Free The Last Knight by Hilari Bell

run.”
    The only thing I ever did right? That lived up to his standards?
    “All the more reason to thwart the old tyrant,” I told him.
    The journey would have been tedious if we hadn’t spent most of it arguing.
     
     
    Over an early dinner at a small tavern only ten minutes’ ride from Mistress Agnes’s home, we reached a compromise of sorts. Sir Michael agreed to refrain from telling her the whole truth the moment he introduced himself, though he refused to lie if she asked him. I figured “Why do you want to know?” would be the first question she asked, but it was his redemption. I was just along for the ride.
    Mistress Agnes’s house was an overgrown cottage, timbered and thatched, with windows made of the old glass rounds that are impossible to cut and nearly impossible to break. They gleamed like gems in the afternoon light, making the cottage look quite appealing until you remembered that mice and rats adore thatched roofs. Perhaps she kept cats.
    Mistress Agnes came to the door when she heard our horses, wiping her hands on her apron as if we’d interrupted her preparation of dinner, or perhaps some more arcane brewing. Plump and still pretty, she looked like a woman who might keep cats. The soft curls beneath her cap were threaded with gray. She examined us with a critical, healer’s eye, and something in the directness of her gaze told me not to underestimate the woman, for all her warm, feather-bolster appearance.
    “Good afternoon, good sirs. What may I do for you?”
    Sir Michael dismounted. “We do not seek your services, Mistress. I’m here in search of information.”
    Mistress Agnes smiled. “I welcome a chance to share my craft lore. If you ask more than a few questions, I’ll have to charge for lessons, though I keep the price as low as I can.”
    It was a simple mistake, and possibly a useful one. If Sir Michael would spend twenty minutes asking about herbal mixtures, he could then steer the topic to Sir Herbert’s poisoning and all manner of information might slip out. So I was exasperated, if not surprised, when Sir Michael said, “I’m sorry, Mistress, but I haven’t come to ask about your craft. I need to learn more of your sister.”
    Mistress Agnes’s face turned hostile faster than flipping a griddle cake. “Why do you want to know about Ceciel?”
    See, Michael, I told you. Perhaps he’d paid more attention than I thought, for he hesitated a moment.
    “I need to know more of your sister, because I’m interested in justice.”
    “Justice for her?” Mistress Agnes asked shrewdly. “Or for old Herbert?”
    “Justice for whoever deserves it,” said Sir Michael. “I only want the truth.”
    Honesty shone from him like a cursed lamp. Only the truly sincere or the very best con artists could pull off that look, and I felt a sting of jealousy as I watched Mistress Agnes crumble before it.
    She summoned a boy to take our horses and here was the first surprise, for even without the flattish face, the blank, constant smile would have proclaimed him one of the simple ones. Most people avoid them, though they’re usually gentle, because their foolishness makes them difficult to deal with. And those who are magica can be dangerous if they’re thwarted.
    In humans magic takes unpredictable forms, and the simple ones are too slow-witted to understand what they do when, in fear or temper, they destroy or maim or kill. It’s not their fault that they’re born thus, and while many people loathe them, I feel an uncomfortable mixture of wariness and pity. Pity generally wins out, for their lives are often miserable, and those who are magica never live long.
    So I smiled at the boy when he took Tipple’s reins, and he beamed back at me. It was good of Mistress Agnes to take him in. Man must look after man since no god watches out for us—and that includes the simple ones.
    Mistress Agnes led us into the cottage. The scent of roasting goose and onions fought with medicinal herbs and