The Jaguar Knights by Dave Duncan

neither seemed capable of supporting the weight of the cat’s-eye swords they still had the audacity to wear. They had gummed Wolf before, but always Grand Master—whetherParsewood or Durendal—had snapped them back to heel. Tonight Grand Master was in Quondam and his stand-in did not want to spoil the fun.
    “Arundel he slaughtered!” Etienne quavered. “And young Rodden.”
    “And Hotspur!” Kane yelled. He was as deaf as a rock and almost toothless. “And Cedric! And Warren!”
    There was no way to deal with this horrible pair except to remain silent. Normally Wolf never cared what they said, but tonight Hogwood was listening.
    “I don’t think Cedric was one of mine,” he said. “He died of old age years ago.” He wished certain others would, and soon.
    “What’s he say?” Kane demanded.
    “Jared, then! Your brother in the Order and you murdered him!”
    Bowman intervened. “They wanted to die, you old fools. Their wards were plotting treason! They were torn between their binding and their loyalty to the King. If not Wolf it would have been the entire Order coming after them or the Household Yeomen or gangs of thugs with nets and clubs. That meant arrest and trial and madness. Wolf gave them an honorable way out, one last glorious duel to the death with a brother Blade. Wouldn’t you have chosen that, a fair fight?”
    Kane sprayed anger. “Shameless slayer! Apostate!” He hadn’t heard a word.
    “Quintus!” Etienne quavered. “What about Sir Quintus, eh? Quintus won the Cup two years in a row and you’ll not convince me you were ever good enough to kill Quintus! Not in a fair fight.”
    Wolf shuddered at the memory. Why did they have to drag up that one? Quintus had been a senior when he was admitted to Ironhall. Quintus had been his hero. Seeming to lose his temper was easy.
    “You besmirch my honor, you foulmouthed old stinkard?” he roared. “Draw and defend yourself.” He slapped the dotard’s face, less gently than he intended.
    Etienne staggered back, bewildered. Some of the onlookers howled in horror at a mass murderer challenging so old a man. A few others guffawed, but Wolf had driven the game beyond reason, as he intended.
    Intrepid jumped forward to steady the tottering ruin. “Very droll,brother, but not seemly when we have a lady guest. Brothers, shall we go in to dinner?”
    Playing his role as Acting Grand Master, he led the procession into the hall with Hogwood on his arm. Wolf attached himself to the end of the line, although a member of the Guard should have been given precedence; indeed, as bearer of the king’s writ, he could have claimed the throne itself, but that was traditionally reserved for Grand Master or the sovereign. Intrepid ignored tradition by planting his hindquarters on it and then smirking around at the angry glares of the other knights. Why had Roland, with his astoundingly keen eye for people, left this popinjay in charge during his absence? Life was beset with mysteries.
    The meal dragged interminably. A fair storm blew outside, making the myriad blades dangling overhead thrum a restless jingle. Newcomers were supposed to stare up at the sky of swords in terror when that happened, but Hogwood ignored it and chattered instead to her neighbors, Intrepid and Master of Sabers. That night the seniors ate their meal without ever taking their eyes off her. Wolf was mostly concerned with trying not to yawn.
    The meal was followed, as always, by a reading from the Litany of Heroes. Intrepid did not invite the visiting guardsman to do the honors, as was customary. Typically, he chose one of the most recent entries, but it was at least brief and gave no details.
    “Number 301, Sir Reynard, who on 14th Fifthmoon, 392, died defending his ward. Let us pay tribute to our fallen brother.”
    Wolf stared out over the hall but no one met his eye.
    Then Intrepid presented Inquisitor Hogwood, sent by His Majesty to investigate the atrocity at Quondam, and asked if she