Sir Apropos of Nothing.

by Peter David.

Chapter 1.

As I stood there with the sword in my hand, the blade dripping blood on the floor, I couldn't help but wonder if the blood belonged to my father.

The entire thing had happened so quickly that I wasn't quite sure how to react. Part of me wanted to laugh, but most of me fairly cringed at what had just occurred. I didn't do particularly well with blood. This tended to be something of a hardship for one endeavoring to become a knight, dedicated to serving good King Runcible of Isteria, a ruler who more often than not had his heart in the right place.

The recently slain knight also had his heart in the right place. This had turned out to be something of an inconvenience for him. After all, if his heart had been in the wrong place, then the sword wouldn't have pierced it through, he wouldn't be dead, and I wouldn't have been in such a fix.

I stood there stupidly in the middle of Granitz's chambers. Like much of the rest of the castle, it was somewhat chilly . . . all the more so because I was only partly dressed and the sweat on my bare skin was feeling unconscionably clammy. There were long, elegant candles illuminating the room, giving it a rosy glow, since thick drapes had been drawn over the large windows to keep out both daylight and prying eyes. From nearby on the large and damaged four-poster bed, my lover-and the knight's wife (well, widow)-was letting out short gasps, trying to pull air into her lungs and only marginally succeeding. The tiled floor seemed to tilt under me for a moment, and I steadied myself as my mind raced, trying to determine what the h.e.l.l I was going to do next.

The knight's name had been Sir Granitz of the Ebony Swamps, although he was generally referred to as "Sir Granite." The nickname had been well earned, for on the battlefield he had been indeed a sight to see. I had seen it myself, many a time . . . from a safe distance, of course, since my mother, G.o.d bless her, had not raised an idiot for a son. Understand: I did not, nor have I ever, shrunk from a fight when it was absolutely necessary. However, my definition of "absolutely necessary" wasn't precisely in keeping with that of everyone else in my immediate sphere.

For people like Granite, "absolutely necessary" included times of war, matters of honor, and similar esoterica. For me, the term "absolutely necessary" meant "self-defense." I considered war to be an utter waste of my time and energy, since most wars involved people I did not know arguing over matters I did not care about in pursuit of goals that would not have any direct impact upon me. As for honor, that was an ephemeral consideration. Honor did not feed, clothe, or protect me, and seemed to exist primarily to get otherwise inoffensive creatures into a world of trouble.

"Self-defense," however, was a consideration that I could easily comprehend. Whether it be an envious knight attacking me on horseback, an enraged dragon belching plumes of flame, or a squadron of berserker trolls swarming over the ramparts of a castle, those were instances where my own neck was at stake and I would happily hack and slash as the situation required so that I might live to see another sunrise.

I liked sunrises. They made anything seem possible.

Now, Granite . . . he was the type who would fight anywhere, anytime, at the least provocation. That is precisely the kind of att.i.tude that gets one killed at a young age if one is not a formidable fighter. To his credit, that certainly described Granite. Well over six feet tall and built like a brick outhouse, he often found it necessary to enter a room sideways, his shoulders being too broad to be accommodated by a standard doorframe.

Sir Granite had returned most unexpectedly, at a moment that could best be described as inopportune. For at that particular point in time, I had been in the middle of opportuning myself of his wife.

As burly, as brusque, as fearsome as Granite had been, the Lady Rosalie had been the opposite. Delicate and pale, Rosalie had cast an eye that clearly fancied me in my direction. Considering that, at the time she did it, I was mucking out the stables and up to my elbows in horse manure, she clearly saw something within me not readily apparent from my surface appearance. She and old Granite had just come in from a ride; he perched upon his white charger, and she riding daintily sideways on a brown mare. She winked at me and I hurriedly wiped my hands on the nearest cloth, aware of the disheveled and frankly tatty sight I must have presented. The Lady Rosalie chose that moment to try and dismount. But her foot snagged on the stirrup and she tumbled forward, only my quick intervention preventing her from hitting the straw-covered floor. I caught her, amazed by how light she was. I'd bounced soap bubbles off my fingertips that had more substance.

For the briefest of moments, Rosalie insinuated her body against mine, mashing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against my stained tunic. They were round and felt surprisingly firm beneath her riding clothes. It was not the fall that had carried her against me in that manner; she had done it deliberately with a subtle arching of her back that only I detected. Then, after the ever-so-brief gesture, she stepped back and put her hand to her throat in a fluttery manner. "Thank you, squire," she said, her voice having a most alluring musical lilt.

"Not . . . a problem, milady," I replied.

Old Granite did not seem to be the least bit supportive of my chivalric endeavors. His thick red mustache bristled and he said contemptuously, "I give you lesson after lesson, Rosalie, and still you can't so much as get off the d.a.m.ned horse. You shouldn't have caught her, squire. A far greater favor you'd have done her if you'd let her fall flat on her a.s.s. It's the only way she's going to learn anything about successful mounting."

"Well . . . one of two ways," I said in a low voice, just enough for her to hear. Her cheeks colored, but not in embarra.s.sment because she put a hand to her mouth to stifle what clearly sounded like a giggle. I grinned at her. She did not return the smile with her mouth, but it was clearly reciprocated in her eyes.

Granite smoothly jumped off his horse and thudded to the ground like a boulder. "Come, madam," he said, sticking out an elbow in a manner intended to be gallant but that instead simply appeared stiff and uncomfortable. This was not a man who was accustomed to the slightest gesture of gentility. She took his elbow and walked out with him, but glanced back at me just before they left.

From that moment, it was simply a matter of time.

I knew all about Granite. He was typical of Runcible's knights, spouting words of chivalry and justice, but doing whatever he desired behind the king's back. He made polite and politic noises to the king, but he could be as much of a brute as any common highwayman or any member of the Thugs' Guild, and he also had a string of mistresses in various towns and villages. He frequented the wh.o.r.es' tent, which was usually set up at the outskirts of an encampment during a campaign. More than one tart had supposedly come away from the amorous encounter with bruises to show for it when Granite was impatient with his own . . . performance. The mighty knight, you see, had a bit more trouble wielding his sword off the battlefield than on, if you catch my drift, and that difficulty translated to welts for those who couldn't easily overcome his problems.

I, however, had no such difficulties.

The Lady Rosalie, "heeding" her husband's suggestions to improve her riding abilities, took to the stables more and more frequently to get in practice time. Well . . . allegedly, that was the reason. But an intended hour of riding would end up an hour of conversing with me as I groomed and tended to the horses while she laughed and giggled and watched me perform my duties with a sort of doe-eyed fascination. I knew exactly where matters were taking us, and did absolutely nothing to deter them in their course.

One day she asked me to accompany her on a jaunt, since her husband had gone to deal with a minor uprising in the nearby city of Pell, and she was concerned lest bandits be wandering the roads. This, of course, wasn't her major concern. We rode several miles away from the good king's stables, chatting about trivialities, nonsense, and just about everything except for what really occupied our thoughts. By the lakeside, on a cool morning, nature took its course.

Let us just say that she did not ride exclusively sidesaddle.

I'm sure that I provided little more than an amus.e.m.e.nt to her, a dalliance. The obvious conclusion was that she was using me to get back at her husband, to make him jealous. But I doubt that was the case, because siccing the green-eyed monster upon Granite could only have fatal consequences. Rosalie may not have been the most polished apple to fall off the tree, but she was most definitely not suicidal. Maintaining a shroud of secrecy over our relationship heightened the likelihood of her keeping her pretty head on her shoulders. Besides, when you get down to it, isn't it the very illicitness of an affair, the forbidden nature of it, which makes it so exciting? Even pedestrian s.e.x can be elevated to new heights when one isn't supposed to be having it.

That was probably what kept it going. Old Granite had made very clear to all and sundry that he thought very little of his wife's mental prowess. He considered her something of a twit. But twit or not, she ably concealed the existence of her tawdry little escapades (and I say that with only the fondest of recollections and greatest esteem) from this great warrior who thought himself one of the most canny and discerning of men.

Consequently, when it all came crashing down, it landed with a most p.r.o.nounced thud.

The Pell situation, which started as something rather inconsequential, began to spiral out of control. Granite made a tactical error, you see. There had been a hard core of individuals utterly opposed to pouring more tax money into the king's coffers. I couldn't blame them, really. Most of the money paid in taxes didn't go into providing resources for public works, but instead either lined the pockets of key knights, or served to fund foreign wars that most of the peasants never heard of and didn't care about.

The hard core of individuals were endeavoring to organize protests, even stonewall against further taxes. The other peasants were reluctant to join with them. This came as no surprise to me. Being a peasant, I know the mind-set. One becomes so used to being downtrodden that one starts to believe that it's nature's intent that one should inhabit a low rung in society. Lack of movement is a formidable force to overcome.

The rabble-rousers called themselves the Freedom Brigade and set themselves up as enemies of the king and his policies. But they weren't enemies, really. An enemy is someone who has the capability to do you genuine harm. Calling this lot enemies was like referring to head lice as criminal masterminds. They had the ability to irritate, but they were no threat. Only one of the "Brigadiers" had any knack for rabble-rousing at all. I knew him from the old days. His name was Tacit, he was d.a.m.ned goodlooking, and the women tended to swoon when they saw him coming. But swoon-inducers aren't necessarily great leaders of men, because men tend to mistrust other men who are that handsome. They start thinking that there's some other agenda in force, such as seeking out leadership just to get the attention and favors of the women, and perhaps they're not wrong to believe that.

Besides, Tacit wasn't the leader of the Brigadiers anyway. I don't even recall the name of the leader offhand; that's how forgettable he was. He was simply stolid and determined to change things, and wasn't particularly good at making that happen.

The truth was, the Brigadiers really just wanted to be in the favorable position enjoyed by those they were opposing, which is usually the case of protesters. If Granite had given them just a taste of the good life, the Freedom Brigade would have melted like a virgin's protests on her wedding night. One of the best ways to dispose of enemies-even perceived ones such as the Brigadiers-is to make them over into allies and friends. When someone is not truly in a position to hurt you, that is the time to approach him or her with an air of camaraderie. Respect. Bribery. The Freedom Brigade could easily have been bought off. h.e.l.l, I suspect they could have been retooled into a formidable squad of tax collectors that would have put the king's own men to shame.

But not old Granite, oh no.

For Granite was a fighting man, you see. Put him on a field with a sword and buckler, give him a squadron behind him, point him in a direction-any direction-and say, "Kill," and watch him go at it. As a slaughtering machine, he was a thing of beauty. There was a tendency to elevate him in positions of importance and rank as a consequence. It's understandable, I suppose. Put yourself in the place of the king. You come riding up to a field after the battle is done, there are bodies strewn all over the place like clothes at a brothel, and there's one man standing there, wavering slightly, wearing tattered armor, copious amounts of blood (none of it his), and a somewhat demented smile. You would tend to think that this fellow knows what he's about. Such was the case with Granite.

Unfortunately, what the king did not realize is that just because one was skilled at one means of controlling an uprising-namely by whacking it until all of its internal organs are on the landscape-did not automatically translate into any sort of apt.i.tude for handling other situations.

When Runcible learned of the situation in Pell, he sent Granite, convinced that he was dispatching one of his best men to attend to it. Were Pell in the midst of full-scale riot, Granite might indeed have been just the fellow for it. But matters were still controllable. Why wade in with a broadsword when a whispering dagger would do the job?

Well, Granite used a broadsword and a half. He and his men rode in like the great d.a.m.ned king's own Ninth Army, stampeded through Pell, rounded up a dozen townspeople at random and threatened them with beheading if they didn't produce the names of the Freedom Brigadiers. The citizenry, who were upset about their taxes but not that that upset, coughed up the ident.i.ties like phlegm. Better to live poor than die with a few extra coins in your pocket. upset, coughed up the ident.i.ties like phlegm. Better to live poor than die with a few extra coins in your pocket.

Granite then rounded up the Freedom Brigade. What a great b.l.o.o.d.y row. The noise, the screaming . . . it was horrific. They captured almost all of them, and-truth to tell-the Brigadiers didn't exactly conduct themselves as heroes. Playing at being freedom fighters, criticizing the king from a distance, declaring that taxes would not be forthcoming and that the king should take his best shot at collecting them-these are all well and good in the abstract. Faced with a sword to your throat, however, your priorities tend to shift. Rhetoric takes a second chair to saving your own skin. My understanding is that they begged, pleaded for their lives. They wept, they entreated, they soiled their breeches . . . in short, they made G.o.dawful fools of themselves.

Once again, Granite could have gotten out of the entire Pell mess with a minimum of fuss and muss. Not old blockhead, no. The unmanly wailing of the Brigadiers offended Granite's sensibilities. He felt that his valuable time had been wasted rounding up such clearly unworthy foes. This set his anger all a-bubbling, and he needed an outlet for his rage. As it turned out, the only available target was the Brigadiers.

So he put the stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds to the sword, every one of them. Every one except Tacit. Tacit had not been captured with the rest. They tried to take him, to be sure. But when Granite made his sweep, which dragged in the rest, Tacit had managed to fight his way through it, battling with the ferocity of a manticore when faced with death. His freedom had not come without a price. He lost half an ear and his right eye, poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He took refuge in the Elderwoods, his old stomping grounds, which he and I frequented as children. Once he'd reached there, he was a phantom. There he healed, and eventually returned to Pell with an eyepatch and a new and deadly resolve. Tossed capriciously in the crucible, he'd come through it forged into a cold and formidable enemy.

He rallied the people of Pell in a way that no others of the Brigade had managed, and he turned the entire town into an army. Every man, woman, and child rallied behind him, refusing to pay taxes and demanding the head and private parts of Granite.

Granite obliged. He brought his head, his private parts, and his sword arm-all still connected to the rest of his sculpted body-and he also brought along armored troops. They laid siege to the town, and within hours all of Pell was aflame and easily sixty percent of the populace was dead, and another twenty percent or so was dying.

Naturally this resulted in an eighty percent drop in taxes from Pell, which was what all of the to-do was about in the first place. Granite, however, had lost sight of that.

King Runcible had not.

He didn't get truly angry-he rarely did. But he informed Granite that he was not happy, no, not happy at all with the situation. Granite hemmed, hawed, made apologies, and tried to defend the extreme actions he had taken. "We shall have to think on this," Runcible said finally, which is what he always said when faced with something unpleasant. He then ordered Granite to patrol the outer borders of the kingdom.

I was present when the order was given, standing discreetly behind Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions, the elderly knight whom it was my "fortune" to be squiring at the time. It was easy to remain out of sight behind Umbrage. He was such an uninteresting b.a.s.t.a.r.d that no one glanced in his direction. He would just stand there, long, skinny, white-haired, and jowly beneath his scraggly beard, leaning on his sword and nodding as if he were paying attention to what was going on.

Granite bowed, nodded, and left immediately.

I, opportunistic little creep that I was, saw my chance to have yet another toss with the Lady Rosalie. I waited until I saw Granite ride away on that great charger of his, and then went straight to the chambers that he shared with his lady.

Rosalie, bless her heart, read my mind. She was lying there, naked and waiting. And she was holding her crystal ball.

Now, Rosalie had no knack for fortune-telling, but she fancied that she did. She obtained the large crystal from a woman purporting to be an oracle, and she would stare into the crystal ball for hours on end, trying to discern her future. Every so often she would make thoughtful p.r.o.nouncements in a voice that I think she thought was great and profound. In point of fact, it just sounded like Rosalie talking oddly. I never paid any mind to it. It seemed a harmless enough diversion.

"Did you see me coming in that?" I asked teasingly.

She smiled in that odd way that she had, that made the edges of her eyes all crinkly. "In a manner of speaking," she said, and laid the crystal ball on the floor.

My tunic was off and my leggings were just descending below my knees when the door burst open. There was Granite, looking considerably larger than he had when he'd been riding off into the distance minutes before.

I caught only the briefest of glimpses, though, because the moment the door opened, I had already rolled off the bed, landing on the far side, out of view. I may not have had a good deal going for me, but my reactions had always been formidably quick. Long practice, I suppose in keeping one eye behind me at all times. I lay paralyzed on the floor. The door slamming back against the wall had covered the noise of my thudding to the ground, but I was concerned that any further movement on my part might attract his attention. Granite was a formidable warrior with a sense of hearing only marginally less sharp than his blade. I held my breath so that he didn't hear it rasping against my chest, but I was positive that he could nonetheless detect my heart slamming in my rib cage. In any event, I certainly didn't want to risk making scrabbling noises against the floor. That would tip him for sure.

Rosalie was not the brightest of things, but barely controlled panic gave wings to her moderately capable brain. Upon the door slamming open, she had automatically clutched the sheet under her chin, covering herself. "Milord!" she burst out. She certainly did not need to feign her surprise. "I . . . I . . ."

I practically heard the scowl in his voice. "What are you about?" he demanded.

"I . . . I . . .".

"Well?!"

She suddenly tossed the sheet aside, wisely letting it tumble atop me to further hide me, although-truth be told-I'm not entirely certain how effective a disguise it would have been, since piles of laundry do not generally tend to quiver in fear. "I was . . . waiting for you, milord!" she said, throwing her arms wide and no doubt looking rather enticing in her utter nudity. "Take me!"

I still held my breath, which, actually, was no great trick, because my chest was so constricted I couldn't exhale if I'd wanted to. My heart had also stopped beating, and I was fairly sure my brain was in the process of shutting down. I was hoping, praying that Granite would go for the bait. If he did, and she distracted him sufficiently, I could creep out on hands and knees while they were going at it.

"Take you where?" demanded Granite, never one to pick up on a cue.

"Here! Now!"

He had to go for it. How could he resist? Certainly I couldn't have. Then again, I wasn't a knight, at least not yet. Knights were apparently made of sterner stuff. Either that or Granite was just too block-stupid to be distracted from something confusing to him. Apparently he'd gotten a thought into his head, and the d.a.m.ned thing wouldn't be easily dislodged, probably because it was fairly quiet in his brain otherwise and the thought enjoyed the solitude.

"How could you have been expecting me when I didn't know I was coming back?" demanded Granite.

"I . . ." I heard her lick her lips, which were probably bone dry by that point. "I . . . antic.i.p.ated . . . or hoped, at least . . . that you would return to service me once more before you left."

"I didn't. I came back to get my lucky dagger. I forgot it."

"Oh."

If Rosalie had just let that harmless little "Oh" sit there, we might well have avoided discovery. He was, after all, perfectly willing to accept that she was a nitwit. Unfortunately, because a silence ensued, Rosalie felt the need to fill it with words. "Yes. I . . . saw it over there on the wall and knew you'd be back."

Granite, unfortunately for us, was able to track the conversation. "You just said that you were hoping I'd return to service you. Now you say you knew I'd be back for the dagger."

"Yes, I . . . that is to say . . . I . . . that . . ."

There was another dead silence, and I could only imagine the blood draining from her face as her poor brain twisted itself about in confusion. I heard the door bang suddenly and prayed that he had simply exited with no further words . . . but that hope was short-lived as I heard the bolt slam into place.

Granite was no idiot. I had to give him that much. "What," I heard him rumble, "is going on?"

I thought furiously at her, as if I could project words into her brain in hopes that they would spill out of her mouth. I am . . . tongue-tied by your presence, milord . . . I would say anything just in hopes of saying something you want to hear, milord . . . I hoped that, in your returning for your dagger, you would savage me like a wild animal, milord . . . I am . . . tongue-tied by your presence, milord . . . I would say anything just in hopes of saying something you want to hear, milord . . . I hoped that, in your returning for your dagger, you would savage me like a wild animal, milord . . .

Something. Anything.

"Don't . . ." There was a choked sob. "Don't hurt him, milord . . . ."

Anything but that.

I heard a roar then. I think the word "What?!" was in there somewhere, but it was like trying to sort out one particular scream from the howling of a hurricane. There was a quick sound of steps coming around the bed, and suddenly the sheet was yanked off me. My bare a.s.s was still hanging out as I squinted up at Granite.

He wasn't moving. He trembled in place, seized with such fury that he could not yet budge.

I rolled to my feet, yanking my breeches up as I went. The bed was a huge four-poster affair, and I leaned against one of the thick oak bedposts, trying to compensate for my fairly useless right leg. I must have been quite the sight at that moment. At that age, I was thin and gawky. My arms were well muscled from years of hauling myself around while compensating for the lameness of my leg. My ears stuck out too much, and I didn't have normal hair so much as a thick, wild mane of red that proved annoyingly difficult to brush or style. My nose was crooked from the times in the past that it'd been broken. My best feature remained my eyes, which were a superb shade of gray, providing me with a grim and thoughtful look whenever I put my mind to it. However, I suspect at that point that he wasn't exactly concerned with admiring my orbs.

We stood there, frozen in time for half an ice age it seemed. I don't even think he quite focused on me at first, as if his brain was so overheated that he needed time to fully process the information. "I . . . know you!" he said at last. "You're Umbrage's squire! You clean out stables! You're Appletoe!"

"Apropos," I corrected him, and then mentally kicked myself. As if I wasn't in enough of a fix, I had to go and remind him of my name. Why didn't I just stick my neck out and offer to hack it through for him?

Then I realized he wasn't waiting for an invitation, as I heard the sword being drawn before I actually saw it. I took a step back, making sure to play up my limp so that I could seem as pathetic as possible.

His eyes were fixed on me, but he was clearly addressing his nude wife. "A squire? You cuckold me . . . for a squire? For a shoveler of horse manure? For this you shame me?! For this you shame me?!"

Rosalie was not going to be of any help. Her mouth was moving, but no sounds were coming out.

There was no point denying the actual cuckolding. I can be a dazzling liar given the right circ.u.mstances, but these were certainly not they. So I felt my only hope was to try and address the other side of the equation. "Now . . . now t . . . t . . . technically, mi . . . milord," I stammered out, "there's been no, uh, actual shaming, as it were. No one knows. You, Rosalie, me . . . that is all. And if we can agree to, uh . . . keep this among ourselves, then perhaps we can just, well . . . forget this all happened, sweep it under the carpet until . . . until . . ."

I was going to say, "Until we're all dead and gone." Unfortunately, at that moment Rosalie found her voice.

"Until you leave again," she suggested.

He swung his sword around and bellowed like a wounded boar. I tried to back up. Not only did my limp impede me, but also my feet became tangled in the sheets and I tumbled to the floor. Rosalie let out a shriek.

I considered telling him at that point that he might or might not be my father, but that statement-albeit true enough-seemed to smack so much of a desperation move that I figured it would be perceived as a ploy. So I chose to appeal to the one thing which might serve as his weak spot.

"Where's the honor in this?!" I shouted.

He was standing directly over me, his sword drawn back and over his head, ready to bring it slamming down like a butcher slaughtering a bull. This was no ordinary sword, it should be noted. The d.a.m.ned thing had teeth: jagged edges running down either side, particularly useful for ripping and tearing. It was also formidable for a good old-fashioned slicing. If the blow had landed, it would have cleaved me from crotch to sternum. But he froze, his mustache bristling as if acquiring a life all its own. I thought for a moment that it was going to rip itself off his lip and come at me. "Honor?" he growled. "You have my wife . . . and speak to me of your honor?"

"Your honor, milord, not mine . . . I . . . I am nothing." I spoke as quickly as I could. "I am nothing, no one . . . but that, you see . . . that's the point . . ."

"What is?" The sword, which had a far more formidable point than any points in my repertoire, hadn't moved from its rather threatening position above me.

"Well, milord, obviously . . . when my corpse turns up, and you, as a man of honor, why, you'll have to own up to your slaying of me . . . and explain why . . ."

"I have no intention of hiding it," he snarled. "Not a man in the court will deny my right as a husband!"

"No question." I felt the longer I kept it going, the more chance I had of talking him out of what was clearly his intended course. "But look at the slaughter situation."