“You think you’re better, don’t you? Make no mistake, Leonhardt, you’re nothing more than an arrogant child, looking down on the others when you’re the one relying on someone else’s name. To me, a name is nothing. I’m not interested in whatever political games you’re a pawn in.” He dismounted his horse and signaled for Sylvertre to do the same. “Now, if you’re done acting like a girl, go find somewhere to tie up the horses. The accuser’s home should be around here.”
His words struck Jael like a poisoned arrow, numbing her tongue as she complied in silence. He’s a liar, she told herself while leading the coursers and Sir Brandon’s gray stallion. I never looked down on anyone! She bound the reins to a ruined lantern post and removed the paladin’s quiver from his saddle. It was sleek, black leather with slits for three arrows and a scabbard for Corvin’s ten-stone war bow. Jael slung it on her back and felt her shoulders slump like Ogdon’s had, felt the strap press against her aching heart, against the letter on her breast. But then she remembered the fair and what Sylvertre said about the nobles—how she held her own, how they knew her. Then why would Sir Brandon lie like that? she wondered, getting angry now as she thought of all the stories her father had ever told her about Mephistine braggarts, swindlers, and thieves. So it’s in his pagan blood, yet he takes it out on me. The realization made her bitter.
She stormed to where Corvin stood before a row of wood-rotted houses and shoved the quiver into his hands. He frowned but otherwise said nothing. Together, they watched Ogdon going door to door in search for their man.
“Did Trey even tell you what Vaufnar is being accused of?”
Jael gazed ahead. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?”
“Child fondling.”
“That’s disgusting!”
Corvin looked at her sideways, “That’s assuming it’s true.”
She glared back at him in disbelief. “Who would lie about something like that?”
“Arrogant child. You don’t know anything, do you? Look around, what do you see? Any bodies? Anyone starving? No, you don’t; and do you know why? Because Vaufnar spends his entire damned tithe share feeding these ungrateful dogs.”
The paladin’s story made no sense to Jael. “If he takes care of them, then why would they accuse him? They should be on his side.”
“Wrong, girl. It’s because he helps them that they ask for more. Give them your shirt, and they’ll want your shoes next—refuse and you’ll have a mob rushing for your neck. That’s what this is, I’d bet my horse on it. Some beggar is mad that he only got one onion instead of two.”
“Sir!” shouted Ogdon. He had found the accuser’s apartment and was waving them over, a man looming behind him. “Sir, I found the—”
“Yer here! Thank the Lord in Heaven, I was scared you’d not come!” bawled the stranger adjacent Sylvertre. He was hard to see in the twilight of the Dim, so skinny and dirty the stranger was. It wasn’t until Jael and Corvin came closer that they could make out his greasy black hair from his shadowed face. And the hempen rags he wore for clothes did nothing to hide the pox scars on his arms and his neck, and his legs. “Please, milord, I beg you! Bring justice for my poor family! For my son, I beg you! I beg you! I—” the man froze as the paladin’s shadow cast over him.
“You’re Dante, the accuser?” he asked in a tone that made the stranger shiver. A cloud covered overhead, and in the dark, his pale armour made him seem half a ghost. Silent, the poor man nodded. Corvin spoke to his squires, “Sylvertre, you’re with me. We’ll be questioning this lout while Leonhardt talks with the mother—she is inside, yes?”
Again, Dante nodded while Jael objected, “Sir, I can talk to a man just fine. Just because I’m a woman, it doesn’t mean that I’m not able to do the same as the rest of the squires.”
“I agree,” Ogdon jumped in.
Corvin snapped back, “Shut up, Sylvertre. And you, stupid girl, need to get it through your head. I don’t give a damn what you are outside from your oaths—which include obeying your orders. Now get in the house before it’s your head getting chopped off.”
Bastard. No different than King or Westheart, thought Leonhardt, glad to part with the mud-blooded knight and mad at her captain for assigning her with someone so…so…The very search for a word built a fury inside her. It must have shown on her face, for the moment she stepped within the accuser’s home, his wife and child both cried out. Jael gasped as well, at the mangy furs and riddled blankets serving as the apartment’s only furnishings—that is, aside from a chipped, clay chamber pot. From the smell, Leonhardt thought it was passed due to be emptied, though she couldn’t be sure of the source of the odor, looking over Dante’s wife.
Sitting, the woman looked short as she was wide. Her hair hung thin and brittle, her skin sallow and pliant; and when she spoke her voice and teeth were like a kind of boar’s. “God save me! You scared us, milady. I nearly wet my hemps!” She snorted her laughter, a boy in her arms and on her lap. Jael thought he looked at least seven years old, black-haired like his father, dirty and dull. He glanced at her with glossy, frightened eyes. She tried to smile.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m Squire Leonhardt of the Saint’s Cross. I’m here to ask you about what happened to your son.”
“I didn’t know they let women be knights,” the wife blurted. “You hear that, Donny? They got women knights now, and she’s going to save us.”
“I’m only here to ask questions,” Jael said again, her stomach turning because of the smell. She
