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. "I was right. A volunteer."
Rakiel said acidly, "Aren't you going to rush down to
meet him?"
"If he really wants to be a knight," Moran said, "he'll
climb all the way. You don't think my rooms are in the
tower just to keep me above the heat and the dust, do you?"
Mad Moran was dropping into character. "Training begins
on the walk up and never stops." He added with
satisfaction, "Put that in your report."
The footsteps stopped outside the door and loud
knocking began immediately. No hesitation, Moran noted
to himself. Good. He waited at the door, putting on the
Mask, the fierce, moustache-bristling, confidence-draining
facial expression that the novices came to know and dread.
Moran always thought of the Mask as hanging over the
door, where he could grab it and "put it on" over his real
face before striding down to the lower hall for lecture and
drill.
The knocking stopped. There was an odd scraping
sound, then nothing. Moran, sword in hand, threw open the
door, swung the blade across at chest height on a young
man.
The sword arced at eye level past the boy in the
doorway, who didn't even blink.
A child, Moran thought disappointedly. Then he saw
the eyes: clear and innocent, but thoughtful, set in a face
that had its first (premature?) wrinkles
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