‘I hate Mr Shaddler,’ said Kaelin. ‘One day I’ll show him!’
‘I fear you won’t,’ said Jaim. ‘Teachers are never shown, for they are never wrong. If you rise up to be a great man, respected and admired by all who know you, Mr Shaddler will swell out his bony chest and say: “I taught him all he knows.” If you become a brigand and a terrible killer he will say: “I always knew he was bad. I told him so to his face every day.”
‘Perhaps I’ll just kill him,’ snapped Kaelin.
‘Whoa now!’ said Jaim, pausing in his walk and turning to face the black-haired youth. ‘No, Kaelin, that you must never do. The man may be Varlish, and misguided in all that he teaches – though I doubt he is in all that he teaches – but he has still chosen a profession of service. He is a poor man, this Shaddler. There are rats where he lodges. He owns no house and has no private income. His topcoat is threadbare, and his shoes have soles like paper. He could earn far more chaillings in Eldacre, in commerce or in the law. He teaches because he wants to serve, to pass on knowledge to the young. And he suffers poverty for his dedication. Hate him, by all means, for the stick across your hands, or the corrupting of our history, but never ever consider killing him. You understand, boy?’
‘Yes, Grymauch,’ Kaelin lied, unable to comprehend how killing a worm like Shaddler could be considered wrong.
They walked on, pushing up a long rise until they crested a hill and gazed down on the town of Moon Lake. Along the shores were the fat-bellied fishing boats and the tall net huts, while the town itself was draped like a necklace around a steep hill upon which stood a circular keep. The hill was deeply terraced and Kaelin could see a broken line of crumbling ramparts.
‘It doesn’t look like timber,’ he said, staring hard at the white-walled keep.
‘Looks can be deceiving. The keep was crafted from timber, then covered in plaster and faced with pebblestone. When it was first built the rampart walls would have extended around the town, as protection. Back then the Varlish who constructed it were on hostile soil. Clansmen would attack them at regular intervals. Back around five hundred years ago a Pannone uprising saw every Varlish male within the castle and its baileys put to the sword.’
‘Did they build a new castle?’
‘What do you mean, a new castle?’
‘After the Pannone destroyed it.’
‘Ah, I see. No, Kaelin, they didn’t. They didn’t have to. The Pannone killed all the men then went away. They left the castle standing. The Varlish just reoccupied it, then, using it as a base, brought up an army. It was led by the Knights of the Sacrifice and they all but annihilated the clan.’
‘They were powerful then, these knights?’
‘Aye, they were. Still are. They become squires when they are your age, almost fifteen. Then they spend five years training with sword, mace, pistol and musket. At least half of them fail the stringent tests conducted every year. I was told that of a hundred men seeking to become knights, only fifteen receive the white cloak. Tough men. A long time ago a hundred knights bested a thousand rebels. There is no give in them. Aye, and no mercy either.’
‘The Pannone should have burned the castle,’ said Kaelin.
‘Aye, they should. That, however, is the downfall of the Keltoi peoples. We win great battles and lose all wars.’
‘Why should that be?’
Jaim shrugged. ‘We were never besotted with the idea of conquering lands. If an enemy comes we fight and defeat him. Then we go home. If the enemy keeps coming then eventually he is going to win. The only way to thoroughly destroy your enemy is to follow the example of the knights. Go to his home and burn it. Kill him, kill his wife, kill his bairns. Those you allow to survive you enslave, and you hold them in thrall with harsh laws. When they transgress you flog, burn or hang them. We just never developed a taste for that kind of butchery.’