In Which Setran Is Made a Joke

November 11, 1173

"I take it you're wondering why I wanted a word with you."

Really, Setran wasn't wondering at all. He'd been the baron's squire for over a year now, and every few weeks or so he was summoned to the study for an updated report on his mission regarding Sparron--which, it seemed, was more of a full-time duty than any task expected of a squire. Frankly, he didn't see why the baron still bothered trying to get information out of him. Setran liked Sparron--he was a decent enough fellow, and he could be worth spending time with if caught between two of his frequent moods--but he was either a closed book or he was written in a language Setran couldn't read.

But there was no sense arguing with a worried father. If the baron asked, then he would simply say once again that he knew nothing. "I'm guessing it's about your son, sir?"

"Actually, no." The baron's stare seemed to pass through him to the wall behind, as if he were some sort of ghost or spirit or perhaps not even there to begin with; he found himself straightening out of his slouch, if only to prove his existence. "I know you have nothing to tell me there. This is about you."

Well, now Setran was wondering. "Sorry?"

"You heard." The other man's eyes shifted back to the present reality; oddly enough, Setran found he preferred the faraway glaze. "You're a good kid, Setran--but frankly, you're a terrible squire."

Setran swallowed. He'd known it--and the baron had known it--but wasn't it still early? He'd been considerably older than most squires when he'd first started. Hell, the newly-knighted Sir Searle was a year his junior! Wasn't he just behind? "Sir--"

"You can barely lift a shield, you can't tell the backside of a horse from its front, you were the first person eliminated in the last tournament, and I wouldn't put money on your victory in a sword fight if your opponent was my eight-year-old daughter. I could try giving you some further instruction, but I doubt there would be any point."

Well, if it was any consolation, he'd always thought Thallie to be freakishly strong. "So you're dismissing me."

"Dismissing you?" If anything, he sounded amused; Setran raised an eyebrow. "On the contrary, I was thinking of knighting you."

...what? "Uh... sir, you know what you just said, right?"

"Of course I do." Was this some sort of joke? The baron was smiling, if that was any indication. "Yes, you have the approximate athletic ability of a half-rotten rodent carcass, but what are the odds of us going to war any time soon? We have no important resources and the worst farmland in all of Europe. No one pays their taxes and all of our exports are stolen from Carvallon first. We're not a target. Mobilizing an army is expensive and we have nothing to offer; conquering Naroni would be economic idiocy.

"But you're a clever boy, and I have lands that need managing--and if there ever was a war, then I would need someone to keep things running here while the rest of us were off fighting, and Lord knows you would be the right man for that job." The light was dim, but his eyes appeared to be rolling--not that it mattered much to Setran. There were advantages to being a knight, even if only a joke of one. "I'll just run it by the king and you can expect to be knighted in a couple of months. How does that sound?"

"Rather good." Setran cocked his head to the side, trying to keep his expression in check. He got the sense that he was half-failing. "Could I marry Evera?"

The baron shrugged. "Setran, you could marry a moldy old pair of socks for all I care. Just manage my God damn lands--understand?"

If they weren't raised already, the corners of his lips pulled his mouth upwards. "Yes, sir."

"That settles it, then." The baron paid him one last grin, then crossed his arms and sighed. "Just make sure your father doesn't try to smuggle any animals into the dungeons of your new castle, all right?"

Setran shuddered. "My lord, you've read my mind."

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