"Of course you don't. If you did, you wouldn't be a champion. But that doesn't mean you can escape it, either. Oh, you can try to run from us. Others have, on occasion, but the Order has a way of finding His champions sooner or later. Yet I don't think you're the type who would run," Charrow added thoughtfully. "Not once you've thought it over. You're not so proud or arrogant—or cowardly—as to turn your back on the aid you may need to do whatever it is He's called you to do."
Bahzell winced, but he shook his head, as well. "That's as may be, Sir Charrow, but I'll not go seeking it, either! I told himself I'll do what I do because I choose to do it—because it's the right as I see the right. I'll not 'command' anyone to follow where it may be naught but my own stiff-necked pride leads!"
"Which is probably the reason He picked you in the first place," Charrow said serenely. He met Bahzell's fierce gaze for several unflinching seconds, then smiled and poured more wine into the goblets.
"Well, that's the bare essentials of the Order—and how it relates to you," he said more lightly. "As for the details, our commander is Sir Terrian, Knight-General of the Order, and we currently count a total of ninety-six chapter houses. Each chapter house consists of at least five knights-companion and their squires and from three to five knights-probationer, which is the minimum strength allowed under our charter. Most are larger, of course, like our chapter here in Belhadan. We have myself, as knight-captain, four knights-commander, and thirty-one knights-companion, all with their squires, plus twelve knights-probationer and two hundred lay-brothers as our men-at-arms. In addition, another ten knights-companion and fifty lay-brothers are headquartered here but assigned to roving duty across the border in Vonderland, where things tend to be somewhat less, um, orderly than here in Fradonia. Our chapter is somewhat larger than others because of Belhadan's importance to the King Emperor, and—"
Bahzell Bahnakson sat back on the bench, holding his wine and listening to Sir Charrow describe the size and organization of the Order, and a sense of rebellion bubbled within him, leavened by a feeling of futility. Charrow's attitude made it plain that the choice to have nothing to do with the Order had been taken out of his hands the moment he agreed to serve Tomanāk as his champion. It was too late for him to evade the authority Charrow was determined to cede him, but even as he listened to the chapter master's voice, he felt Vaijon of Almerhas' eyes and knew not all of the Order's brethren would accept his presence as calmly as the Belhadan chapter's master seemed to have done.
Chapter Four
Well, you seem to have settled in comfortably enough," Brandark observed as he tipped his chair far back on its rear legs. The heels of his brand new boots rested easily on the table Bahzell had moved in front of the fire in his assigned quarters, and his hands lovingly oiled the wood of the balalaika in his lap. Sir Charrow—or, to be more accurate, Mistress Quarelle, the chapter house's chatelaine—had wanted to put the visiting champion in a considerably larger set of chambers, but Bahzell had put his foot down at that. After the past several months spent mainly in the field, this much smaller suite offered him all the space and comfort he wanted, and he continued to feel awkward about his status with the Order.
"Well as to a roof to keep the snow off, aye, I'm after being comfortable enough," he rumbled now, looking up from the whetstone he had been carefully applying to his dagger. The sword lying on the table no longer required honing. He still found that unnatural, and though he continued to check it religiously—he winced at his own choice of words—it was almost comforting to turn his attention to more normal steel.
"But not with your new brothers, eh?" The question could have come out with Brandark's normal astringency, but instead it was asked almost gently, and Bahzell's expression turned grim as his ears flattened in agreement.
"Aye. Though truth to tell, it's less that I'm feeling awkward with them—though there's something to that, for a fact—as that they're still after trying to decide what himself was after thinking. That pompous nit Vaijon's not one to make it any easier, but he's scarcely the only one who's wondering. It's in my mind that Yorhus and Adiskael are at least as ill-pleased as he is, and with less cause. Worse, they're older than him, and senior to boot. If they're minded to send whispers marching back and forth to set folk against me—and I'm thinking they are—then like as not they'll do more damage in the end. And just for now, Vaijon's after making himself so spectacular a fool that not even Sir Charrow's noticed what the pair of 'em are about."
"Um." Brandark flexed his legs, rocking his chair back and forth precariously, and frowned into the flames on the hearth, hands resting motionless on the balalaika while he considered. Bahzell was certainly right about how obvious Vaijon had made his own angry resentment, but the Bloody Sword hadn't paid Sir Yorhus or Sir Adiskael much heed. Now he berated himself for his lack of attention. Yorhus and Adiskael were both knights-commander, ranked fourth and fifth in the Belhadan chapter, respectively, and soft words from them could do more damage than the most impassioned tirade from an arrogant young hothead. And while Brandark might not have noticed anything of the sort from them, he knew Bahzell too well to believe the Horse Stealer was inventing enemies. That had never been his way, even in Navahk.
The Bloody Sword's ears cocked thoughtfully. Perhaps it wasn't all that surprising he hadn't noticed Yorhus or Adiskael. He was even more an outsider than Bahzell, and though he'd begun to find a place of sorts for himself among the bards and minstrels who entertained in Belhadan's taverns—and with the Royal and Imperial University scholars to whom Master Kresco had introduced him—the Order's members were unlikely to confide in him when they hadn't even made up their minds about Bahzell!
And in fairness to the Order, Brandark had to admit that Bahzell might have been more than a bit hard for them to accept even if his race weren't hated and reviled. There were innumerable things Brandark had yet to figure out about Bahzell's relationship with Tomanāk —which, he reflected wryly, also seemed to be true for Bahzell—but he could certainly see why the Horse Stealer might disturb the Order's more orthodox members.
Most importantly, he supposed, was the way Bahzell spoke about Tomanāk . There was never anything disrespectful in his tone or manner—not by hradani standards, at any rate—but Brandark doubted the rest of the Order saw it that way. Sir Charrow clearly did, but it was hard for any of the other Races of Man to understand the hradani's ways, and especially those of the Horse Stealers. Like his own Bloody Swords, Horse Stealers were capable of exquisite courtesy, but (even more than among his Bloody Swords) having one of them be polite to one was usually a sign of serious trouble. As a rule, formality on their part was a sign of distrust, and they were most polite of all to people they detested. Personally, Brandark suspected that politeness was yet another defense against the Rage, a way of using courtesy to defuse tension and keep swords sheathed.
On the other hand, the Horse Stealers were inclined to be a bit more... informal under normal circumstances than even other hradani. Brandark had never been to Hurgrum, but he'd heard reports of Prince Bahnak's "court," and he shuddered at the very thought of how someone like Vaijon would have reacted to it. Not because of any "barbarian squalor" or crudity, but because any of Bahnak's people had the right, by custom and law, to appear personally before him to present petitions directly. And, as Bahzell had told Sir Charrow, Bahnak's position as lord of Clan Iron Axe was more important to his own people than any princely title. By a tradition stretching back to the days when only the clan's swords stood between its people and extinction, a clan chief was the true source of its cohesion, the embodiment of its joint survival. Nothing and no one could be more important to Bahnak's folk, and he had proven himself one of the greatest chieftains in the Iron Axes' history. Which meant, of course, that his people addressed him as they would their clan chief, with an earthy succinctness utterly at odds with Vaijon's notions of proper courtesy.
And that was precisely how Bahzell spoke of Tomanāk —with the devotion, loyalty, and familiarity of a Horse Stealer for his clan lord. In its own way, that was a supreme compliment, the highest honor Bahzell could bestow, yet too many of these citified, over-civilized knights seemed unable to grasp that fact.