The Steel Remains

Suddenly he was wondering how Grace-of-Heaven looked these days. If he still had the goatee, if he’d shaved his skull ahead of incipient baldness, the way he always said he would.

Uh-oh.

With a mother’s eye, Ishil saw the moment pivot in him. Perhaps she knew it before he did himself. Something changed in her face, a barely perceptible softening of the kohl-defined features, like an artist’s thumb rubbing along sketch lines he’d drawn too harshly. Ringil glanced up and caught it happening. He rolled his eyes, made a long-suffering face. Ishil’s lips parted.

“No, don’t.” He held up an advisory hand. “Just. Don’t.”

His mother said nothing, but she smiled.

IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG TO PACK. HE WENT UP TO HIS ROOM, TORE through it like an irritable whirlwind, and flung a dozen items into a knapsack. Mostly, it was books.

Back down in the residents’ bar, he retrieved the Ravensfriend and the Kiriath scabbard from their place above the fireplace. By now there were people about, tavern staff and guests both, and the ones who knew him gaped as he took the sword down. The scabbard felt strange as he hefted it; it was the first occasion in a long time that he’d unpinned it from the mountings. He’d forgotten how light it was. He pulled about a handbreadth of blade free, held it up to the light, and squinted along the edge for a moment before he realized there was no real purpose to the action and he was just posturing. His mood shifted minutely. A tiny smile leaked from the corner of his mouth, and with it came a gathering sense of motion he hadn’t expected to feel.

He parked scabbard and sword over one shoulder, held his knapsack dangling in the other hand, and wandered back to the dining chamber, where they were clearing away the remains of Ishil’s entourage’s food. The landlord stopped with a tray in each meaty hand and added his gape to the collection.

“What are you doing?” he asked plaintively.

“Change of scenery, Jhesh.” Ringil shifted the knapsack up onto his other shoulder and clapped the man briskly on one apron-swathed flank. It was like patting a side of ham. “I’m taking a couple of months off. Going to winter in Trelayne. Should be back well before the spring.”

“But, but, but . . .” Jhesh scrabbled for purchase and a measure of politeness. “I mean, what about your room?”

“Oh. Rent it. If you can.”

The politeness started to evaporate. “And your tab?”

“Ah yes.” Ringil lifted a finger for a moment’s indulgence and went to the door into the courtyard. “Mother?”

They left Jhesh at the door, counting the money with less enthusiasm than the amount involved should have warranted. Ringil followed Ishil’s regal trail to the carriage and swung himself up into the unaccustomed luxury of the interior. Woven silk paneling on the inside of walls and door, glass in the windows, a small ornate lantern slung from the roof. A profusion of cushions scattered across two facing bench seats broad and long enough to serve as beds, padded footrests tucked underneath. A hamper on the floor in one corner along with flasks and goblets. Ishil leaned herself into one corner and sighed with relief as the last lady-in-waiting scrambled aboard.

“At last! What you see in this place, Ringil, I’ll never understand. I’ll swear none of those people has bathed properly in a week.”

He shrugged. She wasn’t far out. Heated baths were an out-and-out luxury in places like Gallows Water. And this time of year, bathing down at the river was fast becoming an unattractive proposition.

“Well, Mother, it’s the common herd, you know. Since the League implemented the bathhouse tax, they’ve just lost all interest in personal hygiene.”

“Ringil, I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well, don’t. These people are my friends.” A thought struck him, the meager grain of truth at the center of the lie. He stopped the lady-in-waiting as she tried to close the door. He hooked a hold on the top edge of the door, leaned out and forward, and just managed to prod the coachman’s booted calf. The man jumped and raised a fist clenched around a whip butt as he looked around for the source of the affront. When he saw who’d touched him, the arm dropped as if severed, and he went white.

“Oh, gods, your worthiness, I’m so sorry.” The words choked out of him. “I didn’t mean—that is, I thought—please, I’m so sorry.”

Your worthiness?

That was going to take some getting used to again.

“Right, right. Don’t let it happen again.” Ringil gestured, vague directions with his free hand. “Look, I want you to swing by the graveyard on the way out of town. There’s a blue house there, on the corner. Stop outside.”

“Yes, your worthiness.” The man couldn’t get himself back around to face the horses fast enough. “Right away, sir. Right away.”

Ringil hinged back into the carriage and pulled the door closed. He ignored his mother’s inquiring look. Finally, when they’d clattered out of the courtyard and picked up the street, she had to ask.