chair in a cozy corner by the kitchen fire. “We are finished, Benoit. You may clear. And I’d like another mug of beer.”
“Very good, sir,” said Benoit, and, reaching for his cane, he made a feeble attempt to rise from the chair.
He sank back down with a groan.
“What’s wrong now?” Stephano asked testily.
“Touch of gout, sir,” said Benoit. “The old complaint. But, you notice, sir, that I don’t complain. If you’ll give me a moment, sir. ..”
Benoit placed his gnarled hands on the arms of the rocking chair and tried again, pitifully, to heave himself to his feet. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye. They sat at the table, waiting. Benoit gave another groan.
Miri bit her twitching lip. Exchanging laughing glances with her sister, she rose briskly to her feet, walked over to the old man, and rested her hands on his shoulders.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Benoit,” she said solicitously, giving him a soothing pat. “Gythe and I will do the clearing and the washing.”
“Ah, thank you, my dears,” said Benoit gratefully.
Stephano glared at the old man, who pretended not to see as he settled himself comfortably back in his chair. Grabbing his mug, Stephano followed Miri into the cold storage room, where Gythe was placing the butter on a high shelf, out of the reach of Doctor Ellington.
Miri turned to face Stephano and, winking, said loudly, “I think it’s a disgrace, the way you make that poor sick old man wait on you hand and foot.”
“He’s the family retainer! It’s his job!” said Stephano, pitching his voice so that Benoit could hear. “And poor sick old man, my ass! Only this afternoon I saw Benoit running down the street in hot pursuit of one of the local lads who had snatched his wig off his head. The lad outdistanced him, but not by much.”
“He’d have been sorry if I’d have caught him!” Benoit stated, shaking his cane.
Stephano and Miri looked at each other and laughed.
“And, by the way,” said Stephano, grinning, “when did you ever see Benoit wait on me or anyone else?”
Stephano reached for the beer pitcher and saw that it was empty. He gave the barrel an experimental kick. The barrel rang hollow. The beer, too, was almost depleted and there wasn’t money for more. His grin vanished. He heaved a sigh and handed Miri the mug for washing.
“Benoit has free room and board, and I never knew one old man could eat so much. As for drink, he always has such a pleasant beery smell about him.” Stephano kicked the barrel again and muttered, “I should chuck him out into the street.”
“Then why don’t you?” Miri asked pertly.
She left the cold room and returned to the kitchen, where she took out the washtub and filled it with hot water from the kettle. Gythe, escorted by Doctor Ellington, returned to the table and picked up the plates and mugs and flatware.
“I’ll tell you why,” Miri said, answering her own question. She plunged the plates into the water and began vigorously scrubbing. “He is the old family retainer. The only family you have.”
Stephano reached into the washtub, took hold of Miri’s red, sudsy hands, and brought them to his lips. “Not the only family. I was thinking that this evening.”
He smiled down into Miri’s green eyes and brushed a lock of flame-red hair back from her pretty, sun-freckled face. The two had met five years ago; the night Stephano had resigned his commission as an officer in the Dragon Brigade. All he had ever aspired to do in his life was to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and be a Dragon Knight. He had served proudly in the Dragon Brigade for almost ten years. But King Alaric had disbanded the Dragon Brigade, claiming his “modern” navy had no need for dragons. Stephano had resigned in furious protest, and the admiralty had been only too happy to accept his resignation.
That night, Stephano had put on his full dress uniform with the dragons embroidered on the leather flight coat and then thrown his commission into the fire. Then he sat, watching his past burn to ashes, drinking to his own misery. He was alone; his friend Rodrigo having traveled to visit his parents in the Duchy of Argonne, where they had been exiled.
Stephano had gone out for a walk, taking a bottle of wine with him for company. He had wandered the streets of Evreux, paying no heed to where he was going. He found himself near the dockyards, where a host of Trundler houseboats, notable for their brightly colored balloons and sails, and short, stubby wings, had taken up residence. In a field nearby, the Trundlers were having some sort of celebration, perhaps a wedding or a funeral. With them, it was hard to distinguish which.
The Trundlers were rovers, belonging to no country, paying allegiance to no king or queen. They were loyal only to their own people. Governments down through the years had given up attempting to impose any sort of regulation over them, perhaps out of some sort of sense of world-encompassing guilt; these nations having come together to defeat and sink Glasearrach, the island the Trundlers had once called home, with heavy, though unintentional (so the governments claimed) loss of life.
Trundlers had their own laws. They tried those who broke them in their own courts. Trundler laws differed somewhat from the laws imposed by kings and princes. Smuggling and thieving were viewed with a tolerant eye since one had to earn a living, whereas murderers could be executed on the spot.
Sometimes such small differences in the legal system did tend to cause friction between Trundlers and the local authorities, who occasionally tried to raid Trundler gatherings. Thus, the sight of Stephano, wearing his full dress uniform, with his sword at this side, had roused intense and immediate suspicion among the young men of the Trundler community.
Six young toughs, strong and muscular, armed with clubs and flaming torches, had confronted Stephano. He could have apologized and talked his way out, but he was in a mood for a fight. The next thing he knew, he had been lying on the ground, his skull cracked, pain everywhere, looking up into the flashing green eyes and freckled face of a lovely young woman.
She had examined him, then had risen to her feet and immediately began to lay into the young men, hitting and slapping them and kicking them in the shins.
“Can’t you see the dragon he’s wearing, you daft buggers?” she had cried.
The young toughs had crumbled beneath her fury, mumbling in their defense that: “it was dark;” “a king’s man is a king’s man;” “he should’ve said something;” and the like until the woman had grown weary and they had been able to escape her wrath.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” the woman had said to him, rubbing her stinging palms. “The young fools didn’t know who you were.”
Stephano had smiled at her blissfully and then thrown up on her shoes.
He had regained consciousness in a houseboat belonging to the woman’s uncle, where he was a guest for the next week until the young woman deemed he was healthy enough to leave. Her name was Miri, she had told him, and she was a Trundler Lore Master. Since most Trundlers could neither read nor write, Miri and those like her were responsible for keeping the Trundler history, the old tales and legends, alive.
Miri had realized that simply handing down histories from one generation to another had resulted in inaccuracies and contradictions. Most Trundlers didn’t care, but Miri wanted to know the truth behind the myths, and she had decided the only way to find out was to seek the facts in books and that involved learning to read. She had taught herself, with the help of a priest, and had learned the fascinating fact that the history of the Trundlers and those of the great dragon families were entwined, though just exactly how was lost in the mists of time. Miri had longed to talk to the dragons about this and had sought an invitation into the households of the noble dragon families. They had looked down their long and elegant snouts at a Trundler and never even bothered to respond. Then Stephano, a former Dragon Knight, had come into her camp, and her cousins had beaten him senseless.
Miri had healed his wounds, and he had gained her access into the houses of some of the dragons with whom he had served. She and Stephano were close in age; both having been around thirty at the time, and it was inevitable that they became lovers.
Any number of beautiful ladies of the court would have been happy to invite the dashing young former captain of the Dragon Brigade to their salons or even their beds to listen to his troubles. For reasons of his own, Stephano did not trust beautiful ladies of the court.
