The Last Knight by Hilari Bell

nodded encouragingly. “I can see that.”
    “Yes, well, they had a huge argument, with Father nagging Michael to say what, exactly, he hoped to accomplish in this travel of his. I don’t think Michael really knew, but finally he said that he might just do some good in the world, and Father accused him of wanting to be ‘some kind of fool knight errant’ and…” A hint of mischief brightened her expression. “…I’m afraid the idea took root. Michael left home the next morning, and from his letters it sounds like that’s exactly what he’s done. Which I think is no small accomplishment, starting out with only one lame horse and a handful of fracts.”
    “Quite,” I said. This explained a great deal about Michael. “So tonight…”
    The animation left her face. “Father won the argument, at last. But ’tis not so bad being an estate steward. Lots of people would want the job.”
    But not Sir Michael. The thought hung, unspoken, between us.
    I decided that sometimes it was a squire’s duty to leave his employer alone, and went to bed.
     
     
    We left before dawn the next morning. The mist off the river swirled around our legs as we walked out to the stables. Our footsteps sounded both loud and muffled at the same time.
    The baron and baroness weren’t there, and Kathryn was probably asleep, but Rupert showed up to see his brother off.
    Sir Michael appeared more cheerful than he had for the last few days. Which seemed strange, until I realized that we were setting out on a quest. Another glorious adventure, no doubt.
    “I had old Eldridge check your gear.” Rupert sounded as if he wanted to apologize, but wasn’t quite sure what for. “Some of your tack was pretty worn, so he replaced it. And you’ve got food for several weeks.”
    “Thank you, brother,” said Sir Michael. “That was a kindly tho…Eldridge? I thought he planned to retire—last year.”
    Rupert’s eyes dropped. “He did. But Father didn’t think ’twould be worth the trouble to train a new man for only a few months, so he persuaded Eldridge to stay on…for a while.”
    “I see.” The adventuring light left Sir Michael’s eyes, and his mouth was tight.
    I saw, too. Old Eldridge must be the current steward, and “a few months” was the amount of time the baron had believed it would take Sir Michael to fail at knight errantry and come crawling home. He had succeeded for a full year, but now he had to fail…or be dishonored and leave a murderess at large.
    Poor Michael.

Michael
     
    S o my career as a knight errant was to come to an end, and one so ignoble it made my heart ache. I suppose it really was a foolish notion, as my father said, but there were one or two who had cause to be grateful for it, which is more than most can say of their dreams.
    And it wasn’t over yet, not quite. Instead of waking to a morning bent over cramped columns of farm accounts, I rode with my squire beside a rushing river, with the sun beginning to burn off the mist. The only sound that rose above the river’s chuckle was the waking clarion of the blackbirds.
    One last heroic deed—the most desperate, the most heroic of them all—undertaken in the cause of honor and justice. Even if it was my error that made it necessary.
    I mentioned as much to my squire, who had been uncharacteristically silent, though that might be because he dislikes rising early.
    Fisk gave me a sour look. “In my opinion, Noble Sir, heroism is vastly overrated. It was heroism that got us into this mess…perhaps you haven’t noticed?”
    His irony was so sharp that I smiled despite myself, and he glared at me.
    “That wasn’t heroism, ’twas my foolishness in permitting Hackle to gull me.”
    Fisk snorted. “It was your…heroism that made the foolishness possible. That’s how con artists work. We talk to a gull, find out what he dreams of, what he wants so badly he’d leap at the chance to make a fool of himself. Then we offer him that. It works every