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  He took the papers to the side table by the window, untied the ribbon carefully, and started sorting through them. The first few were letters, some written from the mainland, some from the other Outer Isles and from other places beyond Gerd's knowledge. Apparently Jordan's Brother Knights had journeyed far. Gerd put them aside after a quick glance.

  Then there was a smaller packet of notes on paper decorated with flowers. The first began with the words, "My love," and Gerd read no more. Finally, there was a small pile of crackling vellum. Official documents, it appeared. The first was a bill of sale for a horse, and the next a record of payment for a piece of land. There was also a paper with a dangling seal, recording that Jordan Delaine, Brother of the Order of Western Knights, had completed twelve years of service and was now entitled to be called "Sir Jordan", with all the rights and privileges that the rank of knight involved. Gerd read with interest. Nobody was called "sir" now except for the Captain. He wondered when that had ceased.

  Finally, there was a large square of parchment, folded twice, and Gerd unfolded it with care. It was covered on the inside with writing, densely packed with small square blocky letters in the old style, so that it was difficult to read. He stared at it.

  It was a copy of the Charter of the Order of the Western Knights.

  *

  "It says that there has to be a meeting every year at midsummer that the whole company attends. It says every member of the company has the right to speak and the right to vote at the meeting." Gerd watched Corporal Sankey's face. It showed only blank lack of interest. "It says that any member of the company who has a complaint against another has the right to have the complaint heard by the meeting. Including complaints about the food. Or the fees. Or the Captain himself." Sankey grunted. His face remained as it had been.

  Gerd felt the need almost to reach out and shake him. "Don't you see?" he asked. "It means that the Captain can't just ignore what we say, or throw any man out of the Company just because he complains. That's what the Charter says, anyway. The Charter we all swore to obey and uphold."

  "Aye? And how do you know that this is the Charter?" Sankey's face showed only stubbornness. "It's just an old piece of parchment. What's to say you didn't make it up? Or whoever you got it from made it up?"

  Gerd held on to his temper with an effort. From one point of view, Sankey was right. "Well, you tell me what the Charter is, then. Where is it, if this isn't it? And if you don't know, who does?" Sankey shrugged, sullenly. Gerd followed up. "And if nobody knows where it is or what it says, how come we have to swear oaths to abide by it?"

  Sankey shrugged again, but this time there was an uneasiness in the gesture. "You ask too many questions. Soldiers shouldn't ask so many."

  "Soldiers? I thought we were knights, brother knights."

  "It's another word for the same thing," said Sankey, but Gerd could hear the uncertainty there, too.

  "Is it, now?" Gerd's voice was flat.

  Sankey only looked down, frowning. It was make-and-mend that afternoon, and he was patching an old pair of breeches - he was clever with a needle. He turned the breeches over and started on the other side, saying nothing.

  Gerd folded up the square of parchment again and thrust it back under his tunic. He sat considering for a moment, but then he stood up. He had been sitting on his locker, but now he opened it and rummaged inside. At the bottom he found the dagger that Alissa had made for him, and he pulled it out, still in its sheath, and weighed it in his hand for a moment. Then he unclasped his belt and threaded it through the frog above the sheath, so that the dagger rode at his hip, with Alissa's mark clear on the pommel.

  Sankey watched him. For a moment his mouth turned down and his eyebrows lifted, but then his face settled into blankness again. He stabbed at his breeches with the needle. Gerd drew the dagger and inspected the blade, finding it clean and free of rust. He reached over, unrolled his cleaning kit, wiped the blade with an oily rag, and then set himself to sharpening it. Corporal Sankey darted a glance under his brows at Gerd's hands as they drew the stone deliberately up and down the edge. He might have shaken his head a finger's-breadth, but he said no more

  11

  Parade next morning. Kit inspection for Gerd's squad, as on every Thursday morning. Gerd had taken care. Everything was there, and everything was clean, cared for and properly laid out. His mail had been scoured with fine dry sand, dusted off and lightly oiled. Helmet, leather, spear, shield, field-pack, bed-roll, all correct. His sword, the best piece of steel in the company, hung at his left hip.

  Captain Mannon walked slowly between the two inward-facing lines, each man standing by his bed. Kit inspection took place in barracks, in this case on the upper floor of the keep. The footlockers stood open, their contents exposed to view. Gerd had always put the dagger at the bottom before, rolled up in a piece of oilcloth. Now it balanced the sword on his belt.

  The captain flicked eyes over the kit, weapons and gear of each man. Mostly he said nothing, but now and then he dropped a short word or two, often to Corporal Sankey, who walked beside him. "Leather needs oil," or "spots on tabard," or "Burford, you got that shield regripped. About time."

  He worked his way up one row and down the other. Each man stood up straight as the Captain passed, shoulders back, head erect, hands at the sides, the way they'd been drilled. So did Gerd, when Captain Mannon came to him.

  Gerd was taller than Captain Mannon by three fingers, but he did not stare at a point over his head. He looked the Captain in the eyes. But the Captain was not looking at Gerd's face. Not at first.

  His eyes moved from the shield, mail and helmet laid out on the bedroll to the spear leaning against the wall. They flicked briefly over the contents of the footlocker, then they scanned Gerd's tabard. That was all the Company equipment, and the rest was Gerd's own gear. A single glance took in the baldric, belt and sidearm.

  Captain Mannon had said nothing. He had already begun to turn away. His feet had already begun to move. His gaze had slid past, but suddenly it stopped moving, and his eyes turned sharply back.

  He halted in mid-turn, looking at the dagger. Then his stare moved upward, to Gerd's face, and for a moment he stared into it. Gerd returned the stare expressionlessly, his face wooden as a puppet's.

  The Captain's eyes narrowed for a moment. He frowned. Then his jaw shifted, and he nodded to himself. "Corporal," he said, and his stare dropped to the dagger again, before returning to Gerd's face. "Improper equipment. Three days' kitchen fatigues."

  "Sir," said Sankey, stolid as a statue.

  Gerd said nothing at all. His face had not changed, not by a twitch. He stood and stared at the Captain's face, and the Captain stared back for a long, bristling moment. Then Captain Mannon nodded to himself again, stepped back, turned, and passed on down the line.

  Sankey followed, but as he passed he glanced fleetingly at Gerd's face, and Gerd thought to read the slightest hint of an apology there, just for a moment. Then the corporal glowered, turned his shoulder, and walked stiffly away, following the Captain.

  *

  Scouring pots that had been blackened by the cookhouse fire was actually quite restful work, not requiring thought. Sand and water were enough to get them bright again, and the motions of his hands became automatic after a while. Gerd could watch and think. From just outside the cookhouse door, he could see the comings and goings, and yet he was hardly noticed at all. Who notices a scullion?

  He could count the barrels of salted herrings being unloaded from the cart, and overhear the conversation between the cook and the carter. Twelve barrels, they said, and that was right. But in two days the cook and his helper rolled only nine into the kitchen to steep in fresh water, to serve for supper. The other three barrels were loaded on a hand-barrow, and at the day's end the cook's helper trundled them back towards the town.

  It would be market-day tomorrow. Gerd wondered how many times those herrings had been sold.

  Sacks of flour for the bread ration were d
elivered from the mill. It was easy to count them, for flour sacks were made of canvas, close-woven to keep the flour in. They were kept after being emptied, and sent back to be re-used. There were other full sacks delivered as well, but these were made of coarse burlap. Their contents were sweepings and chaff, but that found its way into the bread as well - and the cook was counting them as flour.

  Field had been right. Three straight days watching had shown it. Gerd looked down at his notes, the neat columns of figures. It was proof positive. Now all he had to do was to get someone to believe it.

  Tuesday morning saw the usual foot patrol out to Iersay and back, to check with the watch-tower on the east point. The tower was no more than a stone needle thrusting up on the last rise before the sea, with a heavy door reachable only by a ladder, three fortified floors and a guard walk at the top, with stones ready to drop. It would require a determined assault and proper siege engines to take it, but there was nothing worth looting. The three-man watch there had nothing to report. Not a sail in a week, they said. Unusual for this time of year - it was already the trading season.

  The watch was changed. The relieved men fell in with the returning column, and three others were left in their place for a week. The duty was unpopular, for there was nothing to do except stare at the horizon, there wasn't a farmhouse within five miles, and the tower was bare and comfortless. Cold, too, in winter, and even now the wind wailed in the corners. There wasn't much firewood available, and the guard was absolutely forbidden to touch the iron basket full of driftwood on the top of the tower. Oil was kept at hand, to fire the beacon if a raider came over the horizon.

  And Thursday was kit inspection again.

  The weather was dry, this time, and the section was paraded outside, for a change. The bedrolls had been turned out, emptied of their straw, boiled, and hung in the sun. Each man wore his full equipment, with spear and shield, and they stood in rigid lines while the Captain paced between them.

  Again Gerd had taken trouble. His mail gleamed, his spearhead was polished and sharpened, and his leather shone. All his kit was set up with painful exactness. Again he braced as the Captain came to him, snapping the spear upright, and again he stared into the Captain's face.

  Again he was wearing the dagger.

  This time Captain Mannon hardly glanced at the rest of the kit. His eyes went straight to the dagger's hilt. Then he stepped back. "You seem to be a little slow on the uptake, Penrose," he said, coldly.

  Gerd said nothing, staring unmoving into the Captain's face.

  Captain Mannon's eyes narrowed. "Maybe you like to do kitchen fatigues, Penrose. I could make it the latrine instead, if you want."

  "Permission to speak, sir?" asked Gerd. His face still had not changed.

  "Well?"

  "The Captain seems to be concerned about my dagger."

  Captain Mannon flicked it a glance. "It's poor quality. I told you that before. Brassy. Soft. Showy. Effeminate, I'd say. No knight should be wearing such a thing."

  "Sir, everyone needs an eating knife. And it's my own, not the Company's."

  "So? Every man must have a proper standard of kit. That's regulations."

  "Yes, sir. Sir, regulations also say that the standard is laid down in the Charter. Perhaps the Captain would be good enough to point out what the Charter says about it, so that I know what's required."

  "I don't need to check the Charter, Penrose. I know what it says."

  "Perhaps the Captain would allow me to know, too. After all, sir, I did swear to uphold it. We all did." Gerd didn't take his eyes off the Captain's face, but he could see other faces in the background. Others were listening.

  Captain Mannon stepped back. "Oh, I see now. A barrack-room lawyer."

  Gerd allowed a look of honest puzzlement to cross his face. "Beg pardon, sir. Does the Captain mean that a Brother should not know what the Charter says?"

  Someone in the line behind coughed. It sounded false, as if it was meant to be a comment. Captain Mannon's eyes glittered. He inclined his head towards Sankey. "For improper equipment, four days latrine fatigues. For insolence, seven days extra heavy pack drill."

  Sankey's eyes shifted back and forth. "Sir," he said.

  Captain Mannon stared into Gerd's face. Gerd said nothing, returning stare for stare, but openly, without heat. The Captain seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but Gerd said nothing more and moved not at all, simply standing like a rock. Eventually the Captain turned on his heel and strode away, with Sankey in his wake.

  *

  “I told you,” said Sankey. “Didn’t I tell you?” He spoke almost under his breath, just loud enough for Gerd to hear him. Gerd gave no sign that he had. He reached the limit of the square, marching stolidly forward, spear upright against his shoulder, shield on the arm across his chest, full pack on his back. “Penrose, right about… tu’n!” The last words were bellowed.

  Gerd executed an exact turn and marched back the opposite way. Now he was facing towards Alissa’s shop, which was closed. Alissa had gone up the mountain to bargain with a man over the price of her heavy tools and the forge.

  Gerd had been doing this for an hour, and he was sweating freely. The first warm weather had arrived, and his pack was heavy. His legs and arms and back were aching. He marched forward, the chape of his scabbard tapping his calf at every stride, the regular beat exactly matching the jingle of his mail and the creak of his leather.

  “What did you want to do something like that for?” asked Sankey, as Gerd passed him again. “D’ye think I like standing out here in the sun shouting my face off?”

  Gerd said nothing and marched on. His face showed nothing. Sankey watched his back as he receded towards the opposite edge of the square again, and it was Sankey’s face that seemed to show defeat. He grimaced and shook his head again, counting steps. “Penrose, halt! All right. Now, we’ll go through the spear-drill once more…”

  Ten minutes later, Gerd could sit down on the bench by the wall and pour his full water-bottle over his head. Sankey watched him sourly, standing over him, arms folded. “I suppose you think there’s a point to this,” he said, the words coming slowly.

  “Yes, Corp,” said Gerd. He drank the last of his water, put the water-bottle down on the bench beside him, and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I do, actually,” he added.

  “Well, would you mind telling me what you think it is?” Again the words came reluctantly, with a fierce glare.

  Gerd didn’t move. His eyes stayed closed. “Well, now, Corp. The point is that the Captain is punishing a man. Every Brother who heard him knows why – it’s for not paying him a kickback, and for asking why he should have to. Sooner or later most of them will start to ask where’s this justice we’re supposed to be sworn to protect.” His eyes opened and he stared Sankey in the face. “Some of them are asking that already. Of themselves, if nobody else. So far.”

  Sankey’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “I’m going to get a drink myself, Penrose. Thirsty work you’ve put me to. Then you’ve got another half an hour to go. And the same tomorrow, and the next day.” He drew himself up. “I just hope you think it’s worth it.”

  Gerd made no reply. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes again.

  *

  "What's going on?" asked Alissa, three days later.

  "Nothing." Gerd sipped his ale gratefully. His face was looking leaner again, the hard bones showing under the taut skin. The day had been warm, but with a west wind that had dried his sweat, once his pack was off. Summer had come.

  Alissa put her mug down. " 'Nothing', nothing. Do you think I haven't got eyes? I come back from bargaining with Harald, and there you are, pounding the square like a toy soldier, except you're loaded like a pack mule. What are you…?"

  "How's the bow going? Still practising with it?"

  Alissa made to wave the question away, but Gerd continued to stare in enquiry. She glanced around. The inn was noisy, but they sat
outside in the sunshine, and nobody was in earshot. "I'm hitting a blaze on a fir-tree at sixty paces four times out of five now. The only problem is cutting the bolts out again."

  "Bolts?"

  "That's what the Sarcen called its arrows, and that's right, you know. They're short and thick like a bolt." She shook her head. "I tried it with a piece of mail hung on the tree, too. It's a piece of mail with a hole in it, now. I think it'd go through a shield just as easy."

  Gerd's eyebrows climbed. He said nothing.

  Alissa sipped, and reflected. "I'll take it with me when I leave. It's the best piece of work I've ever done."

  "You're going to the mainland?"

  She shook her head. "Walse. The Wizard's Isle. I've decided to take Granny's advice."

  "Ah," said Gerd. He seemed to consider. Then: "Don't sell up for too little. It's worth quite a bit, your business. You've got a good name."