A POINT OF HONOR DOROTHY J. HEYDT Copyright ©1998. 2018 by Dorothy J. Heydt. All Rights Reserved. This ebook is available for free download but not distribution at http://www.kithrup.com/~djheydt Cover design by Bill Gill. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. My thanks to Hilary of Serendip for checking the fighting scenes, Hal Ravn for computers and physics, Tristan av Ravnsborg for knowing all about games, Rachel Holmen for suggesting the title, and ab initio to Marianna of Silversea for saying, "Oh, write that one I want to read it!" Special thanks to Bill Gill for a nice clean scan that I could put online. Most of what I knew at the time about global warming I got from James Burke's television production After the Warming (1990). Turns out he was right. The Kingdom of the West in the Society for Creative Anachronism is real. Chapter 1 One Damn Thing After Another The cross-shaped eyeslit framed the image of a knight in a glittering helm, his black surcote embroidered with silver crescents. His white destrier pawed the ground with an ivory forehoof and tossed its head. Sir Mary de Courcy licked her lips. The knight's long lance centered the cross as a tiny disk, for it was pointed straight at her head. His first mistake. Below the eyeslit a dozen small holes let in air, never enough and cleverly scented with dust and horse. Mary sucked in a deep breath and let it out again; from a long way away she could feel her heart pounding. The Lists pages scurried out of the way as the two knights urged their horses into place, either side the barrier. Behind Mary's head the voices in the gallery fell silent as a trumpet sounded; it echoed from ear to ear inside her helm. "Oyez, oyez!" the herald cried. "In these Winchester Lists in honor of St. Martin, upon the field of honor do meet Sir Dewi of Carlisle and Sir Mary de Courcy." And Mary settled her lance into its rest, pointed straight at Sir Dewi's heart. He was a renowned fighter and a crafty one, but he'd just let it slip that he tended to aim high. For Mary also it was important to take careful aim. Sir Dewi couldn't be killed, but his horse might be. It was a beautiful creature, all silver-white and sea-foam, with dangerous dark eyes, and Mary wanted it—or, at worst, to know where it came from. "Well met, de Courcy!" Sir Dewi shouted, his deep voice booming across the field. "I shall knock you to the earth as gently as I can." Sir Mary only raised her shield. Sable, within an orle of lighted candles the sun in his splendor, all proper. It was part of her fame that she never boasted aloud, only let her arms boast for her: a bright sun surrounded by a ring of envious candle flames. (She had started out on the tourney circuit with a soft, maidenly voice and without the funds to get it augmented; but Sir Dewi didn't need to know that.) "Laissez aller!" the herald cried, and Sir Dewi touched his spurs to his horse's sides and galloped toward the center of the field. Mary did the same. The little silver disk of his lancepoint swelled in the cross of her eyepiece— CRASH —and she had swayed aside to move her head out of line just at the right moment, while her own lance had taken Sir Dewi right in his well-armored heart. Her arms tingled with the lance's impact and her backside was numb against the saddle's high back, but that was the advantage of Chivalry: You never got really hurt. Her lance was in splinters, and Sir Dewi was on the ground. She brought her horse round and trotted up to the center of the field. "Do you yield?" "Yuh—" Sir Dewi sucked in breath. "Yes, I yield, dammit. I can't move." "Page," Mary said. The page popped up beside her stirrup, wearing a green tabard marked with Winchester's arms and looking like a ten-year-old boy, fair haired and smooth skinned. They all looked like that; somebody ought to fix it. "Sir Dewi of Carlisle. His ransom, one thousand marks. His armor, five hundred. His sword Pride's Downfall, three hundred. His horse, six hundred. Total, two thousand four hundred marks. "In addition, Sir Dewi has broken his left hip, and his chirurgery will cost him six hundred marks. Sir Dewi offers ransom." "Page, Sir Dewi may ransom his person, his armor, and his sword. I'll keep his horse. And his chirurgeon's payment is on me. In the name of God and for the favor of good St. Martin." The herald cried the terms aloud as Sir Mary rode from the field. "Page, let's see a tally," she said, and the darkness inside her helm lit up. From Squire Cadwaladr of + 700 Powys + 1050 From Sir Guy of Hastings + 1100 From Sir Andrew the Grey - 1400 To Sir Adam of Poitiers + 950 From Sir Bela of Pest + 1800 From Sir Dewi of Carlisle - 600 To Chirurgeon's fees 3600 Today's gains Not bad for a hard day's riding, even with the mark-to-dollar exchange dropping. She'd redeem he credits today before she went home. Some for savings, and some for maintenance, and a little for books and groceries. She wouldn't have to live off tuna fish sandwiches this week. Four green-coated pages had lifted Sir Dewi onto a litter and were carrying him off the field. Mary raised her hand in salute. "Page, have I any jousts left?" "Only one, Sir Mary. The Grey Knight of the Sea has laid a challenge against you, a joust of counted strokes, your choice of numbers. The Grey Knight also has a previous challenge against Sir Haakon of Jorvik. Do you wish to rest while Sir Haakon fights the Grey Knight?" "Of course," Mary said. Even a few minutes' rest could go far toward mending the stamina of both horse and rider. "Let me see my stats and Bellefleur's." The dark lit up again: 78% Sir Mary de Courcy 81% Cheval Bellefleur As she watched, the "78%" changed to "80%." Another ten minutes would have both of them back up to maximum. She dismounted and led Bellefleur to a water trough and waited patiently while she drank, and shook her head (water drops flew through the air, bright as diamonds), and drank again. The new horses were so realistic. Then she led her to the edge of the spectators' gallery, where there was some shade. Without seeming to, she scanned the gallery with a slow turn of the head. Counting the house, so to speak. A percentage of the take went into the prize: tickets for the bleachers outside, login fees for the gallery inside. There was a sizable crowd, but she couldn't tell from here which of them were in full presence (and full fees). Some of them were mere ghosts, logged in on the narrow band from their PCs, able to see and hear but not to touch or speak. They paid a reduced fee; the idea was to let them save their nickels and dimes until they could afford the surgery that would bring them in as living citizens of this splendid world. A shadow drifted past her helm, and a flower fell at her feet. She looked up and saw hands waving, sleeves bright as banners in the wind. Lady Gianetta, Lord Artos, Lord Peter: her partisans, and behind them Duke Kyle of Winchester himself. She waved back and tucked the rose into Bellefleur's braided mane. Lower down, hanging from the railing, a jester in black-and-white motley waved his staff of bells and looked at her with an exaggerated expression of unrequited passion. Him she ignored; he was only a Non-Player Character like the pages and the heralds, the work of the computer, and had no feelings to hurt. Sir Haakon of Jorvik, a big man on a gigantic bay, rode up to the Lists. Across the way, the knight-bachelor who called himself the Grey Knight of the Sea took his white shield and rode up to face him. His armor shone in the sun —new plate, so bright it almost cast sparks, and made by Hermann der Graue, if Mary's eyes didn't deceive her. A crest of grey ostrich feathers floated above his helm. The helm had a movable visor, but it was pulled down over the Grey Knight's eyes. She had never seen his face. Nobody Mary knew had figured out who this youngster was. He had done fairly well in the Lists, but he'd been unhorsed and given ransom at least twice. He must have a new persona, or a private income, or both. She'd try not to hold that against him. The page spoke. "Sir Mary, Sir Dewi asks if you will meet him outside for a drink." "Oh. Do I have time? I suppose I do. Page, record this joust for me." She mounted, rode into her arming pavilion, dismounted again, and stepped outside. She opened her eyes and blinked until the hall came into focus. Dim; immense; the internal lights had been turned off to save turning on the air conditioning, and the only light came through the west windows high above the bleachers and from the screen.