The Knave and the Moon — Chapter no 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE FINEST KNAVE IN ALL OF TRAUM

When my chamber door opened I was lying precisely where I’d been when it closed. “Pith, Diviner.” Chainmail spilled onto the floor and armor dropped.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Tory caught my arm. It was a labor, getting me to my feet. She called for Samuel.

“Help…” I said to them, my voice like paper tearing. “With my armor.”

Samuel was blinking down at the bloody spit on the floor. “A terrible portent. You can’t compete like this, Diviner. You don’t have the strength.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and shoved him to his knees that he might feel just how much strength I had yet. “Yes, I can.”

Slowly, Tory retrieved the chainmail. She lifted the hauberk and I lifted my arms, the mail shirt slipping over my shift. I gasped. Then Tory fastened the coif. Next was the breastplate, which Samuel fastened. When his hands fell away and I felt the full weight of the cuirass, I hunched over, hissing between my teeth, eyes screwed shut.

Tory shook her head. “Samuel’s right. You’re not strong enough to wear it.”

My voice ripped out of me. “If I can bear everything else, I—can—bear —this—”

But I couldn’t. The armor and chainmail pressed against my abdomen, and it hurt so completely that I lost my footing. I fell to my knees. Slapped the floor and screamed.

“You’ll only injure yourself further if you compete,” Samuel said.

I stayed on my knees, unmoving but for the hot, loathsome tears that fell from my cheeks.

Samuel took the breastplate off, and Tory removed the hauberk. When she reached for the coif around my neck, I let out an ugly noise of reproach, staring at my boneless armor on the floor. Rory had measured me for it.

Maude had commissioned it. Bartholomew had put it on my back. It had been made for my body and would not exist had they three not looked upon me and known me.

When Tory reached for my coif, I tangled my fingers in the chains and held it against my throat. “Leave it.” Leave me one thing that I might remember, once, I did something in the Stonewater Kingdom besides drown.

Samuel turned his back, and Tory helped me into new clothes. A long white dress and my Divining robe, then the coif above it. Next came my veil, and last my crown. Then Samuel took my left arm, and Tory my right, and we left the chamber.

It was only when we were on the stairs on our way to the arena that I realized they hadn’t bothered to bring me a hammer.

We were joined by ten guards of the Seacht. I heard the arena before I saw it. Felt, in my body, the energy, rising. The roaring sound of applause.

The drums began to beat.

Benji waited in the king’s box, feet propped on the wooden banister, chest out. Hamelin and Otto Lange were there as well, along with a handful of other noble scribes. Behind them, as always, were a dozen knights, hands on their swords.

Just like in Coulson Faire, the king held a giant bowl with hundreds, maybe thousands, of gold coins.

The stands were a storm. There were hundreds of scribes, all of them in their gray robes. Then, like flashes of lightning, the gray was punctuated by colors, spectators from Coulson Faire and other hamlets crowding in, every seat filled. Two dozen Seacht guards waited in the lists— And then, there were the participants. At least forty of them—men and women at arms, gathered in the arena. Just like at the joust, some wore full

suits of armor while others had but leathers on. They were sorted into two teams and painted as such—a streak of blue paint over the chests of one half, a black streak painted on the other.

Hands on my abdomen, brow slick with sweat, I couldn’t climb the stairs without Samuel’s or Tory’s stanchioning hands. “Oh dear,” Benji said when they handed me into the chair next to him. I could smell the wine on his breath. “Seems you won’t be taking up the mantle today, Six.”

The drums grew louder, the buzz of the crowd like a swarm of locusts.

The blue team moved to the west side of the arena, then the black to the east. Helmets were donned—weapons grasped.

“As you know, sire,” Otto Lange said, leaning forward in his seat to address Benji, “even common folk were allowed to join, so long as they had ten gold coins.” He nodded at the two teams—blue and black. “Happily I was able to weed out the truly ignoble with certain qualifications.”

“And all of them moot with your nephew guaranteed to win and return your investment, plus a great deal of interest.” Benji patted the bowl of coins. “But please, regale me with your standards, Lange.”

“They had to provide their own weapon. Maces, flails, clubs, or any stave variation will do.”

“Hammers,” I murmured, my gaze blurry. “Some have hammers.”

“Three hand-to-hand rounds were conducted. Participants unable to follow instructions or those who didn’t know tip from hilt were immediately disqualified.” Otto stuck up his chin. “Nothing less than proficiency.”

Hamelin nodded down at the lists. “There are a few favorites. Dedrick, obviously, for the blue team.”

Benji nodded to himself and belched. “And for the black?”

The drums beat harder, thump, thump—then went startlingly quiet. A hush fell over the crowd, and the king stood from his chair. “It’s time, Lange.” He turned to Otto. Waited as, slowly, the scribe got to his knees.

“Thank you for your continued loyalty. Your guiding hand over the Seacht.

But never forget, it is not you who brings greatness to the hamlets, but me, my Diviner, and my stone objects.”

Then Benji reached into his pocket and drew the Artful Brigand’s coin.

Just like he had at Coulson Faire, Benji threw the coin, vanished, then reappeared in the arena, opening his arms to thunderous applause. “Noble

families,” he called. “Knights. Folk of the Seacht—welcome to the melee.”

Otto struggled to get off his knees, stumbling and wincing. In the arena, Benji was still speaking to the crowd. “It heartens me,” he called, “that so many of you should come today in support of me and my Diviner after the tragedy of Aisling Cathedral’s destruction. Indeed, the Harried Scribe himself would be gladdened to see you here today. And speaking of that beloved Omen—”

On cue, Dedrick Lange appeared on a tide of ink, flying from the lists into the heart of the arena. The blue team rallied around him, patting his armor and fawning over his inkwell. In the stands, scribes rose to their feet, gasps and cheers and echoes of wonderment abounding.

Dedrick turned in a full circle, presenting his inkwell like it was the key to the kingdom, then tucking it back into its pouch on his belt. He withdrew his mace and nodded at the blue team, who cheered him anew, like it was some magnanimous deed that he should be using such a mortal weapon in lieu of the magical one on his belt.

Behind me, Otto Lange and his fellow scribes tutted contentedly.

Benji’s hair gleamed in the sunlight. “The rules of the melee are simple,” he called to both teams. “Blue team against black. Should your weapon be knocked from your hand, you are to leave the arena. The last team standing wins. Let the melee b—”

A commotion began in the stands. A word said over and over. I couldn’t it make out, only the gusto by which it grew. There was a stirring in the lists. The crowd parted, a single combatant entering the arena, wearing russeted armor so dark no one had bothered to paint it black.

In his hand was a stonemason’s hammer.

I heard it then. The word buzzing through the arena.

Knave.

“There he is,” Tory said. “Their favorite.”

“Late,” Samuel muttered. “A terrible portent.”

“Stuff it.” Hamelin leaned over the railing of the king’s box, squinting.

Benji, who seemed caught between intrigue and affront, nodded at Dedrick, who nodded back. The light flickered, and the king disappeared and reappeared again, catching the Artful Brigand’s coin right in front of me, then settling into his seat.

Hands on my stomach, I leaned forward, watching the man, the knave,

settle among the black team, who swelled around him, smiling and thumping his armor. Finally, he turned, facing the king’s box with the rest of his combatants. He tilted his head upward and kept his visor low.

Slowly, he reached to his gorget. Pulled out a piece of fabric. Dragged it over the place on his helmet where his mouth ought to be, then held it up like a token. It caught the light and fluttered, as small and delicate as a pallid white moth.

The hem of my Divining robe, the number VI embroidered in the silk.

All eyes in the king’s box turned to me. “You know him?” Benji asked.

I was barely breathing. The invisible hand that had pressed against my chest on the tor was now hitting me, stirring something deep within. It wasn’t hope—I’d lost that weeks ago. But it felt a lot like it. “No.” My hands knotted. “He was a guard at Castle Luricht. I called him a knave.”

Hamelin’s lips thinned. “Clearly it stuck.”

“An interesting portent,” Samuel added.

“Knave.” Benji reached for his wine. “I like that. A villain for Dedrick to put down.” He waved at the men down in the lists, purple flags waving all around him. “Let the melee begin!”

The banner between the blue and black teams lifted, the two parts of the yard becoming one. There was a brief pause, the drums beginning again,

softer, then louder, bang, bang, bang— And all hell broke loose.

The teams collided and I lost sight of the knave, the arena now a mottled bruise of black and blue. Armor banged, shouts echoed, and the drums went on.

“A melee is a game of might, but also of cunning,” Benji said in my ear.

“If one team is to prevail over the other, they must execute discernment. It’s an art, really; stratagem at the end of a mace—”

A member of the black team swung his flail, its iron ball crashing into his opponent’s head, blood and brain matter exploding onto the arena floor.

“You were saying?” I muttered.

On my other side, Hamelin and Tory and Samuel were clapping.

Drinking. The arena was vibrating with tumult, with excitement. It reminded me of the last time I’d been here, when I’d watched the king’s men spar in the dirt, unbridled. Then, I’d been transfixed. How rousing it had been to see a knight, the spotless symbol of virtue, marred by the filth

of ruthlessness.

Now, I sat unmoving, untouched by it all.

We watched as the number of the combatants dwindled. More and more fighters dropped their weapons, the yard becoming less crowded until only six, then four, then two combatants remained. Dedrick on the blue team— And the man in black armor. The knave.

Dedrick faced his opponent, striking his own armor, shouting a war cry —a threat—beneath his helmet. He was the wider of the two, and bore the crueler weapon. When Dedrick swung his mace through the air, blood sprayed from its iron spikes, landing in spatters along the dirt and across his opponent’s breastplate. The dirt went red.

The knave’s breastplate remained an impenetrable black.

“A mace against a hammer.” Benji sucked his teeth and grinned. “Quite the spectacle.”

The two began to circle each other, and the drums grew louder. The knave was the taller of the two—but he didn’t wield his height. He bent at the knees, moving his hammer from hand to hand, like he was too lazy to bear it—or to stand to full height.

The invisible hand pressed harder over my chest.

Dedrick struck out first, swinging his mace with such terrifying force I could hear its whoosh over the drums. The knave dodged, light on his feet.

He was fast. Very fast.

Benji’s grin faded. “This knave,” he said to me, pressing his fingers together in a steeple. “What does he look like?”

“Don’t know.” My chin jerked with every movement in the arena. “He never took his helmet off.”

“Come on, Dedrick,” Hamelin shouted, his armor clinking as he leaned over the banister, hungry as the rest of the crowd for violence. “End him!”

The knave dodged another strike. Took a step back. Gave the king’s box

a fleeting wisp of his attention— And swung.

The sound of the hammer, cracking against armor, was a monstrous knell. Dedrick stumbled back, a massive dent in his right pauldron, stifling his mobility, his proficiency with his mace in his dominant hand all but diminished. He held it limp, like a deadened limb, then sprang forward, trying to catch the knave with the wide swing of his left arm, but he wasn’t

fast enough. The knave was already skirting away, his steps leaving dust, like ghosts, in his wake.

A scribe climbed the arena stairs and entered the king’s box. “Forgive the interruption, sire.” He held out a sheet of paper. “I’m told you wanted this straightaway.” He lowered his voice. “Regius Ormsby has sent the registrar from Coulson Faire.”

Benji ripped the paper from the scribe. “That jouster never came forward to claim her win. As far as I’m concerned, the gold is mine.”

In the arena, Dedrick was still swinging—another wild attack. This time, the knave answered, closing the distance between them, hitting Dedrick’s wrist so hard I heard the snap of bone from the king’s box.

He dropped his mace. Reached to his belt and drew forth the Harried Scribe’s inkwell, stirring recklessly. When he flung the ink, it caught the knave along the legs, sizzling over his greaves. Dedrick tried again, stumbling backward, trying to put enough distance between himself and his opponent to leverage a proper dousing of ink—but the knave was too fast.

He sprinted forward. Caught Dedrick at the waist.

Threw him, full force, onto the ground.

The crowd erupted. “Knave! Knave! Knave!”

Benji and I leaned forward in our chairs.

Dedrick tried to get up. The knave was already on top of him, trapping him. He struck Dedrick once more with his hammer, this time over the breastplate, then the wrist as he tried to knock the inkwell from his combatant’s hand.

The crowd was voracious. They rose from their seats, clapping and shouting. Dedrick, like a tortoise fallen on its back, struggled to right himself, to block the knave’s blows—to hold on to the inkwell. The knave held him down, leaned forward, and pinned Dedrick’s wrist to the ground.

Then he lay his other arm, like an iron bar, across Dedrick’s throat.

Dedrick kicked. Thrashed. But he was choking, held down with unrelenting force. I heard Benji’s breath go out of him, like it was his neck being pressed. The inkwell fell into the dirt, and Dedrick tapped the arena dirt three times.

Applause roared, the drum banged, and the lists emptied, every member of the black team still able to walk rushing the arena. They pulled the knave off Dedrick, lifting him and laughing with him, victory and the tail end of

bloodlust heavy in the air.

Everyone was on their feet. Even Hamelin and Tory and Samuel, even

Otto. Everyone— Save the king.

Benedict Castor sat crumpled in his chair, his wine a puddle on the floor.

His eyes were wide and glassy, his cheeks a sickly gray. He stared into the arena, mouth agape, like he’d seen a ghost.

In his hands was the registrar from Coulson Faire, and on it dozens of

names—but only one was underlined.

M. Bauer Bartholomew When the drums stopped, Benji did not stand.

I did.

A hush fell over the arena. A thousand eyes reached for me, but my gaze was fixed. “Knave.” My voice fissured like stone beneath a chisel. “Step forward.”

Just like when he’d arrived in the arena, the crowd parted for him. The knave stepped forward until he was directly under me, looking up through the dark slit in his visor.

“You’ve won the melee. Won a Divination, the title of champion, and an honorary place among us as we travel from hamlet to hamlet.” My pulse was in my ears. “Take off your helmet, that we might know you better.”

He said nothing, answering with a stillness so complete I wondered if he’d heard me. Then, slowly, he reached for his helmet. Removed it.

Black hair caught the light, and so did the three gold bands pierced into his right ear. His skin was olive but not warm. He had a prominent nose and dark brows and wore charcoal over his eyes, smudged from browbone to cheekbone. He kept his head low, his chest rising, then falling in one, two,

three breaths.

Then he looked up.

The entire Seacht gasped.

His eyes were pallid, white; the color of limestone, bereft of iris or pupil, hewn entirely of stone. Just like an Omen’s.

Just like mine.

There was blood on his bottom lip. His cheek. When the knave’s stone eyes moved from me to the king, his mouth turned in a distinct, familiar sneer.

I’d know that face anywhere. In wakefulness or in dreams, in daylight or

moonlight—in life or death—I’d know it.

Rory.

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