Free Rogue Sword by Poul Anderson

back in a carven chair. Good to be here, he thought, with a well-cooked meal inside him, wine goblet in hand and luxurious plum-colored garments (looted from the Genoese factory) on his skin. Djansha lay between silken sheets in the room given them, and he preferred to let her sleep and talk to his friend, instead.
    Or his lord? That was no easy question. Even in those few months of his service, before En Jaime went back from Constantinople and left him, the fugitive boy and the proven man had been something more than master and servants. Lucas owed much of his skill in swordplay to En Jaime’s teaching. For his part, he had instructed the knight in Greek and shown him how to write his name. Lucas had been impudent as a sparrow--but the Catalan had allowed it, without loss to his austere dignity.
    When they parted, Lucas had wept a little.
    Now, he thought, matters were not quite the same as before. The knight who found him, Asberto Cornel, had lent spare horses and accompanied him here. That had been a wild ride, bursting doors and seizing what they would, sleeping one night in a Byzantine villa and the next night on the ground! Arriving late today, Lucas had been well received by En Jaime; but the rich hom was preoccupied with the Company’s affairs, as it finished plundering the camp of its recent besiegers. This evening had been their first opportunity to speak at length, in private. They were still feeling their way with each other, the awkwardness of long-interrupted acquaintance upon them.
    “You mentioned having traveled as far as Cathay,” said En Jaime.
    Lucas nodded. “I set off for the Orient soon after you departed, Micer. Only this month have I come back to Europe.”
    “You must have much to tell.” The gray eyes lit up. “Did you learn anything of Tartar military practice?”
    “Somewhat. I’m unsure how much could be adopted by your light cavalry--what’s the word?--your jinetes . Doubtless your Turcopols have already learned a great deal from the Mongols in Persia and elsewhere.”
    “We shall see.” En Jaime stroked his pointed beard. “You retain your clerkly skills, I hope? Excellent. We’ve need of men who can read and write. If they can also wield a blade, why, we’ll make counts of them!”
    Lucas stirred uneasily. “I know not if I--”
    En Jaime went on without noticing: “You’ve kept other gifts, too, I observe, such as finding beautiful women and causing trouble.” He seated himself and picked up his goblet. “You’ve told me how you escaped from the galleys, and intimated why. I gather you’re outlaw in every Venetian domain. Well, then, here’s your country!”
    He flushed a trifle at the ring of his own words, which did not accord with aristocratic reserve. “We are glad to enroll any worthy man as a soldier of the table,” he said with more dryness. “I can make immediate use of you on my own staff. That starts you high. I am on the Council of Twelve which the Company has elected to govern them under our new commander, En Berenguer de Rocafort. Good service on your part cannot go unnoticed; you may hope to be knighted before long.”
    Lucas stared into his wine cup.
    “Well?” said En Jaime.
    Lucas jerked. “Oh . . . yes. You’re most kind, Micer. But--”
    He was remembering how Asberto’s troop had been ready to kill him like a beetle and drag Djansha into the house they intended sacking. And he remembered, even more vividly, another moment on the ride hither. The approaching horses had flushed a Thracian peasant from the brake in which he huddled. He ran down the road, his tunic flapping about skinny shanks. A jinete galloped after him, pricked him in the rear with a lance point, again and again, until blood soaked his gray tunic. At last the peasant collapsed in a faint, if his heart had not burst. Asberto Cornel rocked in the saddle with laughter.
    “I know so little about the Grand Company,” faltered Lucas.
    “What? You’ve traveled in Anatolia and not