Shield's Lady

stones our craftsmen use in their work.”
    “Sounds like a good profession,” Gryph said seriously.
    “Bryer’s an expert in fine metals.”
    Gryph nodded as he studied the scarlet lizard.
    Luri shifted from one foot to the other, still clutching the cage carefully. His eyes darted down to the weapon kit attached to Gryph’s belt. Then he drew a deep breath and blurted out his next question.
    “Is it true that no one can open a Shield’s weapon kit except the Shield himself?”
    Gryph glanced up and saw the breathless fascination in the boy’s eyes. “That’s not quite true,” he explained quietly. “There is one other person who can open a Shield’s kit.”
    Luri’s dark eyes grew wider. “Who?”
    “A Shield’s lady can open the kit. She is the only other person on the face of the planet who can unseal the prisma lock.”
    “Do you have a lady?” Luri demanded.
    Gryph shook his head. “Not yet.”
    “Are you going to get one?”
    “If my luck holds.”
    Luri chewed on his lower lip. “Are you sure you couldn’t teach me how to open the kit?”
    Gryph laughed and rose to his feet. He ruffled the boy’s bright blond hair with a friendly hand. “I’m afraid not.”
    “But if you can’t teach me or anyone else how to do it, how will you teach a wife?”
    “Every social class has its secrets, Luri. You know that. The way we teach our wives to open our weapon kits is a Shield secret.”
    Luri nodded seriously, well aware of the inviolable laws that protected such secrets. He sought for a way around the problem. “Can you show me what’s inside?”
    “Maybe,” Gryph said thoughtfully. “Maybe I will do that one of these days when the time is right.”
    “Why does the time have to be right?”
    “It just does. That’s all.”
    “Oh.” Luri considered his words and then decided to try another angle. “If you won’t show me what’s inside the weapon kit will you at least tell me some good tales of bandit fighting?”
    Gryph gave that some thought. “I suppose I’ve got time for a quick one. Do you know the story of Targyn and the cutthroats of the Cretlin Mountains?”
    “I’ve never heard that one. Who was Targyn?”
    “He was a very strong and clever Shield,” Gryph began with proper gravity. “He killed his first bandit when he was just a little older than you are.”
    “All by himself?”
    Gryph nodded. “So the story goes. At any rate, as the years went by he spent more and more time in the mountains hunting bandits who attacked the traders and miners who use the mountain passes. His name became a legend. The bandits got together one day and decided they had to find a way to get rid of him. Since Targyn almost always hunted alone, they figured they could lure him into a special dead end canyon and trap him there.”
    “Did it work? Was Targyn trapped?”
    “He let them think he was,” Gryph said. “But Targyn was very clever. Much too clever for the bandits.” He went on to explain exactly how Targyn had escaped the trap and lived to fight another day.
    “What finally happened to Targyn?” Luri asked breathlessly. “Is he still alive?”
    “No,” Gryph said soberly. “Targyn finally got himself killed up in the mountains. He took many bandits with him when he died, but in the end he was pushed off a high cliff. He fell into a deep mountain lake and was drowned. His body was never recovered.”
    Gryph decided not to mention the more mundane fact that many Shields had been privately relieved to learn that the valiant Targyn had met his end in a suitably noble fashion. Had he lived, it was felt, Targyn might have proved to be a problem. The man had not been completely sane. Gryph was more relieved than most when Targyn met his glorious end. He’d had a sneaking hunch that the Council of the Shields was seriously considering sending him out to get rid of Targyn. But there was no need to mess up the great legend Gryph was relating to Luri with that minor detail.
    “Tell me about his last battle,” Luri urged. But the boy’s plea was cut off as the grand doors of the main hall were opened by a household attendant in response to thundering chimes.
    A drenched Sariana stood on the doorstep, futilely trying to wring out the hem of her long narrow skirt. Her clothes were plastered to her, revealing the soft, gentle curves of her slender flame. She looked up apologetically as the attendant exclaimed in dismay and urged her into the hall.
    “My fault, Letta. I