The Thief's Tale Read Free

own black coat and trousers and boots. Sir Alan gave him the oath, and Jager could not help but remember the old man sprawled across his bed. It took all of Jager’s strength not to laugh, to keep a straight face, but he managed it. 
    Sir Alan gravely welcomed him into the service of the House of Tallmane, and called for wine. 
    Jager turned and saw his father smiling at him, and was so proud that he could burst.
    It lasted almost a month.
     
    ###
     
    As winter came, a party rode for the domus.
    Sir Paul Tallmane, Sir Alan’s oldest son, had returned home. He had left for Castra Marcaine in the Northerland years ago to serve as a squire in the court of Dux Gareth Licinius. After years of loyal service, Dux Gareth had knighted Paul at the age of eighteen, and Paul had accepted a position as one of the Dux’s household knights. He would return to winter with his father at Caudea, and come spring he would proceed back to the Northerland to take up his service in the Dux’s court.
    The entire household assembled to greet Sir Paul home. Old Sir Alan leaned upon his cane, and had even managed to squeeze his armor and surcoat over his bulk. The servants, humans and halflings both, assembled below the domus, along with the elders of the village.
    Sir Paul Tallmane reined up before the steps to the domus and vaulted out of his saddle in a single smooth motion, his armor clanking. Grooms hurried to claim the horse, and he handed over the reins with insouciant grace. Jager had not seen him since they had both been boys, but Paul had grown into a strong man. Unlike his father, he looked every inch the knight of Andomhaim, tall and strong with his blond hair close-cropped and his black eyes hard and clear. He wore a green surcoat with a white hart, the colors and sigils of the Dux of the Northerland, over his gleaming armor. 
    This was what a lord and knight ought to look like, Jager thought. Perhaps Paul was a true and a just knight, a better man than his deceitful and adulterous father.
    That pleasant hope lasted until Paul opened his mouth. 
    “Father,” said Paul. “So good of you to see me home.” He looked over the domus. “I see the old pile hasn’t changed. If you hadn’t been so busy seducing every farmer’s daughter for twenty miles in all directions, perhaps you could have exerted yourself to undertake some repairs.” 
    Alan sneered at his son. “And has all the fine living in Castra Marcaine corrupted you, boy?”
    Paul barked a laugh. “Don’t be absurd, you fat old fool.” Hilder shifted a bit, but said nothing. “Castra Marcaine is the arse-end of the realm, populated with ignorant rustics. The Dux himself is little better. When I left, his court was all aflutter because the Dux’s newest Swordbearer killed a female urdmordar in single combat.”
    “Really,” said Alan. “That is news. Who?”
    “Ridmark Arban, the youngest son of the Dux of Taliand,” said Paul. “I met the fool. Cold and arrogant and much too concerned about his own honor and piety, as you would expect from a son of Leogrance Arban.”
    “But at least he has won renown for his family name,” said Alan. “What have you done? Have you slain an urdmordar?”
    Paul scoffed. “Don’t be absurd, Father. Ridmark Arban is a Swordbearer. A sword of mortal steel would be about as useful against an urdmordar as harsh words.” He sneered, his expression a mirror image of his father’s. “Perhaps I could give myself over to gluttony as you did, and sit upon an urdmordar until it choked to death.” 
    “Do not be impertinent,” said Alan, waving his cane as if he threatened to beat Paul with it. “You are wearing the colors of the Dux of the Northerland?”
    “Yes, Father,” said Paul. “Because I have taken service in his court. You might have heard.”
    Alan scowled. “You ought to be wearing the colors of the Dux of Caerdracon.”
    “Dux Samothus can’t stand you, Father,” said Paul. “It’s likely the smell, I