Thief By Knight

CHAPTER TWO

Alain Bellamy caressed the ducheyen gold, his gaze lingering on its trio of engraved stars with undisguised longing. With a sigh, he tossed it back to Grantaire.
"You have all the luck, my friend." Alain hugged his latest find, a black-haired beauty named Adele who perched on his knee like a contented kitten. "All I've got is brains, talent, and an abundance of charm."
Adele giggled. It seemed to be her standard response to all of Alain's comments. Apparently, he decided to take it as a compliment and kissed her noisily.
Alain released the girl and grinned. "Thank you my dear," he said, whether for the kiss or the dubious testimony to his wit, Grantaire wasn't certain.
Grantaire pocketed the coin and took a healthy swig of ale. It had been a good day. The strange knight's largess had allowed him to pay the hundred gold he'd promised Brys, with enough left over to buy a round of his best ale for Grantaire's associates. Though he'd enjoyed their company for the better part of two years, Grantaire resisted the temptation to think of his fellow thieves as friends. He had learned a long time ago not to become too attached to people, especially those who shared his profession. Trusting people too much could only lead to disappointment. Or worse.
Shaking off his morose thoughts, Grantaire flashed an arrogant grin at Alain. "I'll take luck any day. It's more profitable than your good looks."
Lounging between them with his feet propped up on the table, Eliot Ferrau, the best pick-pocket Grantaire had ever known, raised a tankard in salute. "Being blessed with neither, the rest of us will be content to get drunk on your success."
Eliot neatly drained the tankard and set it down on the table. Behind him, a group of peddlers from Isere started a rousing chorus of The Fiddler's Wife. Eliot leaned closer to Grantaire and raised his voice to be heard above the din. "I must admit some curiosity," he said, "regarding the identity of our benefactor."
Grantaire resisted the urge to laugh. Born and raised in the gutter, Eliot had abruptly decided, several months ago, that he was the bastard son of some Espalion nobleman. Ever since he had taken on airs, speaking and acting like a lord to the manor born.
Grantaire, little impressed by claims to nobility, merely shrugged. "I told you. He was some crazy knight."
"Yes, yes. But did he give you a name?"
Grantaire hesitated. With his mind fogged by drink, his usually keen memory had grown elusive. The peddlers were singing loud and off key, making it hard to concentrate. Two of them had climbed onto the table and were swaying back and forth, arm in arm.
"Enjolras," Grantaire said, recalling suddenly. "Enjolras D'Cheval."
Eliot raised a busy eyebrow. "The baron's son?"
Grantaire frowned at him. Eliot's knowledge of the nobility was as recent as his new speech, and Grantaire didn't trust it.
"He didn't say," he said testily. "What difference does it make? Think he might be worth betting on?"
The choosing of Cambrai's first king had been the subject of much debate lately. Cambrai was a young kingdom, started a generation ago by a handful of noblemen from Allier -- younger sons with nothing left to inherit. King Albion had offered them baronies in return for settling the wilderness to the east and eradicating the thousands of screechers, the troublesome, bat-like creatures that infested the area. When the King had rescinded his offer after all of the hard work was done, the noblemen had rebelled, taking the area for themselves and proclaiming it as the new kingdom of Cambrai.
The struggling kingdom was saved from King Albion's retribution by a timely war between Cambrai and the southern kingdom of Ath. But now, after eighty years that war was ending. Cambrai was weak, ruled by a dozen barons with no unified army and no hope of surviving the attack from Cambrai that was sure to come with the spring. Unable to decide among themselves without bloodshed they could ill afford, the nobles had agreed that Archbishop Geoffrey D'Rabican would choose the new king. Anyone was eligible, as long as he presented himself at the chapel in San Sebastien de Lieux for the Harvest Festival, only two months away.
It was an interesting story, nothing more. The doings of kings and barons didn't affect much in the slums of Savin, and no one sitting in Talley's Corner tonight much cared who the king would be, but it gave them something to wager on. Eliot was giving even odds on Grantaire's own choice, Baron Nigel D'Brucie.
Eliot shook his head. "I wasn't referring to the wager. Anyone meaning to become king has no business in Savin now."
Grantaire scowled. Eliot was using that superior tone he always affected when he thought someone was missing the obvious.
"Then what were you referring to?"
"Grantaire, Grantaire. It's so unlike you to let an opportunity like this slip by. The man was a baron's son! Why, he could afford the price of this tavern as easily as you buy a mug of ale."
Behind them, the peddler's song finally stopped as the table tipped over. The men on top of it fell on top of their fellow revelers, who howled in protest. Brys grabbed his trusty shovel and waded into the chaos, shouting for order at the top of his lungs.
"Hey, he's right," Alain said when they could hear again. "You should have asked him for more."
Adele giggled.
Grantaire sighed in frustration. They were making him feel like a fool. He could have had all the gold he needed. Why hadn't he pressed the knight for more?
"I told you -- he gave me the gold. I didn't ask for anything."
"Then you're a fool."
Grantaire's spine stiffened at the sound of the familiar, oily voice. He turned around to glare at Fletcher Cheney, a hawk-nosed, reed of a man with the morals of the beady-eyed crows he so closely resembled. His bigger and more brutal partner, Artus Guignard, loomed behind him, one big hand gripping the arm of a small boy. The boy, a sandy-haired youth of eight, flashed Grantaire a look of helpless appeal.
"Let him go," Grantaire got to his feet and glared at Artus, trying to display more courage than he felt. "Perry, get over here."
Perry looked hopefully at Artus, who grunted and released him with a shove. He went flying towards Grantaire, who caught him easily and pushed him into the vacant chair behind them.
Grantaire had a soft spot where Perry was concerned. He knew it, and he'd given up trying to overcome it. The kid was clever and good-hearted. He didn't deserve to be used by a selfish bastard like Fletcher Cheney.
Resisting the urge to pull out his dagger and put an end to it, Grantaire only glared at the ugly, little man. "I told you to leave the kid alone."
Fletcher sneered. "He's useful. Besides, we pay him."
Behind them, Eliot chuckled. "How kind of you, since Perry does all the work. Perhaps it's time you conceded that the lad doesn't require your tutelage any longer?"
Artus growled and lumbered forward, bear-like. Fletcher stopped him with a snap of his fingers, as if Artus were a trained dog. In many ways, Grantaire realized, that's all the big brute was.
"There's no sense in us fighting over this little gutter rat." Fletcher hawked and spat. He flashed a nasty grin at Grantaire. "We won't be needing him for a while, now that you've given us a prime target to hunt down. I'd say, after we fleece this knight of yours, we won't be needing anyone for a long time."
Grantaire's cringed. He knew Fletcher's style of robbery would leave the knight bleeding somewhere in a ditch, his throat cut. The guy might be a loon, but he deserved better. But he said nothing as Fletcher turned and sauntered out of the tavern, his oversized lap dog in tow. Grantaire knew any complaints he might make would only make the bastards that much more anxious to do the job.
"Thanks, Grantaire," Perry said. "You're a real pal."
Grantaire turned around to see the kid swigging his ale. He snatched it away and frowned at Eliot, who ought to have been paying more attention.
"We can't let them kill that knight," he declared, sitting down heavily. He was in a foul mood and didn't care to hide it.
"Why?" Alain shrugged. Adele looked at her companion blankly, for once deciding not to giggle. "He's a nobleman -- who cares what happens to him? They don't care about us. Except when it comes to stretching our necks."
"I resent that," Eliot complained.
"Besides," Alain went on, ignoring Eliot, "with any luck, he'll get rid of those two for us. You said he had a nice-looking sword. I'll wager he can take care of himself."
"Maybe," Eliot conceded. "But Fletcher's sneaky. I'll wager three espalions against the knight."
"Wait a minute," Grantaire slapped his hand on the table, which shook violently. "Aren't you going to help me?"

Eliot regarded him quizzically. "Help you do what?"
Grantaire clenched his teeth and swallowed his frustration. He couldn't explain it, but that knight had gotten to him. The others wouldn't understand; they hadn't looked him in the eye. They wouldn't believe there was someone out there, a nobleman no less, who could know them for what they were and still expect no less than the best from them. This Enjolras, he wasn't like normal people. Maybe he was crazy. But Grantaire had to wonder if, in some strange way, the knight wasn't better than normal people.
"I'm not gonna sit around while those bastards murder him," Grantaire insisted. "The least I can do is find the guy and warn him. Now, are you guys going to help or not?"
Eliot and Alain exchanged dubious glances. "I'll help you, Grantaire!" Perry offered. Grantaire smiled, touched by the kid's enthusiasm. No matter what anyone promised, true loyalty was only found in animals and small children. Grantaire was bitterly reminded of this as he met the reluctant glances of the other two.
"I'll pay you."

***

Grantaire was ready to give up looking for the strange knight. It was well into the evening, and there had been no sign of him. Grantaire had covered every tavern and shop on the seamier side of town, and no one had seen a big, black-haired knight dressed in blue and white finery. Which meant he hadn't been there -- the guy was impossible to miss.
There'd been no word from the others, either. Eliot and Alain where checking the nicer shops (Sir Enjolras could certainly afford them), and Perry was searching the poorer parts of town.

"Hey, Grantaire!"
As if summoned by Grantaire's thoughts, Perry came barreling around the corner. He paused briefly, peering through the gathering darkness to make sure of Grantaire before rushing over to him.
"I found him," he said, panting. "I found him, I found him!"
"Hey, take it easy." Grantaire looked at Perry with real concern. The kid was wheezing like an old man, and his face was red.
He patted the kid's shoulder. "You did good, kid. But catch your breath first, then tell me where he is. There's no hurry."
Perry gulped in a deep breath of air. He started to speak, but broke into a coughing fit. "Is hurry," he managed between his hacking. "Trouble."
"What trouble?" Grantaire asked, concerned. Perry only shook his head and bent over to give into his coughing fit. Grantaire was worried. If Artus and Fletcher caught up to the knight, he could be in big trouble. Grantaire wanted to help, but Perry hadn't told him where the knight was.
Looking around, Grantaire spotted a full water trough. It was meant for horses, but this was an emergency. He sprinted to it and filled cupped hands with the murky liquid.
"Here," he offered, returning to Perry with only half the water spilled onto the street. "Drink this."
Gratefully, the kid brought Grantaire's hands to his mouth and drank. His coughing subsided at once, but he wrinkled his nose in distaste.
"This is awful!"
"Never mind that. Where is he?" Grantaire asked gruffly.
"This way." Before Grantaire could protest, Perry turned and sprinted back the way he'd come.
Grantaire followed. It wasn't easy keeping up with Perry -- the kid was fast. Grantaire was panting by the time they finally reached their destination -- an alley in the poorest part of town, between a tiny shack of a church hardly anyone attended and a row of crumbling houses.
Standing a little behind Grantaire, Perry pointed needlessly. "There he is!"
There he was indeed. The knight stood like an avenging angel in the middle of the alley, a naked broad sword in his hand. The blue eyes that had judged Grantaire now flashed at the row of thieves surrounding him with knives and daggers clutched in their sweaty hands. It looked like Fletcher had hired quite a few thugs to support Artus. Fletcher himself lounged against the church wall, watching the fight like the coward he was. A tear-stained woman in a dirty smock with the shoulder torn huddled behind him. Grantaire recognized her as Babette, a local whore who often worked for Fletcher as bait; she could scream louder than anyone in Savin.
Grantaire pushed himself and Perry against the wall. "Stay back here," he whispered to Perry. He was glad Fletcher hadn't noticed him; unseen, he would have a better chance to do something. Grantaire drew his dagger and tried to figure out what that something should be.
One of the thugs made a wide pass with a knife, which Sir Enjolras batted aside with the flat of his blade. Artus ducked around the knight's guard to slash at his unprotected face. Sir Enjolras whirled around, catching Artus' dagger with the tip of his blade and sending it spinning through the air. Artus backed off and ran for his weapon while Sir Enjolras parried another attack. Grantaire was impressed. Outnumbered twelve to one, the knight was easily holding his own. He should have no trouble fighting off these guys.
Of course, he had to attack them first. Grantaire watched in growing confusion as Sir Enjolras parried more attacks from his would-be assassins. What was he doing? He had plenty of opportunities, but he never pressed an attack. For some ungodly reason, he didn't want to hurt these guys.
It didn't take Artus and the others long to realize that they didn't have to be cautious. They weren't in any danger here. Grantaire winced as Artus and two others attacked at once. Sir Enjolras parried them all with ease, his sword a blur of silvered motion in the dim light of the alley
"What's he doing?" Perry asked, his voice a hushed whisper. "Why don't he fight back?"
Grantaire didn't understand it either. Was the stupid idiot going to stand there and let them kill him? It certainly seemed that way. Grantaire watched as the knight swung his blade against Artus's weapon. Metal rang, but Artus held on to his dagger this time. Encouraged, the assassins pressed closer. Artus tried another swipe at his side. Sir Enjolras lowered his blade just in time to parry it. He was slowing down. It was only a matter of time before one of Fletcher's men cut him.
Grantaire couldn't just stand there any longer. Even as Artus raised his dagger for another strike, Grantaire jumped up behind him and stabbed the big brute in the shoulder.
With a bellow of rage, Artus whirled around, jerking the blade out of Grantaire's hand. Artus lunged, snarling. Grantaire threw himself to the ground. He rolled under Artus's clumsy punch and kicked his feet out from under him. The big man toppled to the ground.

Grantaire snatched his dagger from the dirt and leaped to his feet, ready to fight. But he and Sir Enjolras were the only ones left standing. One of Fletcher's men lay in the street, bleeding badly. Grantaire was confused. The knight had been fighting defensively; how had he managed to wound someone?
With a groan, Artus sat up. He looked at Enjolras warily.
"You gonna kill me?"
The knight frowned at him. "I think not."
Grantaire resisted the urge to complain. Artus deserved no less, but it would seem cowardly for the knight to slaughter him where he sat. Even now, after a desperate battle for his life, his shirt and tunic were clean and unrumpled. Sir Enjolras was far too dignified, Grantaire thought, to commit murder.
The knight pointed his broad sword at Artus, who regarded the sharp tip nervously. "I do expect you to cooperate. Where is the young woman whom you were molesting?"
Artus's beady eyes blinked in confusion. "Woman? What woman?"
"Do not lie to me. I refer to the young woman you attacked in this alley. Where have your companions taken her?"
"Babette?" Artus looked at the knight as if he were a madman which, Grantaire thought, might not be far from the truth. "Babette ran off."
Catching the flash of anger in the knight's eyes, Grantaire decided it was time to intervene. He stepped forward, placing a tentative hand on the knight's sword arm.

"He's telling the truth. Babette works with the men who were attacking her." Grantaire hesitated, wishing there were a way he could explain without making the knight feel like a fool. He didn't think it was a good idea to lie; something told him that Sir Enjolras would see right through it.
"She was pretending to be in danger. It was all an act to get you into the alley so they could rob you."
The knight looked at him doubtfully. He apparently saw the truth in Grantaire's eyes, because he nodded and turned his attention back to Artus.
"Leave us."

Grantaire couldn't believe what he was seeing. He'd expected the knight to at least turn the big brute over to the constables. Surely he wanted some kind of revenge for what they'd done.

Artus, if he was surprised, didn't let it slow him down. He was on his feet and out of the alley faster than Grantaire had ever seen him move before.
Grantaire was startled by Perry's sudden laughter. He'd forgotten the kid was even there.
"That was fun," he said, trotting up to them. The boy looked up at Sir Enjolras with undisguised admiration. "You're pretty good with that there sword, mister. But how come you didn't kill 'em all?" He pointed to the thief still bleeding in the street. "You took him out quick enough when he tried to stab Grantaire in the back."
Grantaire looked up at the knight, astonished. He'd never even known he was in danger.
Sir Enjolras regarded Perry sadly. "I only hurt people when I must."
Grantaire felt like a heel. If it hadn't been for his big mouth, Fletcher and the others would never have gone after Sir Enjolras. He'd just endangered the life of a guy who was too damned nice to hurt the people who tried to kill him.
He opened his mouth to apologize when Sir Enjolras turned abruptly and bent over the fallen thief. He bent his head low, listening for the guy's breathing.
"Is he dead?" Perry asked hopefully.
Enjolras straightened and looked at them, his face impassive. "No. He is not dead."
Perry hung his head. "Too bad."
Sir Enjolras frowned. "Grantaire, perhaps you should see Perry home. This is no place for a young boy."

Perry was indignant. "I ain't got no home." He said the word home with scorn, as if it were something only sissies would lay claim to.
Grantaire noticed the look of compassion in the knight's eyes. He hoped the knight wouldn't say anything too embarrassing. Perry was a proud kid -- he didn't like people to feel sorry for him.
"Perhaps I can help with that," Enjolras said. "But first I must tend to this man. He has lost a great deal of blood."
"I'll get help," Grantaire offered, pointing to the run-down church. Father Bayard lived on the second floor. He was a good guy, and wouldn't mind being waken for an emergency. Although waking him, Grantaire thought wryly, was never easy. The old man had just proven once again that he could sleep through anything."
"That will not be necessary," Enjolras replied. "If you'll please be silent until I am finished?"
Grantaire nodded sheepishly. He caught Perry's quizzical look and shrugged. He had no idea what the knight was up to.
Taking a deep breath, Enjolras bent his head and began to pray. So that's why he didn't want help; the guy must be too far gone. Sir Enjolras must be praying for his soul. Grantaire folded his arms and leaned against the church wall, content to wait. This shouldn't take long. Not that it would matter if it did. The constables weren't likely to come prowling around in this part of town after sunset. Grantaire glanced down at Perry who, he noted with amusement, had mimicked his gesture perfectly.
The knight prayed for only a few minutes. He remained by the body and began to removed his leather gloves.
"What's he..." Perry started to whisper. Grantaire shook his head and put a finger to his lips. The knight had asked for silence, and Grantaire felt compelled to give it to him. After all, the guy had just saved his life.
Sir Enjolras mumbled something and placed his bare hands on the guy's chest. He remained in that position for several minutes, not moving. Grantaire was confused. What the hell was he doing?
At length, Enjolras stood and walked over to them. He looked pale and weak. Grantaire wondered if the thieves had hurt him after all.
"Hey, are you all right?"
The knight nodded sadly. "I am well. But I am afraid I was unable to help him. He is dead."
The knight's announcement conveyed a world of guilt and regret. Grantaire wasn't sure what to say. The assassin wasn't worth the knight's sorrow.
"Well, uh, you did what you could." Whatever that was. "I can get Father Bayard to take care of the body."
Enjolras shook his head. "No, thank you. I will take care of the necessary arrangements. I am well acquainted with Father Bayard."
"You are?" Grantaire was surprised. He was one of the few people in Savin who bothered speaking to the old man; most considered him a doddering, old fool. His little congregation had already been dwindling when another priest, the wealthy younger son of a viscount, had built a magnificent chapel on Tantrevelle street. Father Bayard simply couldn't compete with a priest who could give fiery speeches and pass out alms. Slowly but surely, the people of Savin had forgotten him. The aging priest was forced to depend on donations from the new church just to survive.
"I spent most of the day speaking with him," the knight explained. "He is a wise man."
"So that's where you were!" Perry said suddenly. "Hey, Grantaire." Perry turned to the thief, palm open. "Give me my money. I found him for you."
Grantaire wanted to hide from the questioning look in the knight's eyes. "You've been looking for me?"
This was embarrassing. Grantaire couldn't ask the guy for more money -- not after he'd just saved his life. What was he supposed to say?
"Yeah, he offered a whole bunch of us a big reward if we found you," Perry blurted. Grantaire wanted to strangle him.
"Really?" The knight's expression was perfectly bland, but Grantaire was certain he detected a note of amusement in the question.
Perry nodded. "You bet."
Grantaire put a hand on Perry's shoulder, squeezing hard. The kid took the hint and shut up.
"Um, I wanted to thank you for giving me the money this morning," he said. "I never really thanked you. Not really."
"You are quite welcome."
Grantaire avoided the knight's gaze. He felt like an idiot for passing up this chance, but he just couldn't ask for more money. Not now.
"I intend to pay you back," he promised, not meaning a word of it.
"There is no need. Brother Felix and I will be leaving for Tonerre in the morning."
Grantaire wanted to kick himself. His last chance to get the rest of the money he needed to buy Talley's Corner would soon be half-way across Tarascon. But a man had to have some dignity.
"Well, have a nice trip," he managed. "I'll see Perry home now."
"But I don't..."
"You can stay with me tonight, kid." Grantaire grabbed Perry's arm and started tugging him towards the street. "Come on."
Perry turned to wave at the knight even as he stumbled after Grantaire. "Good night."
Sir Enjolras waved back. "God be with you both."

***

Perry picked up a small stone from the street and tossed it halfheartedly at a stray cat, which hissed and darted into the shadows. Once they'd lost sight of the alley, Perry was content enough to walk beside him without being dragged.
"I've never seen a real knight before. Do you think they're all like him?"

Grantaire thought of the knight's strange behavior. He didn't know much about the nobility, nor did he care to. But from everything he'd heard, knights didn't act like this Enjolras character. They didn't risk serious injury to avoid hurting a bunch of thugs who were trying to murder them. They didn't give money to people who'd tried to rob them, or to people who'd tried to rob the priest they were hanging out with. For that matter, they didn't hang out with priests. Respect them, sure -- the church, for all of D'Rabican's efforts to keep it out of secular matters, was powerful. But they didn't hang around with them.
"No," Grantaire said, realizing Perry was expecting an answer. "I doubt there are any like him."
Perry pursed his lips thoughtfully and stuck his hands inside his pockets. "I wonder what he was doing here? And where was that he said they were going to?"
"Tonnere."
"Where's that?"

"Across this barony, by the Ducheyen River. North of Saint Genevieve and south of Hannut."
Perry shrugged. The explanation meant nothing to him; he'd never been outside Savin. Grantaire, who ever since his youth had traveled all over the kingdom of Cambrai, prided himself on his knowledge of its geography. He even kept detailed maps, which he carefully protected in a bone case and, for now, stored safely in Brys's safe.
"Grantaire, how come you didn't ask him for more money?"
"I don't know!" Grantaire snapped. He instantly regretted losing his patience when he saw the hurt look on Perry's face, but he wasn't about to explain his actions to an eight-year-old. He couldn't even explain them to himself. He didn't ask Sir Enjolras for the money because he was ashamed to. He couldn't understand why-- he had never cared what anybody thought of him before.
That knight could have solved all his problems. With enough money, he could have bought Talley's Corner, settled down. He would have had a real home for himself, and for Perry. He could have stopped being a thief, scraping for every meal and constantly staying one step ahead of disaster. He could have been respectable. Digging into his pocket, Grantaire took out his mother's comb. Perry watched him, but, sensing Grantaire's mood, said nothing.
The comb nestled in Grantaire's palm was a work of delicate beauty. Crafted of gold and mother-of-pearl, it seemed to capture the moonlight that flooded the alley, as if absorbing it into its very essence. Reverently, Grantaire turned it over. On the back was carved a name -- Elinore.
The treasure had belonged to his mother. She was all he had ever known of family, and the comb was all he had left of her. She had died eighteen years ago of a wasting illness, nursed by a ten-year-old son who had too little knowledge to care for her, and too little money to find someone who did.
Elinore had been a beautiful lady in every sense of the word, and Grantaire still missed her. Upon her death, she'd asked her son to make her proud. She promised she would be watching him from above. With a sigh of regret, Grantaire put the comb back into his pocket. Not for the first time, he hoped his mother had been lying.
He looked down at Perry, who shuffled along beside him with the air of a beaten puppy, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Grantaire sighed. This must be his night for guilt and humiliation.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you, kid."
Perry looked up at him with wide eyes. "It's okay."
Perversely, Grantaire wished the kid hadn't let him off so easily. It was an even worse crime to hurt someone who didn't get mad at you. Grantaire decided to make up for it.
"Come on. Let's go rent a room from Brys."
With a smile, Perry slipped his small hand into Grantaire's. "So, how much do I get for finding the knight?"
"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

***

Emerging reluctantly from dreams of great wealth, Grantaire opened his eyes. Bright sunlight assaulted him, driving its painful shafts right into his eyes. Grantaire closed them again, then covered his face with his hands for added protection.
"Damn," he swore, wincing at the sound of his own voice. He should have closed the shutters. For that matter, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he shouldn't have stayed up for hours after Perry had fallen asleep, keeping vigil with several bottles of Brys's good ale.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. He'd been depressed about something. What was it? Oh, yes -- the knight. The one he was too craven to beg for money. Grantaire groaned again. His sudden and inexplicable attack of pride had cost him his chance to buy Talley's Corner.
Well, there was no point in lying here and sulking all day. With some effort, Grantaire crawled out of bed, his eyes still closed. He stumbled over to the window and closed the shutters, blocking out the treacherous sunlight.
He opened his eyes. As his vision cleared, Grantaire looked around the shabby room. Perry was nowhere to be found. He'd probably taken off to the bazaar. Under Eliot's tutelage, the boy was becoming a fine pick-pocket. He spotted a piece of faded parchment among the empty bottles littering the floor. He picked it up and squinted at Perry's wild scrawl. Grantaire, whose own mother had been adamant about passing on her wealth of education to her only child, had taught Perry how to read and write.
Apparently he hadn't done the best of jobs -- the kid's spelling was unique. But he managed to figure out that Perry had, in fact, gone to the bazaar. Perry also reminded Grantaire about the money he was due for finding the knight. As a post script, he added a question -- Do you think I culd find sumbody for the nit? I bet he'd pay me lots. Grantaire vowed to give Perry a few more writing lessons.
Chuckling to himself, he wondered if the nit would offer Perry a job. That was when Grantaire had a great idea. Maybe the knight could offer him a job. Even if he wasn't the son of a baron, like Eliot said he was, he was obviously a nobleman. That sort never did anything for themselves. Surely there was a way for a quick-witted person like Grantaire to make himself useful.
Hoping to make a good impression, Grantaire ran his fingers through his tangled, brown hair and brushed some dirt from his trousers. He slipped on his boots and went to look for Sir Enjolras.
Father Bayard's church seemed the most likely place to start looking. Grantaire found the elderly priest in the sanctuary, polishing the worn statue of Saint Genevieve. The patron saint of charity seemed to smile down at the bowed head of her priest as he lovingly tended to her needs.
Grantaire's walked up to the priest, who did not turn around as his foot steps clattered on the wooden floor. The old man was terribly hard of hearing. Grantaire stepped up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Father Bayard straightened and turned around, eyes blinking like an owl's.
"Why, hello Grantaire," he said much too loudly. "It's good to see you. What brings you to our parish this fine morning?"
"Hello, father. I'm looking for a knight by the name of Sir Enjolras. Have you seen him?"
"I'm sorry, son." Father Bayard scratched his bald head and smiled regretfully at Grantaire. "Enjolras left for Tonerre. Remarkable boy, that one. Can I fetch you a cup of tea?"
The priest asked this question with the hopeful air of a child begging for candy. A cup of tea with Father Bayard usually meant a game of drams to go with it. Grantaire had played many such games with the priest, and lost most of them. Father Bayard's hearing may have dulled with age, but his wits had not.
Grantaire shook his head to decline the offer. "I'm sorry, Father," he said sincerely. The priest's look of disappointment was heart-wrenching. "But I don't have time today. I need to talk to Sir Enjolras. When did he leave?"
"He and Brother Felix left right after sunrise."
"Right after sunrise?" Grantaire was astounded. He had left the knight in an alley well after midnight with a dead body on his hands. What the hell was he doing getting up at dawn?
Grantaire felt his grand hopes sinking like a rock to the bottom of a very deep well. There was no way he'd catch up with them now. He didn't even own a horse.
"Well, Father. I guess I'll have time for that game after all."
Father Bayard eyed him shrewdly. "You tempt an old man, my friend. But I won't be keeping you from what you need to do. Sir Enjolras left a horse for you at the stables. You'll have no trouble catching up, if you ride hard."
Grantaire was certain he must have heard wrong. "What did you say?"
The priest chuckled. "I thought I was the one who was hard of hearing. Sir Enjolras left a horse for you. They'll be riding slowly, to give you a chance to catch up. Come on inside. I'll fetch you the note he left."
Numbly, Grantaire followed the priest into the tiny church. Why would the knight leave a horse for him? How could he possibly have known Grantaire would be coming? He didn't know himself before this morning, when Perry's note had inspired him to this crazy plan.
Father Bayard led Grantaire into his cluttered study, where he fished among a pile of books and papers to find the one meant for Grantaire. Finding it at last, he grabbed it like a prize fish about to escape the hook and thrust it at Grantaire. It was addressed to him, in a fine, elegant hand.

Grantaire Matrice,



Father Felix and I will be expecting you. We will set a slow pace, so that you will have no difficulty catching up to us. Tell the stable hand that Sir Enjolras D'Cheval left a horse for you -- she is a bay mare with one white stocking.










Respectfully,






Enjolras

Grantaire read the note twice, but it still didn't make sense. And he was sure he'd never told the knight his last name.
"I don't understand. Did he say anything else?"
The priest thought for a moment, scratching his chin. "Oh, yes. He said they'd be taking the north road out of Savin."
"That's all he said? You're certain?"
Father Bayard frowned. "Yes, I'm certain. Don't be rude, Grantaire. You're acting like the other two."
Grantaire frowned. This conversation was growing more confusing by the minute. "What other two?"
"Why, Artus and Fletcher. You know them, don't you? Never did like those two much, but they claimed Enjolras sent for them. He must have forgotten to mention it. Has a lot on his mind these days, that one does."


Grantaire's stomach lurched. Fletcher was smart enough to learn from last night's fiasco. This time, they wouldn't give the knight a chance to fight back.
"Is something wrong?" Father Bayard asked. "You seem upset."
"Gotta run, Father."
"Of course," the priest replied, smiling indulgently. "But you owe me a game when you return."
"Of course, Father." Grantaire bolted out the door and ran down the street to the stables. The horse was there, as promised. He claimed the animal and rode off as fast as he dared. He wasn't much of a rider. In fact, he hated horses. He was counting on the slow pace Sir Enjolras had promised, along with a few short-cuts he knew, to get him there in time.
As they passed through the city gates, Grantaire kicked the mare into a gallop. He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands tightly around the reins. He was terrified of falling off the damn horse. That wasn't the only reason he sweated and trembled even as he bounced atop the galloping animal. He was terrified that he would be too late to help Sir Enjolras. For the first time since his mother's death, Grantaire was truly afraid for someone other than himself.
He had no idea why. He was a vagabond thief who never even knew his father. Why should he care about some nobleman's pampered son? He didn't understand; but he didn't have time to think about it now. Up ahead, the road split, with one half-overgrown trail branching off into the woods. Fear of bandits and wild animals kept most travelers away from it, but right now it was Grantaire's best chance to catch up to Sir Enjolras in time. He jerked hard at the mare's reins, nearly falling off when she reared in protest. Determined, Grantaire kicked the horse until she turned and galloped off into the woods.
Oaks twined their limbs above them to make a roof of brightly colored leaves. The roots stretching across the trail were so thick the mare had to jump over some of them. Low-hanging branches smacked against Grantaire's head and shoulders, threatening to send him tumbling from the saddle. Leaning closer to the mare's neck, he grimaced and held on. After all, Grantaire reminded himself, he was riding into almost certain death to save a complete stranger. It would be embarrassing for him to die from a fall on his way there.
An anguished scream cut through the air. It was the kind of pain-filled, desperate cry that could only come from a dying animal. Grantaire's mare jerked her head back nervously, nearly tearing the reins from his hand. He cursed under his breath. He didn't have the patience to deal with a nervous animal, especially one with big, iron-shod hooves. He jumped off and tied her reins to a low-hanging branch. He scrambled away from her dancing hooves and ran towards the road.
Grantaire peered around the shelter of a fat oak to see the knight crouching in the middle of the road. He used the body of a huge, white horse as cover while a rain of arrows sailed over his head. They were coming from the other side of the road. The archers, using the thicker trees there as cover, were invisible from Grantaire's position.
The rain of arrows stopped, and the knight lifted his head up to search for his attackers. He ducked as another sailed over his head, close enough to ruffle his hair. Without a bow, there was no way he could fight back. Charging into the trees with his sword drawn would only get him killed.
Grantaire counted as the next round of arrows went hissing towards the knight. There were at least five archers. One of the arrows grazed the knight's shoulder. He hunched closer to the ground, holding his arm. If Grantaire didn't do something soon, the best he'd be able to do was stick around and bury the bodies.
He reached into the tiny pockets stitched into his boots and slipped out a pair of knives. Each one was carefully balanced for throwing. Grantaire had those, plus a dagger. Fletcher's men had at least five bows. The odds were impossible. He considered leaving, pretending he'd never caught up to the knight. Somehow, after all the terrible things he'd done in his life, Grantaire knew this one act of cowardice would haunt him forever. He just couldn't leave an innocent man to die; that was one mistake he'd promised never to make again.
Grantaire ran back into the woods and further along the road. He stepped out from the trees and looked around. He couldn't see Sir Enjolras from here, and he hoped he was out of sight of the archers. He hesitated a moment, prepared to duck back into the trees if anyone shot at him. When no one did, he raced across the road and into the cover of the trees.
He could hear the twang of released bowstrings ahead of him, but he still couldn't see the archers. Keeping a knife gripped tightly in the palm of his hand, he crept forward. His only chance lay in surprising the archers. If they saw him first, it was all over.
When Grantaire finally spotted them, Fletcher himself was fitting an arrow to his bow. Four other archers stood beside him. Artus leaned against a tree, watching the scene below with a look of childish glee. Grantaire crept up behind them. He held the blade of the knife between his thumb and forefingers and waited for them to fire. As soon as the arrows went flying across the road, Grantaire pulled back his arm and tossed the knife with all his strength. The blade buried itself between Artus' shoulder blades. He screamed and fell. As the others whirled around, Grantaire grabbed his other knife and threw.
Fletcher held up a hand, as if he could ward off the missile hurtling towards him. The knife sliced through his palm and into his chest. Fletcher looked down, gasping. Blood pumped from the wound. He trembled, as if caught in a chill wind. Then his eyes closed, and he crumpled to the ground.
The three remaining archers, recovering from their shock, turned to Grantaire. One drew a wicked-looking dirk from his belt and stepped forward, balancing on the tips of his toes and waving the knife in front of him from side to side. The others started to copy his movement, then looked back to the road, remembering the knight.

They remembered too late. Sir Enjolras burst through the trees behind them, waving his broad sword. He cut through the shoulder blade and down the side of the first man. He fell to the ground almost in two pieces, twitching and spraying blood.
The others bolted. Sir Enjolras turned and disemboweled one with a wide swipe of his blade. The others were nothing more than distant foot steps by the time he fell to the ground.
Grantaire, remembering how reluctant Sir Enjolras had been to shed blood the night before, looked at him now in stunned silence. The knight was covered in blood, none of it his own, and the bright liquid painted the blade of his sword with the evidence of his sudden brutality.
He tried not to flinch as those blue eyes turned to him, still hard and full of anger. "You risked your life to save mine. I would not repay you by allowing you to be murdered by assassins."
With that firm but quiet announcement, the knight turned and headed back to the road. Grantaire watched him, staring with dumb fascination at the drops of blood trailing behind him as clearly as any road drawn on a map.
Shuddering, Grantaire turned to retrieve his throwing knives, trying to ignore the spray of blood as he pulled them out of warm, dead flesh. Then he turned and followed the knight.
The big, white horse Grantaire had assumed dead stood in the middle of the road, shaking its heavy mane with an air of dignified boredom. Looking around, Grantaire spotted Sir Enjolras by the side of the road, kneeling over a body dressed in brown robes. It could only be the irritating priest.
Grantaire was hit with a wave of guilt. He'd forgotten all about the priest. He didn't like the man, but he hadn't meant to get him killed. Sure, it wasn't his fault -- not really. But he couldn't escape the fact that, if it hadn't been for his big mouth, Artus and Fletcher would never have known Sir Enjolras existed.
Sir Enjolras's bare hands lay still against the priest's chest. His eyes were closed in prayer. His bloody sword lay half-covered in the grass, momentarily forgotten. Next to it lay a broken arrow, no doubt the one that had felled the priest.
The priest had to be dead. His blood was still gushing over the knight's hands and onto the ground. Grantaire almost gagged at the smell of it. Or maybe it was guilt that was making him sick. He looked towards the hill where his horse was tethered. Well, not his horse really -- it belonged to the knight. Maybe he could walk back to town. There was no point in sticking around here -- the knight wouldn't want to have anything to do with him now.
Once again, Grantaire felt guilty. He shouldn't run. He should at least stay long enough to apologize and help bury the body. But what was he supposed to say? He looked back down at the knight, who was still praying. The priest didn't seem to be bleeding as much. He must be running out of blood. Grantaire watched the knight and shifted from foot to foot, wishing there was something he could do.
"Saint Alexandre," he heard the knight mutter. "Help me."
That was strange. He didn't remember what Alexandre was the saint of, but why should Sir Enjolras be asking for help now? He should be asking God to see the priest's soul safely to heaven. Grantaire hadn't been inside a church since he was a boy, but he remembered that much. Sir Enjolras was taking an awfully long time about it, though. Grantaire tried not to be impatient. He didn't want to be petty. Especially not when he'd just been sort of partly responsible for someone's death.
The knight never moved; he barely seemed to breathe. Grantaire, watching closely, saw the blood covering his hands vanish. He blinked, rubbing his eyes. The knight's hands were as clean and white as if he had just washed them. Grantaire knew they had been drenched in blood just a moment before. What the hell was going on here?
Suddenly, the priest took a deep, gasping breath. Grantaire jumped back, startled. The priest opened his eyes and sat up. The blood covering his chest was gone.
"What - what happened?" He blinked and looked around him, bewildered.
Grantaire couldn't believe what he was seeing. Shouldering the knight aside, he grabbed the priest by his robes and ripped the fabric, widening the hole already made by the arrow head. There was no wound there -- not even a scratch.
"What are you doing? Unhand me!" The priest's voice was a shadow of his former whining tone, but the irritation was real. Grantaire didn't protest when the knight gently pulled him away.
Grantaire pointed accusingly at the priest. "You were dead!"
The priest shook his head, confused. "What are you talking about?"
"Brother Felix was wounded," the knight explained patiently. "I healed him."
Grantaire stared at the knight in disbelief. Shadows had appeared under his eyes, evidence of his exhaustion. His expression was sincere and calm, as if healing people on the brink of death were an everyday occurrence.
"You were trying to heal the thief in the alley," he said, giving voice to his sudden realization. This couldn't be happening. Miracles like this didn't happen in real life; they were the stuff of tales and legends. Believing in things like that was for pathetic fools who couldn't live in the real world without some kind of crutch.
The priest was staring at Sir Enjolras in awe, his face slack. "It's true," he said, his voice a whisper. "Abbot Ryere was right. You are a healer. Like Saint Alexandre himself, you're a healer!"
Grantaire half-expected the priest to throw himself to the ground and kiss the man's feet. Sir Enjolras regarded him calmly, as if the priest's astonishment affected him not at all.
"Yes, Felix. By the grace of God, I am a healer." There was no pride in the words. They were simply a statement of fact. He turned to smile at Grantaire.
"I thank you again." In near perfect mimicry of the earlier time, he reached into his tunic and withdrew another pouch. This one was larger. He handed it to Grantaire.
"It is not enough to buy Talley's Corner, but it should help. I wish you well."
Grantaire took the pouch numbly, but did not open it. This had to be a dream. The knight knew everything about him. The knight was a healer. The knight brought the priest back from the dead. Numbly, he turned and headed back down the road toward town. He heard the priest mutter something about the bodies -- they would need to be buried.
The bodies. Grantaire stopped in his tracks. He turned around. The priest was sitting in the grass, drinking water from a flask. The knight stood next to the big horse, gently rubbing its side with a heavy cloth. How were they going to bury the bodies?
Grantaire shuffled back to where the knight was standing. "Do you have a shovel?" he asked.
The knight did not seem surprised, neither by Grantaire's return, nor by his question. "No, we do not."
Grantaire nodded. This, at least, made sense. People did not, generally, carry shovels when they traveled. It comforted Grantaire to know the knight had not foreseen the need for one.
"I'll take the mare, ride back to town, get a couple shovels. You'll need some help to bury all those bodies."
The knight said nothing, only nodded. Grantaire had the feeling, as he rode back to Cambrai on the knight's mare, he had foreseen this too. But he didn't ask. He didn't ask how the knight had known to provide the horse, how he had known about Talley's Corner. Or, for that matter, how he had known Grantaire's last name, which Grantaire seldom told to anyone. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

As he rode back through the gates of Savin, Grantaire decided he would fetch more than just shovels. The maps he kept in Brys's safe were good maps, and accurate. If the knight and his companion were traveling far, they might like to see them.
As he walked into the tavern, Grantaire had to stop short, rocking back on his heels to avoid running into Perry, who was busily sweeping the floor with a horse-hair broom. Whenever he could spare a few coppers, Brys would give the kid odd jobs around the tavern.
"Hey, Grantaire!" Perry leaned against the broom and smiled at him. "Where you been? Father Bayard said you went after that knight. Did he give you more money? You still owe me for finding him, you know."
"Slow down, Perry." Brys chuckled and shook his head. "You'll make him dizzy. Where have you been, Grantaire? We've been worried."
Grantaire smiled at his friend and strolled over to the bar, where Sydney slid over to make room for him. Things were slow in the middle of the afternoon, and they were the only customers. Brys's terrier snoozed beside the hearth, one paw over his nose, his ears twitching.
"I did go after the knight. Fletcher and his bunch tried to kill him."
A broom stick clattered to the floor behind them. "Again?" Perry scrambled up beside Grantaire without waiting for an invitation. "What happened? Is he dead?"
"No. Fletcher is. And Artus."
Sydney whistled low in appreciation. "That knight of yours sure has done this town a favor. We're better off without those two."
Brys nodded. "I suppose the knight was grateful?"
Grantaire shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In his anxiety over the knight, he'd forgotten all about his reason for going after him in the first place. What was wrong with him?
"I'm sure he will be, Brys. There wasn't time... I mean, we still have to bury the bodies. I just came back for some shovels and my maps."
"Your maps? What do you need those for? You're not planning on going with this knight are you?"
Grantaire looked away from Brys' concerned expression to Sydney, who cocked an eyebrow at him. He wasn't sure what to say. He was thinking of leaving, but nothing was definite yet. He hadn't even mentioned it to Sir Enjolras. Until now, he hadn't realized how hard it would be to leave this town -- he had a lot of ties here, more than he'd ever dared to make before.
"Well, I'm not sure. I was hoping this knight could use a guide. I mean, I know I've never held an honest job before, but I'm desperate." He looked at Brys, hoping for some understanding. "He's my best hope for buying Talley's Corner."
Brys' answering smile was slow in coming. "Well, son, I can't say I'll be happy to see you go. But you're probably right. These noblemen have more money than folks like us see in a life time."
"But Grantaire, you can't leave!" He turned to see Perry looking up at him, tears leaking from both eyes. "You promised you'd teach me how to read better."
Grantaire felt like a louse. He never should have let the kid learn to depend on him like this. "I will, Perry. When I come back and buy Talley's Corner."
"But what if you don't come back?"
Grantaire had no answer for that one. He'd already learned that the knight's company could be dangerous; it was quite possible he wouldn't come back. Desperate, he looked to Brys for a suggestion.
The tavern keeper turned away from him. "I'll get your maps," he said gruffly, and shuffled off to the back room.
Sydney came to his rescue. She leaned over to Perry and lifted his quivering chin, forcing him to look at her. "Grantaire will be back. This is his home now."
Home. It was such a strange word to Grantaire. He'd never had one, not even when his mother was alive. She'd always kept them on the move, desperate to avoid Grantaire's father, a man who had hurt and abused her. They'd never trusted anyone but each other, and they'd never called any place home. After all these years, had Grantaire finally found a place of his own?
Brys came out with the maps, and Grantaire took them with a grateful smile. He reached out and mussed Perry's hair. "Sydney's right," he said, wondering if he meant it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a gold coin and handed it to Perry. "This is yours, for finding the knight. And for helping Brys look after this place while I'm gone. I'm trusting you to make sure Talley's Corner is in top shape when I buy it. Deal?"
Perry chewed his lower lip and stared thoughtfully at the coin. He looked up at Grantaire and nodded. "You've got a deal," he said. He threw his arms around Grantaire and hugged him for the briefest of seconds before pulling away and bolting for the back room.
"What was that all about?"
Sydney chuckled. "You do have an effect on people, Grantaire. Whether you want to or not."
Grantaire glanced at her, wondering what she meant by that. Sydney only smiled. "Don't worry. We'll look after him while you're gone. You take care of yourself."
"Thanks, Syd. I will." Grantaire left without looking back. Perry's question nagged at him. He couldn't help but wonder if he would ever see this little town again.

***

It was nearly dark by the time they started burying the last body (Fletcher's, as it happened). Sir Enjolras had firmly rejected Grantaire's idea of one mass grave. Even assassins, he said, deserved to be buried with some dignity.
The priest hadn't helped at all. Grantaire glared at his pudgy, brown body as it snored loudly in the bedroll the knight had thoughtfully provided, next to the small fire the knight had built. He was sure the priest was just being lazy. But he could hardly prove that being brought back miraculously from the brink of death didn't make one tired, and Sir Enjolras had taken the priest's side.
Grantaire pushed his shovel hard into the ground and tossed aside more clumps of brown earth. He wanted to make as much noise as possible. The movement hurt his already sore hands, but what did it matter? They were already destined for blisters by morning. The priest continued to snore, unaffected.
Grantaire looked at Enjolras, shoveling tirelessly, and without complaint. Now, there was a man Grantaire's mother would have been proud of. The thought surprised him, but he knew it was true. Elinore had admired courage and mercy, and the knight seemed to have plenty of both. Grantaire wondered what life would have been like, if he had been born the son of a baron, bound for knighthood instead of thievery. He almost laughed. He might as well wish he were a star in heaven.
He heard a soft thud as the knight's shovel fell to the ground. Realizing belatedly that the grave was deep enough, he cast his own shovel aside. Somewhere close by, a screecher shrieked. Grantaire looked up, searching for the pesky, bat-winged creature, but it had already disappeared into the darkening sky.
Sir Enjolras picked up Fletcher's front end and regarded Grantaire expectantly. With a sigh, he picked up the feet, and they carried their burden to the open grave. The knight tried to drop the body gently in, but Grantaire released his end too soon. Fletcher tumbled into the grave, hitting the bottom with an unceremonious thud. Grantaire thought he caught Sir Enjolras scowling at him. The knight bent his head in prayer. Grantaire pretended to do likewise.
"Holy Father," Enjolras intoned. "Please accept this soul and forgive him his sins, as we have done."
I didn't forgive him, Grantaire added silently. He was a bastard. Send him to hell where he belongs.
They covered the last grave in record time. Grantaire worked quickly; he wanted to get it over with. He threw down his shovel in relief and sank to the ground, exhausted. He frowned at the priest, who was still snoring. His muscles wouldn't be sore in the morning.
"Thank you," the knight said again, sitting down beside him. "You'll share our fire for the night?"
Grantaire nodded. What else did the knight expect him to do? He didn't think he could make it back to town if he tried. He was that tired.
An awkward silence settled between them. Grantaire was curious about the knight. He knew he shouldn't be. It was a dangerous impulse, curiosity. But he couldn't help it. He wanted to know how he had healed the priest, and how he had known so many things he shouldn't have known.
"Why did you leave me the horse?" he asked at last. It was a simple question, and a good beginning.
The knight nodded, as if he had been waiting for the question. "I dreamed that you would follow us. I assumed you did not own a horse."
"You dreamed it?"
The knight nodded, offering no explanation. Grantaire was astounded. The man had just admitted to seeing visions of the future as if it were no more remarkable than water running down-hill. He looked at Grantaire as if expecting more questions. Grantaire didn't know what to say. The man was a healer who could see the future. He could probably breathe fire and walk on thin air. What was a vagabond thief supposed to say to someone like that?
"Felix and I are journeying to San Sebastien de Lieux," Sir Enjolras offered. "To see the Archbishop. We must arrive before the Festival of Lights has ended."
Before the festival ended, when all assembled would give thanks for this year's harvest. When the Archbishop would choose the first king.
"You're going to be our king." Grantaire spoke his thoughts aloud, astonished by the sudden realization. He realized now he was going to lose his bet with Eliot. He'd wagered on Nigel de Brucie because his barony was the largest and wealthiest. But he knew now that he was sitting beside the next king of Cambrai. It hung on Sir Enjolras like a cloak woven of the very fabric of fate. What man could possibly be more kingly than one who could perform miracles?
"You're going to be king," he said again. "Aren't you?"
Sir Enjolras did not bother to answer the obvious question. "Felix and I could use a guide. We would pay you well."
A guide to the future king. Grantaire might not care about politics, but he was clever enough to realize how profitable it could be to make oneself useful to someone in power.
"How well?" he asked.
"Six hundred ducheyen gold. More than enough, I believe, to buy a tavern."

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