the precise words of this conversation?”
Gonzalez de Rada sounded amused. “You would actually try your word against mine with the king?”
“Think, man,” the Captain said impatiently. Alvar knew that tone already. “He doesn’t have to believe me. But once word of your threat does reach him—and in public, I promise you—what can the king do should any harm befall my family?”
There was a silence again. When de Rada next spoke the amusement was gone. “You would really tell him about this? Unwise. You might force my hand, Belmonte.”
“As you have now forced mine. Consider an alternative, I beg of you. Act the part of an older, wiser brother. Tell that bullying man-child Garcia that his games cannot be allowed to compromise the king’s laws and diplomacy. Is that really too much authority to ask of the constable of Valledo?”
Another silence, a longer one this time. Then, carefully, “I will do what I can to keep him from crossing your path.”
“And I will do what I can to make him regret it if he does. If he fails to respect his older brother’s words.” Rodrigo’s voice betrayed neither triumph nor concession.
“You will not report this to the king now?”
“I will have to think on that. Fortunately I do have a witness should I have need.” With no more warning than that he raised his voice. “Alvar, finish doing what you have to, in the god’s name, you’ve been at it long enough to flood the yard. Come let me present you to the constable.”
Alvar, feeling his heart suddenly lodged considerably higher than it was wont to be found, discovered that he had gone dry as the desert sands. He fumbled to button his trousers and stepped gingerly out from behind the wagon. Crimson with embarrassment and apprehension, he discovered that Count Gonzalez’s features were no less flushed—though what he read in the deep-set brown eyes was rage.
Rodrigo’s voice was bland, as if he was oblivious to the feelings of either of them. “My lord count, please accept the salute of one of my company for this ride, Pellino de Damon’s son. Alvar, make a bow to the constable.”
Confused, horribly shaken, Alvar followed instructions. Gonzalez de Rada nodded curtly at his salute. The count’s expression was bleak as winter in the north when the winds came down. He said, “I believe I know of your father. He held a fort in the southwest for King Sancho, did he not?”
“Maraña Guard, yes, my lord. I am honored you are so good as to call him to mind.” Alvar was surprised his voice was working well enough to manage this. He kept his gaze lowered.
“And where is your father now?”
An innocuous question, a polite one, but Alvar, after what he’d heard from the far side of the wagon, seemed to catch a feathery hint of danger. He had no choice, though. This was the constable of Valledo.
“He was allowed to retire from the army, my lord, after suffering an injury in an Asharite raid. We have a farm now, in the north.”
Gonzalez de Rada was silent a long moment. At length he cleared his throat and said, “He was, if memory serves, a man famous for his discretion, your father.”
“And for loyal service to his leaders,” the Captain interjected briskly, before Alvar could say anything to that. “Alvar, best mount up before Laín blisters you raw for delaying us.”
Gratefully, Alvar hastily bowed to both men and hurried off to the other side of the yard where horses and soldiers awaited, in a simpler world by far than the one into which he’d stumbled by the wagon.
LATE IN THE MORNING of that same day, Ser Rodrigo Belmonte had dropped back from his position near the front of the column and signalled Alvar with a motion of his head to join him.
His heart pounding with the apprehension of disaster, Alvar followed his Captain to a position off one flank of the party. They were passing through the Vargas Hills, some of the most beautiful country in Valledo.
“Laín was born in a village beyond that western range,” the Captain began conversationally. “Or so he says. I tell him it’s a lie. That he was hatched from an egg in a swamp, as bald at birth as he is today.”
Alvar was too nervous to laugh. He managed a feeble grin. It was the first time he’d ever been alone with Ser Rodrigo. The slandered Laín Nunez was up ahead, rasping orders again. They would be taking their midday break soon.
The Captain went on, in the same mild voice, “I heard of a man in Al-Rassan years ago who was afraid to leave the khalif’s banquet table to take a piss. He held it in so long he ruptured himself and died before dessert was served.”
“I can believe it,” Alvar said fervently.
“What ought you to have done back there?” the Captain asked. His tone had changed, but only slightly.
Alvar had been thinking about nothing else since they had left the walls of Esteren behind. In a small voice, he said, “I should have cleared my throat, or coughed.”
Rodrigo Belmonte nodded. “Whistled, sung, spat on a wheel. Anything to let us know you were there. Why didn’t you?”
There was no good, clever answer so he offered the truth: “I was afraid. I still couldn’t believe you were bringing me on this ride. I didn’t want to be noticed.”
The Captain nodded again. He gazed past Alvar at the rolling hills and the dense pine forest to the west. Then the clear grey eyes shifted and Alvar found himself pinned by a vivid gaze. “All right. First lesson. I do not choose men for my company, even for a short journey, by mistake. If you were named to be with us it was for a reason. I have little patience with that kind of thing in a fighting man. Understood?”
Alvar jerked his head up and down. He took a breath and let it out. Before he could speak, the Captain went on. “Second lesson. Tell me, why do you think I called you out from behind the wagon? I made an enemy for you—the second most powerful man in Valledo. That wasn’t a generous thing for me to do. Why did I do it?”
Alvar looked away from the Captain and rode for a time thinking hard. He didn’t know it, but his face bore an expression that used to induce apprehension in his family. His thoughts sometimes took him to unexpected, dangerous places. This, as it happened, was such a time. He glanced over at Ser Rodrigo and then away again, uncharacteristically cautious.
“Say it!” the Captain snapped.
Alvar suddenly wished he were back on the farm, planting grain with his father and the farm hands, waiting for one of his sisters to walk out with beer and cheese and bread, and gossip from the house. He swallowed. He might be back there, soon enough. But it had never been said that Pellino de Damon’s son was a coward or, for that matter, overly shy with his thoughts.
“You weren’t thinking about me,” he said as firmly as he could manage. There was no point saying this if he sounded like a quavering child. “You pulled me out to be a body between Count Gonzalez and your family. I may be nothing in myself, but my father was known, and the constable now realizes that I’m a witness to what happened this morning. I’m protection for your wife and sons.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them it was to see Rodrigo Belmonte grinning at him. Miraculously, the Captain didn’t seem angry. “As I said,
