In the Company of Gentlemen Read online

  In the Company of Gentlemen

  Victoria Goddard

  Published by Underhill Books, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  IN THE COMPANY OF GENTLEMEN

  First edition. July 5, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Victoria Goddard.

  ISBN: 978-1988908069

  Written by Victoria Goddard.

  Also by Victoria Goddard

  Greenwing & Dart

  Stargazy Pie

  Stone Speaks to Stone

  Bee Sting Cake

  Whiskeyjack

  Blackcurrant Fool

  Love-in-a-Mist

  Plum Duff

  The Sisters Avramapul

  The Bride of the Blue Wind

  The Warrior of the Third Veil

  Standalone

  In the Company of Gentlemen

  The Hands of the Emperor

  Not Far From the Tree

  Till Human Voices Wake Us

  The Connoisseur

  In the Realms of Gold: Five Tales of Ysthar

  The Return of Fitzroy Angursell

  Petty Treasons

  The Tower at the Edge of the World

  Watch for more at Victoria Goddard’s site.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Victoria Goddard

  One

  Two

  Three

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  Further Reading: Stargazy Pie

  Also By Victoria Goddard

  About the Author

  One

  Zorey arrived into Stoneybridge town tired, wet, and hungry, and not much inclined to dealing with his fool nephew’s most recent passion—whatever it was. He couldn’t remember what his sister had said the lad was up to this time. Falconry, maybe.

  It was something she thought Zorey might be a good influence on, anyway; though perhaps it was just that she’d run through all her other friends and relatives and was left with him. She’d begged him to take the time for a visit, to make sure Colin was learning something, making good connections, anything, at the second-most expensive university in the world.

  It was with some surprise that after a bath and a meal Zorey found his messenger returned from the university with his nephew in tow. The merchants he’d been guarding through the battlefields of Tezhar and East Willonby had paid him extra for night duty, so they could arrive in time for the opening of the Luchar Market.

  Zorey didn’t care about the merchants or the Luchar Market or anything but the fact that he’d been on the road for two weeks, it was ten of the clock on a Saturday, and the bar wouldn’t open for another two hours. He was, however, surprised that his nephew was out of bed: not something he usually expected of students.

  Colin was dressed in what Zorey presumed was the fashion at the Circle Schools – or at least among the richer set at Stoneybridge and Birckhall across the water. Everyone else was still in breeches, waistcoats, frock coats. Colin wore a short doublet of green with red dagging, with balloon sleeves, hose, and codpiece of contrasting white and black. To top it all off he wore a green velvet hat so large and pouffy that its feather kept knocking into things, even when Colin had taken it off so he could bow to his uncle.

  Zorey grunted and shovelled more bread into his stomach. A dozen or so years after the Empire left Alinor and the old courtesies were coming back under strange new fashions. He was an old soldier from Imperial days: he saluted when he met a noble, called his superiors ‘lord’ and ‘lady’ (or ‘sir’ and ‘madam’, if they weren’t quite of the Quality), and left fashion to the young and foolish.

  “Uncle Zorey!” Colin cried, in his barony’s accents; well, he couldn’t help that. “I was so glad to get your message. How long are you in town for?”

  Zorey yawned. “Just till tomorrow. I’ve a job to take a Scholar home. Won’t be back east for a month, it’s halfway into Pfaschen.”

  Colin’s face fell. Despite himself Zorey felt a little flattered that his nephew wanted to spend time with him. Then he recollected that no doubt Colin would want some money or the like to tide him over to the next quarter-day.

  (Although his sister had mentioned that Colin seemed to be going through less money than normal, and was afraid he’d fallen into bad company, by which she meant poor people up on scholarships.)

  Not that Zorey had much money to spare, being a battered old soldier reduced to guarding nervous travellers across the mostly peaceful lands of northwest Alinor. Mostly peaceful, except when some local baron took offense at another local baron, and declared a raid or a siege or a war.

  “Uncle, I don’t suppose—” Ah, here it came, he thought, gulping down his coffee balefully and wishing for ale. “I don’t suppose – there was something I wanted to show you— but I’d hoped you were here for a few days. I’m not quite ready—I thought you’d be—”

  “Out with it, lad,”

  “I’ve been ...” Colin flushed, twiddled the feather’s absurd curls, danced his feet in their black and red slippers across the floor. “I’ve been taking lessons in swordswork, you see, and there’s practice this morning, if you’ll come watch.”

  Zorey stifled another yawn. The implication of the request sunk in slowly. Colin, studying swordswork? Wanting to show him he’d been practising? Could the lad actually be thinking of taking up the sword as a profession? He was a baron’s son; he’d inherit his father’s feuds, though as the second son not the barony that went with them.

  It was still two hours until he could drink away the dust of the road and think about restocking for the next day’s travels. If he stayed here he’d just fall asleep. And his sister had beseeched him so pleadingly to report on the lad’s activities ...

  “Sure,” he said brusquely. “Show me.”

  FIRST SURPRISE: COLIN had not chosen the most fashionable salon in town for his lessons, but one where serious fencers went. Zorey could tell this before they went in the door, from the plain entrance and lack of a sign. The barebones look of the place inside confirmed it, like a hundred barracks he’d called home at one time or another. There was a portrait of Emperor Artorin above the entrance desk; he was pretty sure if he asked around he’d find an old soldier like himself somewhere in the back.

  Second surprise: he had to fight off envy. It was not the first time he’d thought about settling down, in fact that was quite a regular thought, at night or on early travels like today’s, when he cursed himself for a fool when he could have been living softly somewhere, at his own brother’s keep for instance, as a guard captain or something.

  But he didn’t like his sister-in-law (nor, to be fair, his brother all that much), and he didn’t want to sit there twiddling his thumbs, either. The third Baron Zander had few occasions for feuding, and though he’d offered the captaincy to his brother as one duty bound, his best friend held the post now and Zorey was too restless for settling down in such cosy and useless circumstances.

  And besides, there always seemed to be one more job he should take, a bit more money to sock away in his seed fund, even if he wasn’t quite sure what it was a seed fund for. A salle like this had been in his mind for years, though he’d never found himself ready to settle down anywhere.

  But now, as he walked through the halls, heard snatches of conversation from the people there—a mix of students, university Scholars, townsfolk, and road warriors like himself, setting aside differences and distinctions in pursuit of the moving target that was the art of the sword—he thought perhaps he needed to look a little farther fo
r the right place. Hell, even the smell of leather, beeswax, sweat, was right. This was home; just not quite his. He didn’t like the climate in Stoneybridge.

  Colin set him down on a bench where he could watch the others in the practice salle, and there was his third surprise: they were good. He’d known they were serious before he entered the salle, but now he could see they were excellent. Someone clearly knew what he was doing.

  Zorey nodded at a few people when Colin took himself and his hat off to change. No one showed much curiosity about him; there were a couple of other observers on the benches, dressed in street clothes rather nicer than Zorey’s practical doublet and breeches (no frippery codpiece for him, that was certain), but not by so much he felt ill-at-ease.

  They’d arrived after the session had started, but fortunately Colin seemed to have arranged a partner for his display bout. She was about Zorey’s age, maybe late forties. Strong featured, black hair with a few silver streaks pulled back in a tight thick plait, though it hung down to her waist. She was short, if too muscular to be petite, dressed in loose clothing of a soft cream that set off her warm colouring to perfection.

  She didn’t look Alinorel, not even from the Lesser Arcady. If they’d been back in Imperial days when the borders between worlds were passible he’d’ve said Ysthar or Zunidh or even far outside-the-Empire Kaphyrn. He’d met two Kaphyrni women once, sisters. The famous ones.

  Colin was studying the short sword. His own practice wear was brown and green linen, and made him look younger than his fancy colours. The short sword was a good choice for him, as he wasn’t all that tall either. He came over to the benches while the woman started to warm up, looking nervous.

  “Domina Black has agreed to fence with me. She’s, uh, really good. I haven’t fenced with her before, though, so, uh.”

  “Just do your best, Colin. You’ll be fine.”

  Colin gulped a little. Zorey fought back another yawn, sighed, watching his nephew cross the floor to do his own stretches. He didn’t want to care too much about his sister’s son, not when Colin had bright prospects and a good fortune behind him.

  (The second Baron Zander had gambled away what inheritance wasn’t entailed, leaving Zorey nothing but his grandfather’s sword in a period, even more than this one, where money meant position. Colin’s father was a better steward of his resources.)

  Colin wouldn’t be a hire sword—he’d be a Scholar one day, possibly castellan for his brother once the latter became the baron. Zorey had heard Cormel talk proudly of Colin’s brains and culture.

  After a few minutes the woman—Domina Black, Zorey reminded himself—asked Colin a question. He looked back at Zorey, who nodded sagely, and answered with a nervous affirmative whose squeak Zorey could hear from twenty feet away.

  The salle was noisy, full of happy grunts and scuffles and breathless wit. Zorey watched Domina Black and Colin pace out their distance, and realised that the sounds were dying away as people noticed the bout beginning. His curiosity was piqued. It couldn’t possibly be that Colin had nurtured a secret gift at swordswork all these years, could it?

  —No, he saw immediately they finished saluting. It wasn’t Colin.

  Second son of a scholar-baron, Colin had been destined since birth for law, the church, or a castellanship after he got his heart’s degree. His father lived in a rich peaceful part of Alinor, bordering the Lesser Arcady on one side, which did not engage in petty border disputes, and a swamp on the opposite. He’d married the southern frontier—Zorey’s sister’s dowry had been the three border towns and her mother’s medical library, which their father hadn’t been able to gamble away—and set his sights on his children being cultured.

  The eldest, a son, was groomed for a peaceful barony, the eldest daughter had chosen a Scholar’s lot and was teaching at Fillering Pool, the second daughter had married a minor nobleman from the next duchy over after her heart’s degree at Inchpoint, and Colin, rather late born, was spoiled.

  Hence, Stoneybridge, one of the most expensive of the Circle Schools. Hence, encouragement and pocket money to try new things—especially the higher and more fashionable forms of culture, his parents not being all that keen on the applicable scholarship. Soldiering and practical magic had both gone out of fashion for young nobility with the fall of the Empire.

  Zorey had nothing against high culture, and felt that his brother and brother-in-law were probably right that no violence was likely to visit their borders any time soon, though he did feel they shouldn’t lose sight of all defense in pursuit of agricultural paradises and painted castles. He just didn’t care all that much for lovely things of no use.

  He had, however, seen few things so beautiful as the way the middle-aged Scholar took apart Colin.

  No wonder everyone was watching: she must have been noted for her ability to—what was it? Zorey focused intently on the match, watching how she drew out every learned move and forced Colin again and again to reach past his own knowledge and skill.

  By the time she scored her fifth leisurely point Zorey knew Colin’s skill to a tittle. He could see exactly his blind spots—had learned that Colin was hesitant to trust his instincts as well as over-hasty in reaction. He could see that Colin loved and desired the sword, feared disgrace, had been working hard to improve, and still felt himself—still was, to be honest—far from his hoped-for attainments.

  He could see that Colin was trying to become a good man.

  Zorey wiped his eyes hastily as several people applauded. Colin’s salute to the professor was angry and embarrassed. Zorey clapped a few times, in honour for the professor’s skill and generosity in displaying Colin to him, dissecting his soul through the work of blade and intent concentration.

  Colin hadn’t seen any of that. He was trying not to cry with humiliation as he came over to his uncle. Zorey knew—oh, too well! —that feeling, so strong especially in adolescence, when you were trying to impress someone—as his nephew clearly had been—and oh! failing so utterly.

  His own failings had been more than passing embarrassment, however.

  “Well done lad,” he said gruffly.

  Colin dashed away sweat and tears with an angry swipe. “No, it wasn’t. I—uncle, I have been practising—oh, I’m such a fool. I did everything wrong. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.”

  Domina Black stood a few steps away; she grimaced wryly. Zorey felt a surge of compassion for both of them.

  “That’s because she—Domina Black, is it? —the domina took you to your limits, and past them, each time. Of course you felt like you failed.”

  Colin looked bewildered; the professor smiled and bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

  Zorey fought with his disinclination to get involved, his exhaustion, and the disreputable aspects of his own still-vivid humiliation at the hands of a great swordsman—but Corey was so crestfallen and sullen and hurt, and the place felt so safe and welcoming, and Domina Black was so very good at the blade, that he sighed.

  “Look, lad, has anyone ever told you how I came by this scar?”

  He touched the ugly line running across his cheek. Colin said, “I thought it was in battle? When you were a soldier, back in the Empire?”

  “It was back in Empire days, but not really a battle. You’ve heard of how the Red Company once were caught in an ambush by an Imperial company, and Damian Raskae defeated them all?”

  Colin looked as if he thought he was gammoning him. “That’s a legend, uncle. A folk tale.”

  Zorey wished he hadn’t brought it up. He sighed, rubbing the scar lightly. He saw Domina Black looking at him, dropped his hand. “I was the hundred and forty-ninth soldier defeated that day. Go get changed and I’ll tell the story.”

  Two

  Of course, by the time Colin returned haste-post-haste, half the salle was gathered around to hear the story, including the still-smiling-wryly Domina Black, who returned from the women’s changing room rebraiding her hair, dressed now in a Scholar’s demure black robes. Coli
n hadn’t bothered to dry himself properly and his hose was half wet up his legs. Well, it was summer, the lad wouldn’t die of cold

  Zorey hadn’t told the story for years. Not for him the boasts in bars and barracks; he was too conscious of the fact that he’d been humiliated far more soundly than young Colin here.

  And he’d felt a kind of tenderness about the incident afterwards, when he went home on leave for his sister’s marriage and was considered much changed by his experiences in the Army.

  He cleared his throat. “It happened just after the fuss with the Customs House on Colhélhé. No one knew where the Red Company were going next, or what they’d do. All the companies of the Imperial army were told to watch out for them. They were to be delivered to the Emperor personally.”

  People nodded sagely. The younger lot had grown up with whispered stories about the ten companions who had risen like beacon fires of—something—something nameless but powerful—in the latter days of Eritanyr’s reign. Zorey had never quite worked out what the appeal was, at least not until he’d met them. Until that point he’d thought them a bunch of lunatics raging for attention.

  The older folks, of course, remembered the way the air had been full of the Red Company this and the Red Company that, outlaws as they were.

  The ninth and greatest Terror of Astandalas, officially, whom everyone had loved.

  “Our company—the 31st Goldlake and Varra, part of the Second Army—was stationed at the Border between Ysthar and Zunidh, near the Silver Forest on the Radigul Mountains side. We weren’t on the active borders—we were there to patrol and maintain the roads. Joke duty, really. I’d just been transferred in from my old company, Bayesthers’ Twelfth, but everyone else was itching to be transferred out to Colly or Voonra or anywhere there was action, really. But we were the ones who caught the Red Company.”