SWORDS (The Paladin's Thief Book 3) Read online

  I was hungry before the interview, and now I’m ravenous. My stomach growls so loudly that it gets Magnus’s attention.

  “Was that your stomach?” he asks.

  “Yes. I’m starving.”

  We run to the galley, but by the time we get there it’s closed for breakfast. Magnus groans. “I feel like I haven’t had a decent meal in days,” he complains.

  “Me, too,” I say.

  Just then, a head peaks from a side door to the kitchens. “Cadet Magnus?”

  “Yes?”

  “Food this way.” The skinny man invites us into a side door to the kitchen. He’s been waiting for us apparently, and he hands us two warm plates. “Orders of the Altus Mitre,” he says.

  We eat right there in the kitchen, watching as the kitchen staff—also built like warriors—go about cleaning and prepping for the Abbey’s lunch.

  As wait staff go, they are unusually tall and muscular.

  “Magnus, if these are the cooks,” I whisper, “I’d hate to see what you put on the front lines.”

  Magnus grins like I’ve said something funny. “What? You think cooks can’t fight?”

  “I guess they can if they’re built like shock-troopers . . .”

  “They are shock-troopers, Teacup. We rotate duties at the Abbey to balance our talents. These guys,” Magnus says pointing to three men chopping carrots and peeling potatoes, “can crash through a picket line in full armor at a dead run.”

  “Then why are they here?”

  “How would you see the world if your only skill was crashing through picket lines?”

  I mull on that for a few seconds, selecting from my heaping plate. “Like a picket line?”

  “Or you’d be bored to death,” Magnus adds.

  “Magnus,” I say, changing the subject. “Did Lucinda and the kids get this much food?”

  “Probably.”

  The man from the side door confirms this when he brings us two huge, jug-like tankards of milk. “A young lady and two kids came to the galley earlier today and nearly put us out of business.”

  I eat plenty, too, but admit defeat eventually and tip nearly half of the fried potatoes, eggs, and toasted bread onto Magnus’s plate.

  “Thanks, Tee.”

  There’s also a tangy citrus drink that makes my lips twist and pucker but still tastes sweet. I nurse this while Magnus finishes.

  By the time we make it back to Magnus’s small apartment, his letterbox is full: invitations, duty orders, and temporary stays-of-duty-orders on top of those. Magnus shows me the one assigning him to “ensuring our comfort and proper enrollments.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “Magnus, I have no intention of joining your holy order.”

  “I know,” he sighs. “But being under the protection of the Abbey and being a recruit is much the same thing. If you want to live here, you have to follow the by-laws. Everyone works. Everyone eats. Everyone learns.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But I don’t pray.”

  “How about I pray for you?”

  “Maybe you should save it for Cobalt.”

  For a moment there’s a hurt look in his eye.

  “I’m sorry, Magnus. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s probably true, though,” he mutters. “Cobalt needs all the help he can get.”

  There are two letters in particular that catch my eye. Both are large vellum envelopes, with the crest of an eagle on a yellow-white wax seal. The wings of the eagle are spread wide.

  “A summonsto the General Assembly tomorrow night,” Magnus says. “My raising to full rank.” He hands me an extra invitation. “You have to present this at the door to be admitted.”

  The invitation has my name on it—spelled incorrectly—and lists Valery and Timnus as well.

  “They’re doing an assembly just for you?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “They have several general assemblies each year. They’ll fill the hole in the Council of the Nine Mitres, ordain new brothers, handle any official voting business, and hold the occasional disciplinary trials. This will be Cobalt’s second.”

  The tromp of young feet outside and the accompanying argument interrupts our conversation.

  “I’m going first this time,” I hear Timmy say.

  “No, I’m first.” Val’s voice.

  “You’re always first.” Timmy.

  “That’s because I’m taller and faster.”

  “And stupider,” Timmy mutters as the door opens.

  Val enters first, all excitement and bounce. “Da! Da! You’re going to be a Paladin?”

  Timmy is right behind, hurrying his shorter legs to keep up, clearly convinced that I’ve lost my senses. “You’re too small,” they say in unison.

  “There are small Paladins,” I say, a little irritated that they don’t think I’d make the cut. Not that I intend to, mind you. “I met one this morning,” I say. “But what makes you think I’d be joining the Abbey?”

  “It’s all over the High Quarter. Some cadet bought back five rings and a recruit. The best stroke against the Nightshades since Jergen Klymore.”

  Jonas must have let something slip.

  “It’s a dirty job, but somebody has to do it,” I say to Timmy. He grins back at me. Then I decide to be honest. “Actually, I’m not joining. I’ve got too much on my plate as it is, so don’t go spreading anything around.”

  “Why aren’t you?” Val asks, and then gets a clever look in her eye. “Wait. Do they let . . .”

  “Aquisitioners join?” Lucinda interrupts smoothly, sweeping into the room, owning it. She places a fully-burdened wicker basket on the small writing desk by the window. “Of course they do. But your dad has to make his own decision.”

  Timnus isn’t convinced. “I don’t think Da’s . . . churchy . . . enough.”

  I don’t care explaining the nuances of living at Fortrus Abbey to them. If there’s a war on, I’m pitching my tent in the camp that’s not already trying to kill me overtly. Being here training for war is better than being dead with my kids in one of Ector’s slums. I’ll pretend to be holy, if that’s what it takes, but I’m not sure that’s necessary here. I’m not cut out for the kind of absolutism that Magnus seems to enjoy, and living that lie is a quick route to insanity.

  Fortunately, if I do pretend to recruit, joining the Brothers of Light is a bit like signing a petition for lower taxation. It’s a long process, with plenty of opportunity to wash out. And I’m not worried about sacrilege, either. I’m pretty sure that Pan—if he really exists—has a sense of humor, based on Magnus’s performance in Ector.

  Lucinda saves me from explaining why I’m not in it for the long haul. She doesn’t mind lying outright. “Your Da will make a fine Paladin, if he decides to be,” she says. “Not everybody wears their feelings on the outside.” She’s talking about Magnus, obviously, who is beaming. “They also need boot-makers and seamstresses, here,” she adds. “Everybody helps.”

  Val grins. “I’m pretty sure Timmy wants to be the seamstress. I’m going to be a Paladin, too.”

  “You just want to go gawk at the men some more,” Timmy smirks.

  “Shut up, Timmy.” She pushes him.

  He pushes her back.

  Lucinda frowns. “We may have, sort of, wandered past the practice yards before breakfast.” She explains.

  “You tailed us this morning?” Why am I not surprised?

  “Of course we did. It’s good practice, and you’re definitely getting complacent, Teacup.”

  While the twins squabble and poke each other, Lucinda hands Magnus a paper. It’s a summons, just like his. I glance at mine: an invitation. Why do I feel irritated that Lucinda got a summons, and I got an invitation? This sensitivity is amplified by the fact that they’ve spelled her name correctly on the summons, and misspelled mine on my invitation. S-T-E-E-P-S! It’s not that hard.

  Lucinda notices my irritation and Magnus’s outright concern.

  “You’ve been acce
pted as an initiate? he asks.

  “You aren’t happy?” she says, surprised by our expressions. “You didn’t think I was coming here to cower for protection, did you?”

  “No worries from me,” I say. “I’m just mad they spelled your name right.”

  I had wondered. Lucinda’s never been easy to read, but I’ve suspected that this was about more than just his handsome face and a short-sighted crush. Lucinda is driven to better herself, and that’s become more obvious in the last few weeks. She’s been planning to join for a while now, I realize.

  Magnus is a little slower on the uptake. “You’ve been planning to join all this time?”

  Lucinda nods, obviously more concerned with Magnus’s opinion than mine or Carmen’s. “Yes, of course I have, Magnus! Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I thought Carmen was just being irritable.” He struggles for a moment. “It’s not that I’m not happy,” he says.

  “You don’t think I’m strong enough?”

  “No, Lucinda, I . . .”

  “Or holy enough?” She’s getting a bit worked up now. “People change Magnus. I can change!”

  “Lucinda . . .”

  “Listen, buddy. I saved your ass twice. I cut my teeth on guttertalk and street fighting. In Ector I could shut down a tavern brawl faster than any beef-boned bouncer Barkus ever hired. And I gave every extra penny I earned to the . . .”

  “Lucinda.” My quiet voice cuts through the rising heat in hers. “Give him a chance to talk. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.”

  Lucinda tosses me a dirty look but shuts her trap for a second, and Magnus takes the opening. “I care about you,” he says. “I think you’re good enough. I think you’re wonderful. I don’t want you getting hurt. And they’re talking about a full war with Byzantus.” He says a few more things about the discomforts of training, and the not-so-niceties of being part of a predominantly male caste of warriors.

  “Predominantly? So there are women?”

  “Yes.”

  “When do I get to meet one?”

  A dark look crosses Magnus’s face. “Sister Hugues will be at Deepwinter Feast. I was going to introduce you to Mother Eleannor but she was left alone and—”

  “Don’t start Magnus. People get killed all the time, and people say she gave better than she got. I’m here to better myself and to make sure that doesn’t happen to you before that ring pays for itself.” She points to his hand. He’s actually wearing it.

  Magnus blushes. “It’s hard work being a Paladin. And don’t smirk at me like that, Teacup. You’ve got one, too.”

  “I know,” I say, putting up my hands to placate him.

  Lucinda isn’t concerned about placating. She’s on the offensive. “I can pull my weight and suffer self-righteously with the best.” When Magnus says nothing, she relaxes a little bit and starts removing paper, clothes, and inkwells from her basket. “What about Teacup? You’re not worried about him joining?”

  Don’t go there, Magnus.

  “I would be worried about Teacup,” Magnus starts, “but he’s a man, and . . .”

  Things go downhill from there, with Lucinda shouting and Magnus backpedaling. A lot.

  Eventually we head to the Mitre Lodgis’s bureau. It’s pretty clear that having the five us under one roof isn’t going to work, even if the Abbey didn’t have rules against it. The Mitre isn’t at the Lodgings Bureau, but the head steward, an aging gentleman, and three clerks between the ages of 12 and 14 have instructions for helping us. The head steward shakes his head in dismay when he sees Magnus and Lucinda’s faces, both flushed with anger, and points to the Quartering Map, not looking at either of them. “Recruit Lucinda, you’re to take up residence here.”

  I notice, with a smirk, that her new apartment is exactly next door to Magnus. He notices, too. “God’s Blazes! What about Nathaniel? Isn’t there something a little more circumspect?”

  Lucinda’s face flushes even more scarlet, but the steward shakes his head. “Orders of the Altus Mitre himself,” he says. “He trusts you, Magnus, and Nathaniel has agreed to accommodate, as you’re the best suited to ensure the fellowshipping of your recruit. If this is unacceptable, you might speak with the Altus Mitre about it?”

  “It might be better if—”

  Lucinda shoots Magnus a look that stops him cold.

  “What about Teacup?” she says, taking control. “Where will he stay? Have you moved anyone else?”

  “Ahh. The family man. The Altus Mitre thought Mr. Steeps and his kids might be a little more comfortable in one of the larger apartments. Is this acceptable?”

  I nod. “Yes, please.”

  A clerk is assigned to escort us there, and he informs us that our new place is on the side of the abbey where the more mature—or outright decrepit, I gather from his manner of speaking—brothers reside. This doesn’t bother me in the least. Rather, it will be refreshing to be away from Magnus and Lucinda for a change. On our way there, while I’m examining the shape of our new house key, Val catches me off-guard.

  “Do lovers always fight like that?” she asks.

  Timmy snorts in disgust, but I can tell he’s listening carefully for my response, because his step lightens and his eyebrows twitch.

  The clerk saves me by making a shocked face that distracts Val completely. The look amuses her so much that she turns her attention to him instead. “What? Lover?” she says.

  The clerk blushes, making her mischievous smile even bigger.

  Then we’re hailed by two of the oldest men I’ve ever seen. They hobble out to shake our hands, excited to have Old Renfroe’s place filled once again. Both are wearing loose, white robes with white belts, and a white-eagle dagger sheathed at their sides. They’re wearing their holiday best, as they say, trying to make a good impression. They clap with delight when Val turns to me and whispers in a stage voice about needing to keep a better eye on her, what with such fine young men about.

  She’s been spending way too much time with Lucinda, I decide. One more reason for us to be on the opposite side of the abbey. Timmy just rolls his eyes.

  Ebenezer and Gawain are determined to help—even more so after Val’s diplomatic complement—but they end up needing more than a little help themselves, especially going up the stairs to the townhouse’s second floor.

  The house itself is more than adequate, with more livable space than Redemption Alley, though none of the fond memories. It’s about twice as wide as Magnus’s apartment, with a small bookshelf in addition to the fireplace and writing desk. The books haven’t been touched in months and are coated in a thick layer of dust.

  The apartment is built up against the west wall of the Abbey’s fortifications, and offset from the towers so as to receive sunlight through the windows in the mornings. Ebenezer and Gawain sigh with contentment at having such energetic young neighbors, offer us every assistance and then dodder off together toward the banquet hall for lunch.

  While Timmy is making some final suggestions to the clerk about what kind of pillows he might like, and the clerk is narrowing his eyes a bit at receiving “suggestions” from someone about his own age, I pull Val aside and answer her question about Magnus and Lucinda.

  “What hurts more? Harsh words from a friend, or the same from an enemy?”

  Val thinks for a moment and then she nods, bobbing her head quietly. “I get it, Da.” There’s a look of gratitude in her eyes.

  We meet Magnus at lunch after 12th bell, but Lucinda doesn’t join us. Magnus chews quietly and asks about our new residence, but his mind isn’t in it. When I ask what he’s thinking about, his response is short.

  “Stuff.”

  More chewing. Before I can follow up, he changes the subject. “You have to carry a sword for tomorrow’s ceremony,” he says, and describes the ceremony at great length until the kids threaten to wander off.

  At 13th bell, we head to the swordsmith. There is suddenly a bite in the air, like winter, and I began to shiver.
/>   “The weather takes some getting used to,” Magnus says, glumly, still moping about his argument with Lucinda.

  The swords in the shop are too big for me. Most of them are so big that they’d scrape on the ground if buckled into my belt, and all of them are heavy enough to drag my pants down with them. When we finally find one that’s short enough, its blade is so wide that I wonder if it could double as a skillet on long trips. It doesn’t have a name, so I dub it Fat-sword, and tell it not to get comfortable on my belt. The blade is so heavy that I have to carry it with two hands. Fortunately, I won’t ever have to swing it.

  When it’s Magnus’s turn, the clerk opens a small door at the back and invites us into a room lined with beautiful swords. “For promising cadets, and ordained brothers,” he says.

  These weapons are elegant and strong, lighter in appearance than the blocky blade I’m borrowing. “Lightsteel,” Magnus calls it. “No finer edge in Teuron.”

  When the swordsmith arrives, Magnus settles on a blade with blue filigree about the cross-guard and a wicked curve at the forward tip. The swordsmith calls it Blue-Fin, named after some fish caught on the open ocean during summer. “This sword is on the Mitres,” the man says, “but if you break it. . .” He trails off. It’s self-evident who will foot that bill.

  Magnus shrugs. “If I break it, there will be one less Dreadlord in the world.”

  The swordsmith almost smiles, his tired and wise eyes drinking Magnus in. “Ahhh! I heard about that. Tell me your story, Cadet. I’d like to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  They’ve just reached the part of the story where Magnus has cast the winning throw over Grippy when Lucinda walks into the room with a clerk escort of her own. She glances at Magnus and blushes furiously. He breaks off his story with surprise.

  The clerk notices. “Ah! Perfect! Your mentor,” he says in a nervous voice. “I’ll just leave you with him. Very nice meeting you, Sister Lucinda.” In a flash, he is gone.

  “Technically, I’m just a recruit,” she calls after him. She avoids Magnus’s gaze. “I’m told I need a sword for tomorrow’s raising ceremony.” She brandishes her summons.