The Knight

“I’d have to, wouldn’t I? I mean if she cornered me. She’d say, ‘I know perfectly well you can talk, Mani, and if you won’t talk to me I’ll have my father’s archers use you for practice.’ Then I’d say, ‘Oh, My Lady, please!’ And the fat would be in the fire.”

“Okay,” I decided, “you may talk to her when there’s no one else around. Except for me. You may talk to her when I’m there, or Gylf.”

Mani made me a mock bow. “My Lord.”

“Don’t do that. It reminds me of Uri and Baki, and I don’t like it when they do it.”

“Your wish is mine, Great Owner.”

I knew Mani was trying to get my goat, but it was hard not to laugh. I said, “In return for being so nice to you, I’d like you to answer a few questions. Will you?”

“Anything, More Than Divine Master.”

“You told me once you weren’t from Aelfrice. Do you stand by that?”

“Correct.”

“Are you from Skai, then?”

“I’m afraid not.” Mani began to wash his right front paw, a small and surprisingly neat pink tongue darting in and out of his large, scarred face. “Wouldn’t it be simpler to ask what world I was born in?”

“Then I do.” I picked up my hauberk and wiggled into it.

“Just out of curiosity, do you intend to wear that when you shoot against Sir Garvaon?”

“Yes. I do.”

“What in the world do—well, all right. Back to the subject, Mani. I was born right here in Mythgarthr, although I’ve been to Aelfrice a couple of times. Next you’ll want to know how it is that I can talk. I don’t know. Some of us can, though not very many. Some dogs can, even, but not all of you can understand us. My late mistress knew how to give a talking spirit, and she gave one to me.”

“You’re saying Gylf was born here, too.”

A man-at-arms thrust his head into the tent. “They’re about ready for you, Sir Able.”

“I’ll be out in a moment,” I told him.

“I’m not saying that,” Mani said when the man-at-arms had gone, “and I don’t think it’s true. I’ve never seen him eat his own droppings, for one thing.”

I put on Sword Breaker. “I was once told that no one could travel more than one world from the one that he—or she—was born in.” Mani nodded. “One hears all sorts of things.”

“I’ve learned since that it isn’t true. You were a witch’s cat, so you ought to know all about it. Will you tell me? The truth?”

“If you insist. First I ought to say that you shouldn’t be mad at the person who told you that. He was just trying to keep you from getting in over your head.” Mani smirked. “Here are the facts. You can believe me or not, whatever you choose.”

I found my bow and strung it. “Go on.”

“In theory,” Mani said smugly, “anybody can travel to any of the seven worlds. You can’t go lower than the first, though, or higher than the last, because there’s nothing below or above to go to.”

“I understand.”

“In practice, it’s hard to go up but easy to go down, just like climbing a hill. Do you have much trouble getting to Aelfrice?”

“My problem is staying out of it,” I said.

“Exactly. You wouldn’t have much trouble going from Aelfrice all the way down, either. But you might never get back.”

Nodding, I picked up my quiver and left the pavilion.

Garvaon met me. “We’ve all shot except you,” he said. “You and I are to have five arrows each. Did Lord Beel tell you what the prize was?”

I shook my head.

“It’s a helmet, a particularly nice one with a lot of gold trim. Not gilt, gold.”

“That’s good, I’ve lost mine.”

“I know. When we fought the big men.”

I nodded again.

“So His Lordship thinks you’re going to win, and has put up this helmet for you.”

We had been striding along, and had reached the crowd that had collected to watch us shoot, archers and men-at-arms, servants, and muleteers. Beyond their milling ranks, I saw the prize helmet atop a pole, and Beel himself.

“So I propose a side bet between you and me,” Garvaon was saying. “A boon. If you win, I’ll be honor bound to do you whatever favor you ask. When I win—and I warn you I will—you’ll owe me a favor in the same way.”

“Done,” I said.

We shook hands, smiling, and walked through the crowd shoulder-to-shoulder. There was an embroidered banner hanging from the trumpet Master Crol blew, turning north, east, south, and west, and holding the notes so the silvery challenge of civilized war filled the mountain valley and echoed from rock to rock. When he finally took the trumpet from his lips, he shouted, “Sir Garvaon of Finefield! Sir Able of the High Heart!”

At this last, the string of my bow seemed to catch the sound, humming as the strings of a lute do when the orchestra speaks without her.

I’m a knight, I thought. I am a real knight at last, and there’s no one here who wouldn’t swear to that.

I stood a little straighter then, looked up, and squared my shoulders; and for the first time really realized that I overtopped Garvaon by a good three fingers, though Garvaon’s conical steel cap made him look taller than I was.