Martin stood impatiently watching the scurrying activity in preparation for his and the Duke of Rodez’s departure. The Duke had invited Martin to accompany them aboard his own ship, but Martin had managed a barely adequate refusal. Only the obvious stress of dealing with Arutha’s death had allowed him to rebuff the Duke without serious insult.
Duke Miguel and his daughters appeared from the keep, dressed for travel. The girls were poorly hiding their irritation at having to resume travel so soon. It would be a full two weeks or more before they were again in Krondor. Then, as a member of the peerage, their father would be hurrying to Rillanon for Arutha’s burial and state funeral.
Duke Miguel, a slight man of fine manners and dress, said, “It is tragic we must quit your wonderful home under such grim circumstances, Your Grace. If I may, I would gladly extend the hospitality of my own home to you should Your Grace wish to rest awhile after your brother’s funeral. Rodez is but a short journey from the capital.”
Martin’s first impulse was to beg off but, keeping Fannon’s words of the night before in mind, he said, “Should time and circumstances permit, Your Grace, I’ll be most happy to visit you. Thank you.” He cast a glance at the two daughters and determined then and there that should Tully advise an alliance between Crydee and Rodez, it would be the quiet Miranda he would court. Inez was simply too much trouble gathered together in one place.
The Duke and his daughters rode out in a carriage toward the harbour. Martin thought back to when his father had been Duke. No one in Crydee had need of a carriage, which served poorly on the dirt roads of the Duchy, often turned to thick mud by the coastal rains. But with the increasing number of visitors to the West, Martin had ordered one built. It seemed the eastern ladies fared poorly on horseback while in court costume. He thought of Carline’s riding like a man during the Riftwar, in tight-fitting trousers and tunic, racing with Squire Roland, to the utter horror of her governess. Martin sighed. Neither of Miguel’s girls would ever ride like that. Martin wondered if there was a woman anywhere who shared his need for rough living. Perhaps the best he could hope for would be a woman who would accept that need in him and not complain over his long absences while he hunted or visited his friends in Elvandar.
Martin’s musing was interrupted by a soldier accompanying the Hawkmaster, who held out another small parchment. “This just arrived, your Grace.”
Martin took the parchment. Upon it was the crest of Salador. Martin waited until the Masterhawker had left to open it. Most likely it was a personal message from Carline. He opened it and read. He read again, then thoughtfully put the parchment in his belt pouch. After a long moment of reflection, he spoke to a soldier at post before the keep. “Fetch Swordmaster Fannon.”
Within minutes the Swordmaster was in the Duke’s presence. Martin said, “I’ve thought it over and I agree with you. I’ll offer the position of Swordmaster to Charles.”
“Good,” said Fannon. “I expect he will agree.”
“Then after I’m gone, Fannon, begin at once to instruct Charles in his office.”
Fannon said, “Yes, Your Grace.” He started to turn away but turned back toward Martin. “Your Grace?”
Martin halted as he had just begun to walk back to the keep. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
Martin said, “Fine, Fannon. I’ve just received a note from Laurie informing me that Carline and Anita are well. Continue as you were.” Without another word he returned to the keep, passing through the large doors.
Fannon hesitated before leaving. He was surprised at Martin’s tone and manner. There was something odd in the way he looked as he left.
Baru quietly faced Charles. Both men sat upon the floor, their legs crossed. A small gong rested to the left of Charles and a censer burned between them, filling the air with sweet pungency. Four candles illuminated the room. The only furnishings were a mat upon the floor, which Charles preferred to a bed, a small wooden chest, and a pile of cushions. Both men wore simple robes. Each had a sword across his knees. Baru waited while Charles kept his eyes focused upon some unseen point between them. Then the Tsurani said, “What is the Way?”
Baru answered. “The Way consists of discharging loyal service to one’s master, and of deep fidelity in associations with comrades. The Way, with consideration for one’s place upon the Wheel, consists of placing duty above all.”
Charles gave a single curt nod. “In the matter of duty, the code of the warrior is absolute. Duty above all. Unto death.”
“This is understood.”
“What, then, is the nature of duty?”