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. He had thrown himself
into drilling squire novices with a ferocity that had earned
him the name "Mad Moran."
Now in his fifties, "Mad Moran" was a legend,
parodied for his sternness, revered for his teaching. He
seldom smiled. He never laughed.
A door, opening far below, distracted Rakiel from the
game. He peered out the tower window. "Someone's
coming in. More novices?" He said the word with distaste.
Istar was beginning to resent the Solamnic Knights' claims
to piety, as well as, perhaps, their wealth.
Moran fingered his moustache thoughtfully. "The boys
are not due till tomorrow, and I've interviewed them all
and read their references." He considered who the late
caller might be. "The meat and fruit and other supplies
were delivered yesterday, and the cook quit this morning."
All sensible cooks quit before drill season. "Probably
someone volunteering for knighthood," he decided.
Rakiel snorted. "You're dreaming. These days the
volunteers go to the clerics. The knights only get
disinherited second sons and," he added with a hint of a
sneer, "the needy poor, the people who think that the
knights' treasury will open up to them when they sign on."
Moran winced. Rakiel was a "guest," here in the
Manor of the Measure in Xak Tsaroth to prepare a report
for the clerics on knighthood and training methods - or so
he claimed
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