Lora of Two Worlds

Cedric Salt's offhand remark hit Brendan like a bolt from the blue.

When had he ever gambled? At House Odenheim, if they caught him gambling, his father would chop off his hand and feed it to the dogs.

"Plumed crest gleaming bright, mustard wings aflutter. Fox-grease breaks the foe's nerve, iron spurs strike home."

Cedric, seeing his blank face, was in no hurry. He recited the doggerel with a smile.

Brendan went white as a sheet. That, that was the "fighting cock" poem every loser had been made to write that day.

The Salts had bought a batch of new fighting birds. Simon had said it was just a test run, place your bets, no real stakes.

Since no money was required up front, everyone bet big, shouting like lords. But Brendan was hopeless at the sport and had no idea the birds were rigged:

Iron spurs, fitting bladed caps onto the bird's talons. Mustard wings, dusting the feathers with mustard powder so the opposing bird couldn't fight.

Plumed crest, wrapping the comb in crimson velvet to make it look fiercer. And fox-grease, birds feared foxes. You trained yours to eat fox meat and get used to the scent, then smeared fox-gland oil on its comb. The opposing bird would come close and start shaking.

He'd written all those tricks into his poem.

The winners had been paid in real silver. The losers had been told, "Forget it, no need to pay." Watching the ones who'd risked nothing walk out with fat purses, Brendan had been green with envy, cursing his luck and memorizing all the tricks three times over.

Hadn't they said "forget it"?

He was the color of chalk.

He wasn't yet of age. His ensign's pay went straight into the household treasury. He drew a monthly allowance from it.

Even Alvin, Gareth, and Roland, all of age, had to hand over their pay to the treasury, though they could keep half. Their ranks were higher, so they had more to spend freely.

Mother found excuses every month to slip him and Carl a little extra. All told, it came to more than their official pay.

But right now he couldn't remember a penny of that. All he knew was that he earned money and the household treasury took it, and that was why he was broke.

Those gambling losses, they probably added up to more than a year's income. How could he possibly pay? And asking at home was out of the question.

He turned to stare at Simon, suspecting a trap. Then he thought again, no. There had been a dozen young men present. Winners and losers both. It hadn't been aimed at him.

Cedric sighed inwardly. Of course it wasn't just you. It was every last one of them.

Cedric was a fine-looking man, but his eyes held a merchant's shrewd polish. Plenty of young women in Lohenheim threw themselves at him, and he'd never been one for pretty faces.

He served pottage to the refugees, handed out herbal remedies, and donated to abbeys and church towers. It was the reason the Salts were the richest family in the city and no one called them money-grubbers.

Until today, young Brendan had been among his admirers.

This disciplined, self-indulgent Cedric Salt.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

"Silver and fine things are made to be worn. What fault is theirs? We merchants live to make friends in every corner of the realm, what fault is that? The Count has five sons.

The Lohenheim garrison is a small pond. Can it really let all five of you fly?"

Brendan went crimson. He squirmed, then submitted.

"Silver and fine things are made to be worn. What fault is theirs? We merchants live to make friends in every corner of the realm, what fault is that? The Count has five sons. The Lohenheim garrison is a small pond. Can it really let all five of you fly?"

Cedric rose, surveyed the boots on Brendan's feet with satisfaction, and smiled. "Is the young lord content to live forever in his brothers' shadow? To watch his talents go to waste?"

It struck a nerve. Brendan's chest ached. He heard himself ask, almost against his will:

"The young lord has a sharp mind, he'll surpass his father and bring glory to the name of Odenheim.

I happen to have an opportunity for you to distinguish yourself. It wasn't meant for the garrison's ears, but since you've asked, I'll give it to you."

He knew Cedric's reach. His father and brothers dismissed it as crooked back-alley work, but reach it was.

Cedric laughed.

"The young lord has a sharp mind, he'll surpass his father and bring glory to the name of Odenheim. I happen to have an opportunity for you to distinguish yourself. It wasn't meant for the garrison's ears, but since you've asked, I'll give it to you."

A warm current seemed to flow from those exquisite boots, the same make the King wore, up through Brendan's veins and into his head. He stared at Cedric, breathing faster.

"What opportunity? I won't do anything against God and conscience."

"I don't do that sort of thing either. You know what, I just gave a piece of information to the Silver Shield, free of charge. Didn't ask for a thing."

Cedric's laugh was broad and warm. To Brendan, it looked almost genuine. He blinked:

"The Silver Shield?"

"That's right. A friend, a man who'd take a blade for me, passed me a message for the sake of my business interests here. I saw it was serious. I don't know the garrison people well, so I told the commander of the Silver Shield."

"What message?"

Cedric smiled but didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the golden beetle on the table.

So...

Take it, and he was aboard the Salt ship, proper. Don't take it, Brendan looked down at the boots on his feet. Don't take it, and how would he ever pay the debt?

Besides, his father didn't think much of his fourth son. Alvin and Gareth were the right and left hand, shaped by the Count himself. Even Roland, raised away from home, got more of his regard.

And Carl, the boy just had to lie on his brothers' laurels and Mother would arrange everything.

He exhaled. He wasn't working against his family. He had a right to pursue what he wanted. And when he'd made his name and brought honor to the house, who would care about the path?

He drew a breath, reached out, and took the heavy golden beetle. He slipped it into his pouch.

Simon was practically bowing low with admiration for his brother. A few light words, and Brendan Odenheim, the boy Simon had been courting for ages without a firm answer, was in the bag.

"Ha ha ha, that's the spirit! A man who does great things. Simon, have someone bring up a flagon of small ale. We'll drink to the young lord's success in advance."

So Brendan, having drunk the "success" ale, rode past his sister and arrived at the Aldgate, held by the Lohenheim garrison.

As luck would have it, the gate warden was Lucas, an old comrade. Trading on his name as the Count's fourth son, he'd had no trouble taking command of the gate.

The Aldgate garrison would report it up the chain, of course. Brendan held the rank of ensign, and the gate warden's warrant rank was the same grade, so once the command signed off, there was no real irregularity.

At most, the garrison office would issue a backdated transfer order. Young Lord Odenheim, what could be the problem?

Tam was Lucas's second-in-command, a man who'd served him for years without a war to earn his promotion.

Now that the fourth young lord was willing to use him, he was eager to get his face known to the Alvin, hoping someone might remember him when the chance came.

"Why wait for supper? I'll go now. I can bring the transfer order back while I'm at it, easier for the shift change."

Tam was Lucas's second-in-command, a man who'd served him for years without a war to earn his promotion. Now that the fourth young lord was willing to use him, he was eager to get his face known to the Alvin, hoping someone might remember him when the chance came.

Tam had barely reached the foot of the gate tower when he ran into Carl on patrol. Carl was eyeing Brendan's horse.

"Lord Carl, perfect. I was just heading to your house. The young lord needs a temporary transfer order."

"Transfer order? What's wrong with my brother?"

"Nothing's wrong, my lord. Our gate warden Lucas, he had a couple cups of tonic wine and his stomach couldn't take it. The young lord happened by and volunteered to cover for the day. So we need a formal writ."

Tam waved, mounted, and rode off.

Brendan had volunteered to cover the gate? The warden had the runs, didn't he have two deputies who could fill in? Brendan must really look out for his old comrades.

Carl climbed the gate tower. Since his brother was here, he ought to pass on what Alvin had told him that morning.

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