Weasel's Luck Read online

  “Badger.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Badger. You are drawing your sword in the presence of badgers.”

  “How in the world do you know? For sure, I mean.”

  “The wise man talks with his ear to the wind,” Sir Bayard answered, drawing a tinderbox from beneath his cloak.

  “I shall make a better knight for knowing that, sir.”

  “We’ll stop here, rest and eat,” he continued. “I’ll try to wrestle a fire from this quagmire.”

  We nestled beneath a huge, spreading vallenwood, our backs to its hoary trunk. Nothing seemed cheerful in this climate; even the crickets and frogs were silent, too stunned by the cold to celebrate the rain they usually loved so dearly, so vocally. Bayard crouched above the tinderbox and removed his gloves. His large hands seemed ungainly in such a delicate task; it was as though he was tying a net for dolls.

  “About the tournament …” I began. “Who is the lucky noblewoman?”

  “Daughter of Sir Robert di Caela, Knight of the Sword. Surely your tutor touched on current politics. You have heard of the House of di Caela?”

  “Old Solamnic family,” I repeated from memory, watching a rabbit, soaked and sullen, poke its head out from under a large patch of creeping juniper. It looked as though it had been spat upon or worse. Well, we were birds of a drenched feather, that rabbit and I.

  “Old Solamnic family,” I began once more, thinking of my warm room and bed at home. “Founded by Duncan di Caela, cousin of Vinas Solamnus himself. In wartime—brilliant, inventive. In times of peace—brilliant and just. But in generations nearer our time the family di Caela has withdrawn unto itself, for reasons it has chosen never to make public.”

  The rabbit ducked back under the juniper. At least he had a burrow nearby, to which he could retreat when the rain grew heavier, the day colder.

  “Robert di Caela is the last of the male line,” Bayard added. “For the first time in the recorded history of the family, the di Caela heir is a girl. After Sir Robert, the House of di Caela falls into history and obscurity, if his daughter does not wed. Which is why he has called a tournament.”

  Bayard’s new fire smoldered and showed a hint of flame.

  “Which is why the younger Solamnic Knights will gather from all across Ansalon—There!”

  A fire burned low and steady beside us. Bayard put away the tinderbox, continued.

  “Which is why they will gather in tournament, each of them seeking the hand of the Lady Enid.”

  “Enid!” I exclaimed, with a little more bitter pleasure than I should have shown. Of all the names in Krynn, Robert di Caela had chosen “Enid” for his daughter? An Enid is almost always a big, square-jawed woman with her hair bound like a loaf of bread.

  I mean, what could you expect from an Enid besides excellent pastries?

  I began to chuckle. Here I was, practically drowning myself in the miserable midst of nowhere, and all in the service of a knight who had his mind set on winning a tournament where the first prize was a girl named Enid!

  Bayard frowned, looked away from me.

  “I mean nothing ill by the laughter, sir,” I explained quickly. “Please don’t take umbrage at idle merriment.”

  “There is no umbrage to be taken, Galen,” Bayard said calmly, staring up at me with those cold gray eyes. “Nonetheless, I should appreciate a little more … esteem here. After all, I am supposed to marry Enid di Caela.”

  It was too much. I laughed the harsh laughter of the doomed, and suddenly Bayard drew his sword.

  Well, I thought I was done for. I rolled into a ball, started to shout, to offer my birthright, Brithelm’s and Alfric’s birthrights as bribery, but Bayard’s hand clasped quickly and forcefully over my mouth and hushed me. I tried to bite him, but he was holding my mouth shut.

  “Quiet, boy!” he whispered, and paused, head raised in the air like a leopard sniffing the switching wind for signs of the quarry. And through the constant sound of the rain I heard movement, a scuffling noise in a stand of fir across the road, some thirty yards away from us.

  “Not badger,” Bayard hissed, and loosened his grip on my jaw. He nodded toward my sword, which was all the command I needed. I winked obediently, stole my hand to the grip, as if to pledge my loyalty.

  But believe me, I had no intention of drawing that weapon as long as there was any avenue of escape, any place to hide. Father had judged my swordsmanship correctly: I was more likely to injure myself or Bayard than any enemy arrayed against us. At that moment, however, I must have looked fierce enough to convince my fool of a companion that I would stand behind him in whatever bloodshed was about to follow.

  In fact, I was behind him but also considerably above him, for when Bayard turned again toward the source of the sound, I scrambled up the vallenwood to safety, perching in its lower branches where I could see what was about to happen and where I hoped devoutly that nobody—not even Bayard—could see me.

  “Who goes there?” arose from the stand of fir. Bayard had been right, unless this was a rather miraculous badger.

  “Sir Bayard Brightblade of Vingaard, Knight of Solamnia. And who asks my name of me?”

  I banged my head in disbelief against the thick vallenwood branch I was straddling. No telling who or what lay concealed across the road, but anyone betting hard-earned money on the situation would wager that it was peasants. Peasants who, if you recall, had never forgiven the Knights of Solamnia for a little thing called the Cataclysm that altered the face of the planet and killed a few million of them in the bargain.

  More to the point, peasants who would carry more recent memory of the misdeeds done in the very armor that lay atop our pack mare. Yes, a Solamnic Knight would be the last person they’d be ready to step out and welcome.

  But step out of the firs they did, one after another, until a full half dozen of them stood in front of Bayard—stern and muddy and rather rough-looking peasants. They were all frowning, all bristling, and each of them brandished a club or an axe or a hammer at least as long as I was tall.

  Bayard could have taken any one of them easily. He had cast his cloak over a bush and stood before them, open to the rain and clad only in a leather tunic, his broadsword drawn and resting lightly in his right hand, a short but wicked-looking dagger balanced in his left.

  He could have taken any two of them—maybe three—with a bit of a scuffle. But six seemed overwhelming, and they knew it, spreading out as they crossed the road, forming a large and ragged circle around him.

  I felt sorry for Bayard. I also climbed to a higher branch.

  “Knight of Solamnia?” asked one of them—not the largest but certainly the most fierce-looking, sporting a bald pate with a huge red scar down its middle, a trophy from the gods knew what roughhousing. “You did say ‘Knight of Solamnia’ then, didn’t you, sir?”

  “And if I did?” Bayard asked, turning slowly, elegantly clockwise, fixing his gaze on each adversary in turn, then passing him by, facing him again as he changed directions, turning counterclockwise. This all happened slowly, like some old and revered ritual or dance. And meanwhile, Bayard and Scar Head talked quietly, cautiously, as the peasants drew nearer and nearer the turning knight.

  “Well, if you did, sir,” answered Scar Head, setting his axe upon his shoulder as lightly as he would a cane fishing pole. “If you did, perhaps you kindly misunderstood my question, seeing as Solamnic Knights are not altogether welcome in these parts. Perhaps you are another kind of knight entire, or perhaps you are of a different order that me and my men have not heard of yet, and who we wouldn’t have any hard feelings against, you understand? Karrock?”

  He nodded at the man to his left—Karrock, evidently. A big, brutal-looking man with hair as red as mine and a darker beard—that strange combination you often see in folk of our coloring. Karrock moved slowly, but this time definitely, toward the pack mare, stretched out his hand toward the saddlebags.

  “I’d stop right there if I were you,�
�� Bayard snapped, striding instantly to within sword’s length of the big man. The peasants tensed. Bayard turned and addressed Scar Head.

  “Stop dancing like a philosopher around names, man. If there’s a reason I should hide my service to the Solamnic Orders I’d like to know it now, so I can dispel your illusions.”

  “I think this one means it, Master Goad,” Karrock whispered to Scar Head, taking a step back from the mare. “I just came for militia work, not to tangle with zealots.”

  “There’s six of us to one of him,” Goad replied, motioning with his club to the men on his right, who halved the distance between themselves and Bayard, slipping between Molasses and the pack mare. “And you saw what his kind done to the village.”

  “ ’Swhy I’m here, sir,” Karrock nodded.

  “I mean,” Goad chuckled coldly, addressing Bayard, “I may not have my letters, but I can count. And even a Solamnic Knight will tell you there’s a certain philosophy in numbers.”

  “Militia?” Bayard relaxed a bit, though from the way his shoulders turned I could see he was keeping an eye on the men approaching from Goad’s right. “Then you’re guarding your village? Against what?”

  “Against Solamnic Knights such as yourself, sir, who think a suit of armor and a rich family allow them certain … liberties that even the old King-Priest of Istar would of had no rights in taking. We had a visit from one of your order several weeks back …”

  I hugged the branch I lay upon and breathed a silent prayer. But I made sure the prayer was completely silent—not even whispered or breathed. For Karrock had recovered his courage, stepping toward the mare once more, his inquiring hand about to pull the canvas blanket off her back.

  Sometimes, as Gileandos taught me in the theology lessons I avoided as much as possible, the gods give unexpected answers to our prayers.

  For you see, Molasses was old. Not just getting on in years like a man will say of himself when he turns sixty or even seventy. Molasses was over thirty years old—had been put out to pasture by Father by the time Alfric was born. Molasses was past venerable, past ancient, was pushing fossilized. Remember also that for the last ten years his adventures had been limited to carting small children in an ever-narrowing circle around the moat house courtyard, and that the closest to danger he had been in the last twenty years was within fifty yards of a dogfight broken up in an instant by a quick serving boy. All in all, you can understand why the situation may have seemed a little threatening to the poor horse.

  Perhaps you can understand why he fell over dead.

  It was just the law of averages catching up. But catching up at just the right time. The heavy thud as the poor old creature collapsed startled the men who were approaching steadily from Ando’s right toward the pack mare standing just to the left of Bayard. The yokels spun about and raised their weapons, expecting that some reinforcements had come to Bayards aid, leaping from a tree, perhaps, and landing behind them.

  They had no idea how quick their opponent was. Bayard vaulted the pack mare, armor and all, and landed heavily, noisily between our baggage and the militiamen. They turned back to him quickly, but it was too late. With the broad side of the blade he slapped one of them heartily on the ribs—it sounded as though someone were beating a rug with the dull thumping sound and the whoosh of escaping air. As soon as he turned, the man was on his knees, gasping.

  His comrades paused, stunned, as if something large and supernatural—a dragon or a pillar of fire, perhaps—had risen in their midst. Bayard spun, caught Karrock with a high kick to the chest. The big man grunted and staggered backwards, Bayard moving steadily toward him in a half-crouch. Meanwhile, the rest of the militiamen stood motionless, their hands vaguely about their weapons.

  Except Goad. Smoothly, silently, he sidled to his right, moving slowly until he stood astride the sword-whipped man, directly behind Bayard who, intent on discharging Karrock from the local militia, hadn’t noticed at all.

  Certainly this was the time for me to do something—at the least to shout a warning to my noble employer, at the most (and I shuddered to think of the most!) to drop from the vallenwood onto the enemy in some kind of heroic plunge.

  At the moment I felt that to do either would be too showy. Instead, I sat and watched events unfold.

  Then a curious thing happened, as if somehow a truce had been arranged out of all of this bluster and threat. Instead of pouncing on Bayard as I was sure he would do, Goad stooped and hoisted his winded comrade to his shoulders. Meanwhile, Bayard had toppled Karrock with a strong punch to the ruddy jaw and was turning to guard his back. His eyes met Goad’s, and it was hard to tell what passed between them besides the nod that seemed to end it, as Goad backed into the stand of firs, as Karrock scrambled to his feet and scurried after his commander, none the worse for combat were it not for a bruise noticeable through the dark beard on the left side of his hamlike face.

  Now I leaped down from the vallenwood, rolled a bit in the dust so I would look somewhat the worse for wear, bit my lip—not hard, but hard enough to draw convenient blood—then scrambled to my feet.

  “Let that be a lesson to you, affronting a brave Knight of Solamnia,” I shouted.

  Bayard turned again, this time slowly, and fixed me with a withering gaze. “See to your horse,” he ordered coldly.

  As you can guess, there wasn’t much seeing to do on that account. We said our farewells to Molasses, then transferred my belongings to the pack mare, who could hardly be said to be grateful for the additions, and I dreaded receiving the news as to how we would travel the rest of the way to Castle di Caela. I decided to postpone asking, perhaps letting Sir Bayard’s temper cool in the meantime.

  The mood and our clothes had been dampened considerably. Bayard returned to the fire, silently insisting that if we were to have lunch, then by the gods, we would have that lunch at that very site.

  We ate abruptly. Bayard drew dried beef and dried fruit from one of the countless pockets and packs on the mare. The fire, unfortunately, was for warmth, not cooking. It was a dry and dismal meal we had there beside the road and under the vallenwoods, with the horse and the mare shivering beside us and the rain steadily falling.

  I cast the Calantina for comfort and received two and eight, the Sign of the Horse. As I mulled over this reading, tried to remember the verses that went with the sign, Bayard leaned over my shoulder and spoke.

  “And what’s this?”

  “Sign of the Horse,” I replied shortly. I wasn’t in the mood to exchange pleasantries with my judge, jury, and executioner.

  “I mean …”

  “The Calantina. Fortune-telling dice from Estwilde.” Maybe he would take that as an answer, go back to his side of the fire, and dry some perfectly edible food into something indistinguishable from the saddlebags you carry it in. After all, we might need our appetites killed once more before we reached the castle.

  “Garbage is what it is,” Bayard said softly, drawing his knife and walking toward Valorous.

  “I suppose,” I agreed absently.

  “Then why do you do it?” he snapped, crouching beside Valorous and lifting the stallion’s front leg.

  “Do what?”

  “The Calantina, of course. Parlor game in Estwilde. That is, wherever they have parlors. They invented it and don’t take it seriously. Why should you?” He snorted.

  “The Calantina provides me with insight on various occasions, Sir Bayard. As to my future, my place in the ever-changing relationship of things. As to my courses of action.”

  “Garbage,” he spat again, beginning to clean mud from the hooves of his stallion.

  “Garbage?”

  “Garbage, Galen.” He smiled. “You know. Offal. Refuse. Ordure.”

  Then he turned to me, no longer smiling.

  “There are many kinds of magic in the world, boy. This is not one of them.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I asked, leaning back against the vallenwood, my hand still in my pocket, clutchin
g the dice tightly.

  “All right,” Bayard said calmly as he reached under Valorous for the stallion’s other front hoof. “All right. What sign did you say you cast?”

  “Sign of the Horse,” I muttered, glancing away from Bayard toward the stand of firs, still fancying that the militia might return for our heads at any moment.

  “Just what does that mean?” my employer asked, beginning to clean the hoof.

  “Could be the journey we’re on. Could be what happened to poor Molasses.”

  “Not very definite, is it?” Bayard asked victoriously, moving to Valorous’s hind hooves and chuckling.

  “Could mean many things, combined in a way we haven’t discovered yet.” I knew it was weak, but I thought he couldn’t argue with it. I was mistaken.

  “Hindsight, Galen. I could litter this road with omens by hindsight. Magic is as rare as a struggle between honest men on this road.”

  “But I’ve seen magic, Sir Bayard,” I blurted out, thinking of Brithelm.

  “And I’ve seen honest men struggle on this road,” Sir Bayard conceded quietly, intent again on his work. “Goad and Karrock and the rest of that militia think we are criminals—honestly think so—and that man back in your father’s dungeon hasn’t helped matters on that account.”

  He paused, looked directly at me, then turned back to Valorous. He cleaned the fourth hoof, flung the dagger into the ground, where it stuck, then rose to his feet.

  “All Goad was doing,” he stated flatly, “was protecting his village against what he imagined was a raiding knight. He hates the Order, probably thinks we’re all rogues and traitors. He has a lot to learn. You have a lot to learn, too, Galen,” he concluded, walking toward the pack mare. “Provided I stay alive long enough to teach it to you.”

  I started to retort, to let Bayard know that, as I had it figured, he didn’t have all that much to teach me, and that I was more than willing to learn my lessons elsewhere if he would only escort me to a place free of rain and bullying militia. I started to tell him this, but he stopped in his tracks midway between horses and stared once again at the stand of firs, now almost hidden behind a wall of rain.