Peter & Max - Bill Willingham [82]
The cathedral proper occupied the northernmost section of the grounds, but it was one of the other buildings that commanded Peter’s interest. Directly south of the cathedral, attached to it by a covered stone walkway, was the Bishop’s personal residence, a many-gabled stone structure called, humbly enough, the High Holy House. Peter crouched motionless and watched for hours, until he’d recognized and memorized the pattern of the elite Cathedral Guards as they made their rounds. He wanted nothing to do with them. Though they dressed themselves in effeminate-looking liveries of fine silk and linen, their brightly polished, jewel-encrusted weapons weren’t just parade ground showpieces, and they had a reputation as fierce and fanatical warriors. Peter’s only weapons were two daggers secreted within the folds of his clothing — one for throwing and one for stabbing. But in ten years in the trade, he’d never had to resort to using them. As in every other touch he’d made in his long career, tonight he planned to avoid dangers rather than confront them.
Of course, as always, he had Frost strung in its case across his back. True to his long-ago promise, he kept Frost with him always. When Peter was inducted into the Brotherhood of Thieves, Hagan of the Lowenbrucke, who was then the Master of the Touch, and therefore second in rank among all thieves, argued that a portion of Peter’s flute should be shared among the brothers, just as any other take from a job — just as Peter had already surrendered a portion of his stolen bacon and market produce.
“How can we divide pieces of a flute into proper shares?” the king had asked.
“Break it apart,” Hagan said.
“But then we’ll have no more sweet music from it,” the queen said.
“Unfortunate, perhaps,” Hagan replied, “but there’s a principle at stake.”
“I think dour Hagan is jealous of Peter’s talent,” Carl said. That made Hagan color with anger, which only increased when he heard many a snigger and titter of laughter throughout the chamber.
The argument went round and round, until Peter, almost afraid to speak in his own defense, pointed out that Frost wasn’t part of the take from any act of thievery. “It was given to me by my own father as an inheritance,” he said.
“That settles it then,” Carl spoke up, loud and confident, in contrast to Peter’s mumbled entreaty. “What was never stolen, but is privately owned by one of us, isn’t subject to division, either for the king’s rightful tithe, or the share that’s given out among the brothers. That’s our law!”
“But how do we know he’s telling the truth of it?” Hagan said.
“Dastard!” Carl said. “An accusation against a brother requires either undeniable evidence or blood! Since you’ve none of one, I’ll take a full measure of the other!” Carl drew his dagger against Hagan, a bold act that surprised everyone in the room, since Carl was still a child, while Hagan was a man grown and as deadly a man with a dagger as ever there was.
“This child hasn’t been a brother for all but a few seconds,” Hagan said, and eagerly drew his own knife. He stepped out into the center of the room, and began to circle around Carl, a hungry, wolfish look in his eyes. The rest of the company assembled there, moved back, to give the fighters room.
“Put down!” the king cried. “Put down, I say! I’ll decide when there’s blood to be spilled! No matter how recently it was done, young Peter is one of us now, and deserves every advantage of our laws and traditions. His flute belongs to him alone, and that’s my say in the matter. Anyone who disputes it further will taste my knife today.” He looked at Hagan as he said this.
With obvious reluctance on both sides, Hagan and Carl put away their blades. But from that day forward, it was clear to anyone with eyes to see it that each hated the other. A year later the matter between them was put to rest when Hagan was caught by a lucky arrow between his shoulder blades while making his getaway with a sack of jewels formerly belonging to a renowned cavalry officer’s mistress.