Aurora Tapestry

Aurora Tapestry is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by John Ellison

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

WARNING: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between consenting adult males and/or teenage males. Please do not continue reading if you are offended by this genre of erotic literature, if you are underage or if this type of story is illegal where you live.

WARNING: This story contains scenes of violence, graphic and abusive language and graphic descriptions of male nudity. Discretion is advised.

Aurora Tapestry

Chapter 34

"This is damned uncomfortable," complained Logan loudly. "I feel like a penguin!"

"Do be quiet," Laurence replied as he adjusted Logan's white bow tie. "And not a word out of you, either," he said to Patrick, who was standing in front of the pier glass mirror, glowering.

"Well I don't see why I have to get all dressed up!" grumbled Logan. "I'm not being knighted!"

"You are the one who decided to wait until after you become truly qualified," replied Laurence. He turned to Patrick. "Here, your tie is crooked." He reached out to adjust Patrick's tie and spoke over his shoulder to Logan. "Michael was quite willing to proclaim you a Companion of Honour, as he will do for Patrick."

Logan made a face and looked at his reflection. "When I do something I'm going to do it right!"

Laurence turned and looked at his protégé. "Then do not complain about it! You are a member of the Grand Master's Household, and expected to set an example. You don't hear Patrick complaining!"

Before answering Patrick smiled warmly at the Englishman. His time in Hong Kong had made Patrick long for the warmth and love of Laurence, with whom Patrick felt complete. He had tried, successfully he hoped, not to show his distress, when Laurence had stepped into the dark roadway with Logan close behind him. A small tremor of jealousy had rippled through Patrick at the sight of the young Canadian. Logan was handsome, in a rough sort of way, with a muscled body and, Patrick assumed, a Westerner's endowment.

After greeting each other formally, and after what seemed to be an interminable debriefing session with Michael and Lieutenant Sheppard, Laurence had returned to the rooms he shared with Patrick and showed the young Chinese just how much he had missed him.

Patrick suspected that Laurence and Logan had done more than terrorize the Outside Security Force. Neither Laurence nor Logan had given the slighted hint that they had done anything improper but there had been a nagging feeling that something had happened.

As Patrick reached up to smooth the heavily starched dress shirt he wore, a soft gleam of gold flashed. He smiled and looked down at the ring. Made of Welsh gold, in itself a rarity, the signet ring was plain and unadorned except for the letter "L", in florid script. Laurence had worn it on the baby finger of his right hand. Earlier, after they had made wild, passionate love, Laurence had placed the gold band on the ring finger of Patrick's left hand, saying softly, and simply, "I love you."

Laurence's simple gesture had surprised Patrick. Laurence and he had had sex but until this moment neither had expressed their true feelings. Patrick had half expected that Laurence would let their affair run its course and then suggest that they both move on. All he had managed to say was, "You do?"

Patrick replayed their conversation in his mind.

"I do. More than you know."

"But Laurence, I was to be a concubine."

"And now you are not. And even if you were a concubine, who is to say that a concubine cannot fall in love?"

"Laurence, I am Chinese, a peasant. You are a great Lord."

"And a cat can still look at the King," Laurence had growled in reply. "And you are not a peasant! Stop thinking that way or I'll take the damned ring back!"

Patrick had giggled and pounced on Laurence and, after kissing him passionately, whispered, "I will keep the ring and I will forgive you for being with Logan."

If Laurence was surprised that Patrick knew of what had happened that first night deep in the forest, he hid his surprise well. He also considered that Patrick was no fool. "Logan and I were together, yes. It happened once! He needed to know his true self, and asked me to help him. He is not in love with me, and I am not in love with him. I am sorry if I hurt you, but he needed me."

In the darkness of their bedroom Patrick had raised his hand and peered at the ring. Then he reached down to gently caress Laurence's softness. "And I need you."

The memory of his time with Laurence faded as Logan continued to grumble. Patrick turned to see Logan running his finger along the inside of the stiff winged collar attached to his shirt. " . . . This damned collar is cutting into my neck!" Logan was complaining.

Laurence threw up his hands as if to admit defeat. Patrick shook his head at Logan's antics and then reached out to lead Logan to one of the gold and white Sheraton chairs that flanked the marble-topped table that stood in the centre of the room. "Sit," Patrick ordered gently. "And listen."

Logan, who was not really all that uncomfortable in his new dress suit, sat. He was in reality deathly afraid of making a complete idiot of himself. He was a child of a trailer park, trailer trash to some, and had never known anything else. He had lived by his wits and his fists and luxury to him was a clean pair of boxers and a glass that didn't have lipstick around the edges when he poured a beer into it.

So much had happened, in so short a time, that Logan was near to panic. He had come from the squalor he had known all his life to this, sitting in a chair that had probably cost more than Logan had ever earned in his life, in a room filled with antiques and exquisite reproductions, in a suite in a hotel that Logan could never have hoped to patronize in ten lifetimes. Hell, Logan would never have been allowed in the place, except to wash the dishes!

Patrick saw Logan's eyes darting about the room and reached out to take the young man's hand in his. "You must not be afraid, and you must not allow yourself to be awed. All is transient."

"I . . ." Logan hung his head. "Patrick, I'm trailer trash. I can't speak properly, and I need someone to tell me how to dress. I'm afraid and don't know what to do!"

Laurence did not interfere. He moved quietly to the large sofa that hulked against one wall and sat, waiting.

"First, you are no longer anything but a young man who has been tested and proven worthy of great things," said Patrick. "You will make mistakes, yes, but that is expected. You have learned much from Laurence, and now you will learn more. You have been shown how to be a soldier. Now you will be shown how to be a gentleman."

"A gentleman?" Logan blurted. "You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, Patrick!" he scoffed.

Glancing at Laurence, who nodded and raised his eyebrows, Patrick chuckled. "Ah, Logan, you have so much to learn, so far to go."

"It's not funny," snapped Logan. He glowered at Patrick. "It's easy for you to talk, for Laurence to talk. You both have no idea what it's like to be poor! I lived in a trailer, for Christ's sake! I lived in garbage! I went to a school where nobody ever failed. You got passed in every subject just to move you on, just so you weren't around next term to make the teachers' lives miserable. I was just trailer trash! Nobody cared!"

Leaning forward, Logan's eyes bore into Patrick's. "You didn't have to worry about where your next meal was coming from, or if your old man would be coming home drunk! You never had to scrounge nickels and dimes, or sell your ass to pay the rent!" Snatching his hand away from Patrick's light hold, Logan buried his face in his hands. "I want to be a part of you so much, but I can't! It's too late!"

Rising, Laurence walked to stand behind Logan and placed his hands on the young man's shoulders. "It is never too late to learn new things. You are here because something was seen in you that places you above the common herd."

"And just to let you know that you are not unique," began Patrick without rancour, "I am a Tsang."

Lowering his hands, Logan asked, "And that means?"

A twinge of bitterness crossed Patrick's face. "You call yourself 'trailer trash'? My dear Logan, compared to me you are nobility."

"Patrick!" Laurence gasped.

Looking at his lover, Patrick shrugged. "It is true," he murmured as he returned to regarding Logan. "In the Chinese community the Tsangs were, and for the most part still are, considered little better than animals. We lived in squalor, and thought nothing of it. We accepted our fate because for hundreds of years we were told that our sole purpose in life was to breed males to serve the Serenity."

"I've been in your father's house, Patrick," returned Logan. "I wouldn't call it living in squalor!"

"The house is comfortable," replied Patrick diffidently. "It exists because my father did not simply bury his face in his hands and say 'It's too late!' My father was a man of vision, of ambition and he refused to allow his sons to follow in the Tsang tradition. My father left the family compound. He refused to allow himself, or his family, to wallow in squalor. For him, it was never too late! He sent his sons to proper schools, and he built a new life for them. He remained true to his calling as a Tsang, but he taught his sons to serve the Serenity with dignity, not humility!"

"And to further put your mind at rest," interjected Laurence. "My father was a Non-Commissioned Officer in the Royal Marines. We lived in married quarters and had it not been for my father's position as a Royal Marine, and my mother's scrimping on the housekeeping, I would not have attended Wellington College, which is a public school, I should have attended the local red brick and ended up mending drains!"

Logan snickered. "But Laurence, do you really think that someone like me can be . . ." He stood up and walked abruptly to the window, which overlooked the hotel's formal garden. He pointed through the heavy lace curtains. "Like them?"

Wondering just who "them" was, both Laurence and Patrick looked out. Seated around a circular fountain was a group of white uniformed cadets. "What about them?" asked Laurence, wondering what Logan was getting at.

"Come on, Laurence, I know Phantom! His dad's a cop. He lives in a big house. He always had clean clothes, and a roof over his head that didn't leak. He never had to worry about the bailiffs showing up because his father drank the rent money!"

"An unfair example," responded Laurence. "Phantom has lived the life of a normal, more or less, boy whose parents provided for him. It does not mean that he is any better, or worse, than you are." He regarded Logan stonily. "Phantom Lascelles still unzips his trousers to pee," he observed with deliberate crudeness.

Patrick reached out his hand and grasped Logan's arm. "The young man had advantages, yes, but Logan he applied himself. He did not take advantage of others, nor did he simply accept that he was what he was, and he learned from his experiences. You did not have Phantom's advantages, true, but now you have an opportunity to see what you are made of, of what you can become!"

Logan was about to protest when Laurence stopped him. "Logan, please stop comparing yourself to others! No one, least of all Patrick or I, expect you to be anything other than Logan Hartsfield!"

Logan began to sputter a reply when Patrick intervened. "No one expects that you will not have doubts. Everyone has doubts, and it is only natural that they do! Those young gentlemen that you seem to think you must emulate all have doubts. Like you, they are learning. They are learning things about themselves, and each other." Patrick glanced at Logan and smiled slyly. "You have already begun your own learning experience."

Logan saw Patrick's glance and blushed. "Um, Patrick, uh, sir, I don't . . ." His shoulders sagged. "Damn!"

"You had questions and you went to someone to help you find the answers. Now you know the answer."

"You're not, um . . . mad or anything, are you?"

"I was," admitted Patrick. He looked darkly at Laurence, who cringed in mock horror. "However, as Laurence explained it, someone had to help you find yourself. I am no longer angry."

"Whew," replied Logan with a smile. "I was afraid that you might, you know, come after me." He looked directly at Patrick. "I'm not in love with Laurence. I like him, and what we did helped me a lot. It only happened one time."

"So I understand," returned Patrick dryly. He nodded to the group of cadets. "You have now been given another opportunity. You might not know it yet, but you are a part of them. You, and they, have been chosen . . ." Patrick emphasized the word. " . . . To be the next generation of knights. You will be expected to breathe life into a moribund Order."

Shaking his head Patrick moved from the window and glanced around the room. "My father saw that his family, the Tsangs, had become, if not moribund, mired in the past. As it was done 600 years ago, so it was done today. For uncounted generations the Tsangs have served as retainers to the Chans. The elders refused to look to the future. They were satisfied with their lot and saw no reason to improve it. My father saw things differently. He realized that the Chans were not the people keeping the Tsangs in poverty and ignorance."

"It was the Tsangs themselves?" ventured Logan.

Patrick smiled. "Exactly. And who knows how many lost opportunities the Elders could not, or would not see?" Patrick shook his head. "My family, the Tsangs were, in a way, like you, Logan. They were satisfied with their lot and never thought that anyone would see them in any different light. They were peasants, and would remain peasants. They told themselves that the gods had decreed their station in life and saw no reason to invoke the wrath of the gods."

"Yet your father did," replied Logan.

"Yes. He saw that the family had become, as the Order has, moribund, satisfied with the status quo, never questioning, never looking to the future of the children of the family. My father decided that his sons deserved better and he took steps to see that their future would be better than his."

"He went to Uncle Henry Chan," supplied Laurence.

"Yes. Uncle Henry was no old Chink clinging to power and counting his gold. He was no saint, but he recognized that what he had built up would wither and die if men such as my father, men of vision and courage, did not follow him. He wanted his family to prosper, to grow stronger. Michael Chan has said that he needs men of vision and courage to bring the Order to its proper place in history. He has chosen such men, just as Uncle Henry chose such men. Uncle Henry had many nephews to choose from. He chose Michael because he saw in Michael the spark of leadership his family needed. Uncle Henry saw in my father the leadership needed to bring the Tsangs into the 20th Century. There was opposition, just as there was opposition to Michael's plans for the order, but my father, like Michael, persevered."

"But so much is being asked of me, of the others," objected Logan mildly.

"And much will be given you!" declared Laurence. "In a little while you will be brought into an Order that will not abandon you, will support you, and will do whatever it can to ensure your future." Laurence marched to where Logan was standing and looked directly at the young man. "None of that is important! What is important is that you are now being asked to restore a wonderful thing to life! You, Patrick, the boys, are all the new blood the Order needs to survive! You were chosen not because of what you once were, but for what you can become!"

"Jesus!" Logan muttered as he returned to the chair and sat down. "But what if I fail?"

"Then you fail not only the Order, but yourself," responded Laurence firmly. "You have already shown what you are capable of doing. You learned that you are perfectly capable of being trained to be something you never thought you would be: a commando. You worked hard and learned! At the risk of being pedantic, in the morning you were a sorry-assed street punk with dirty drawers. In the evening you were a confident young soldier, clean, open to criticism and doing something, for once in your life, constructive! Think what you can do with the knowledge you gained in the brush and brambles! You can help me teach the cadets, teach others what they need to know and in so doing you, Logan Hartsfield, will strengthen the Order!"

Somewhat taken aback at Laurence's intensity, Logan sat slack-jawed, at first unable to reply. Then he winked at Laurence and said with a grin, "I guess we showed Lieutenant Sheppard, huh?"

"Yes, we did," agreed Laurence, returning the grin. "You made a difference, Logan. Lieutenant Sheppard and his men now know that they are not quite the warriors they thought they were. Patrick's father made a difference. He showed that his branch of the Tsang clang were capable of much more than sitting around counting chickens and scratching themselves. Sitting in the garden is a young man who, using nothing more than the force of his character, a tenacity in moments of adversity, brought together what . . . twenty young men? He brought them together as brothers and using love and trust in them he will bring honour to the Order. Together he, and those young men of his, and as strange as it may seem at the moment, you, Logan, will restore the Order to what it was, to what it must be."

"Which is Michael Chan's dream," supplied Patrick. "He is fond of his rose bushes, as you know, and sometimes uses them as an allegory of the Order, and what he sees in these new young knights." He returned to the window and said, "The bush has grown old, and its roots are dying. The bush has branches, and flowers. Through the years the flowers bloom, and die. Every year the bush grows new flowers but less in number. The bush has been neglected by those charged to care for it. The flowers that do grow sap the roots, so its strength is diminished. Michael now cares for the rosebush and he must strengthen it, and return it to its former glory. How does he do this? He prunes the branches, removing the decay that saps the roots. And he takes new cuttings, from younger plants, and he grafts them to the main stem. New flowers, stronger flowers, will bud, and then bloom."

"Even if one of those cuttings produces thorns?" asked Logan.

"Even if one of those cuttings produces a black rose," replied Laurence. "As for the thorns, even the hardiest of bushes needs protection from predators. You, Logan, will be grafted to the bush that is the Order. Produce your thorns, but bloom!"

Shaking his head and laughing, Logan said, "Somehow I think I'll end up as a thorn between two roses! I look at the others, and see how handsome they are in their uniforms. I listen to them talking, and think what I jerk I was in school. They are everything I could have become, but didn't. I never gave a thought to anyone but myself. I lied, I stole, I smoked dope, I drank. About the only thing I didn't do was knock some girl up, which was not for lack of trying!"

"You are man with a past, or so you think," opined Patrick. "Actually, you are a man with a little history, as all men are. You have allowed yourself to wallow in your own self-pity, thinking that because you were Logan Hartsfield, trailer trash, son of the town drunk, you could never amount to anything. It is a pity that you did not have as much faith in yourself as others have in you."

Logan tried to keep the anguish he felt from his voice. "Patrick, I'm afraid of failing! So many people have helped me, your brother, Laurence, you. What if I fail?" He turned to Laurence. "I've been given so much!"

"Not so very much in the great scheme things," replied Laurence. "You have been given opportunities to better yourself and you took them. At any point on the journey from Comox to Victoria you could have got off the bus. No one was there to stop you. You could have refused to go with Patrick's brother, Eddy, when he met you at the bus terminal. You could have walked away from me when I began your training. I would not have stopped you. At any time you could have said to hell with it, and simply disappeared."

"But I didn't," said Logan softly. "I couldn't. I couldn't let Brian down."

"Who is Brian?" asked Patrick, glancing at Laurence.

"Brian Venables is the cadet who put me on that bus!" said Logan. "Brian is the cadet I had a fistfight with and he wouldn't let me take the blame, even though I started it. He's out there you know."

"I know," said Laurence. "And sooner or later you must confront him. He has placed his trust in you and while you may not think so, you have not betrayed that trust."

"Laurence, can I see him?" asked Logan suddenly. "I would really like to thank him and . . ."

The sudden colouring of Logan's face made Patrick think that perhaps there was a little more to Logan's request than he was letting on.

Laurence noticed the look on Patrick's face, more of a smirk than a smile and gave his lover a dark look. "Of course you would wish to meet him," Laurence said as he looked at his watch. "We have about an hour before the Ceremony, and the Major has yet to brief the boys on what to expect."

"I may go then?" asked Logan, unable to keep the excitement he felt at meeting Brian again from his voice.

"Certainly. Go and meet your friend," replied Laurence. "Just please, do try not to ruin your suit!"

"I still feel like a penguin," responded Logan as he moved toward the door. "And I hope Brian doesn't laugh his ass off when he sees me in this monkey suit!"

"There goes a young man in love, I'm thinking," said Patrick after the door closed behind Logan.

"I think you're right," replied Laurence with a smile. "He's still struggling with his feelings but yes, I think there is something that attracts him to Brian."

"Does this Brian know?" asked Patrick.

"They haven't seen each other since Logan left Comox," responded Laurence. He looked thoughtful. "When we were together there seemed to be a . . . fervency . . . about the man. Logan seemed to want to feel true emotion, true passion."

Patrick frowned but, true to his personal vow, did not pursue the matter of Laurence and Logan together. "Logan seems to feel the need for someone. He has had sex. Now he wants love."

Glancing obliquely at Patrick, Laurence sighed. "It was only once, Patrick, and I do not regret what happened. Logan needed someone then."

"I was not referring to you and he together," replied Patrick truthfully. He walked to stand beside Laurence and gently kissed the man's lips. "I know that you are in love with me, and I am in love with you."

Laurence returned the kiss. "Am I forgiven, then?" he asked.

Smiling, Patrick shook his head. "No. I shall take very opportunity of reminding you of your dalliance in the woods and then enjoy your attempts to show just how sorry you really are and how much in love with me you are."

"You're a sneaky devil, Patrick," said Laurence. He held Patrick in his arms. "Damn, Patrick . . ." he began as he nuzzled Patrick's neck.

"Oh, no, not now!" yelped Patrick, pulling away. "You must still change and if you think that I am getting out of this . . . this . . . carapace that you insist I wear you are sorely mistaken!"

Laughing heartily, Laurence shook his head. "But Patrick, you look very handsome and . . . I admit it is something like working on a building site putting it all together!"

Scowling, Patrick replied, "Studs, stiff shirt, starched waistcoat! And these!" He turned and flapped the tails of his coat at Laurence. "No wonder Logan feels like a bird!"

"Better than a horse!" retorted Laurence, a reminder of the day when the Major and he had examined Patrick for the role of Michael Chan's "companion". Patrick's scowl told Laurence that he did not wish to be reminded of the incident. "But cheer up! It could be worse!"

"How could it be worse?" asked Patrick as he looked into the mirror to straighten his white bow tie.

"You could be dressed in black watered silk, knee breeches and a lace jabot," replied Laurence, chuckling. "The Major is pulling out all the stops! He's found an old copy of 'Dress at Court', the 1912 edition, and the last time I saw him he was muttering something about 'Pages of Honour', the Arundel twins and red velvet pantaloons!"

"He wouldn't dare!" exclaimed Patrick. "The Twins would . . . they would rebel!"

"The last time the Major got on his high horse the Twins put a laxative in his drink. God alone knows what they would do if he tried to put them in court dress."

"Why do I have the feeling that we're being watched?" Cory asked.

"Because you are being watched," retorted Todd.

"I am? Who's watching me?"

"Me!" said Todd sharply. He glanced at Nate, who was sitting on the wooden bench opposite with The Phantom and winked. "Somebody has to protect Nate's virtue."

Cory began to protest loudly. "Nate's virtue! He's as safe as if he were in the arms of Jesus!" he yelped. "He's a nice guy and while I do admit he's got . . ."

Just what Nate had that might intrigue Cory went unspoken as The Phantom interjected quickly, "Hairy legs?"

Scowling, Cory gave The Phantom a killing look. Before he could say another word Nate added, "I thought it was my other hairy thing he was interested in."

His blue eyes flashing, Cory struggled to maintain his temper. "I can assure you that I have no interest at all in your 'hairy thing'," he rumbled with exaggerated dignity.

"Balls!" replied Todd.

"They're not hairy," advised Nate as he gave The Phantom a slight nudge with his elbow.

"He'll find out soon enough," said The Phantom. "He'll get you in the showers sooner or later!" He could hardly contain his humour as he glanced at the sputtering, red-faced twin. "Just don't go swimming with him. He's a groper."

"I am not!" roared Cory. He stood up abruptly and was about to storm away when he saw the laughter dancing in The Phantom's eyes. "Well, only once," he admitted sheepishly as he sat down again.

Shaking his head, Nate asked, "Just what have I got myself into?"

"They're harmless," replied The Phantom. "Hopefully you'll get used to them."

"You did," Cory sniffed, not quite ready to forget the jabs and insults.

"Come on, Cory, we were just having some fun," said The Phantom. He reached out to pat Cory's knee. "You can go swimming with me later and I'll let you grope all you want."

"I thought that was Todd's department," returned Cory. He looked balefully at his brother. "If memory serves, it was you who did the dirty deed!"

"Jesus, he's in his Lewis Carroll mode," Todd moaned.

"I am not! And it was you who stuck his hand down Phantom's shorts, not me!" He looked slyly at The Phantom. "I never touched him!"

The Phantom's exaggerated coughing fit caused the three boys to pause. "Are you all right?" Nate asked as he vigorously pounded The Phantom's back.

"Don't mind me," responded The Phantom as he wiped the tears from his yes. "It's just that Cory's definition of touching bears no resemblance to mine!"

"I did not touch you," protested Cory loudly. Then he grinned wickedly and added, "At least not that time!"

"Cory!" Todd looked at his brother and shook his head. "Have you no shame?"

"Nope." Cory looked at Nate. "Want to go swimming?"

"Oy vey!" exclaimed Nate. "Now you have to tell me what's going on." He gave Cory a steely look. "And no, I do not want to go swimming later!"

"Stop it Cory," The Phantom ordered. "Nate isn't going to profess and you don't mean a word of what you said." He looked at Nate. "Cory is pulling your pisser."

"He better not try," growled Nate in return.

"It's just an expression," said Todd, wondering why Nate would be so defensive. "It means that Cory is making fun of you."

"It comes with being one of us," offered The Phantom. "You can pull his pisser whenever you want. Believe me, he's always open to having his pisser pulled."

"And he is so easy," interjected Todd. The he qualified his statement. "I mean he's not that easy, and while he might think about pulling your . . . um . . . pisser, he wouldn't." Then he looked doubtfully at his brother. "Would you?"

For a moment Cory looked as if he would explode. His normally pink-cheeked face turned beet red and fire flared in his eyes. Then his brows beetled and he asked dangerously, "That's a 'gotcha', isn't it?"

The Phantom hurriedly stood up and manoeuvred himself between the Twins. "Don't mind them," he said, looking at Nate. "If they're not fighting they're not happy."

"You could have fooled me!" returned Nate. He looked around the broad, green expanse of the hotel lawn. No one was within earshot so he asked seriously. "You guys are just fooling around, right?"

Nodding, The Phantom replied. "Yes."

"Anything else I might have to get used to?" asked Nate suspiciously.

"Watch out for Harry," warned Cory with a serious look. His eyes twinkled as he added, "Harry likes to bite bums."

Nate looked stricken. "He bites bums?"

The Phantom could not resist. "Only pink round ones. He's not too fond of hairy bums, though." His green eyes flashing with humour, The Phantom continued. "Now, Cory's butt is smooth and plump." Ignoring Cory's scowl, The Phantom continued. "Harry is very particular when it comes to biting bums." He pretended to look closely at Nate's backside, which was hidden by his suit jacket. "Mind you, sitting down as you are I really can't comment."

"I've been told I have a very nice tush," replied Nate defensively. Then he added, "And it's not hairy!"

"I never said it was," replied The Phantom with an impish smile. "I've never seen it."

"I'll give you a full report," said Cory. He waggled his eyebrows at Nate, who went pale at the look in Cory's eyes.

"It will be a short one!" growled Nate as he pulled his suit jacket defensively around his upper body. He looked at the Twins and The Phantom, all three of whom were dressed in their best Number 11 white uniforms. "Aren't you guys hot?"

Todd shrugged. "Not really. The uniform is quite comfortable." The he added, "If a little tight in the crotch."

Cory caught the playful tone in his brother's voice and continued. "It helps if you wear boxers. Briefs just rip the shit out of your balls."

Raising his eyes, Nate silently asked God how he had ever managed to become involved with such a bunch of meshugenas.

"Those of us who are wearing any!" said Todd with a grin.

Nate sat slack-jawed and then saw the gleams of laughter in Todd's eyes. "That's a gotcha, isn't it?" he asked.

"Number One, Grade A," observed The Phantom. "And just so you know, I am sweating under this magnificent example of bespoke tailoring."

"Magnificent example of what?" Nate asked.

"That's what Chef called it," replied The Phantom. "I think it means the outfit looks good on me."

"It does, Phantom," enthused Cory, his eyes glancing at his friend. "And I'm just as nervous as you are."

"It shows, huh?" Then Phantom shook his head. "I am so nervous my mouth is dry."

"And mine," advised Todd. He slid his hand into Cory's. "I want to do this. I just wonder what the future will bring." He gave his brother's hand a squeeze and smiled warmly. "Of course, it will be nice knowing that I'll have twenty other guys keeping this thing in line!"

Cory bristled. "I have Sean, thank you." He glared at Todd. "And who is going to keep an eye on you?"

Todd was about to blurt out, "Matt", but decided against it. Matt Greene had made it clear: whatever they could have had, they would not have. There was no use dwelling on their unhappy relationship. "I suppose at the end of the day, me," said Todd weakly.

"Oh, I think there will be someone," said The Phantom. Both Todd and Cory had long held a place in his heart, and they always would. "We're all brothers."

Todd nodded his understanding. The Phantom always made him feel warm, and wanted. And he always would. Todd's attention was drawn to Chef's ratty old car as it pulled in from the street and rolled to a stop at the bottom of the wide, double steps that led into the hotel. "There's Chef," Todd said absently as he shaded his eyes.

The Phantom swivelled his head and look at the ancient Chevy. "I wonder what he's up to now."

"Nothing good, or at least nothing that won't inconvenience everybody in sight!" complained Cory. "Randy told me that Chef lined up all the cooks, and Kevin, and inspected them this morning! In their underwear!" he exclaimed.

"He always does that," observed The Phantom with a chuckle. "The morning of the practice for the Passing Out Parade he lined everybody up, including the Litany, and inspected them."

Todd snickered. "Poor Mark!"

Nate looked at each of his companions and asked, "Mark who?"

"He was one of the Litany," supplied The Phantom. He saw the quizzical look on Nate's face. Nate had never been a cadet and knew nothing of what had happened in Aurora. "The Litany was what we called four cadets who were assigned to the galley. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Chef could never remember their names, or so he said, and called them the Litany of the Saints."

"Mark ran out of clean undies and bought a pair in the canteen. They were grey," said Cory with a giggle. "Chef blew a gasket!"

Nate's eyes widened. "Whatever for? Undies are undies. I'm wearing boxers with black pinstripes!" The Phantom, Todd and Cory laughed out loud. "Talk about déjà vu!" said Todd through his giggles. Then he added, "When we wear whites we have to wear white undies. Any other colour shows through."

The Phantom hastened to explain to the confused Nate about the pin stripe boxers he had bought for Cory when the Twins had decided to change their image. "Cory said he might want to go to church," finished The Phantom. He glanced fondly at his friend. "He likes everything to be proper, you know."

Nate could not help feeling that his new brothers were "Pulling his pisser!" and wondered when the other shoe would drop. "And what have boxers got to do with Mark?"

"Nothing," said Cory. "He was wearing grey briefs, really low cut briefs. Chef was ever so shocked."

"I don't blame him," replied Nate with a shake of his head. "They're very revealing and my father pitched a fit when he saw my brother wearing a pair. He made Asher burn them!" Shaking his head again, Nate added sorrowfully, "My father is very traditional."

Cory sniggered. "Chef couldn't do that, but he made Mark go back to his barracks, wearing nothing but his undies, and change into a set of whites. Randy and Joey got even, though."

"How do they figure in this?" asked Nate, once again confused.

"Well, apparently Mark made a crack about Chef and his medicine and Randy and Joey decided to get even. They snuck into Mark's barracks and stole his laundry bag and dumped everything in together. His undies came out the wildest colours this side of Mal!"

Nate sighed explosively. "And who is Mal?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"He's a Boatswain, but queer for scuba diving," supplied Todd. "He also wore the loudest undies this side of us that he could find!" Todd shrugged as he remembered the underpants that he and Cory had once gloried in wearing, vibrant greens, and reds, and blues, all worn more for shock value than comfort. "And that is saying a lot!"

"He also 'Aired the Monster' every morning," offered Cory with a grimace. Then he added, aside, "Mike Sunderland says it wasn't a very big monster."

Nate immediately held up his hand. "I do not want to know!" he said with heavy emphasis.

"Oh, come on, Nate, we have to tell you about it! The Assistant said watching Mal skin the monster was disgusting, almost as disgusting as the cracks Willy and Jack made when Mal . . ."

Nate did not have a chance to hear what else Mal had done for Todd felt silent, looking over The Phantom's shoulder. He rose slowly and gripped Cory's shoulder. "Cory, it's Papa!" he exclaimed happily.

The Twins ran to embrace the stocky figure that was walking purposefully across the close cut, manicured lawns. He smiled and nodded his head. "That's Justice Arundel. He's very nice." The Phantom glanced obliquely at Nate. "He's also a knight."

His eyes widening, Nate asked in a whisper, "He is? But I thought that all knights were . . ."

"No," replied The Phantom without emphasis. "A knight can be professed or ordinary. Justice Arundel is a Knight Ordinary. He isn't gay."

Nate watched the Twins hugging their father and kissing him on the cheek. "He seems very proud of them."

"He is," said The Phantom. "You should have seen him at the prize giving. They were both awarded medals."

Nate's finger touched the two brightly coloured discs hanging from brightly coloured ribbons on The Phantom's left chest. "So did you."

Laughing, the Twins led their father by the hand to where The Phantom and Nate were sitting. Both boys stood and were very surprised when Justice Arundel shook their hands and then embraced The Phantom.

"Phantom, how are you?" Justice Arundel asked as he deftly kissed The Phantom on each cheek. "You look very much a candidate knight!" He turned and beamed at Nate. "And who is this strapping young man?"

Nate reddened and introduced himself. "Nate Schoenmann. I'm to be a Companion of Honour."

"Welcome, dear brother, to the Order!" returned Justice Arundel. He embraced Nathan and gave him the traditional kiss of peace. "This is a truly great day! For you, for all of you, and for the Order!"

Gesturing for the boys to sit, Justice Arundel positioned himself between his sons and put his hands around their shoulders. "I knew that you two would one day come to a good end," he said to his sons, smiling broadly. "Despite what Major Meinertzhagen prophesied."

Cory glowered and The Phantom thought that Major Meinertzhagen had better watch his laundry bag like a hawk.

"It's good to see you, Justice," said The Phantom as he gave Cory a warning look.

"I would not have missed it for the world!" replied Justice Arundel. "When Chef called and told me what he was planning I cleared my calendar."

"What exactly is he planning?" asked Todd. "He hasn't told us a word and he won't let us inside the hotel!"

Justice Arundel looked thoughtful. "Boys, I have to tell you that everything that will happen here today is based, loosely, on tradition and what I was able to reconstruct from old journals and writings." He pretended to sigh heavily and looked pointedly at Cory. "Of course, translating from the Latin can be onerous and I am sure that mistakes were made, as some of us know!"

Cory squirmed and turned red with embarrassment. Todd snickered and muttered from the corner of his mouth, "That will teach you to snoop."

Justice Arundel hid his smile and growled, "A subject that will be discussed, at length, in a more private moment." He returned to speaking to the others. "What we are doing today is in some ways reinventing history, and in many ways beginning a new tradition. Nothing like this has happened in, oh, at least a hundred years."

"A hundred years?" exclaimed Cory. "But Papa, you're a knight and you must have had an Investiture."

"Well, yes, I did," agreed Justice Arundel. "But it was done privately." He saw the questioning looks on the boys' faces and continued. "For a very long time it was thought best not to advertise our presence. People realized that there were homosexuals in every walk of life but they much preferred that they stay in the shadows." He shrugged expressively. "Out of sight, out of mind."

The Phantom frowned. "No scandals, keep the lights out and the doors locked!" he said scathingly.

"Basically," said Justice Arundel. "Remember, that for centuries homosexuals have been condemned and anathematized. They were jailed, and worse. The Grand Masters before Michael Chan wanted no attention, to themselves, to the knights, or the Order."

"The times they are a changin'" sang Cory. "Chef has us all in Number 11s, the Major has on black silk drawers, you're dressed in full fig and this place!" He sniffed. "Really, Papa, much too grand for us!"

Justice Arundel looked down at his clothing. He was dressed formally, in a black cutaway and striped trousers. Across his grey waistcoat was draped a gold watch chain and fob. "Michael is making a point, Cory. He sees no reason to hide in the shadows and he is very proud of what he is doing." He looked at the hotel building and gave his sons a squeeze. "As for this place, I think it sets just the tone."

"This place", the Admiralty House Hotel, was the newest addition to the Comox tourist industry. Its rooms were offered as restrained elegance in an age of flash and conspicuous excess. Everything, from the building itself to the rooms within had been designed and decorated to reflect a long gone era when ladies and gentlemen spoke of drawing rooms and gave lip service to upper class respectability.

The hotel had very humble beginnings, two long, narrow, red brick structures with sandstone trim erected in 1862 to house the small British Garrison that guarded the naval dockyard in Comox. One of the stern, military Georgian structures housed the battalion of line infantry that guarded not only the port, but also the northern half Vancouver Island against the depredations and imagined threat from the south. The other barracks housed the small Royal Marine Detachment that supplied the Band and marching unit necessary for any proper Royal Navy function or parade.

In 1865 the Admiralty allocated funds for the addition of an Officers' Mess, at the time separate and housed in a low, and quite unsuitable annex. Legend had it that when the estimates were being prepared a nameless clerk with a slip of his pen added an extra nought to the figures. This error had produced a building of a grandeur rarely seen in any British dockyard.

The addition, reached by wide, double stairs, had been built in the Regency style, also of brick, but was now whitewashed. Inside, the rooms were extravagant, a mass of gold leaf and fine, polished furniture. The Ballroom, originally the dining room, with an encircling arched gallery was an extravagant expanse of Italian marble fireplaces, intricate gold leaf ceilings and massively complex chandeliers.

At the top of the Grand Staircase was the Minstrel's Gallery where Royal Marine musicians played for the officers and their guests dining below. The walls, covered in rich, red baize, were hung with portraits and lined with display cases of antique Georgian silver. At the end of the gallery was a Steinway piano, which had once entertained Kings and heads of state, on board the old Royal Yacht, Victoria and Albert.

The ballroom was now furnished with delicate gold and crimson upholstered ballroom chairs, the side tables glowing with polished darkness were set with gleaming displays of the hotel's prized silver collection.

The hotel owners had done everything to ensure that the hotel exuded elegance and culture. The rooms, modernized in every respect, were muted gems of Edwardian, Regency and Georgian design. There was a large, marble swimming pool, manicured tennis courts, a dining room, a bar reminiscent of a good London club, all wood panelling and red leather, in short every amenity that could be supplied to discriminating, and wealthy, guests. There was not an inch of neon or an engraved mirror anywhere in the place.

The Ballroom of the Admiralty House Hotel would be the setting for what Michael Chan called the rebirth of the Order.

Logan peeked into the Ballroom and saw that it was empty except for hotel florists busily arranging the flowers on the rosewood side tables. At the far end of the room was a large, crate-like chest set on a dais, an altar of sorts, Logan assumed. He walked past the Grand Staircase and into the lobby. Seeing no cadets lurking about, Logan gave up his search and turned into the Garden Room, a large, square chamber painted the palest of yellows with windows hung with pale apricot curtains.

The room was sunny and the quiet was broken by the muted sound of the ticking tall case clock that stood between the two windows. The Louis XIV chairs and comfortable sofas were empty, but to one side of the fireplace, admiring one of the pair of Chinese mirror-glass paintings set in a gilded Rococo frames that flanked the fireplace, was a cadet, who turned, seeming to sense the presence of another person in the room. It was Brian.

Placing his hand on the John Cobb marquetry commode that stood beneath the painting to steady himself, Brian's eyes grew wide. "Logan?" he breathed. "Is it really you?"

Walking purposefully across the Aubusson carpet, Logan held out his hand. "It's me."

Wordlessly, Brian led Logan to one of the two sofas that flanked the fireplace. They sat together, holding hands at arms' length. Both young men were blushing but neither took his eyes from the other.

"You . . . you look . . . wonderful, Brian," whispered Logan, breaking the silence.

"And you look . . ." Brian giggled. "Sorry, but what are you doing dressed like that?"

Ducking his head, Logan replied, "I'm part if the Grand Master's household now," he explained. "We're all dressing up for the Investiture." He leaned forward and breathed, "I feel like a dork!"

"No, you look like . . ." Brian could not bring himself to express the happiness he felt at seeing Logan again. He blushed even more furiously. "I never stopped thinking about you, Logan." He said in a rush. "I watched you leaving and, oh hell, I wanted to run after that stupid bus!"

Logan leaned forward and kissed Brian's lips. "And I used to lie in bed wondering, and thinking about what would have happened if you had!" he declared. "I wondered, too, if I would ever see you again."

"From the look of you, you came up trumps," returned Brian. "I'm glad that things are working out for you."

Snickering, Logan confided, "Brian, I have bumps, bruises and cuts, bug and God knows what else bites on places you don't want to know about." He laughed and hugged Brian. "Actually, I had a lot of fun!"

Actually, I would like to know what places, thought Brian. He sat back and asked, "So, what have you been doing?"

Enthusiastically, Logan told Brian everything that had happened to him since his arrival in Victoria. He told of the time he spent in Eddy Tsang's house, of being taken to Vancouver, of pigging it in the woods with Laurence and finally be told that he was now a Member of the Household, a very responsible position, or so he thought.

"Then you won't be needing this," said Brian as he pulled the folded $20.00 note from his pocket. "I've been keeping if for you."

For a long time Logan stared at the banknote, and then he slowly pushed it away with his finger. He knew where Brian had found the money and just seeing it brought back a flood of memories, of the times he had spent at Harkness Beach, of that horrible morning in the Petty Officers Mess when he had been forced into having sex with an evil, cold-eyed, blond-haired boy. Finally, he said tightly, "I don't want it." Logan looked evenly at the cadet he wanted desperately to be his friend, and perhaps much more. "You should have left it in the garbage!"

Logan's refusal of the bill did not surprise Brian. Logan wanted to forget his past. He did not return the banknote to his pocket and held it out steadily. "Make an end of it, Logan," he said calmly. "As long as this exists it will always be a reminder. You can tell yourself that if it's hidden away nothing happened."

Slowly, Logan reached out his hand and took the note. He stared into Brian's eyes as he slowly tore the banknote to shreds, tearing and tearing at the paper. Then he stood and tossed the fragments into the fireplace. "It happened, Brian, but now it's over."

"Yes."

"What happened to him?"

Shrugging, Brian replied. "He went home last week. He won't be bothering you, or anyone else, again."

Logan returned to the sofa, sat down, and laid his head back. He stared at the plastered ceiling, not really seeing it, as he said, "When it happened, after it happened, I felt so dirty!" he said with a sob. "When I was doing the queers at Harkness Beach I felt nothing. It was a way to make money, that's all." He shuddered involuntarily. "But when I was with him . . ." His voice trailed off.

Brian cringed at Logan's use of the word 'queers'. He thought he knew the measure of Logan Hartsfield and while he would have pursued a relationship with the civilian, Logan was obviously not on the market.

Sighing inwardly at what he thought was a lost cause Brian said firmly, "Logan, the slate is clean. What happened in Aurora, what happened at Harkness Beach, is over and done with. I can't begin to think how you felt, and I won't presume to judge you." He stood up and placed his hand on Logan's shoulder. "You'll do well, Logan. I want to be your friend."

Logan looked at Brian's hand and slowly raised his arm to place his hand over Brian's. "You already are," he said softly. "Maybe more than you know."

Nodding his head slightly, Brian smiled thinly and then said, "Logan, you know why I'm here?"

"You're being invested as a Knight," replied Logan. "I saw your name on the list."

"Yes. And I am going to profess," said Brian evenly. "I hope that won't affect our friendship."

"Wha . . . what?"

"I am going to profess," repeated Brian. "I didn't want you to think that I am anything other than I am."

To Brian's surprise, Logan's face lit up. "Well, friend, just so you know, if I were to be invested, I would profess."

His eyes widening, Brian sank slowly to the sofa. "But Logan, you just got through saying that what you did was dirty! You said you did 'queers'."

Logan's face fell. "Shit, Brian, I didn't mean anything by it!"

"But you said it! I'm a queer, Logan."

Before Brian could react, Logan reached out, grabbed his shoulders and shook him roundly. "Don't you ever call yourself that," Logan hissed. "You're not a queer!"

Struggling, Brian managed to break Logan's hold on his shoulders. "Dammit, Logan, let go of me!" he snapped.

"Listen to me!" Logan shot his cuffs and stared angrily at Brian. "Those guys I did on Harkness Beach were queers! They were there because they wanted some ass, namely mine! That blond kid in the barracks was a queer because all he wanted was my dick! They all made me feel dirty because I was just a piece of meat to them."

"But Logan," returned Brian as calmly as he could, "I've been with guys! I had a lover!"

"Did you care for him, feel for him, love him?" asked Logan pointedly.

"Very much," Brian admitted. He had loved Dylan. In a way he still did. "I suppose I always will, in a way."

"And when you were with him, did you feel dirty?"

Shaking his head firmly, Brian said, "No! It felt wonderful."

"Then all that makes you is a normal guy who fell in love with another guy! You made love, you held him, and you gave him as much of yourself as you could. That doesn't make you a queer."

Scratching his head, Brian looked quizzically at Logan. "Logan, I had sex with him. We were lovers in every sense of the word! I can't see the difference between what I did and what you did!"

Logan scowled. "Listen, dipstick, the difference is that you felt something. When I was doing what I did all I was doing was getting a 50-buck blowjob on a sand dune! The guy who was sucking my cock wasn't interested in me, just my cock! The guy on his knees didn't feel anything at all for me as a person. I was a means to an end, just as the guy I fucked in the barracks was using me. He saw my cock and went for it. He was a queer. You're not." Then he added, "And I'm not."

"That's deep," admitted Brian sceptically. "So, as far as you are concerned a queer is someone who just thinks about sex, no emotions, no ties, he just goes for whatever dick is handy?"

"Basically. I think if a guy is going to do something with another guy he should feel something for the guy. In Victoria I could have had all the dick I wanted. Hell, in Vancouver there's a whole section of downtown that is filled with dick."

"So I've heard," responded Brian dryly. "I take it you didn't go there?"

Shaking his head, Logan grinned. "I wasn't queer, and I wasn't interested in anonymous sex with some stud in a dark alley. As it happens, when I have sex with a guy, I want to feel something for him, and have him feel something for me."

"I hope you find him," replied Brian slowly.

"I already have," said Logan. He reached out to touch Brian's face. "When I said that I thought about you, I mean I really thought about you!"

Brian realized what Logan was saying. "You didn't!" he asked, a smile creasing his face.

"Every night," confessed Logan. "Sometimes twice!"

When he stopped laughing, Brian shook his head. "Damn, and here I am, thinking you're a straight guy!"

For a brief moment Logan looked embarrassed. "Brian, when I was slithering around in the forests something happened between Lieutenant Howard and me."

His eyebrows rising slowly, Brian asked, "You and him?"

"Yes," replied Logan with a nod. "I asked him to show me what it should be like between two men." He smiled fondly at the memory of Laurence's strong arms holding him, of Laurence's warm kisses, of Laurence . . . He looked directly at Brian. "I didn't feel dirty."

Brian's heart fell. He managed to maintain his composure as he asked, "Are you and Lieutenant Howard . . . together?" he asked, the softness in his voice giving evidence of what he thought were his shattered dreams.

"No," replied Logan with a firm shake of his head. "Laurence is a wonderful man, and when we were together he was kind, and gentle, everything a lover should be." He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. "He's a friend, and we were true friends for a little while. But he realizes that I'm not for him, just as he's not for me. He's in love with someone else."

"And you?" asked Brian, hope rising.

Raising his head, Logan said, his voice a murmur, "I think I'm in love with someone."

"You think?"

"I lied," Logan returned with a sorrowful expression. "I know I'm in love with someone." He pulled Brian to him and felt the young man's warmth through the starch and linen and cotton. "I'm in love with you, Brian," Logan whispered. "I fell in love with you back in that dirty barn of a bus depot. I wanted so desperately to stay, to be with you, but I had to leave. I looked back and saw you standing there and I almost got off that damned bus!"

"I'm glad you didn't," replied Brian as he returned Logan's hug. "If you had it would have been just like you were going back to Harkness Beach. You needed time to really think about what you were going to do."

"Yeah, I suppose so." Slowly drawing away, Logan said, "I love you Brian, I know that. I want to be with you."

"And I want to be with you."

"When it's time," said Logan.

"When it's time?" Brian looked perplexed. "Logan, if we love each other we should be together!"

"We will, but only when it's time," returned Logan. He wanted desperately to take Brian into his arms and make love to the slim, handsome youth. "I have things to do and I don't want to do anything with you until I'm ready. I love you and when I come to you, it will be because I feel right, that I am right for you."

"You are right for me!" insisted Brian. "I feel it."

"And so do I," replied Logan. "But I want to come to you as an equal. I won't sleep with you just for the sake of sleeping with you. I want you, yes, but when I come to you I will be a Knight! I will be a man! I will be your friend, your lover, and your partner. Please try to understand the way I feel!"

Brian did understand. Logan had been put down for much of his life, the boy from the trailer park, the punk who would never amount to anything other than a jailbird. Logan would not commit until he had shaken every vestige of his past from his mind. In a way Brian did understand how Logan felt, and told him so, adding, "We take things slow and easy. I'll wait for you."

"I know I'm being a pain about things, but I have to do it my way," replied Logan. He stood and gazed fondly at Brian. "I'll see you after the Investiture?"

Nodding, Brian returned Logan's look and then asked, "Logan, you're old enough, and you're a part of the Household. Why aren't you being knighted?"

"No 'nihil obstat'," returned Logan in an offhand manner. "I haven't spoken to the Proctor, either." He shrugged diffidently. "It's too soon."

Thinking, Brian then said, "Logan, you don't need a nihil obstat to become a candidate. Or you could become a Companion of Honour, like Sandro."

Logan's voice was firm. "Brian, I will not use a back door to gain entry. I want to do what is right. I've been dodging and weaving, using back doors for most of my life. This time around I'm going in the front door!"

Brian chuckled. "You've sure changed."

"I have," admitted Logan. "It feels damned good!" He held out his hand. "Walk with me?"

Nodding, Brian rose and took Logan's hand. As they left the Garden Room, Brian knew that the hand he held would be joined with his forever.

The small circle of cadets around Justice Arundel was increased by the arrival of Harry, Matt, Phil Thornton and Randy and Joey. Justice Arundel welcomed them to the Order and smiled when Joey and Randy squirmed and giggled when he gave them his kiss of peace. Harry, not unexpectedly, accept the kiss as his due. Matt was mildly amused and asked if he could expect to be kissed every time he met a knight.

"Of course," replied Justice Arundel with a chuckle. "It's all part of the tradition."

"It's strange, though, being kissed like that," offered Matt. He meant no disrespect and added, "I kind of like it."

"It expresses your love and trust in your brothers," said Justice Arundel gently. "It also allows you to express, without fear of ridicule, that love and trust."

"It's just that, well, some people might think it strange that men kiss each other," replied Matt. "Back home . . ."

"Back home you had a belt taken to your ass," rumbled Harry. "In my house we kiss all the time! I told you . . ."

"We know," said Todd with a grin. "In your house if it's breathing, you kiss it!"

"Well, not the cat," returned Harry with a snicker. "Too hairy and apt to spit at you."

"Harry, you're incorrigible," opined The Phantom.

"But you love me anyway," returned Harry. He reached out and grabbed The Phantom. "How about giving me a brotherly smack?"

"Upside your head?" retorted The Phantom as he shrugged out of Harry's embrace. "Now stop your nonsense. We are supposed to be sober, responsible young men."

"I've been sober for too long," complained Harry. He looked at Justice Arundel. "Does the tradition include a good belt of something strong afterward?"

Justice Arundel laughed heartily. "I am sure that it does," he said. Being with the cadets made him feel young again, made him feel again the camaraderie of men. "There will be wine at dinner, Harry."

"I could use a snort now!" exclaimed Harry. His face fell. "But Chef threatened the Pride with his cleaver if I didn't behave."

"Chef's bark is much worse than his bite," offered Randy. "He's always bellowing but he never really does anything."

Nodding his agreement, Justice Arundel said, "Chef loves you all very much. He also believes in you. If he didn't, you wouldn't be here."

"We know," said Cory. "We love him, too. If we didn't we wouldn't put up with his stories!"

"One admits that Chef does have a way with words and tends to hyperbole from time to time," observed Justice Arundel with a straight face. "I sometimes wonder if half of what he says has so much as a grain of truth to it!"

"He's done a lot of things," interjected Nate. "My Zeyda told me about Chef in Palestine!"

"I think there's more to Chef than he lets on," said The Phantom. "He's a mystery, sometimes, yes, but he means well and he's devoted to us. I think we can forgive him when he runs on."

"And when he makes sure that we're wearing clean unders!" sniped Joey.

"Chef is trying, in his own way, to impress upon you the importance of doing everything right!" said Justice Arundel. "You could be dressing for a parade, or an Investiture. You expect that the people who are reviewing you will put on their best duds, and you want to impress them with your appearance. You wouldn't go on parade in a wrinkled uniform, or put on clean clothing without showering, now would you?" he asked Joey.

Joey sniffed. "I would not!"

"Because you are a proud young man," said Justice Arundel with a nod. "You know that anything less would mean you really didn't care. You are proud of your Corps, of being a cadet, yes?"

"Yes."

"And the people who inspect you have the same pride. They are flattered and honoured at being asked to inspect you and they dress the part. When I am sitting on my judicial bench I wear robes, which are hot, and not very fashionable, but I wear them to impress and bring dignity to the proceedings. The barristers who argue the case before me wear robes, and most of them wear a special suit of clothes. They do it because their clients expect them to. Anything less would make the client wonder if his lawyer was serious, if his case was thought to be important."

"I think that the tradition shows that everything is as it should be, that the trial, if that is what it is, is going to be conducted in accordance with the law, in a proper manner," said Harry. "We all do things in a traditional way, not because it's always been done that way, but to show that everything is all right, normal, so to speak."

"We use traditions, and we all have different traditions to show that we remember the past, and that things are normal, nothing has changed and that life goes on," offered Todd. "When we're at home we have breakfast after Easter services and we always have boiled eggs. I don't know why we have boiled eggs, but we do."

Justice Arundel chuckled. "Your mother, Todd. The cook sends up the Menu Book and every time your mother scratches out whatever dish the cook wants to serve and writes in 'Boiled Eggs'. It was the same when she was a girl, and when her mother was a girl."

"And if we didn't have them we'd think something was wrong in the kitchen, that the cook was drunk again!" interjected Cory with a laugh.

"I wouldn't put it quite that way," said Justice Arundel. "But yes, you would immediately think that something was amiss." He looked at Nate. "Every culture has its traditions. They all have meaning and if they are not observed would you not think that something is wrong?"

Nate agreed. "When we have a Passover Seder if we didn't have bitter herbs and a roasted bone, well, we always have them!"

"Because it is your tradition. I will tell you another example."

A muted chorus of groans rose from the cadets. They had been reared on Chef's meandering tales and half expected besoms and banshees to come springing out from under the oleanders.

Justice Arundel, who had known Chef, and his ways, for many years, raised his hand. "No leprechauns, I promise."

Mollified, Randy spoke for them all. "Okay, and no banshees?"

"No banshees," promised Justice Arundel. He looked at the boys and spoke. "I am not sure if the story is true, but I will tell it anyway." He settled in his seat. "We come to expect certain people to act, and dress, in certain ways to the extent that when they do not act as we expect we think that they are letting down the side."

"Sort of like when we have to clean into night clothing, to show that everything is neat and tidy, and everything is clean and ready to start the next day?" ask Randy.

"Yes. The Duty Officer sees that you are clean, the mess is clean, and squared away, and regulations are being observed. You expect him to pick you up if you're not as you should be, now don't you?"

"Yes, that's his job!" declared Joey.

"And there you have it. His job is to look after you, to make sure that everything is tickety-boo. If he didn't pick you up what would you think of him?" asked Justice Arundel.

"Not much," responded Randy.

"And rightly so, for he would not be doing his job, what you expect him to do," said Justice Arundel. "People expect that certain things are done certain ways and become upset if they are not done in a manner they expect. I recall that back in the 40s there was diplomatic incident between the Syrians, I think, and the Brits, all caused by a piece of paper not being what it should have been."

Joey's eyes widened. "What's so important about a piece of paper?"

"A great deal. Now, at the time when an ambassador was appointed from one country to another he received Letters Patent, signed by the Sovereign. I shall exaggerate and say that the Letters were about the size of the average bed sheet and printed with fancy script, and hung with the Great Seal. The British are sticklers for propriety and when a new ambassador appeared the head of state would expect things to be done in a proper way."

"So what happened?" asked The Phantom.

"Well, the then Prime Minister, Mr. Atlee, for reasons best known to himself, decided that to save money the Letters would take a new form. This satisfied the more radical of his MPs, who were all Labour and more Bolshie that Atlee wanted to admit. Unfortunately, at least one foreign government did not see it that way. A new man was appointed ambassador to a certain country and he presented his Letters, his Credentials, and there was a diplomatic explosion that was heard from London to Kathmandu! The host country was insulted! They were not good enough to be treated properly, and were being fobbed off with shoddy goods!"

"How did the English, who at least play the game, manage that?" asked The Phantom.

"Simple. The wording was correct, the seal was genuine, and the newly appointed ambassador was of unquestionable honour and probity. Unfortunately, the Letters were not, for reasons best known to the British Foreign Office, not in calligraphic script, but typewritten!"

"And the Syrians blew up at that?"

"Of course. It was, to their minds, an insult. Everybody else got a beautiful document. They got a clerk's memorandum." Justice Arundel leaned forward and looked at each boy. "It is the little things, the little traditions that people look at. Cory has said that if his mother did not serve boiled eggs at Easter breakfast, he would think that something was wrong in the kitchens. A small detail, a small tradition." He shrugged.

"But one Cory would notice was not being observed," said The Phantom. He giggled. "The Gunner told me that there are three ways of doing things: the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way. He also told me that if you were doing something in the Navy you had better know what you were doing because sitting in the Peanut Gallery would be a group of old Chiefs and officers who would pick up on the least difference, the smallest lapse, and grumble loud and long that things were better done in their day!"

"How true, how true," Justice Arundel agreed. "Which leads me to my story." He straightened his tie and smiled in reminiscence. "When the war broke out I was a very young Midshipman. I was sent overseas and served with the RN. Now, the RN is a wonderful organization when it comes to traditions. Officers are expected to act in a certain way, always. Any deviation and there's whistling in the top and grumbling in the forepeak, the Royals reach for their muskets and the Sin Bosun reviews his 'Prayers for Use At Sea'! Everybody gets their knickers in a twist and wonders when the next boot will drop!"

"Sort of like when Chef is grumpy and then all of a sudden he's extra nice to us?" asked Cory. "We all know that when Chef is being Mr. Bountiful he's up to something."

"Well, Chef is an extreme example," replied Justice Arundel. "I do admit that at times he uses honey when he wants something unpleasant to be done. But it in this case, it was something entirely different.

"At the time it was the custom, the tradition, that whenever a Royal Navy ship was in harbour the officers dressed for dinner. They would put on their mess kits, boiled shirts, wing collars, black ties, the whole rig. There could be a gale raging and the officers dressed for dinner. It was thing to do and nothing could change it."

"We dress for dinner every Saturday evening," grumbled Cory. "Mummy puts on her jewels and Papa his mess kit. Todd and I have to wear our best Number Ones. It's a pain in the butt!"

"But you'd wonder what was going on if we didn't do it, now wouldn't you?" returned Justice Arundel.

"Well, yes, I suppose I would," conceded Cory, "Seeing as how we've done it for as long as I can remember."

"Which is exactly as happened in England!" Justice Arundel gave his sons a squeeze and continued. "You have all heard the story of Dunkirk, of the little ships and Operation Dynamo, of bringing the lads off the beaches. I was there, in the thick of it, my ship steaming from Dover to the French coast, dodging the Luftwaffe every inch of the way there and back. We ate on the run and never spent more than a few hours in port. We would unload the troops, cast off and go back. It was a stressful time for all hands, which is why I think the Captain passed down word when we finally went alongside for a few days rest. He told the officers that they did not have to bother dressing for dinner. He meant it kindly, as we were all dead tired."

"And if I know sailors, the crops promptly failed," observed Todd tartly.

"Ah they did indeed. Of course, no one said anything, but when I was wandering about, as Midshipmen do, I noticed some rather fishy looks coming my way. The matelots knew that dinner was going to be piped soon and here I was, looking like something that had crawled out of the bilge. Being young, and not very experienced, I failed to notice that the hands were properly dressed in night clothing. I went down below and had my dinner, and being young and hungry, failed to hear the clucking from the pantry."

Justice Arundel saw the quizzical looks on the faces of his audience and winked at The Phantom. "Stewards have a way of letting their officers know exactly what they think about any given subject. They sit in the pantry and mutter, like old hens!"

As Chief Steward of the Royal Canadian Sea Cadets, The Phantom beamed. "Of course. And I'd bet good money the stewards were in starched jackets!"

"They were," replied Justice Arundel, feigning sadness. "They were keeping up the side, and we officers were not! The Stewards and the hands had cleaned into their proper gear. The officers had not and things were much better done in their day!"

The laughter subsided and Justice Arundel continued his tale. "Well, then it happened. The Duty Petty Officer, a Manxman of some courage, spent much of the time muttering and grumbling away until the Duty Officer, who was trying to write up the log, asked what ailed him. The PO, being a Manxman, promptly wanted to know what had come over the officers. His tone implied that he was very disappointed."

Randy, who didn't know a Manxman from a mallard, stuck in his oar. "The hands had dressed, the PO had dressed, but the officers hadn't." He giggled at Joey and imitated Chef in his Mother Superior mode, "Let down the side, don't ye know, Joey darlin'."

Justice Arundel laughed until he cried. "Precisely," he said when he regained control. "The officers had let the standards slide."

"So what happened?" asked Todd. He was beginning to understand more and more the importance of tradition and not lowering standards simply because there was a war on.

"As fate would have it we were sent a signal to prepare for sea. We had to go back at once as one of the destroyers had been sunk. We cleared away and off we went. My Action Station was on the bridge and as soon as the bells sounded I went up. Much to my surprise there was Father, dear old Bangalore Bob wearing his mess kit, boiled shirt, black tie and medals! He was tired, and not well, but he was damned if he'd let the hands know it. We passed the breakwater and up came the Steward. He was wearing his white jacket and on a silver tray he'd set an oversized glass of port!"

"Things were back to normal!" exclaimed The Phantom.

"And better was to come," said Justice Arundel. "I slid below to change and bumped into the Executive Officer, who had changed. My cabin mate was the Gunnery Officer and when I opened the door to our cabin there he was, in his unders, as Joey would call them, swearing as he fiddled with his collar button. When I returned to the bridge it looked like Trafalgar Night in London! Everybody had managed to put on a clean shirt and a proper tie. The hands were beaming and the Coxswain was actually polite to me! I loved it."

A strange look came into Justice Arundel's eyes. "But what really mattered was when we arrived at the approaches to Dunkirk. We were met by a launch containing the Port Master. We dropped the Jacob's ladder over the side and up he came, a dishevelled, shattered man. He'd spent weeks, really, trying to save as many men as he could and was at the end of his tether. Behind him came a boatload of Squaddies, equally tired and dispirited. They'd be strafed and shot at for weeks.

"Another boat came alongside and it contained more troops and some officers. As was the custom the senior officer asked to be taken to the bridge so he could extend his compliments and thanks. I don't know what he was expecting, Terry and the Pirates I suppose, but you should have seen the look on is face when he saw the bridge staff. Instead of oilskins and Wellingtons, he saw evening dress. His face lit up because to his way of thinking everything was normal! The Navy was here, and he and his men were safe, and life as he knew it was unfolding as it should back home."

"He tells a much better story," Randy stage-whispered to Joey. "At least I can understand him, and there weren't any damned Leprechauns!"

"Fuckin' aye," returned Joey, giggling.

"Thank you for that rousing and inspiring compliment," said Justice Arundel, who had heard every word. He face turned serious. "Now then, my young friends, you understand, I think, how and why we need tradition. It helps bind us all together, whether as a family or as you are, a band of brothers. Tradition helps us to remember our past, and to make the future a little brighter. Tradition retains the warm and familiar, good things that have happened in our lives, and in the lives of those who have gone before us."

"And without our traditions we are little better than cavemen, sitting and staring at a fire," opined The Phantom. "Without them we come from nothing, and will return to nothing."

"Then you understand, Phantom, that what you, and your friends do today will establish new traditions. Your conduct will set the standard that all who follow you will observe. The Order needs new traditions." Justice Arundel turned and looked at Cory. "My son has said that 'this place' is much too grand for us. Perhaps, in one way, it is. None of us live in rooms such as are in this hotel, and we do not dine on gold plates and sip nectar from gilded cups. But, consider this, gentlemen: the Order is like a Phoenix, a bird of brilliant plumage, rising ever more glorious, and what better place to begin its flight of passage than from a palace of marble and gold!"

" . . . The Grand Master will say nothing," Major Meinertzhagen intoned. He was standing beside a kneeling bench. "You will . . ." he lowered himself, resting his right knee on the tapestry cushion of the bench, steadying his body by grasping the handrail, " . . . kneel. The Grand Master will tap you with a sword on each shoulder. Are we clear so far?"

The gathered candidates, over their shock at seeing a man dressed for an opera comique in black watered silk, ruffles and silver-buckled shoes, nodded. The Phantom, Joey and Randy, Chris, Kevin, all of the boys, really, stared around the exquisitely appointed room, marvelling at the polished furniture, delicate lamps and massive portraits that hung from the walls. Not only was Justice Arundel's Phoenix rising from a nest of marble and gold, its flight was followed by the brilliant colours of jewelled light.

Noting that his charges were suitably awed, the Major continued. "The Grand Master will return the sword to the Equerry, who will remain standing behind him. This will be your signal to rise." The Major demonstrated the movement. "You will give a neck bow . . ." he bowed his neck, " . . . and not this." With flagrant exaggeration the Major placed one hand over his stomach and placed the other behind his back, bowing low. "This is for boors and Charlie Chaplain movies!"

Straightening, the Major adjusted his lace jabot, and said, "The Grand Master will hold out his hand. You will not kiss it!" he thundered, causing Randy and Joey to jump and Ray to take a step back. "You will shake his hand and then, and only then, will the Grand Master speak. What he will say is up to him. I suspect that he will congratulate you." He shrugged. "Beyond that, I have no idea what he will say."

The Major gestured for Logan Hartsfield and Patrick Tsang to come forward. "Mr. Hartsfield and Mr. Tsang will be your ushers. One of them will escort each of you to the kneeling bench when your name is called." He then indicated Laurence, who was wearing his Royal Marine uniform, deep blue serge with silver buttons sparkling in the light from the overhead crystal chandelier. "Lieutenant Howard will be AdeC and Equerry." He glowered at the cadets. "Are there any questions?"

"I wonder if he still drinks Kahlua and milk?" whispered Cory out of the corner of his mouth at Todd.

"Chief Petty Officer Arundel, if you please!" The Major gave Cory a black look. Cory smiled sweetly in return and Todd raised his eyes toward the plaster and gilt ceiling.

"Now then," continued the Major, "after the Grand Master has finished his chat he will again hold out his hand. You will shake it, step back one pace, bow from the neck, and return to your seat. Are there any questions?" Before anyone could respond the Major nodded and turned briskly away, adding over his shoulder as he left the room, "And just for the information of the Ship's Company in general and Chief Arundel in particular, I now enjoy a sip of the Scottish wine!"

When Michael Chan first broached the subject of an Investiture no one had a clue what to do. There had been consultations with the Major, who had attended two investitures, one in Buckingham Palace, the other at Windsor, and with Bertie Arundel, the unofficial historian of the Order. Bertie had also been to Buck House, and suggested, for lack of better information, that they base their plans on the Royal traditions. The last Investiture held by the Order had been in 1860-something. No one was sure. The records in Germany had been destroyed by the rampaging Russian hordes and the Luftwaffe had blitzed the Order's small priory in England. Michael, in keeping with the Order's traditions, wanted a simple, but very impressive ceremony.

Bertie and the Major had closeted themselves and devised a service that reflected the Order's simplistic history and traditions and the plans had been more or less finalized when the Major had gone off to Hong Kong. Then Michael had announced that he wished to institute a new degree in the order of precedence: Companion of Honour. Bertie had consulted his histories and what little records he could find and reworked the program. Then Michael decided to restore the "Noble" in the Order's official title. Bertie had returned to his study, found the books he needed and set his brother Louis to work writing out by hand the Letters Patent.

As he worked, Bertie realized that there were two stumbling blocks. Knights were given rings of gold set with a pigeon blood ruby. The new nobles would be given collars from the small horde of gold and jewels that Michael had sequestered in his basement vaults. There remained the problem of what to do with the Companions. It would not do to hand out jewelled baubles to everyone except the new Companions. Michael had been adamant that he wanted no discrimination shown. Teenage boys had notoriously fragile egos, and Michael could not very well slip a ring on a knightly finger or drape a golden collar over the shoulders of a Prince of the Order without recognizing in some way the newer boys. They needed a token of their membership, even if it was a ribbon!

Gabe Izard solved the problem loudly and profanely by dropping a box of something on his foot. He had been sent down to the Gold and Silver Vault to fetch the collars and bumped against a rickety table on which sat, as if forgotten by time, a torn and battered cardboard box. The table tipped, the box fell onto Gabe's foot and broke open. When he had stopped swearing and dancing around the vault, Gabe noticed a half-dozen newspaper-wrapped objects scattered across the floor. Curious, Gabe had unwrapped one of the packages and discovered a small silver seal, which depicted a double-headed Austrian eagle. The other packages, when unwrapped, proved to be smaller examples of the same seal, some round, some oval in shape.

Dismissing the seals as objects of little note, Gabe had limped upstairs and Michael, noticing, had asked what had happened. Gabe was promptly returned to the vault.

Michael examined the seals, which had been struck some two hundred years before for use on official Letters issued by the Austrian, Hungarian and Prussian priories. When those priories had been closed in 1919, their seals had been sent to London. How the seals managed to make their way from London to Vancouver Michael had no idea. What he did have was the thought that one would make an ideal badge for the Companions.

With the oval Austrian seal in hand and one of Lieutenant Sheppard's grim-faced Americans as his minder, Gabe was dispatched to a jeweller in Chinatown with Michael's order: make a mould of the seal, cast it in silver, do it quickly and well, and great rewards would follow. Fixed to a crimson, watered silk sash, the new "Badges" would be the mark of a Companion.

Religion next reared its ugly head. The Order had never embraced, totally, the Roman Catholic Church, although the origins of the Order were based on the very real faith of the original Knights. The Order's distrust of the Church of Rome had been deepened by the Church's persecution of gays. Yet the Rule of the Order clearly stated that a knight must swear on the "Articles of his faith" that he would be a true and honourable knight. In all its history the Order had never incorporated so much as an alcove for religious observance and had never, as commanded by Saint John of Acre, raised great temples. While the Order had given lip service to the Church of Rome and later, its successors in Lutheran Germany and Anglican England, no provision had been made for a Chaplain, or Prelate of the Order, and the Rule made no mention of any religious rite, except for the Oath.

Michael, who had last set foot in the massive Anglican Cathedral in Vancouver when he buried Uncle Henry, had no desire to set a precedent. The Major, who had studiously avoided anything resembling religion and only attended church when forced to, at weddings and funerals, agreed with Michael. Chef, whose religious affiliations, if any, seemed to change with seasons or the level of the rum in the bottle, felt constrained to point out that the lads had all been raised in a quasi-religious environment and would expect something. Prayers had always been an integral part of any Naval ceremony (usually C of E, but an occasional Papist prayer did manage to slip in) and suggested that perhaps a recitation of "The Naval Prayer" would do. Michael grumpily agreed and Doctor Bradley-Smith would say it.

The venue of the Investiture was easily decided upon. The cadets could not leave Aurora before their official training year ended. The ceremony would be held in Comox, at the Admiralty House Hotel. The place was new, out of the way, and had the restrained Old World elegance that Michael admired. Joe Hobbes, whose family home was on the other side of the square that fronted the hotel, was dispatched to make the necessary arrangements.

Lieutenant Sheppard was asked to provide a Security Detail, to be comprised of his best men, and the Gieves man was pressed into service yet again, providing the broad-shouldered young men who would accompany Michael to Comox with dark suits. The Major grumbled that he could have had some chaps from the Royal and Diplomatic Protection Service flown over had he known. At least they looked the part, and not like Marines in mufti!

Ignoring the Major's obvious bias, Michael had turned his attention to more mundane matters and rather than involve the Major, who would have flown everybody over to England and rented Windsor Castle, Michael closeted himself with Bertie Arundel and together they produced a program, and an order of precedence. Military members would wear uniforms; civilians would wear proper evening attire, which sent the Major off on another rant. He hated the fancy dress costume he had been gifted with when he accepted the position of Camerlengo. It did no good for Michael to speak soothingly of how elegant and Continental the Major looked when dressed in his finery. Sniffing, the Major had marched off to yell at someone.

The someone turned out to be Joel, who went into a monumental pout. Michael was forced to intervene and promised a vacation, at his expense of course, anywhere Joel wanted to go, with Cousin Tommy along as companion. Joel accepted the bribe as ungraciously as possible, muttered about the glorious weather in Monte Carlo, or perhaps San Remo, then went off to see a printer of his acquaintance who would turn Michael's hen scratching into an acceptable program.

As Joel's car turned into the roadway Michael, who had accompanied his cousin to the door, turned to Lieutenant Sheppard and remarked with a tired voice, "I can see now why we only hold the damned thing once every hundred years!"