“She’s in bad shape, but she’ll live.”
He said nothing more until they were shown into the count’s tiny estate.
Count Drake was a kindly-looking man of perhaps forty. He had a pince nez tucked in a pocket of his vest and he limped as he closed the door behind them and took a seat behind a desk piled high with stacks of papers.
“I never thought you’d take an apprentice, Durzo. In fact, I seem to remember you swearing it—and swearing at great length,” the count said.
“And I still believe every word I said,” Durzo said gruffly.
“Ah, you’re either being terrifically subtle or making no sense at all, my friend.” Count Drake smiled, though, and Azoth could tell it was a real smile, without malice or calculation.
Despite himself, Durzo smiled, too. “They’ve been missing you, Rimbold.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of anyone shooting at me for some time.” Durzo laughed, and Azoth almost fell out of his chair. He hadn’t thought the wetboy was capable of laughter.
“I need your help,” Durzo said.
“All I have is yours, Durzo.”
“I want to make this boy new.”
“What are you thinking?” Count Drake asked, looking at Azoth quizzically.
“A noble of some sort, relatively poor. The kind who gets invited to social events but doesn’t attract attention.”
“Hmm,” Count Drake said. “The third son of a baron, then. He’ll be upper nobility, but nobody important. Or wait. An eastern baron. My second cousins live two days’ ride beyond Havermere, and most of their lands have been seized by the Lae’knaught, so if you want an ironclad identity, we could make him a Stern.”
“That will do.”
“First name?” Count Drake asked Azoth.
“Azoth,” Azoth said.
“Not your real name, son,” the count said. “Your new name.”
“Kylar,” Durzo said.
The count produced a piece of blank paper and put on the pince nez. “How do you want to spell that? K-Y-L-E-R? K-I-L-E-R?”
Durzo spelled it and the solicitor wrote it down. Count Drake grinned. “Old Jaeran punning?”
“You know me,” Durzo said.
“No, Durzo, I don’t think anyone does. Still, kind of ominous, don’t you think?”
“It fits the life.”
For about the hundredth time, Azoth felt like he was not simply a child but an outsider. It seemed everywhere there were secrets that he couldn’t know, mysteries he couldn’t penetrate. Now it wasn’t just muted conversations with Momma K about something called a ka’kari, or Sa’kagé politics, or court intrigues, or magic, or creatures from the Freeze that were imaginary but Durzo insisted did exist, or others that he insisted didn’t, or references to gods and angels that Blint wouldn’t explain to him even when he did ask. Now it was his own name. Azoth was about to demand an explanation, but they were already moving on to other things.
The count said, “How soon do you need this and how solid does it have to be?”
“Solid. Sooner is better.”
“I thought so,” the count said. “I’ll make it good enough that unless the real Sterns come here, no one will ever know. Of course, you’re still left with a rather significant problem. You have to train him to be a noble.”
“Oh no I don’t.”
“Of course you . . .” the count trailed off. He clicked his tongue. “I see.” He adjusted his pince nez and looked at Azoth. “When shall I take him?”
“In a few months, if he lives that long. There are things I need to teach him first.” Durzo looked out the window. “Who’s that?”
“Ah,” Count Drake said. “That’s the young Lord Logan Gyre. A young man who will make a fine duke one day.”
“No, the Sethi.”
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him before. Looks like an adviser.”
Durzo cursed. He grabbed Azoth’s hand and practically dragged him out the door.
“Are you ready to obey?” Durzo demanded.
Azoth nodded quickly.
“See that boy?”
“You call that a boy?” Azoth asked. The young man the count had
He said nothing more until they were shown into the count’s tiny estate.
Count Drake was a kindly-looking man of perhaps forty. He had a pince nez tucked in a pocket of his vest and he limped as he closed the door behind them and took a seat behind a desk piled high with stacks of papers.
“I never thought you’d take an apprentice, Durzo. In fact, I seem to remember you swearing it—and swearing at great length,” the count said.
“And I still believe every word I said,” Durzo said gruffly.
“Ah, you’re either being terrifically subtle or making no sense at all, my friend.” Count Drake smiled, though, and Azoth could tell it was a real smile, without malice or calculation.
Despite himself, Durzo smiled, too. “They’ve been missing you, Rimbold.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of anyone shooting at me for some time.” Durzo laughed, and Azoth almost fell out of his chair. He hadn’t thought the wetboy was capable of laughter.
“I need your help,” Durzo said.
“All I have is yours, Durzo.”
“I want to make this boy new.”
“What are you thinking?” Count Drake asked, looking at Azoth quizzically.
“A noble of some sort, relatively poor. The kind who gets invited to social events but doesn’t attract attention.”
“Hmm,” Count Drake said. “The third son of a baron, then. He’ll be upper nobility, but nobody important. Or wait. An eastern baron. My second cousins live two days’ ride beyond Havermere, and most of their lands have been seized by the Lae’knaught, so if you want an ironclad identity, we could make him a Stern.”
“That will do.”
“First name?” Count Drake asked Azoth.
“Azoth,” Azoth said.
“Not your real name, son,” the count said. “Your new name.”
“Kylar,” Durzo said.
The count produced a piece of blank paper and put on the pince nez. “How do you want to spell that? K-Y-L-E-R? K-I-L-E-R?”
Durzo spelled it and the solicitor wrote it down. Count Drake grinned. “Old Jaeran punning?”
“You know me,” Durzo said.
“No, Durzo, I don’t think anyone does. Still, kind of ominous, don’t you think?”
“It fits the life.”
For about the hundredth time, Azoth felt like he was not simply a child but an outsider. It seemed everywhere there were secrets that he couldn’t know, mysteries he couldn’t penetrate. Now it wasn’t just muted conversations with Momma K about something called a ka’kari, or Sa’kagé politics, or court intrigues, or magic, or creatures from the Freeze that were imaginary but Durzo insisted did exist, or others that he insisted didn’t, or references to gods and angels that Blint wouldn’t explain to him even when he did ask. Now it was his own name. Azoth was about to demand an explanation, but they were already moving on to other things.
The count said, “How soon do you need this and how solid does it have to be?”
“Solid. Sooner is better.”
“I thought so,” the count said. “I’ll make it good enough that unless the real Sterns come here, no one will ever know. Of course, you’re still left with a rather significant problem. You have to train him to be a noble.”
“Oh no I don’t.”
“Of course you . . .” the count trailed off. He clicked his tongue. “I see.” He adjusted his pince nez and looked at Azoth. “When shall I take him?”
“In a few months, if he lives that long. There are things I need to teach him first.” Durzo looked out the window. “Who’s that?”
“Ah,” Count Drake said. “That’s the young Lord Logan Gyre. A young man who will make a fine duke one day.”
“No, the Sethi.”
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen him before. Looks like an adviser.”
Durzo cursed. He grabbed Azoth’s hand and practically dragged him out the door.
“Are you ready to obey?” Durzo demanded.
Azoth nodded quickly.
“See that boy?”
“You call that a boy?” Azoth asked. The young man the count had
Similar Books
