My Lord!” he said, quickly and earnestly, “trouble ahead! A conveyance of supplies from Wilderhall has entangled with some gurvani, apparently. The men are mere militia, but they have the band pinned to one side of the road ahead.”
It took me a moment before I realized that the scout was talking to me . He’d addressed his report to ‘ my lord’ , and that meant . . . oh. Me. I was a lord now, too. By the Gracious Hands of Rard and Lenguin, Dukes of Castal and Alshar, a Magelord and Knight Magi of the Realm. I’d been ennobled, and I wasn’t quite used to that yet. Particularly being called by title.
I can’t say it had shrunk my ego much, either.
"Gurvani, you say?” I asked, the prospect of
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