“Cadet Hastur. Getting along all right so far?”
“Yes, Lord Dyan.”
“Just Captain Ardais in the Guard hall, Regis.” Dyan looked him over again, a slow evaluating stare that made Regis uncomfortable. “At least they taught you to stand straight at Nevarsin. You should see the way some of the lads stand!” He consulted a long sheet on his desk. “Regis-Rafael Felix Alar Hastur-Elhalyn. You prefer Regis-Rafael?”
“Simply Regis, sir.”
“As you wish. Although it seems a great pity to let the name of Rafael Hastur be lost. It is an honored name.”
Damn it, Regis thought, I know I’m not my father! He knew he sounded curt and almost impolite as he said, “My sister’s son has been named Rafael, Captain. I prefer not to share my father’s honor before I have earned it.”
“An admirable objective,” Dyan said slowly. “I think every man wants a name for himself, rather than resting on the past. I can understand that, Regis,” After a moment, with an odd impulsive grin, he said, “It must be a pleasant thing to have a father’s honor to cherish, a father who did not outlive his moment of glory. You know, I suppose, that my father has been mad these twenty years, without wits enough to know his son’s face?”
Regis had only heard rumors of old Kyril Ardais, who had not been seen by anyone outside Castle Ardais for so long that most people in the Domains had long forgotten his existence, or that Dyan was not Lord Ardais, but only Lord Dyan. Abruptly, Dyan spoke in an entirely different tone.
“How tall are you?”
“Five feet ten.”
The eyebrows went up in amused inquiry. “Already? Yes, I believe you are at that. Do you drink?”
“Only at dinner, sir.”
“Well, don’t start. There are too many young sots around. Turn up drunk on duty and you’ll be booted, no excuses or explanations accepted. You are also forbidden to gamble. I don’t mean wagering pennies on card games or dice, of course, but gambling substantial sums is against the rules. Did they give you a manual of arms? Good, read it tonight. After tomorrow you’re responsible for everything in it. A few more things. Duels are absolutely forbidden, and drawing your sword or knife on a fellow Guardsman will break you. So keep your temper, whatever happens. You’re not married, I suppose. Handfasted?”
“Not that I’ve heard, sir.”
Dyan made an odd derisive sound. “Well, make the best of it, your grandfather will probably have you married off before the year’s out. Let me see. What you do in off-duty time is your own affair, but don’t get yourself talked about. There’s a rule about causing scandalous talk by scandalous behavior. I don’t have to tell you that the heir to a Domain is expected to set an example, do I?”
“No, Captain, you don’t have to tell me that.” Regis had had his nose rubbed in that all his life and he supposed Dyan had too.
Dyan’s eyes met his again, amused, sympathetic. “It’s unfair, isn’t it, kinsman? Not allowed to claim any Comyn privileges, but still expected to set an example because of what we are.” With another swift change of mood, he was back to the remote officer, “In general, keep out of the Terran Zone for your—amusements.”
Regis was thinking of the young Terran officer who, before they parted, had again offered to show him more of the spaceport whenever he wished. “Is it forbidden to go into the Terran Zone at all?”
“By no means. The prohibition doesn’t apply to sightseeing, shopping or eating there if you have a taste for exotic foods. But Terran customs differ enough from ours that getting entangled with Terran prostitutes, or making any sexual advances to them, is likely to be a risky business. So keep out of trouble. To put it bluntly—you’re supposed to be grown up now—if you have a taste for such adventures, find them on the Darkovan side of the line. Zandru’s hells, my boy, aren’t you too old to blush? Or hasn’t the monastery worn off you yet?” He laughed. “I suppose, brought up at Nevarsin, you don’t know a damn thing about arms, either?”
Regis welcomed the change of subject this time. He said he had had lessons, and Dyan’s nostrils flared in contempt. “Some broken-down old soldier earning a few coins teaching the basic positions?”
“Kennard Alton taught me when I was a child, sir.”
“Well, we’ll see.” He motioned to one of the junior officers. “Hjalmar, give him a practice sword.”
Hjalmar handed Regis one of the wood and leather swords used for training. Regis balanced it in his hand. “Sir, I’m very badly out of practice.”
“Never mind,” Hjalmar said, bored. “We’ll see what kind of training you’ve had.”
Regis raised his sword in salute. He saw Hjalmar lift an eyebrow as he dropped into the defensive stance Kennard had taught him years ago. The moment Hjalmar lowered his weapon Regis noted the weak point in his defense; he feinted, sidestepped and touched Hjalmar almost instantly on the thigh. They reengaged. For a moment there was no sound but the scuffle of feet as they circled one another, then Hjalmar made a swift pass which Regis parried. He disengaged and touched him on the shoulder.
“Enough.” Dyan threw off his vest, standing in shirtsleeves. “Give me the sword, Hjalmar.”
Regis knew, as soon as Dyan raised the wooden blade, that this was no amateur. Hjalmar, evidently, was used for testing cadets who were shy or completely unskilled, perhaps handling weapons for the first time. Dyan was another matter. Regis felt a tightness in his throat, recalling the gossip of the cadets: Dyan liked to see people get rattled and do something stupid.
He managed to counter the first stroke and the second, but on the third his parry slid awkwardly along Dyan’s casually turned blade and he felt the wooden tip thump his ribs hard. Dyan nodded to him to go on, then beat him back step by step, finally touched him again, again, three times in rapid succession. Regis flushed and lowered his sword.
Then he felt the older man’s hand gripping his shoulder hard. “So you’re out of practice?”
“Very badly, Captain.”
“Stop bragging, chiyu. You made me sweat, and not even the arms-master can always do that. Kennard taught you well. I’d halfway expected, with that pretty face of yours, you’d have learned nothing but courtly dances. Well, lad, you can be excused from regular lessons, but you’d better turn out for practice every day. If, that is, we can find anyone to match you. If not, I’ll have to work out with you myself.”
“I would be honored, Captain,” Regis said, but hoped Dyan would not hold him to this. Something about the older man’s intense stare and teasing compliments made him feel awkward and very young. Dyan’s hand on his shoulder was hard, almost a painful grip. He turned Regis gently around to look at him. He said, “Since you already have some skill at swordplay, kinsman, perhaps, if you like the idea, I could ask to have you assigned as my aide. Among other things, it would mean you need not sleep in the barracks.”
Regis said quickly, “I’d rather not, sir.” He fumbled for an acceptable excuse. “Sir, that is a post for an—an experienced cadet. If I am assigned at once to a post of honor, it will look as if I am taking advantage of my rank, to be excused from what the other cadets have to do. Thank you for the honor, Captain, but I don’t think I—I ought to accept.”
Dyan threw back his head and laughed, and it seemed to Regis that the raucuous laughter sounded a little like the feral cry of a hawk, that there was something nightmarish about it. Regis was caught in the grip of a strange deja vu, feeling that this had happened before.
It vanished as swiftly as it had come. Dyan released his grip on Regis’ shoulder.
“I honor you for that decision, kinsman, and I dare say you are right. And in training already to be a statesman, I see. I can find no fault with your answer.”
Again the wild, hawklike laugh.