You couldn't pay me to write this stuff! Literally. Because that would be intellectual property theft.

Knight, Interrupted

by katyclismic

Chapter 7:In the Heat of the Knight

Returning to the chapterhouse, Bevier gave curt acknowledgment to the many questions on the lips of his brothers-in-arms. His inability to free Shanpu was infuriating and slightly baffling. It was rare that a show of force didn't produce at least some results, but he was coming back from his interview with little more information than he went in with. In the privacy of his own room, Bevier let go of a snarl that had been building during the journey back. He shed his armor with a series of bangs that was quite satisfying in a primal sort of way, even if he felt rather silly immediately after.

He noticed the book and slate that he had intended to loan to Shanpu were stacked neatly on his bunk. He had forgotten them in his haste to track the girl, but he was grateful for whichever brother had returned them. Bevier put each back precisely on the shelf, meditative, then slipped into the traditional cassock and left to find his superior.

Dagan soon intercepted Bevier and ushered him into his study. "You were unsuccessful, then," Dagan began gravely. "I feared that it might take more than a single meeting to sway these 'councilors.' "

"Have you met them?" Bevier asked, crossing his arms. "Something very strange is going on at the palace, Sir Dagan. It feels entirely wrong."

Dagan's eyebrows lifted, but he gave a half-nod of agreement. "That is what I gathered, as well. You did not see the king." It was not a question.

"Has anyone? I had of course heard that he was lacking in wits, but he seems to be entirely absent."

"He hasn't been seen since the coronation, where he was far enough away that we could hardly tell if he was a male, much less a fit heir. I fear these cousins may be meddling more in court affairs than I had allowed myself to believe," Dagan sighed.

Bevier paced across the stone floor. "There has to be something that the Order can do. Religious sanctuary?" Bevier muttered.

"Usually the party concerned has to share the religion in question, Sir Bevier," Dagan noted dryly. "Unless the girl has abandoned her heathen ways in the last week or two."

Bevier ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "What, then? Short of sneaking in and stealing her away..." he trailed off at Dagan's quelling look.

"The Order simply cannot agitate too noticeably against the new Baron, something his advisers not only knew but planned on, unless I miss my guess. Hursa is itching to issue an edict or two against the Order," Dagan snorted. "No, Bevier, we must rely on diplomacy in this round. You said they seemed unduly concerned with a Rendorish invasion?" Bevier nodded. Dagan sat for moment, muttering, "Unlikely, and yet a widely-held concern… what purpose could they have in keeping the girl? Does she holds some secret that would profit them?"

Bevier shook his head before Dagan even finished speaking. "Miss Shanpu is an innocent, Sir Dagan, I'm absolutely certain. She is here by mistake, not design."

"Not to her knowledge, anyway," Dagan interjected. Silence reigned for a moment while they considered the implications of this.

Bevier said slowly, "The timing is not exactly unremarkable,I admit."

"Now more than ever, I feel that there is something deeply important about her presence here," Dagan said, "even if she does not know it herself. We must retrieve her." He pushed himself up out of the chair and poured himself another glass of wine. "And yet, the new Baron may not realize what he has in his cells, either. Until we know more, we must assume that Hursa and Jupta are trying to tweak our noses, and no more. And that means more negotiation."

Bevier groaned, but quietly. "I suppose it's too much to hope that she escapes somehow." He leaned against the narrow window, looking out at a skyline dim with the last of the twilight. "I've missed Arcium," he said wistfully, "but so much has changed while I was away."

"You're more right than you know," said Dagan pointedly. Bevier looked back at him, surprised at the lighter tone. Dagan shook his head. "I doubt you see it, Sir Bevier, but I remember a time when you would have cracked the skulls of anyone who barred your path to justice. I think you may have actually picked up some temperance somewhere in those heathen lands."

Unsure of how to take this, Bevier began to protest, "You did tell me-"

Dagan flipped a hand, dismissing the whole strange tangent. "Just an observation; pay me no mind, Sir Bevier. I think our first step must be to discover the source of their antagonism toward the church. If we can defuse the situation - or unearth a bargaining chip - they may simply let her go free."

Bevier tapped his fingers against the window ledge, frowning. The idea had merit, but he could see one jarring flaw. "What if their hostility is based on something we can't defuse?"

Dagan steepled his fingers, looking particularly severe. "It's the best course we have at the moment, Sir Bevier. Frontal sieges may be our national specialty, but this situation calls for a little more subtlety."

Bevier sighed. "Beheading is so much faster."

"But harder to get out of the carpet," Dagan replied wryly.

The Champion snorted. "I didn't realize you had met Queen Ehlena."

"I haven't, but some stories do get around." The two shared a smile at the quirks of their royal neighbor, but the humor in Dagan's face quickly faded. "Given that we know little about Hursa and Jupta except that they are bureaucrats, I think the University might be our first stop."

"Assuming that they attended. Jupta is not what I would call bookish," Bevier mused.

Dagan snorted. "A fair enough assessment. What we've seen of Hursa's methods indicates that he had scholarly training, however."

Bevier nodded, ever aware of how much time was passing as they talked. "I should be able to find some of his old professors awake even at this hour, if their habits haven't changed in the last few years. You'll excuse me, Sir Dagan."

"Willingly. Godspeed, Sir Bevier," he said, nodding in farewell.

Bevier bowed and shut the door behind him, leaving the hallway abruptly cut off from the warm firelight. The dim, grey stone of the hallway was illuminated only by the ambient moonlight leaking in from the narrow windows, and he welcomed the sudden feeling of isolation and clarity. Heading down the stairs, he heaved a sigh at the thought of the footwork to follow. Why are the answers always hidden behind a maze of associations? he brooded silently.

A short ride took him to the other side of the city, where the university belltower cast a long moon-shadow over the lawn. It had been several years since he had stepped foot on campus, not since his younger brother had stopped attending. Neither of them had liked university life, though for vastly different reasons, and it had bothered his mother to no end that none of her boys were successful scholars. Bevier blew out a breath at that particular reminiscence and marshaled his thoughts to the task at hand.

Most of his old professors would still be in residence, he hoped, since change here moved at a glacial pace. He knew of one theoretician who hadn't taught any new material for over thirty years. He counted on that inertia now, as he made his way to the rooms of Astronomy Professor Ithlis.

Despite his age, the wrinkled and bearded old man was still up and star-charting when Bevier interrupted him. Ithlis' muttered litany about inconsiderate younglings didn't pause when he saw the gleaming white of the Cyrinic tabard, nor when he recognized his former pupil. His comments merely got more personal.

"-should know better at your age, Sir Knight, can't get a moment's peace. Aren't you supposed to be protecting the old and weak, not bothering them? No respect these days, no respect at all-"

It took Bevier a moment to remember that the old man would go on indefinitely if he wasn't interrupted. Sense of propriety cringing, he overrode the other's comments, "Good to see you again, Professor. I won't take much of your time."

"-more than I can say for most of these young pups. What is it, what is it then? Can't see that the Church wants to do much with the stars-"

"I'm looking for a student from quite a few years ago, and I thought you might remember one. His name's Hursa."

"-Hursa, Hursa, no, can't say I remember such a lad. What's he look like? Not that it matters these days, all these young bravos look the same, year after year-"

"It would've been perhaps a decade ago. Brown hair and eyes, very average-looking, perhaps on the short side."

"-ha, what, compared to you maybe?"

Bevier shrugged one shoulder. "Granted. This Hursa's a weaselly fellow, though. He has a tendency to laugh at everything you say."

"-no bells , no bells, apologies. Did he have a specialty? Maybe try one of the linguists, Sir Bevier, that Tanic has a good mind for faces, not for much else, ha! or he wouldn't be studying words we already know, would he? Students like him, though, true enough, brings 'em in every year-"

"Many thanks, Professor Ithlis," Bevier said over the continued muttering. He bowed and showed himself out, the professor waving a vague goodbye and returning to his telescope, still complaining to himself. Bevier shook his head as he walked toward the arts building, thinking, I didn't think it possible, butIthlis has actually gotten worse. I wonder if he still gets students.

Tanic. He was on the third floor. The class had been one of Bevier's favorites, and his feet knew the way instinctively. Though the building was the same limestone edifice that he tromped through when he was younger, it seemed less intimidating now. The halls were smaller and darker, with visible wear from the hundreds of students that passed through every year.

Tanic's rooms were toward the dark end of the long hall, torches obviously being hoarded by some zealous housekeeper. Bevier waited patiently for his knock to be answered, listening in bemusement to the various thumps, cursing, rustles and crashes that heralded the arrival of the professor. Though less ancient than Ithlis, Tanis was well past the prime of his life, and the bush of hair haloing him in fuzzy glory didn't quite make up for what was missing from his pate. He squinted at Bevier myopically. "Yes?"

Bevier smiled, the seriousness of his mission dismissed for a moment at the sight. "Professor Tanic. Could I have a moment?"

Tanic blinked for a moment. "Bevier?" he asked. "Heavens, it is you. Come in, come in." The door wouldn't open all the way, being blocked by a tower of parchment, but Bevier eased inside after the professor. The lanky old man bustled papers off of a chair, and invited him to sit. "Tea? Kettle's here somewhere. No? Very well, what can I do for you, m'boy?"

The lack of title made Bevier blink, but Tanic had never bothered to observe such things. Bevier got right to the point. "I'm looking for a student that you may have had a decade ago or so. Brown hair and eyes, average-looking, sort of obnoxious. His name's Hursa."

"Few people are, in fact, average-looking," Tanic said thoughtfully. "We have enough facial markers that almost everyone fails to be average in some way. Overlarge teeth, a long nose, wide eyes… perfectly average, you say? None of these things. Dear me…" He paced for a moment, hand on his chin. Bevier eyed the papers leaning against his chair, fully expecting an avalanche at any moment.

"He laughs at things that aren't funny, if that helps," he added.

Tanic blinked and snapped his fingers. "Hartha. Of course."

Bevier shook his head. "Hursa, actually. It could be the same man, though."

Tanic was shaking his head. "No, I distinctly remember his name as Hartha. Came from northern Arcium, by his accent. Disappeared into the family estates after graduation. Couldn't tell you much more than that."

Bevier frowned. He trusted Tanic's memory, but he couldn't afford to start tracking the wrong man. "Do you have a bowl of water handy?"

Tanic blinked. "Whatever for? Never mind, you'll show me. Would a ewer do?" It took them a bit of searching, but Bevier finally unearthed a wooden saucer broad enough to sustain the image spell. After a few muttered words of Styric, a wavy picture of Hursa appeared across the surface. Tanic squinted at it for a moment, but nodded. "That's him. Hasn't changed much."

Bevier sat back down, relieved and pleased that his search had finally yielded fruit. "Excellent. So, 'Hartha' was a linguistics student?"

"Oh, no," the professor shook his head emphatically. "Rhetoric focus. The boy could talk the birds out of the trees, and make them think it was their idea. Annoyed everyone he talked to."

Bevier snorted. "Definitely the same man. Do you recall if he had a brother here?"

Tanic shook his head again. "Never showed. Angered some of the other teachers, having that promised tuition disappear. Bad luck," he commented, a little too cheerfully. Obviously the other professors' pain failed to bother him much.

"From the north, you said?" Bevier asked thoughtfully. "Can you give me a family name?"

"Sorry, he wasn't terribly forthcoming with family details. We don't ask too many questions about family connections," said Tanic, his tone dry. The presence of "younger sons" and other euphemistic relations in the scholarly profession was not unfamiliar to Bevier.

"Do you know of any friends he may have had? Someone else surely must have known him better," Bevier pressed.

"Wasn't terribly popular, I'm afraid. Some of his other teachers may have known him better, but you'd have to track the rhetoricians down in the daytime." Tanic tapped his chin for a moment in thought. "Had a few servants who might know. One was a quite tall fellow," Tanic motioned vaguely above his head, "with a great burn covering his face. Lurv, or something." The professor thought for a moment longer. "Had a horse boy for a while, but one of the other students winkled him away. Quite a dust-up. Better wages, I daresay; dead easy in the purse, ol' Crumbly."

Bevier's lips twitched. "Who would that be?"

"Crumbin. Baronet now, actually. Nice chap, if a bit dense."

With that Bevier had to be satisfied for the night. It had gotten very late indeed by the time he made it back to the chapterhouse, the watch calling a sleepy greeting to him as he passed. Ascending the stairs dragged as much as it did back during training, but now his knees creaked alarmingly. "Getting old," he muttered to himself. A dreary thought.

Sleep called to him as he stretched out gratefully on his bed, but his mind wouldn't settle. Plans for the next morning clamored for attention against the worrisome images of Shanpu being held hostage, scared and alone. Bevier kept trying to convince himself that it would not be politically expedient for them to harm her, and she would take care of herself. Yet he couldn't banish the feeling that he was supposed to protect her, and that he had failed utterly.

Bevier opened his eyes, resigned. The residual moonlight did not illuminate enough of the ceiling to make out any details, yet it still reminded him of the inn where they last stayed. His eyes slid sideways, where there wasn't a cot, nor a sleeping girl. He frowned at the thought. Their travel arrangements had been irregular at best, and when she got back she still wouldn't sleep anywhere near him at night.

That was almost more depressing. He tried very hard to turn his thoughts to something that had nothing to do with blue-haired aliens. Sleep was a long time coming.

.o.

The baronet was well known in the tourney circle, though the other gentlemen generally dismissed him as a good-natured buffoon, affability making up for ineptitude. It didn't take Bevier more than a few hours the next morning to track down his residence in the fashionable end of the city. It matched the rest of the block for ostentatious display, though the architect hadn't gone so far as to sacrifice defensibility. The artist in Bevier could appreciate gilded rococo, even if his practical side was more impressed with the thickness of the iron-studded front door.

A well-dressed older servant answered the door, expression wavering at the sight of a Church Knight looming on his front step. "Sir Knight?" he inquired, voice admirably level.

"Good day. I am in search of Baronet Crumbin."

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir Knight." He really did sound apologetic. "He is not currently in residence. Do you wish to leave a message?"

"I would rather his current whereabouts, or barring that his date of return," Bevier said, trying to hide his irritation at the delay.

"M'Lord is at his hunting lodge, several days journey east. I'm afraid he did not plan to return before the snows hit, Sir Knight." The footman's eyes wandered to Bevier's hands, clutching impatiently at his weapons. "Could I perhaps be of some assistance to the good Knight?"

Bevier hesitated, and searched the man's eyes. There was a genuine respect there, something that seemed all too rare in the city recently. "Perhaps," he said, making his decision. "I'm actually more interested in a boy he hired, over a decade ago. I'm trying to track down the lad's previous master, and this is the only lead I have." The servant made sympathetic noises, and Bevier continued, "The Baronet apparently won his service on a bet, back when he was at the University-" He halted, seeing recognition in the other man's eyes.

"Of course! Young Petar. His story is well-known in the household. He was as glad to come here as we were of him. He's the master of the horse now, has a real touch with them. I also regret to say that he is, naturally, with the Baronet at his lodge."

"Naturally," Bevier said grimly. "I may need to get directions from you, then."

"Certainly, Sir Knight," he agreed. "Although…" he said thoughtfully, looking back into the dimly lit hall. "I believe, if you're looking for his previous master, there may be someone else who can help you." He disappeared briefly into the shadows but returned before Bevier had time to wonder where. "If you would step inside for a moment, I will return shortly. Someone will attend your horse."

Turning, Bevier saw that a liveried boy had already taken the reigns of his destrier. He gave a low whistle, ensuring that it would go quietly with the lad, and stepped into the hallway. His helpful new friend had already turned up the lamps so it wasn't quite so dark, and led him to a receiving room down the hall.

Waiting for this mysterious source of information, Bevier took in the overstuffed grandeur of the furnishings and decorations, some more tasteful than others. A stuffed kit fox with an unlikely expression of fury half-hid behind a massive gold vase, both balanced precariously on vaguely table-like confection of gilt rococo. There were matching tables scattered around the room, with similarly odd artifacts adorning each surface. The knight stood stiffly by the door, leery of destroying the Baronet's keepsakes, however much they made him cringe.

He did not wait long. An elderly woman was ushered in and dipped him a deeply respectful curtsy. "M'Lord," she murmured.

"Mistress Shilia has been with the Baronet's household for over three decades, My Lord Knight. She has mothered many of our young servants, Petar included." The elder man bowed deeply and retreated to the hallway, leaving the woman and Bevier to their privacy.

Bevier judged from the deep laugh lines framing her eyes and mouth that the woman had been treated well under the baronet's care. She gave him a once-over in turn, as respectful as the other servant but wary. For her young charge's sake, Bevier guessed. He quickly introduced himself and gave a significantly edited version of the last few days. "If you have any information about Petar's life before he came to the baronet's household, Mistress, it would be very helpful," he finished hopefully.

"Petar was only with the man a few years," Shilia said doubtfully. "He may not have much useful information for you, Sir Knight." She hummed thoughtfully, and told him, "I can tell you this much, though: seek out Verl, the old manservant, and you'll get your answers, M'Lord. He was in service since that Hartha was a baby, and would know more than anyone else."

Bevier tamped down irritation at this ever-lengthening journey of discovery. "And where could I find Verl?"

"If he's still in the family's service, he'd probably be at the family estate, north of Coombe River. Rawlain was the name, I believe, and it's only a day's carriage ride from the city. Petar said the man was ugly as sin, a burn scar running half across his face, so he shouldn't be too hard to find."

It was enough. Bevier gave his thanks, reclaimed his horse, and made a hasty debriefing to Dagan before heading due north. Rawlain wasn't a name he was familiar with, but the old woman's directions were true, and just after dusk he found himself on the outskirts of a tiny village that lay on the road just before the family estate.

Leaving his horse with Delric back by the road, Bevier headed into town to do some information gathering. He felt strangely naked without either his weapons or tabard, disguised as he was in nondescript merchant garb. The clothing was a central part of the ruse, but he cast a small spell before nearing the inn to cloud his features and the memory of his presence.

From the boisterous noises coming from the inn, it might not have been entirely necessary. Few people looked up as he entered, focused as they were on singing – or shouting –the bawdy "Three Maidens Fair," led by a flamboyant bard. Bevier stooped through the low door and shambled his way to the bar.

"Ale," he grunted. The barkeep, equally caught up in the music, set a sloshing mug in front of him without a second glance and resumed thumping the bar in tempo. Bevier found he had to wait until the end of the song to make himself heard, and his ears burned at the euphemisms peppered throughout the verses.

Foolish they were, these three maidens fair

Though known for their beauty and worth

Gems and bright gold indeed filled its lair

But, trembling, they're awed at its girth!

No hey, nonny ho, watch the sky-o

No ho, nonny hey, night and day.

Such moonlit play the maids all adore:

'Ware rousing the lizard once more!

Old Dragon, he's wicked and wary,

So a champion's called to the fore.

Striking the drake's head with flair, he

Fulfilled the maid's wish - and she's sore!

No hey, nonny ho, watch the sky-o…

Bevier cringed into his ale, but it went over well with the tavern crowd. Sipping, he found it had a pleasant gruit, for a local brew. "Good stuff," he commented to the man next to him.

The man nodded, and turned enough to show a long, vicious burn scar covering half of his face. Well, that didn't take long, Bevier thought, blinking. He sent a brief prayer of thanks winging heavenward. After a brief assessment, Verl gave him an off-center smile. "S'why I come here," he replied. "New in town?"

"Just passing though for the night," Bevier said. "Is it always this busy?" The two men chatted for a while in between verses, Bevier deliberately leading the conversation ever closer to his true purpose. Finally, Verl mentioned his life as a servant, and Bevier leapt on the opportunity. "Generous master, was he?"

"Worse than some, better than others. I wouldn't buy a horse off 'im, but he treated us servants all right." Verl shrugged.

"Good family, sounds like," added Bevier.

"Well." Verl paused to take a drink, watching the bard singing in the corner. "His mother was Lady Illein, and a better woman you wouldn't find anywhere. Maybe some of it passed on, but we was all sent to live with her sister after she died a-birthing them. They might have turned out a bit different otherwise.

"Not that I should be saying ill against th' aunt, mind," he said hastily. "M'Lady was a mite high in th' nose, but she still took care of her own. Fostered those nephews without a single cross word."

"Food, clothes, and education," Bevier commented. "Kinder than some would have been."

Verl didn't seem to notice that Bevier was assuming the educational part. "Too true. The university was a good place for Hartha, too – he took to it like a fish to water. Bored me silly many an evening, practicing," Verl chuckled. "I was glad enough to be reassigned to the great house after he finished, because his adminsher- admanstry- ha! – gov'ment work would have been more of the same." The man grimaced, making his burn scar stretch horribly. Bevier began to ask how he was injured, but the man was drunk enough to take a half-hour detour into the tale, and he couldn't afford the time.

Goal in mind, he prodded, "His brother was the same way?"

"Ho! Far, far from it." Verl lifted his mug to emphasize the point, then drained it. The barkeep slid him another, well used to the rhythm of consumption. "He would never stay put, that'un. He got to chasin' after every wanderin' traveler that came within fifty paces of the estate. One summer a drifter promised to take him 'crost the world, and he came back the next day with no boots or money. Idiot," he added cheerfully.

"Right before they was university-bound, he runned off again. Hartha ended up giving him his half of his allowance, so Jontha could'a got pretty far if he was chary. Dunno where he went that time, but we never saw much of him after that. He ne'r was much of a reader anyways," he mused. Bevier snorted quietly. Verl looked up at him sideways, eyes watery. "Ah, beggin' your pardon. Meandering a bit, arn' I?"

Before he could continue, the bard began another old favorite, to a roar of approval. It soon quieted under the lyrical melody of "Kisses Must Wait."

"You must stay with me now," cried out the fair lady

And the dashing young knight believed her.

As sweet as a bird, small whisperings made she

'Til no thoughts remained of besiegers.

Away from me, fair ones, away from me now

I have no more time to dally

Our foe's at the gates and kisses must wait

Come then! Our banners must rally.

Bevier was surprised when he turned back to Verl at the end of the song, for his eyes were dreamy and it was a disconcerting expression in so rough a man. "She was a lovely woman, was Illein. Graceful as a bird, and lovely brown eyes. We was all a bit in love with her, tell you the truth - the servants, I mean." He chuckled. "Not the only ones, though."

"Oh?" Bevier's tone was deliberately idle.

"Ah, I shouldn't be spreadin' tales…" Bevier shrugged and sipped his ale, eyeing one of the louder tables. Verl hesitated another moment, looking around. "Well, as a pretty young widow Illein visited with her Lady sister upcountry, y'see, and was laid up for months afterward. Eight months or more, if you get my drift."

Bevier's eyebrows shot up of their own accord. "An assignation?"

"A tragical doomed romance, to hear the maids talk." Verl rolled his eyes so theatrically he began to slide off the stool. Righting himself, he continued, "No common sense, y'ask me. Mooning about in front of the lady, 'course they'd be caught out. Not to mention a babby - two babbies!" He snorted. "And the lady barren, just to salt the wound. They never talked again, and then Lady Illein passed on…" The old man sighed into his ale, eyes watery.

This jumble of information suddenly became clear: Illein had the twins by her sister's husband. Bevier winced at the implications. That still didn't explain how they were connected to the royal family, though. "The father was a minor noble, but the line didn't pass to the twins?"

"Oh." Verl gestured absently, nearly upsetting a mug. "Turns out Lady Ageta warn't totally barren. She had a son right before the boys went t' school. Didn't hear much about it after that –Hartha was bitter 'bout it, speshully since the boy weren't right. Not that the twins would've inherited, necessesssarily."

Things abruptly clicked in Bevier's mind, the pieces perfectly interlocking. A distantly royal harridan with a lackwit son. Bevier set the mug down, his fingers gone suddenly weak. Hursa and Jupta were not just distant relations – they were the illegitimate half-brothers of Baron Kiarl.

Genteel nepotism in government positions was a long-standing bureaucratic tradition, but Hursa and Jupta seemed to have an undue amount of power for mere counselors. Questions bloomed in Bevier's mind as to why they were keeping that relation a secret.

Something very strange was afoot in Coombe.

My outline for his chapter was, in all seriousness, "Bevier searches. Plot thickens." Heh.

More delicious, delicious reviews will feed my updating fever! All comments and critiques are welcome, especially since I don't have an official beta reader at the moment. Many thanks still to Indygodusk, though, especially for her help with my song rhymes.

References: "In the Heat of the Night" was an excellent movie with Sidney Poitier, and later a tv series.

I also recommend wikipedia's articles on medieval ale and early universities, two significant research issues for this chapter.