The Swordsman's Oath (Einarinn 2) by Juliet E. McKenna Page B

have lost in recent years. I cannot ignore that. I have decided to allow you to join this endeavour on certain conditions. Provided you agree to my terms, you may go with my blessing.”
    “What are your terms, Messire?” Temar asked politely, fighting to keep the relief and exultation out of his face.
    “We have many dispossessed tenants and those that remain on our lands are suffering in the present tensions.” The old man began laying parchments before Temar. “You need to see the figures to see the whole tapestry.”
    Temar clamped his teeth on an impulse to remind his grandfather he was the one who’d provided most of the ledgers and records and looked where the old man was pointing.
    “You see, here and here? Compare the figures with as recently as last year.” The Sieur sat back in his chair. “These are good people, suffering through no fault of their own and if you are to go any way toward fulfilling your obligations to your tenantry, you should offer them the chance to join you in this quest.”
    Temar stared at his grandfather, eyes wide; whatever he might have expected the old man to come up with, this was not it.
    “We can raise the capital to purchase a couple of ships and, with a little ingenuity, we can fit them out with goods from our own properties.” The Sieur produced a freshly drawn-up list. “I want you to look at this and see if you can see anything I’ve missed.”
    Temar took the parchment dumbly and then grinned, as much at himself as anything.
    An answering smile took a generation off the old man and there was a wicked glint in his eye.
    “Nothing to say for yourself, my boy? That’s unlike you, I must say.”
    Temar looked up from the list. “You are suggesting we take a major role in this project. How’s that supposed to sit with Den Rannion and Den Fellaemion?”
    “That’s your problem, my boy. If you want to do this, you’re going to do it in a way that benefits your House, or not at all.”
    Temar tried to run a hand through his hair, forgetting the clasp and wincing as it tugged at his scalp.
    “I accept your terms,” he said finally, wondering with a qualm just what he was committing himself to.
    “Good lad. I knew you’d see sense.” The Sieur rose and poured them both some wine. Temar sipped absently, still trying to make sense of this new situation. He stopped and looked more carefully at his glass.
    “This is the Califerian vintage, isn’t it?”
    “The last year before the Crusted Pox struck.” His grandfather nodded and savored the glowing ruby liquid. “It’s the last carafe; it seemed appropriate.”
    Temar could not think what to say, so he drank his wine instead.
    “I have something else that I think it’s time you received.” The old man put down his glass and walked swiftly to a long chest. He removed a ring of small keys from a chain around his neck and unlocked it. Carrying a long linen-wrapped bundle, he swept documents to the floor to make space for it on the table.
    “This is the sword that I had made for your Uncle Arvil; I always thought he would the next Sieur D’Alsennin, when it was time for me to step aside.” The old man untied the linen bands with stiff fingers but waved away Temar’s offer of help. “I can manage.”
    He drew aside the cloths to reveal a dark green scabbard; the sword’s guard was intricately carved but the handle was well fitted and workmanlike. This was no mere dress-sword. When he drew the blade, it gleamed, bright and unspotted, a tracery of leaves coiling down its length.
    “Here.”
    Temar took the sword and weighed its superb balance, mouth open in delighted admiration. “This is marvelous, Grandfather,” he breathed as he made a few careful passes with it.
    “It should be, given the coin it cost me,” the old man snorted gruffly. “Just don’t go using it to chop wood in these foreign forests or some such.”
    “Hardly!” Temar laughed. He stopped, his face suddenly solemn. “This is a