I didn't even bother to respond other than a forced smile, and I turned away.

"What is your hurry in leaving, Apropos?" inquired Mace.

"What is my point in staying, Mace?"

"We're simply chatting. Trying to be friendly. We are all of us, after all, squires. That is not to say that we shall all remain as such," he said with a smirk. "Some of us have greater destinies."

G.o.ds, I hated that word.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The desire for alcohol was becoming almost a physical need; I could feel it burning in the base of my throat, and my brain was urging me to bring it to that pleasant place where it could float in numbness. "Mace, is this conversation going somewhere? Because if it is not, then I most definitely am . . ."

"I just wish to understand, Apropos."

"Understand what?"

"Understand what it is like . . . to be such a loser."

His words should not have stung me, but they did. I should not have cared what he said, but I did. And most of all, I should not have bothered to respond to him, but I did. "You're trying to bait me, Morningstar. And you're quite good at it. You are," and I doffed an imaginary cap, "a master baiter."

There was dead silence then. The full moon above seemed to shift its light directly upon us, as if having taken an intense interest in our conversation.

Morningstar didn't lose his temper, didn't come close. The most that happened was that his permanent smile of confidence thinned ever so slightly. "Perhaps I am," he said affably. "But better that . . . than a loser."

And I slipped into his game, which was regrettable. "I am no loser, Morningstar. Umbrage's fortunes are not mine."

"Nonsense, of course they are. When our lords triumph, we bask in their reflected glory. When they are . . . less triumphant . . . that likewise reflects upon us. We," and he gestured to the group with him, "have all known our triumphs, our successes, individually and in a.s.sociation with our lords. You have known nothing like that. I am more than simply a knight-in-training, Apropos. I am also interested in matters scientific. From a scientific point of view, your predicament fascinates me." His tone dropped, became even more mocking. "Does it rot your spirit slowly and steadily? Or does it plummet by great degrees, then even off, then tumble once more. How does it work, I wonder?"

"You underestimate me, Morningstar. And you underestimate Umbrage as well." In truth, that was complete nonsense. I had been demoralized to the point of wanting to flee, and Umbrage was useless in all ways.

"Do I? Perhaps you will surprise us, then. Perhaps Umbrage will win the tourney two days hence. I would dearly love to see that. Wouldn't you, lads?" This generated the loudest laughter of all. It echoed from the castle walls, it sailed to the sky, and in my imaginings, the moonlight itself trembled slightly as the moon shook in silent mirth at the very notion.

And the words sailed from my mouth before I could pull them back. "How much would you love to see that?"

The challenge in my voice was unmistakable. Mace took a step closer, as if not quite able to believe what he had just heard. I understood his incredulity. I could not quite believe I had said it. "Are you suggesting a wager?"

I said nothing, hoping that they would laugh it off and walk away. I should have known better. I had presented a c.h.i.n.k in my armor, and naturally Mace shoved a sword in and twisted it with glee. "Ten sovs," he said immediately, and then amended, "No. Double that. Twenty sovs."

"I don't have that sort of money."

"Afraid you'll lose already?"

"It's not a matter of winning or losing," I lied. "If I cannot cover the bet in any way, then it would not be honorable to engage in it in the first place."

"I would be willing to take it out in trade," he said. "You acting as my servant for a time, taking some of the more onerous duties off my hands. Your time and energies," and he held out a pouch, "against hard cash. Does that not seem reasonable?"

I'd been outmaneuvered. All I could do was nod.

But that wasn't bad enough. "Gentlemen," and he turned to the others with him. "Would you be interested in getting involved in the wager?" Immediately there were choruses of agreement and laughter as they all tossed their own twenty sovs into the wagering. Naturally they could afford to do so. They were all the sons and scions of wealthy men, knighthood being a privilege of the rich and ent.i.tled. I, on the other hand, had no resources other than my questionable and occasionally nonexistent wits.

"Well, Apropos?" said Mace challengingly. "Have we a wager?"

So smug. So full of themselves. In a few years, they would be so suffused with arrogance, so insufferable, that they would be the new generation of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who went about a.s.saulting barmaids. Teach them a lesson! Teach them a lesson! a voice within me screamed. a voice within me screamed. Find a way! You're clever, you're resourceful, you can do it. Find a way! You're clever, you're resourceful, you can do it.

"Yes," I said.

I wasn't sure exactly how I expected them to respond. Perhaps, for the most fleeting of moments, I thought that they might actually have respect for me for standing up to them. Instead all they did was laugh all the more loudly and saunter away, chuckling among themselves and speaking loudly of all the tasks they would put me to. Then Mace, seemingly struck by an afterthought, turned and walked back toward me. He stopped a few feet away, his ma.s.sive arms folded across his broad chest, and he said, "And Apropos . . . when you lose . . . I hope you won't be getting any ideas about fleeing. A bet is a bet, and we take such things most seriously. If you attempt to desert our fair grounds, I a.s.sure you I will track you down. I mean it." I could see by the glint of his steely eyes that he did indeed mean it, and I also did not doubt for a moment that he was capable of accomplishing it. "Should that come to pa.s.s," he continued, "I can personally guarantee that your servitude will be far longer than you ever expected and far more brutal . . . and with large manacles attached to you so that you do not attempt a repeat of such dishonorable behavior. Good evening to you, Apropos," and he doffed an imaginary cap before turning and strolling away.

Some time later, I sat in the wine cellar, staring at the walls while cradling a wineskin in my lap like a child, murmuring over and over as if lulling the child to sleep, "I am shat upon. I am shat upon." Indeed I was. From a moment of sheer reckless impulse, I had allowed myself to be thoroughly outmaneuvered by Morningstar and his lot. What the h.e.l.l was I supposed to do? Umbrage had no chance of winning the tournament. But I had no means of obtaining the funds necessary to pay off the bet. Squires were not paid for their services; room, board, and training were supposed to be all the payment necessary. The richer squires-which described all but me-received additional funding from their families, but I had nothing and no one. I could go to Umbrage for the money, but I doubted he would give it to me. He was quite stingy, never becoming involved in any games of chance or gambling with the other knights, keeping his purse strings tightly closed. It did not seem likely he would endorse my gambling endeavors. If it meant losing his squire to become the virtual slave of others, well, what did it matter to Umbrage? The odds were that before long he would forget I was ever a.s.sociated with him. I had to keep reminding him every day or so as it was.

I was thoroughly without hope.

And then, as I stared at the wineskins . . . an idea hit me. When one is that far down into the pit, such notions provide glorious shafts of light, and suchlike struck me at that moment. It was an idea that seemed simplicity itself. Suddenly not only was I no longer afraid of the upcoming joust, I was in fact eager for it to arrive.

It was a glorious day for the tournament.

Of all my memories of my time at King Runcible's castle in the state of Isteria, that may be my fondest. Not simply because of my knowledge of what happened, but because it was everything that a knightly convocation should have been. King Runcible and Queen Beatrice were seated in a royal box at the edge of the grounds, the box itself festooned with banners and ribbons, an honor guard proudly arrayed around them more for ceremony than from any serious concern that an attack might be imminent. The knights marched in crisp, surefooted display, their swords extended and saluting their liege. The horses, the mighty mounts who would serve as their vehicles of battle in the upcoming joust, munched contentedly on their feedbags, watching the pageantry with bored eyes.

As for me, my gaze never wandered from Sir Umbrage. I was relieved to see that he kept in step with the other knights. When they whipped their swords around in their ceremonial salute, at least his blade didn't fly from his hand. I had a vision of it sailing from his grasp, whipping through the air and decapitating the king in front of the entire horrified a.s.semblage. Granted, such an action would likely have caused the festivities to be canceled, but it certainly seemed an extreme length to go just to get out of a bet . . . even just a potentially calamitous bet as this one.

The squires were divided into two groups and positioned at opposite ends of the field, the running order of the jousts having been already determined. By serendipity, Mace Morningstar was at the far end. Yet I could feel his annoyingly cold stare upon me, surrounded by a face that displayed nothing but charm and cheer. I could see that he was already imagining the various backbreaking ch.o.r.es that he was planning to submit me to. Were I him, I might very well be doing the same thing. Then again, if I were him, I might have bashed my head in with a brick rather than live with my own insufferable nature.

The lists having officially presented themselves to the king, the knights sauntered into their respective areas to await their challenges. Sir Umbrage was the first of the knights to have a go. This was considered an honor, and the fact that the king had selected him for it was not lost upon the others. The king still had a fondness for Umbrage; clearly the king remembered the knight from his glory days and maintained an almost unbalanced determination to see a flash of the old magic.

Unfortunately, Umbrage's opponent was no pushover. His name was Sir Rambert, although he was popularly known as the Ram. The nickname had been acquired specifically because of his jousting ability. Once the knight was in motion, he was something of an irresistible force.

I helped Sir Umbrage buckle on his armor. He seemed surprisingly lucid, even invigorated. "Superb day for it, isn't it, son," he said.

"Yes, sir," I replied, inwardly flinching at a knight calling me "son."

He lowered his arms as I finished buckling on his breast- and backplates. I then went to work on his arms, affixing the pauldron, the rerebrace and couter. Then he extended his arms forward as I slid the gauntlets on. "Good of you to help me," he said.

"Not a problem, milord."

"And you are again . . . ?"

I sighed. "Your squire, Sir Umbrage."

As he had so often, Umbrage squinted at me as if first encountering me. "When did I get a squire?"

I had long since tired of telling him how long I had been with him. So I simply said, "As of this morning, sir."

"Ah! Welcome aboard, then."

"Glad to be here, sir."

Fully armored, Umbrage walked toward t.i.tan as I guided him with a firm hand on his elbow cup. The knight walked straight and proud, perhaps caught up in the majesty of the moment. I prayed that his mounting of the mighty horse would go smoothly, and for once whatever supreme beings there might be chose to grant my wish. Umbrage, his armor gleaming in the sun, walked up the short flight of steps which led to t.i.tan's powerful back and he swung his leg over with no problem. After a moment's consideration, he took his buckler and held the shield comfortably on his right arm. He took the lance in his left, a green and white pennon fluttering from toward the end.

I looked to the far end to see how fared Sir Ram. He was astride his horse, but I could see through his still-raised visor that there was concern on his face. He didn't seem comfortable on his horse, but couldn't quite discern what precisely might be the matter.

The queen, as was her place in these matters, then rose in her seat and took a step forward, holding a ceremonial purple cloth which fluttered gently in the soft breeze. As she did so, all grew quiet in antic.i.p.ation. She savored the moment, and then released the cloth, which caused a ma.s.sive roar from the crowd. It seemed as if everyone in the entire town had crowded in to watch the spectacle.

Sir Umbrage slammed down his visor, Sir Ram doing likewise, and both of them urged their horses forward. I could see Mace at the far end, laughing in antic.i.p.ation, already envisioning Sir Umbrage being knocked clear of his saddle on the first go about. The knights charged toward each other, and t.i.tan picked up speed at Umbrage's urging . . .

. . . and Ram began to slow. Even though his visor was down, the knight's confusion was visible as he looked down at his mount, jamming his feet against the beast's sides and trying to get more speed out of him. His endeavors had the opposite effect. The horse slowed even more, and even staggered slightly.

The pike of Umbrage's lance struck just below Ram's gorget, at the base of his throat. The blow, propelled by t.i.tan's stalwart legs, drove the pike forward and Ram backward. The knight was overbalanced, yanked completely from his saddle, and with a clatter of metal he tumbled to the ground in a glorious crash that wiped that insufferable smirk right off Mace Morningstar's face.

There was a stunned silence for a moment, for Sir Ram had been heavily favored. Umbrage wheeled his horse around at the far end of the field, raised his visor, and stared with no less incredulity than was on the faces of anyone else watching. Ram's horse still seemed dazed by the entire encounter, wobbling somewhat. Sir Ram staggered to his feet, looking around in obvious confusion, and then he raised his visor and his disfocused eyes snapped together on Umbrage. Then-and I have to admit, it was the mark of a gentleman-Ram bowed slightly to the victor, and this gesture resulted in a thunderous burst of applause from the a.s.semblage. It started small, but grew quickly like crashing waves, washing over both Umbrage and myself.

Mace Morningstar was not looking at Umbrage. He was looking right at me, the first cloud of dark suspicion hanging over him. I didn't look away, of course. That would have appeared guilty. Instead I simply tossed off a salute, and the cheery gesture was enough to get Mace to turn to his cronies and huddle in what seemed a most intense discussion.

There were other bouts then between other knights, but Sir Umbrage, as the winner, was required to take on all comers.

He beat them.

One after the next, he beat them.

The crowd became aware, as triumph piled upon triumph, that they were witnessing something truly remarkable. Umbrage should have been little more than an opening act for the great show; instead his prowess brought him higher and higher in the ranks of knights. He graduated rapidly from woeful joke to valiant underdog and then, ultimately, to unexpected hero. It was as if G.o.d had reached down from on high, tapped him on the shoulder, and granted him new strength, vigor, and luck for this amazing day.

In a sense, I suppose that was accurate enough. It was G.o.d's grape, to be specific. The grape which had grown upon the vine, which had found its way to the king's wine cellar . . . and from there, into the feed of the horses of all the other knights. Basically, I had absconded with some of the most potent liquor from the king's stores, my time at Stroker's having served me well in determining just what the most powerful drink might be. I had then snuck into the feed stores and, after taking sufficient quant.i.ty to feed t.i.tan separately, I had spiked the horses' food supply. The moment the mounts had strapped on the feedbags that morning, it was the equivalent of bellying up to the bar. Ultimately, every single knight of the lists rode horses who were, to put it delicately, functioning at less than their full potential. To put it less delicately, they were drunk off their horses' a.s.ses.

It didn't occur to anyone that any such thing was amiss, for such a stunt would have been wildly dishonorable, and the entire purpose of the joust was to see honor in its most pure display.

He had just dispatched Sir Justus, a triumph that had given me particular pleasure. As the confused Justus pulled himself to his feet and staggered off, followed by his equally staggering horse, I was pouring water down the throat of the somewhat confused Sir Umbrage. He was looking at me with near befuddlement. "Am I winning?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, it would seem so."

"How is that happening?" There was something in his eyes that I had never quite seen before, but I couldn't place my finger on what that might be.

"It would seem the G.o.ds of the joust have smiled upon you, milord," I told him. I thought I sounded rather smooth about it.

But once again, his gaze shifted, as if layers were being peeled from his eyes. And there was something deep and cold there that I had not expected. To my surprise, I found myself looking down, suddenly taking great interest in shining up his armored leg. "Just . . . one more opponent, sir. Sir Coreolis."

"Coreolis."

"Of the Middle Lands, yes, sir."

"And I am Sir Umbrage of the Flaming Nether Regions."

"That would be you, yes, sir." I finished polishing up the leg and suddenly a hand of surprising strength was on my shoulder, hauling me to my feet.

He looked at me in a way that seemed capable of seeing into my very soul, and he murmured, "And you . . . you are Apropos of Nothing . . . are you not. My squire."

"That's right, sir." The change in him was almost frightening.

He was silent for a long moment. He seemed on the verge of asking me something . . . but before he could, the fanfare of trumpets indicated that the combatants were to get to their horses. I helped him to the stairs that led up to t.i.tan, but he paused with his foot on the first step, turned to me, and said, "I will lose this match."

"I hope not, sir" was all I said.

He harrumphed then rather loudly, coughed in a decidedly disgusting manner, and climbed atop t.i.tan. I could have sworn that t.i.tan looked at me with disdain, as if he knew what I had done. Perhaps he had. Perhaps horses had a means of communicating with each other, or could at the very least discern weakness in one another. Perhaps he knew that his compatriots were three sheets to the wind, and had a pretty good idea who had reduced them to that state. Or perhaps I was simply becoming obsessed with second-guessing everything. Certainly my nervousness was understandable. The bet was still very much in force, and if Sir Umbrage's prediction was correct, everything that had been accomplished up to that point would be for naught.

Sir Umbrage was poised and ready at one end of the field, Sir Coreolis at another. Of all the knights, Coreolis had the largest horse of them all, a pure white monster of a mount with the rather intimidating name of Bonecrusher. He had his own special feed that Coreolis kept separate from the others, but since most of my incredibly important duties revolved around the stables, I'd had no trouble at all gaining access to it. The problem was that, because of Bonecrusher's sheer size, I felt it necessary to mix a higher percentage of wine into his feed than I had with the other steeds. Wanting to err on the side of caution, I had more than doubled the amount that Bonecrusher was ingesting compared to the others. Nevertheless, I still didn't know for sure that it was enough. I was operating on pure guesswork.

As I watched Bonecrusher and Coreolis, my heart withered, because it appeared to me that Bonecrusher was in fine fettle. He had already taken on several other opponents and seemed none the worse for wear. He stood there proud, confident, looking not the least bit wavery. I muttered a low curse and envisioned myself spending the next year or two as Mace Morningstar's personal slave. It was not a pleasant contemplation.

There was Mace, sure enough, patting Bonecrusher's rump and nodding approvingly. Coreolis had his lance prepped, as did Sir Umbrage. They merely awaited the dropping of the cloth that would be their signal to gallop toward each other with the single and soul intent of knocking the living snot out of one another.

Queen Bea stretched out her hand for the final time of the afternoon. The crowd had been roaring, louder and louder, up until that point, but when she extended her arm they became utterly silent. She sustained the suspense with a teasing smile-and then released the cloth.

"Yah!" shouted Sir Coreolis, slamming down his visor and urging Bonecrusher forward. Umbrage followed suit, albeit without an overdramatic shout. Their lances were leveled at one another, the distance between them quickly closing. I was certain that my heart had ceased beating, my breath frozen in my paralyzed lungs.

The two knights pounded toward each other, weapons at the ready.

And Bonecrusher fell over while Sir Umbrage and t.i.tan were still a good ten feet away.

He did so completely without warning. One moment he was in full gallop, the next his feet went out from under him. The majestic horse simply went down, his legs collapsing beneath him. That Bonecrusher did not break a leg was nothing short of miraculous, considering the abruptness of the fall. That Bonecrusher did not fall atop Sir Coreolis while toppling was also a remarkable bit of luck. Not for me, you understand. I wouldn't have cared if the horse had landed on him and crushed him into sheet metal. It was, however, Coreolis's good fortune to be thrown clear of the beast and crash to the ground with an earsplitting clatter of armor.

There was dead silence for a moment. No one knew what to make of what they had just seen. The horse was lying there, staring off into s.p.a.ce, and I was quite certain that purple unicorns were probably dancing around him at that moment, laughing at his stupor. Sir Umbrage drew t.i.tan up short and looked in amazement at the fallen knight, who was staggering to his feet and yanking off his helmet.

"The winner of the day-Sir Umbrage!" called the king then, and because the king had said so, naturally this engendered a huge ovation from the crowd. Umbrage reined in t.i.tan and nodded in acknowledgment of the accolades, but there was still polite confusion on his face.

Because of the collective volume of the shouting people, it took a few moments for Coreolis to shout over them. But everyone could tell that he was bellowing at Umbrage, because he was pointing and waving at the old knight in a most belligerent fashion. And when he yanked out his sword and pointed it straight at the still-mounted Umbrage, his meaning could not have been more clear. That was when the crowd quieted enough for Coreolis's voice to rise above them as he shouted, "Trickery! Base trickery! I was not defeated! My horse collapsed!"

"Horsemanship," Queen Bea said coolly, sounding quite majestic as she spoke, "is part of the test of the jousts, good sir knight. If you could not control your steed . . ."

"He did something!" snarled Coreolis, his face purpling with rage. "He, or his d.a.m.nable squire, or-" He was so furious that he couldn't get the words out, and then he waved his sword once more and said, "Fight me, Sir Umbrage! Down here! Man to man, sword to sword!"

"I have had a long day of fighting, sir knight," Umbrage said mildly. "I am not as young as you and your ilk. Let the day end without vitupera-"

"I do not yield! Fight me now or be known as a coward!"

There was deathly silence then. The significance of the charge was not lost on any. The situation had spun entirely out of my control, and when Coreolis cut Umbrage to ribbons, the fault would entirely be on my head.

I knew what I had to do. I had to step forward and take responsibility for my actions. It meant disgrace, punishment, who-knew-what, but I couldn't just stand there and let Umbrage take on the infuriated Coreolis.

I tried to make my mouth move, to own up to what I had done. But nothing came out. My fundamental weakness had consumed me completely. I had tried a subterfuge, and it had come d.a.m.ned close to working. Now that it had fallen apart, I couldn't bring myself to try and make it right. I cursed myself for my paucity of spirit, but that still didn't prompt me to put myself forward as the perpetrator of the stunt that had rigged the afternoon's festivities. I feared the consequences. I feared the punishment. I feared what awaited me at the hands of the angered knights, of the squires.

And so I said nothing and stood there, knowing that I was about to see Sir Umbrage have his head handed to him, perhaps literally.

Sir Umbrage, without so much as a glance in my direction, eased himself off t.i.tan and withdrew his sword from its scabbard. There was no cheer from the crowd this time; they knew what they were witnessing. Indeed, everyone understood what was at stake. Technically, this was still simply a joust. No lethal, killing blows were to be struck. That rule usually sufficed when one was dealing with two knights who were simply out to prove who was the more skilled combatant. But Sir Coreolis was furious beyond endurance, and in combat, things could happen very quickly. To say nothing of the fact that Umbrage was not exactly a young man. A blow dealt to him that would simply knock cold a younger man could very well prove lethal to the old knight.

They strode toward each other, taking up positions within range of one another. Umbrage seemed barely able to lift his sword. He did not, however, seem especially concerned. I couldn't help but wonder if he even knew where he was or what was about to happen.

Sir Coreolis let out an infuriated roar and, with no more warning than that, charged. His sword whipped around toward Umbrage. Coreolis was not mincing around. He was coming straight for the attack, counting on his aggression and brute force to carry the day. It certainly seemed like a safe bet.

I never even saw Umbrage's sword move. Nor, I think, did anyone else, including Sir Coreolis. All anyone knew was that one moment, Umbrage had the sword at his side, and the next it was a blur. There was a loud clang clang and Coreolis staggered slightly, and the sword was out of his hands. It was pinwheeling through the air, making a "whupp whupp" sound as it spun, and then it thudded to the ground at the far end of the field, right where Mace Morningstar was standing. The blade speared the ground directly between his legs, missing circ.u.mcising him by inches. Morningstar stared down at it, ashen, as the sword wavered slightly from the impact. and Coreolis staggered slightly, and the sword was out of his hands. It was pinwheeling through the air, making a "whupp whupp" sound as it spun, and then it thudded to the ground at the far end of the field, right where Mace Morningstar was standing. The blade speared the ground directly between his legs, missing circ.u.mcising him by inches. Morningstar stared down at it, ashen, as the sword wavered slightly from the impact.

Before Coreolis could make the slightest move, Umbrage had the point of his own sword right at Coreolis's throat.