Sir Ander smiled to himself. Anyone who was not supposed to be here would not have taken six steps through those gates before he was challenged at gunpoint. Ander nodded to the guards concealed in “watch holes” as they termed the closetlike rooms from which the knights observed all who entered their compound.
The narrow corridor led to a large inner courtyard, open to the air, used for practicing all forms of martial arts from swordsmanship to archery (a skill in which Sir Ander had never excelled) to hand-to-hand combat. He crossed the courtyard and entered the double doors that led into a building housing the central offices of the motherhouse.
Inside the small, shadowy foyer, a knight sat at a desk, sorting through paperwork. The knight looked up on hearing the doors open. Sir Ander smiled to see him.
“Sir Conal!”
“By Heaven! Ander Martel,” exclaimed Sir Conal, rising from his chair. “You’re still alive? I thought those black magicks you fight would have claimed you at last.”
“Ah, that’s nothing to jest about, my friend,” said Sir Ander, clasping his friend’s hand and shaking it heartily. “And what about you? I consider black magic to be good wholesome fun compared to the politics of the grand bishop’s court.”
“You speak a true word there,” said Sir Conal with a grimace. “Give me a moment and I will order a room made ready-”
“I can’t stay, I’m afraid,” said Sir Ander. “Father Jacob is being dispatched to Saint Agnes.”
“I heard about that,” said Sir Conal, his face darkening. “A sad business.” He raised an eyebrow. “So the Arcanum is involved. That’s interesting.”
“Too damn interesting, if you ask me,” Sir Ander grunted. “Anyway, while my charge is conversing with the grand bishop, I’m here on the chance those new pistols I ordered from the Royal Armory were delivered. And to pick up my mail.”
“Ah, yes, those pistols,” said Sir Conal.
The two men were the same age and had fought and studied together. Sir Conal was a short, pugnacious man with grizzled hair and the neck of a bull. He had always been a rough-and-tumble kind of fellow, never happier than when he was knocking sense into the heads of young squires. Sir Conal had been in charge of teaching hand-to-hand combat. Sir Ander had been about to ask why his friend had been relegated to desk duty and then he saw Sir Conal pick up a cane and was thankful he had kept quiet.
Sir Conal limped painfully from out behind the desk. Seeing Sir Ander’s look, Sir Conal gave his right leg an irritated slap.
“Damn knee keeps going out on me. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch sometimes. Fool healers can’t do anything to fix it. Just old age, they say.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Sir Ander said. “The knighthood must miss your expertise on the drill field. Or maybe they don’t.” He rubbed his jaw and smiled ruefully. “I can still feel a punch or two you landed on me.”
“As I recall, you had an unfortunate tendency to keep dropping your right fist. Left you wide open,” said Sir Conal. Seeing a squire coming down the hall, he raised his voice in a shout, “Master Arthen, watch the desk.”
The squire made his obeisance to the two older knights and hastened to obey. Sir Conal and Sir Ander walked the familiar passages leading to a spiral staircase that wound down below ground level.
Once on the lower floor, they passed the iron-banded and magically protected steel doors of the treasury and those of the wine cellar, whose doors were almost as well guarded. Sir Ander looked forward to drinking one of the knighthood’s fine wines with his supper. Conal halted when they came to a large chamber known simply as the “Storage House.”
The large chamber was divided into numerous stalls, each with its own gate. Every active member of the Order based out of the motherhouse had his own stall. Above each was a small plate with the knight’s personal arms painted on it. When a knight died, his personal effects were returned to his family, his stall was given to another knight. His arms remained on the gate.
Sir Ander picked up the key ring which hung from the wall and, sorting through the numerous keys, found the one that opened his gate. Inside was a small table and an oak chest with his name carved on the top, a gift from his mother. The chest contained all his personal items. He glanced at it, but did not open it. Too many memories: some good, more not so good. All precious, too precious to be disturbed. A few pieces of armor that he’d worn when he was young lay rusting in a corner, along with his ceremonial armor. The last time he’d worn that armor had been at the funeral of his friend and mentor, Sir Edward.
A leather pouch rested on the table along with a large wooden box stamped with the seal of the Armory. Sir Ander opened the pouch and took out his letters. Four were from his second brother’s third wife and would provide him with news of his family back in Travia. Seven were written on expensive paper, sealed with lavender wax. The insignia on the seals was a bumblebee. He smiled and slid the letters into the breast pocket of his coat. He would read them in the privacy of the Retribution.
He looked at the box from the Royal Armory. “So the pistols are here,” he said. “I didn’t really expect them so soon. I only ordered them a short time ago.”
He was wondering uneasily if he had the funds to pay for them. The Knighthood provided him a stipend to be used for his expenses when he was attending Father Jacob. The money was intended for food and lodging and clothes and Sir Ander had to account for every penny. The funds were not intended to be spent on such luxuries as specially designed pistols. He lifted the lid.
Six pistols lay nestled in a velvet-lined tray.
“Beautiful weapons,” said Sir Conal.
“They truly are,” Sir Ander agreed.
He lifted one of the pistols from the velvet-lined case. The stock was carved of burled red wood. The mechanism was polished steel. Silver-andbrass inlays swirled about the trigger lock.
“How well do they work?” Sir Ander asked his friend with a smile.
“How should I know?” Sir Conal wore an expression of innocence, belied by a gleam of amusement in his eye.
“Because this pistol has been fired,” said Sir Ander, grinning. “And because you were the only person who knew I had ordered them and since you are now on desk duty, you would have been the one to receive them when they were delivered.”
“You’ve been with that puzzle-solving priest of yours too long,” said Sir Conal, snorting. “You’re even starting to sound like him. I knew you’d want someone to test them, to make sure they worked and send them back to be fixed if they didn’t.”
“So I ask again, did the pistol work well?”
“Considering that there is not a single magical construct anywhere on it, yes, it worked very well. I have to say I was amazed. I was able to hit the target nine times out of ten and the last was my fault. Damn knee went all wobbly on me, threw off my aim.”
“Excellent. But I see you didn’t test all of them,” said Sir Ander.
He looked over the weapons, then lifted another out of the box. On the side of one of the pistols, opposite the hammer, was a silver plate engraved with a winged wolf holding a sword-Sir Conal’s device.
“For you my friend,” said Sir Ander, handing over the pistol and a matching powder flask.
Sir Conal stared. “You’re not serious!”
“Unfortunately, I am,” said Sir Ander. “Deadly serious.”
“Pistols that don’t rely on magic,” said Sir Conal, studying his gun with obvious pleasure, but also with a look of puzzlement. “Can I ask why?”
“You can ask, but I’m not going to answer,” said Sir Ander. “And you can’t tell a soul that you own one.”
“You know me, my friend. I keep my mouth shut. What did you say to Master Gaston at the Armory when you put in the order for pistols that are purely mechanical? He must have been curious.”