Next morning came early. Dawn had yet to climb the far walls of Ward Aureus, and in the lodge of the Saint’s Cross, all was in darkness. Jael lurched upright in her cot, frigid with sweat. The hair on her arms stood on end as she listened and heard nothing but the soft snores of her companions. It was just a nightmare, she told herself, though the details of her torment she couldn’t recall. Even if she could, it mattered little. There was no returning to sleep in sweat-dampened sheets, so she reached with her legs till her feet found the floor. Standing on the cold wood, she peeled the wet shift from her chest. At once, it sucked back onto her skin. She needed fresh clothes. She needed a bath.
Leonhardt gathered a shift and shirt, stockings and linens, and her old leather boots. Under cover of darkness, she padded down the stairs to prepare the bath cauldron. Then a miracle occurred. As she carried water from the duct to the kitchen, it seemed to her that the buckets had become lighter, that the pots boiled faster, that she was eager to climb into the clean, steaming water and feel the knots in her back and neck melt away. They did, as did her worries and vague notions of bad-dreams in a cloud of steam until she fell asleep.
It was as if she’d blinked and an hour had died. The water was hardly warm, and Jael could hear the servants’ footsteps rushing about between the kitchen and the common room. Then another set of footsteps entered the basement. She turned, her eyes squinted, unadjusted to the dim, oil lanterns.
“I’m impressed, Leonhardt. I didn’t think you’d learn your first lesson so quickly.” At the sound of Trey’s voice, Jael sunk in the tub so that only above her nose showed. That made the captain chuckle, and he kept his grin as he walked passed the cauldron to face away from her as he removed his garments. “Just try not to fall asleep next time,” he said. “Captain Acker had me scrubbing pots and pans with the servants every time I drifted off. Speaking of servants…” He paused, dropping an article to the floor.
Jael turned at the sound—flushed pink—then turned again to face away from him. Another evening in the cloister.
“…I put in an order for you. It just arrived yesterday. You’ll find it wrapped at the bottom of my wardrobe. I hope it all fits. It’s a special day for you squires. You’ll be representing the Cross at the Hibernis Fair.” Another article fell. “Are you still in there?”
†††
Trey lamented not looking when he had the chance. He was happy to see the boots and hose and breeches fit snugly, the gambeson tightly under a maille shirt, a tailored surcoat, and a taut sword belt, yet striking as Jael was in her new attire, it was no substitute for the muscled flesh that must hide beneath. The image transfixed him. Gildmane had long since lost interest in the noble daughters of Pareo’s skylords, as he had in the common women and the painted whores. But this one was different. He couldn’t accept it at first, that after years I would be roused by a woman so—focus!
He scanned the line a final time; the other paladins had done their work. Each of the squires sat ahorse, dressed in uniform save for his surcoat—his own arms emblazed over his heart, and on the back, the white cross of Messai. Save for Trey and Sir Buckley, the other knights had already departed the Valley Rock, and they were soon to follow. For it was the first day of the Hibernis Fair, an affair of freaks, players, and animal tamers come down from the north-eastern mountains to escape their autumn snows. And fill their purses, and ours, thought Gildmane. The great tents were erected outside the city walls where all manner of prowlers could prey upon the helpless gentry—the wealthiest of which would request escorts from the Cross. “And our coffers spill over,” Ba’al’s words blurred with Acker’s, “Let the people see our chivalry first hand.”
“Congratulations on your Confirmation, squires. You’re sworn swords of the Saint’s Cross, and as such, you’ve got duties to attend to. Today is the first day of the annual Hibernis Fair. Several noble families have tithed greatly for our services, and it is your charge to ensure they feel secure enough to enjoy the festivities.”
Royce Armstrong, bright eyed, black haired and square jawed, tore his sword from its scabbard. His lips were all smiles as he pounded the sigil on his breast—two hands cradling a high-peaked mountain. “Fuck yes, Sir! We’ll stick every bloody bastard so that his mother will feel it in her God damned grave!”
Trey rolled his eyes. There was nothing to help the foul mouth of an Armstrong. “Don’t get too excited, squire. I’ve never seen more than drunkards and pickpockets.” He spoke now to everyone. “That goes for the lot of you. This isn’t a battle. I don’t want to hear that a single sword was drawn unless it had to be. ‘Eyes open and appearances up.’ Now off you go. Sir Buckley will show you to your wards. Leonhardt, you’re with me.”
“Damn right, Captain!” answered Knight Armstrong with a face and enthusiasm identical to his younger brother’s. He led the others through the gatehouse, Trey and Jael lagging behind.
They were under Ward Service and out into the streets of inner Pareo before Leonhardt would speak. She was too awed by the city, the way it moved and breathed like a true living thing. Hooves and feet and wagon wheels clattered on the stone roads like a heartbeat, traffic flowed like blood through arteries, and the buildings rose high as castle towers—the bones of the capital, the people their marrow, supporting shops and homes, inns and taverns. Even during the
