Baine's Resignation

As soon as Baine had made the decision, he felt better for it. He was a person of action, not dithering. Long past time to move on. If it wasn't for Adalfrid, he'd have quit this post long ago. Baine was not one to leave a job half done, but then Baine did not usually have pupils like this one.

The little bastard was sitting cross-legged on the barn floor when Baine got there; early as always, nose in a book as always. Cheshond's Mechanics of War again. Baine suspected this was actually a concession to him. He didn't like that. The steels were nowhere in sight, unsurprisingly; Baine had taken to bringing them himself after one too many had been conveniently 'forgotten' or 'lost'.

Pechard Baine was no mean fencing master. There had been Sellariac, after which he and most of the rest'd been pensioned off, and since then he'd taught dozens -- private postings, nobility, warlords and their children, even trained a Western Champion, the first girl in a decade. Poor family, that, unable to afford his usual fee, but he hadn't cared because she'd wanted to learn. Whereas this one... frankly, this one had no intention of learning and politely opposed all Baine's efforts to the contrary. What really boiled Baine's water was that the little bastard had been winning all along. He hadn't learned a thing. Yeah, Baine would've resigned weeks ago, if not for... well.

The boy got up and greeted Baine with the bright smile he seemed to reserve for everyone, while Baine concealed his dislike, a service he provided for free. Just for once he would have liked to see the little bastard taken aback, but of course he took the news as calmly as a lizard. "I understand," he said. "I'll see to it that you get excellent references. Your conduct has been impeccable."

Just like that, was it? "What, no victory dance?" Baine asked, scratching his moustache with a sarcastic little finger.

The little -- but after all, it was unprofessional to think in those terms of his ex-employers' spawn. Adalfrid's spawn. Er, son. All right, then -- the eight-year-old boy shrugged and said "No victory dance. I have enjoyed our conversations. You have taught me a lot".

"Right, just nothing I've been paid to teach you." The boy had found all sorts of strategies to get him talking, about the army, about Sellariac, his earlier campaigns, anything, until Baine had cottoned on to him. If he spent one tenth the ingenuity on learning to fence that he did on getting out of learning to fence, the stubborn little...

"Believe it or not, I understand how frustrating it must be to teach an unwilling pupil. I much regret your trouble. But it is imperative that I do not learn to fight." It was said so matter-of-factly that Baine wanted to laugh.

'Imperative', is it, you bloodless paper-mite? All right, I'll take the bait. It's not like you've got lessons to procrastinate about any more. "Why is that? Why's a warlord's son so keen to avoid learning the blade?"

The boy tucked the book under his arm. "Oh. I thought you realised." Baine did not strangle him, so after a pause he elaborated. "I have never had any intention of becoming a warlord, Pechard. I will not fight and I will not lead others to fight. I am going to leave my father no alternative but to name a different successor." It was plainly ridiculous -- eight-year-olds do not order their fathers around -- and yet Baine almost believed the boy. He had a way of stating things like they were a certainty.

And, well, blast it, now Baine felt some kind of obligation to try to convince him otherwise. He sat down on the ancient boards, disturbing the dust motes that had been unhurriedly detouring round the boy on broken morning sunbeams. "Any particular reason you don't want to be like your father, Rige?" he asked.

Rige sat and put the book down in front of him, exactly parallel to the floorboards, spine towards Baine. "War is untidy and wasteful," he said. "It produces nothing. It is the source of needless destruction and death. War is an abomination to order and reason. My mind and my character recoil from it. Besides which, I want to be an actor."

Baine covered his face with his hand for a second. Then he said "But you're his only child."

"I am aware of the fact. Vexing, eh? The ideal second son, except that I was born first."

"Surely, though, you want to make your parents proud of you?" Baine tried. "That's what people do for the ones they love."

"I suppose I love them," said Rige. "I have often wondered. Certainly I wish them no harm."

Baine had no idea what to say to that. Leastways, I always knew you were a cold-blooded little bastard presumably wouldn't have helped.

"Things like love can be easier to recognise in others than in oneself, of course," continued Rige.

"If you say so."

"Mm. Oh, you know. Brooding sighs. Lingering looks. Extra care with personal grooming. Contrivance to be along the special someone's route on the days when she goes out. Little excuses to talk to her. That sort of thing." The boy watched Baine unblinkingly.

Oh, shit. His reaction must have told all.

"Sorry if you thought it was undetectable," Rige added.

"Does Adalfrid...?"

"My mother is perceptive, so I cannot be certain. But I think not. I have not mentioned it to her -- and shall not."

Baine grew suddenly impatient. Get to the point. "As long as?" he snapped.

Rige drew a breath and released it. "Pechard! You do us both a disservice. Blackmail is dishonourable -- and an honourable man has nothing to fear from blackmail. He will simply confess his wrongdoing openly and remove its power over him. At least, that's what I'd do. Either way, as I said, your conduct has been irreproachable, you have already resigned and, put bluntly, there is nothing I want from you."

"Not even a promise to stay away from your mother?"

Rige smiled. "It is true that I need her around to conceive another heir. Let me off the hook, as it were. However, your point is moot. Adalfrid loves her husband. She talks of nothing but when he will be home. She has not long to wait and nor, I think, have I."

I knew it. I knew it, but... Somehow he was still disappointed. Baine stood at the same time as the boy, took out his handkerchief and patted it to his face. "Well," he said, "good luck with that. Anyhow, it's my sincere hope that you never attain any position of power." And he meant it, he really did.

Rige smiled brilliantly. Laughter played around the edges of his face. "Thank you," he said. "And may your next pupil show considerably more promise in the gouging department."

And that was that. Not a minute too soon, in Baine's opinion.