Neil dismounted and strode toward his opponent. The Vitellian cocked his sword back for a swing, but Neil shield-rushed him, sending him staggering back a step. Neil used the opening in distance to make a cut of his own, hitting the shoulder of the man’s weapon arm. The armor rang like a bell, and the foe’s blade clattered to the ground. Neil waited for him to pick it up. Instead, the knight dropped his shield and pulled off his helmet, revealing a face rounded by middle age, tousled black hair streaked silver, a well-tended mustache and goatee. His nose was a bit shapeless, as if it had been broken too many times.
“You are a knight,” the man admitted, in accented but comprehensible king’s tongue. “Even though you will not name yourself, I must yield to you, for I believe you have broken my arm. I am Sir Quinte dac’Ucara, and I am honored to have faced you in combat. Will you guest with me?”
But before Neil could answer, Sir Quinte fainted, and his men rushed to his side.
Neil waited as Sir Quinte’s men peeled him out of his armor and washed him with a perfumed rag. The shoulder bone was indeed broken, so they made a sling for the arm. Sir Quinte revived during the process, but if the shattered bone caused him pain, he showed it only a little, and only in his eyes.
“I did not speak your tongue before,” he said, “because I did not know you, and it would not be meet to speak a strange language in my native land. But you have bested me, so Virgenyan shall be the language of this camp.” He nodded at his dented armor. “That belongs to you,” he managed. “As does zo Cabadro, my mount. Treat him well, I beg you—he is a fine horse.”
Neil shook his head. “You are generous, Sir Quinte, but I have no need for either. I must travel light, and both would slow me.”
Quinte smiled. “You are the generous one, sir. Will you not extend that generosity to telling me your name?”
“I may not, sir.”
Sir Quinte nodded sagely. “You have taken a vow. You are on secret business.”
“You may guess as you like.”
“I respect your wishes,” Sir Quinte said, “but I must call you something. Sir zo Viotor you shall be.”
“I don’t understand the name.”
“It is no more than you named yourself, ‘the wanderer.’ I put it in Vitellian so you can explain who you are to less educated folk.”
“Thank you then,” Neil said sincerely.
Sir Quinte turned to one of his men. “Arvo, bring us food and wine.”
“Please, I must be going,” Neil told him. “Though I thank you for the offer.”
“The hour is late. Lord Abullo dips his chariot to the world’s end, and even you—great warrior though you may be—must sleep. Honoring my hospitality could not hinder your quest by much, and it would give me great pleasure.”
Despite Neil’s protests, Arvo was already spreading a cloth on the ground.
“Very well,” Neil relented. “I accept your kindness.” Soon the cloth was covered in viands, most of which Neil did not recognize. There was bread, of course, and a hard sort of cheese, and pears. A red fruit revealed countless tiny pearl-like seeds when husked. They were good, if a bit of a bother to eat. A yellowish oil turned out to be something like butter, to be eaten with the bread. Small black fruits were salty rather than sweet. The wine was red and tasted strongly of cherry.
It occurred to Neil only after they began eating that the food might be drugged or poisoned. A year earlier, he would never have even imagined such a dishonorable thing. But at court, honor and the assumptions it carried were more a liability than anything else.
But Sir Quinte and his squires ate and drank everything Neil did, and the thought left him. However strange his appearance and standard, Sir Quinte was a knight, and he behaved like one—he would no more poison Neil than would Sir Fail de Liery, the old chever who had raised him after his father had died.
Vitellio suddenly did not seem so strange, after all.
The Vitellians ate slowly, often pausing to comment or argue in their own language, which to Neil’s ears sounded more like singing than speaking. Dusk gave way to a pleasant, cool night. Stars made the heavens precious, and they, at least, were the same stars Neil remembered from home.
Except that in Eslen one rarely saw them. Here, they dazzled.
Sir Quinte switched back to the king’s tongue somewhat apologetically. “I am sorry, Sir Viotor,” he said, “to leave you outside of the conversation. Not all of my squires speak the Virgenyan tongue, nor does my historian, Volio.” He gestured at the oldest of his men, a square-headed fellow with only a fringe of gray hair on his scalp.
“Historian?”
“Yes, of course. He records my deeds—my victories and losses. We were arguing, you see, about how my defeat today shall be written—and what it portends.”
“Is it so important that it be written at all?” Neil asked.
“Honor demands it,” Quinte said, sounding surprised. “Perhaps you have never lost a duel, Sir Viotor, but if you did, could you pretend that it never happened?”
“No, but that is not the same as writing it down.”
The knight shrugged. “The ways of the north are different—there is no arguing that. Not every knight in Vitellio is answerable to history, either, but I am a Knight of the Mount, and my order demands records be kept.”
“You serve a mountain?”
The knight smiled. “The mount is a holy place, touched by the lords—what you call the saints, I believe.”
“Then you serve the saints? You have no human lord?”
“I serve the merchant guilds,” Sir Quinte replied. “They are pledged to the mount.”
“You serve merchants?”
The knight nodded. “You are a stranger, aren’t you? There are four sorts of knight in Vitellio, all in all. Each overguild has its knights—the merchants, the artisans, the seafarers, and so on. Each prince—we would say meddissio—each meddissio also commands knights. There are the knights of the Church, of course. Finally, the judges are served by their own knights, so they cannot be intimidated by any of the others to render corrupt decisions.”
“What about the king?” Neil asked. “Has he no knights?”
Sir Quinte chuckled and turned to his squires. “Fatit, pispe dazo rediatur,” he said. They took up his laughter.
Neil held his puzzlement.
“Vitellio has no king,” Quinte explained. “The cities are ruled by meddissios. Some meddissios rule more than one city, but no one rules them all. No one has ruled them all since the collapse of the Hegemony, a thousand years ago.”
“Oh.” Neil could imagine a country with a regent, but he had never heard of a country without a king.
“And,” Sir Quinte went on, “since I serve the merchant overguild, they want records to be kept. Thus I have my historian.”
“But you also said something about portents?”
“Ah, indeed,” Sir Quinte said, raising a finger. “A battle is like the casting of bones or the reading of cards. There is meaning in it. After all, it is the saints who choose which of us defeats the other, yes? And if you have defeated me, there is meaning in it.”
“And what does your historian see in this?”
“A quest. You are on a most important quest, and much hangs upon it. The fate of nations.”
“Interesting,” Neil said, trying to keep his face neutral, though inwardly, his curiosity was aroused.
“Therefore, of course, I must join you. The saints have declared it.”
“Sir Quinte, there is no need to—”
“Come,” the knight said. “We have banqueted. I am injured and weary. You must at least be tired. I beg you, share the hospitality of my camp for the night. Tomorrow we shall make an early start.”
“I must travel alone,” Neil said, though more reluctantly than he might have expected.
Sir Quinte’s face flattened. “Do you mistrust me? You have defeated me, sir. I could never betray you.”