Saga of Menyoral: The Service (16 page)

“It’s enough, Reed. Wh
at’s the verdict?”

“Bruises,” Reed said, sitting back on his heels. “If there’s any dizziness, difficulty breathing, I’ll expect to hear about it. You’re a lucky boy.”

Dingus couldn’t suppress a snort. “Told you I’m fine. They weren’t shit for dishing it out.”
Or taking it,
he thought. He’d gotten kicked plenty, but he bet he’d given Arkady more to think about. “Can I get up now or what?”

“Feel free,” Reed said, straightening.

“What about the Practical?” Vandis asked.

Before Reed could answer, Dingus paused in the middle of scraping himself off the ground to say, “I’m standing it.”

“I wasn’t asking you.”

Reed waved an uncaring hand.
“I don’t see why not.”

“Thanks for staying with him,” Vandis said.

“What do you take me for?” the physician demanded, and left without waiting for a response.

Dingus and Vandis looked at each other. A lazy breeze shuffled through the pine branches, and Vandis
shook his head. He stooped and picked something up off the ground—Dingus’s book. He held it out and Dingus took it: dirty, the blue leather of the cover gouged by pebbles, and blood on it, maybe his, maybe Arkady’s.  The spine was broken, the pages loose, and he turned it over and over in his hands, miserable at the damage.

“Who did this?”

“I didn’t see.”

“Why would you lie to me?”

“I’m not.”

“I
know
you saw.” Vandis lifted his hand, the back of it, and rubbed the fingers of his other hand along his knuckles. “I’m busy, Dingus, not unobservant. I can see you threw punches. Did you start it?”

“No,” he said, even though Arkady must’ve been itching to get at him for days over
that sucker punch. There wasn’t any call to get three other guys on him. Should’ve been man-to-man.

Vandis made
an exhausted sound, scratching at his scalp. “I hope you’re not thinking of dealing with this yourself.”

“Oh, I am. I’m getting my
leaf. Don’t matter who thinks I shouldn’t.” Dingus started hobbling back toward the campsite, spraddle-legged from the soreness in his groin. For once, he didn’t have to slow down for Vandis. “I’m gonna earn it, and it’s going on my hand, and I’ll be a fucking Knight of the Air, so help me.”

“Well, then,” Vandis said. They walked on for a minute or so, quiet, before he added, “I guess I’d best make way.”

“Damn straight.”

Vandis reached up to clap Dingus on the shoulder, but thought better of it. They grinned at each other. “So how many?” Vandis asked.

“Four. Still the most pussy-ass beating I ever took.”

“Just don’t go after them. We’ll never live it down.”

“No, Vandis,” Dingus said. “I won’t.”

Lady’s Peak

It was coming on dusk, the next day. Vandis stooped over a large firepit, cut for the purpose on the side of Lady’s Peak, the highest mountain of tho
se that cradled Knightsvalley. He’d come to a broad shelf between tree line and snowline, partly natural, partly artificial. Steps had been chiseled into the mountainside, and every year for the last twenty, Vandis had walked up those steps with a huge bag of torches and a lit brand, putting them in sconces carved out of the rock itself in time out of mind. One by one as he climbed, he placed and lit them, until the staircase glowed with firelight. When Sofia had retired, Hieronymus had begun; when Hieronymus had retired, Vandis had begun; when Vandis died, since he didn’t plan to retire, his successor would do the same. There weren’t many rules among the Knights, but there were damn well traditions. Vandis had learned to honor them because they honored his Lady.

Now he lit the fire
pit high above the valley, getting ready for the Knights to come up. The Squires—candidates for Knighthood—would follow when night really fell. That Dingus would be in their company swelled Vandis’s chest until he thought it would burst. Once he had the fire crackling, he walked to the edge of the gigantic shelf. Far below, the lake shone like a deep-blue mirror, unstirred by the sweet breeze that ruffled Vandis’s hair, reflecting the lights of the festival all around the shore, and farther out, the first bright stars. Oda was rising in a fat crescent, gleaming off the snowcaps across the valley, chasing Naheel down over the horizon. The trees were already a black mass climbing the slopes, with campfires flickering among them, hardly visible through the branches. At the lakeside shrine, tiny figures scurried around, feeding the bonfire that would burn until the end of the Moot and send its smoke far up to the Lady. Kessa was down there, and Dingus. He hadn’t lied the other night when he told Dingus this had been the best year of his life. There’d been sorrow for those who were killed, flavored sour with guilt, but at fifty Vandis had finally learned what he’d been longing to learn since he was a child, and never even known he wanted. He grinned and stepped back from the brink, just as he heard the horn blow for the examiners to ascend to the shelf. This year, he’d get to do the job himself, instead of serving as a stand-in for whatever reason.

He crossed the shelf to say
hello to the tree. It was an ancient, twisting yew with a knot in the bole that resembled an old man’s face, growing out of a crack in the mountain. He’d always wondered how it had grown so high, for such a long time. Once, Adeon, drunk as a lord, had told him a story about the old man who had lived in the yew. The fairies had died before Vandis’s memory really began, but once in a while he wished he remembered more: men who lived in trees, mermaids, and dragons. Some said the dragons only slept, far below the surface, on their great mounds of treasure, but Vandis had trouble buying that.

When he looked at that little face in the yew, he thought of dragons first. Second, he thought of the year he’d finally laid eyes on it himself.
He’d been twenty-two: five years older than Dingus and a lot of the Squires who’d been pushed forward this year, three or four years older than anyone else in this group or his own. Old Man Dingus had held him back, and held him back—but there’d been Santo and Evan, always, and for them, Lady only would know how grateful he was. They’d never called Vandis a pussy for refusing to take off his shirt, never made fun of him for flinching when someone touched a bruise, never once ratted him out—not that they’d had to. It seemed stupid now, but he’d been terrified they’d fall under the stick, too, and so he’d always stood up to take the blame, the stupid punishments, and later, always, at the edge of the valley where the old man camped, the thrashing. Then he’d pick himself up in the morning and shuffle off to the next prank. He’d been every inch the dumbfuck. Dingus, though—he needed another taste of absolutely warranted pride.

Vandis had a certain talent for the tracking. He hadn’t learned it as a child—working in his uncle’s tavern hadn’t really offered much opportunity—but as a youth, even with Old Man Dingus, he’d enjoyed it. He could say with all honesty he was very good, good enough to know he had nothing on his Squire. Dingus had senses sharper than any human could boast, and on top of that, he was meticulous, careful, observant. With Eagle Eye he’d learned tracking to hunt. As a Squire, he’d picked up something Vandis would bet he enjoyed more: man-tracking, counter-tracking. Since the end of last winter they’d been pushing on that harder, going turn-for-turn, Vandis tracking Dingus, Dingus tracking Vandis, and Kessa usually along for the ride with the tracker. Whenever Vandis pulled a trick, Dingus pulled it right back, and better. Vandis
had put a stop to it when it took him five days to find Dingus sitting pretty at the starting point; they’d been on a schedule, after all.

Dingus was that rare combination of talent, skill, and love: a real, live, motherfucking genius, and even Vandis wasn’t arrogant enough to think he had anything to do with that. He just hoped that whoever drew Dingus’s name tonight would be a worthy examiner.

As the Knights started to arrive on the shelf, Vandis grinned. He knew them all by name, whether through reputation or personal experience. Santo or Evan would probably manage to give Dingus a bit of a workout, Evan a little more so if he could bring himself to make it as nasty as possible. One of the women could do just as well or even a little better, Tania maybe, or Sarai. Maybe Jack, pulling stand-in duty even though he’d made it clear earlier that he was still angry with Vandis. If Vandis had his choice, it’d be Adeon: a renowned trainer of Squires, since he’d had over a hundred, and an excellent foil against whom Dingus could prove himself.

The second horn sounded, calling the candidates. All the Knights stood back to watch the Squires makin
g their way up the winding stairs. They’d all watched these kids grow, some closely, some only once a year at the Longday Moot. They’d all seen the oral exams. Now an excited chatter broke out among the Masters as they bragged on their Squires or talked about others: “You’d better watch out for my Bruno,” and “Whoever gets your Tony ought to take him down a peg.” There was also, to Vandis’s pleasure, plenty of talk about Dingus, the unknown quantity. More than a few wanted to take a crack at him to see what he was made of, especially since he’d done so well in the orals.

“What do you think, Vandis?” Tania asked, her coffee skin gleaming in the firelight as the Squires wound higher and higher. “Who’d you want for your dark horse?”

“The Lady’ll choose,” Vandis said piously, and she lifted her eyebrows. “All I can say is, if you pull his name, make it vicious.”

She laughed. “What—he tracks
as well as he tells a story?”

“Better.”

“That was a fine story, mighty fine, that Eagle Eye thing. I’d never heard it. He had me wanting to go hey-la-hey right along. I still think he should’ve tied Scalietti instead of MacNair.”

“Better,” Vandis insisted.

“He must be something quite special, then,” Adeon put in, and Vandis couldn’t be certain he honestly meant it. It wasn’t as if Adeon tried to be that way; in fact, he actively tried not to, but he did sound a little sarcastic. Some cultural clusterfucks were all but unshakeable.

“Don’t doubt it,” Vandis said, looking down again at the long snake of Squires. He picked out Dingus in a heartbeat. The buttery torchlight made his shaggy head look even brighter than usual. He walked dead last, behind Wally and Tony, hands in his pockets. Even as Vandis watched, Dingus picked him out in
turn and lifted a hand in salute. Unlike the other Squires, he didn’t carry a pack. Vandis knew what he had on him, what he always had on him, everything he’d need: his pocketknife, a ball of rough handmade twine, and a flint and steel.

Arkady Markov was first to the shelf. Vandis’s brow furrowed at the plaster over his nose, the deep bruises around his eyes, and the swollen cheek. When Vandis caugh
t Dingus’s eye, the boy smiled slightly. “Good control,” he muttered as Dingus passed, and damn, but it was. He’d almost
wanted
Reed to have been thrashing his Squire. He’d never admit to anyone that he’d gone back yesterday evening, after Dingus was installed in the camp with Francine and Lukas, and made a thorough examination of the scene. Even with some of the sign disturbed from what had happened after, he’d been able to put together a clear enough picture of the incident that he knew nobody’d been killed, or injured badly enough to die afterward. He just hadn’t known, until he saw Arkady just now, who had been on the receiving end of Dingus’s wrath.

All the Squires filed into a line; the Masters lined up opposite. Vandis let them settle and strode into the center. “Now hear this,” he said,
the same thing he’d always said. “You are about to seek entry into one of the oldest, and greatest, religious orders in the world. Any who would like to leave may do so now; any who choose to accept the responsibility of the calling may stay.” He paused, waited for any walk-aways. It was a rare thing, and this year, it pleased him to note, there were none. “You’ve been tested on your knowledge of the world so that you’ll be able to make informed decisions. You’ve been tested on your ability to speak in public so that you’ll be able to inform others, to entertain, and to share our Lady’s message.”

Hitting his stride, Vandis paced up and down, hands behind his back. “Tomorrow is the real test, the oldest test: the Practical Examination. It is, first and foremost, a test of your skill in tracking. This skill may save your life by allowing you to find food when others can’t. This skill may save the life of another, if you participate in search-and-rescue operations. This skill may allow you to combat injustice, oppression, and wrongdoing, which, if you pass, you will swear to do. It is the exercise of this knowledge that expresses who we are, as Knights and as individuals.”

He stopped, at center again. “In a few moments, each Master will draw a piece of parchment from my cap and read the name written there. When you hear your name, step forward; when you’ve finished exchanging the challenge, stand next to the yew tree. The Master who reads your name will be your examiner tomorrow. If your own Master draws your name, I will arrange a trade. We will spend the night here; right after breakfast, the examiners will leave. Follow in two hours and trace your examiner back to the valley mouth. You must follow the entire trail. Do not attempt to make your way back to Knightsvalley by any other route.” Vandis reached into his cloak and brought out two sample pouches, one for the examiner, one for the candidate.

“You will each receive an empty pouch.” He raised it, then laid it on the ground. “Your examiner will set four medals along his or her trail: copper, silver, electrum, and gold. Pass these around and take a good look.
” He handed the full pouch to the battered Arkady for inspection. “The medals may be concealed at the examiner’s discretion. Each set has a number assigned to it. If you return with a medal that is not from your set, you will fail, and so will the person who should have found that medal, so pay attention. If you return with more than one of any medal, you will fail. If you return with less than one of any medal, you will fail. You must retrieve all four from the set you are assigned, and no others. Are there any questions?”

There was always one asking the same question, but Vandis always waited to see who’d ask it. Sure enough, Tania’s Finbar raised his hand. “What if we get lost?”

“On the fourth day, we will organize a search party. If you get turned around, lose the trail, or become completely lost, don’t attempt to find your way back. Stay put, light a smoky fire if you can, and wait to be found. Are there any other questions?”

“Wha
t if we catch up?” Arkady said, slurring through his plugged nose.

“Your examiner will verify that. Any medals not yet laid must remain in his or her hands until you return. Any other questions?”

There weren’t. “Lady bless our endeavors,” Vandis said. “Now let’s have some fun.” He rubbed his hands together. This was the best fun of the whole Moot, a ritual of mutual disrespect, in which the examiner and candidate were meant to insult each other. It showed the candidates they were about to become equals with the Knights who examined them: to dish it out and take it. Maybe it was the inveterate gossip in him, but he loved hearing what people had to say about each other. Vandis used his foot to push forward the heavy basket with the medals, pouches, and his flying cap.

“Number one,” he said, putting the pouch of medals in his pocket. “That’s me.” He made a show of looking away and squeezing his eyes shut while he reached into his cap and pulled out a slip. “Antonio Scalietti,” he read, and grinned evilly at Santo’s shiny-headed Squire. Tony gulped visibly and came up to get his empty pouch, embroidered with the number one. “I’ll drag you clear back to Brightwater by your big-ass nose,” Vandis
promised, slapping the pouch into his hand.

“Y
ou can talk about noses when you get your own face in order,” Tony said, his voice thready, but gaining strength. “With that big honker dragging on the ground behind you, I’ll always know what trail is yours!” He let out a relieved
whoosh
when he finished and got a laugh out of Vandis rather than total destruction.

Master after Master drew a name. Vandis watched the odds on Dingus getting one of the better examiners dwindle. Pearl drew Stefan’s Edvard; Santo got Nigel’s Tariq and Tania drew Pearl’s Francine. When Betty stepped up, number ten, Vandis suppressed a cringe. Her bustling, methodical competence was excellent as far as it went—and he
enjoyed her company—but he’d rather not see her examine Dingus.