The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  The end came suddenly, when Forty-two’s voice quavered into silence, and he crumpled to the floor. A couple of watching inquisitors jumped up with cries of alarm, but Brindle shouted at them not to worry.

  “He’s just exhausted. Let’s poke up that brazier and get some light in here.”

  And heat. Recognizing a good idea, Niall hurried over to the rising glow, being careful not to trip over his blanket. In fact, he was probably wearing more than most of the ragged prisoners, only one of whom could get close to the fire. The inquisitors could, and did, all whispering and staring at Niall himself. Then he looked down and saw that the chest strap holding his scabbard had disappeared. Its place was marked by a band of flattened hair.

  He reached up to draw Denial—and brought his hand down, apparently empty. Yet he could feel his fingers gripping her hilt, sense her weight. Then, like a tor on Starkmoor emerging from a dawn mist, the sword became visible, and the strap also.

  “Is that satisfactory, my lord?” Warden Brindle asked drily.

  Hedgebury said, “Extremely, Inquisitor. Her Majesty will be pleased. However, this conjuration is potentially an extraordinarily dangerous one. I suspect that she may forbid its use except on her express orders.”

  “That is possible.” Brindle did not seem troubled by the prospect, and Niall noticed that the junior inquisitors were already hurrying around, gathering up the scripts. The Queen could proscribe until her face turned royal blue, but the Dark Chamber would still own a conjuration to make a sword invisible.

  As the prisoners were being returned to their cells, and Niall was dressing, Stalwart came close and said softly, “Well, Master Cleaver, does that make your mission look a little better?”

  Niall said, “No. Now you have made it much worse.”

  “How?” Stalwart snapped.

  “Because now I will not only be spying on my employer, accepting his board and wages while serving another, I will also be carrying a concealed weapon. Only bandits or assassins do that. Honest, honourable men never do.”

  His leader dropped his voice to a whisper. “I think you have chosen the wrong profession, Sir Scruples. Suppose that some day your duty requires you to kill a man? Will you be able to do that?”

  Niall felt another shiver, but it was provoked by anger, not cold. “If my oath requires it, certainly! But I will let him see my sword and draw his own before I cut his head off.”

  Chapter 7

  Your dominant virtual element is obviously Death.

  lady emerald

  “I am reluctantly coming to the conclusion,” Lord Hedgebury remarked, “that Goat’s Gizzard does not encourage visitors.”

  The room to which they had been shown was small, draughty, and filthy. The bed had not been made after the last users departed. The small table that bore a cold supper for the guests also bore mouse droppings. Niall, being hungry, was inspecting that with especial dislike.

  He said, “This reminds me of the winter Ironhall was snowed in for more than a moon and the sopranos wanted to cook the Brat.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. We had some very strange meals. Look, we’re Blades. Let’s get violent.”

  Stalwart shook his head. “That’s probably the idea, and could be a trap. The whole place reeks of sorcery. But the Queen will hear of this, I promise you.”

  There was a mirror, small and grimy. Niall inspected his reflection and could see no sign of the scabbard on his back. He drew, and it became visible at the same time as the sword in his hand did. After some more experimentation, he established that this was the case even when he was not wearing the scabbard: whenever the sword was sheathed, both were invisible. He must either keep them apart overnight or be sure to remember where he had put them.

  Both men passed on the meal.

  The bed contained lice, fleas, and bed bugs.

  Dressing after a very bad night, Niall tried reversing his magical scabbard to put the hilt behind his left shoulder. It worked, but the fit was poor, and Denial was likely to damage the scabbard when he drew.

  The Blades agreed that the sooner they left Goat’s Gizzard, the better; they would rather starve for another hour than eat any of the appalling food. It was barely even first light when the Blades arrived at the stable and wakened two hands to saddle their horses. It did seem that they would be able to escape without having to exchange any hypocritical farewells with Senior Inquisitor Brindle, but as two surly Yeomen were cranking up the portcullis for them, he appeared, as smooth and immaculate as ever.

  Stalwart managed a civil leave-taking, swung up into the saddle, and advanced a few yards along the drawbridge before looking back to see what was delaying his companion. Niall was examining Pepper’s left foreleg. He straightened up when Brindle was about six feet away.

  “You forgot something, snoop.”

  The inquisitor halted, instantly wary. “Such as?”

  “Such as Blades’ honour.” Niall’s hand whipped to his shoulder, then up at arm’s length, and made a wide circuit in Brindle’s direction. The inquisitor fell back with a scream as blood gushed from a slash the full width of his forehead. Denial was back in the scabbard before she even became fully visible. Niall vaulted onto Pepper’s back—no trouble!—and kicked in his heels. He cantered past Hedgebury and kept going.

  Hedgebury caught up with him in short order. “The Queen put you under my orders, and I did not order you to strike that man!” He was furious.

  “Then we’d better not tell her.” Niall was laughing.

  “You’re a crazy idiot! You couldn’t see the tip of your sword. You might have cut off the top of his head.”

  “I knew exactly where the tip of my sword was. I knew exactly how deep I was cutting, and it was barely through the skin. I’m a trained Blade, even if I’m not bound yet. Since when did Blades put up with that sort of shit from the snoops?”

  “No longer than the snoops put up with it from Blades. You are under my orders, and I order you now that you must never use that sword except in self-defence, or to protect your ward, the Queen. As it is, you’ve made a dangerous enemy. From now on you’re a marked man for the Dark Chamber.”

  “When they find me. I’m just Will, remember? Soon to be Master Cleaver of Thencaster. First you accused me of not being mean enough to kill a man and now you want me to kiss an inquisitor’s ass? Where can we eat?”

  After a moment, Stalwart muttered, “Takes a lot to scare you, doesn’t it?”

  Niall had no answer to that question, and didn’t try to find one.

  They ate their fill at a farm where ploughing was underway. Ploughmen needed to be fed well. The farmer’s wife welcomed the drop-in gentlemen, piling their platters with eggs and ham, fish fresh from the pond, and bread hot out of the oven. When even Niall was full, Stalwart paid her with shiny new silver.

  By then he had recovered his temper and could see the bright side of Niall’s Invisible Revenge. Too bad that the entire Royal Guard could not learn of it. Perhaps in a year or so, the tale might be told.

  They arrived at the Golden Jug in splendid sunshine and demanded a tub and lots of hot water to clean up.

  It was still much too soon to expect a reply from Thencaster. They would go, Hedgebury decreed, to call on Baron Whinscar.

  “Don’t we need to ask first? Get an appointment?”

  “No. The poor old fellow is dying of boredom. He’ll welcome us with open arms, and probably some of the finest ale you’ll find anywhere. He employs a truly expert brew master.”

  Niall said, “Hm,” and began changing into his best outfit. Alas, his best was well past its best, as would befit a penny-pinching scribe. “And will I meet the legendary fourteen-year-old who fell so drastically in love with me?”

  “If you do, don’t tell her, because she doesn’t know anything about that. But when she sees you so mag
nificently attired, she’ll probably do it all over again.”

  Niall had never visited the part of town where baron lived. He did indeed agree to receive, “Lord Hedgebury and friend,” and they were promptly shown upstairs to a dazzlingly over-decorated lounge. Whinscar was reclining in a thickly padded chair with both feet hugely wrapped, probably in either lamb’s wool or swansdown.

  “Stalwart, you old rascal!” He did not rise. “Come in, come in! And who is this dashing young fellow?” He ordered beer brought for the visitors.

  The baron did not look old enough to be so plagued with gout. On the other hand, he did seem old to have a fourteen-year-old daughter. He was plump, with a round, rubicund face and two chins.

  “May I have the honour, M’lord, to present Master Neal Cleaver, your former secretary?”

  “The one Julie wrote love letters to? She still weeps for him every night.”

  Stalwart laughed. “Of course she does!”

  Niall bowed low. Seeing the obvious wealth around him, he was tempted to say he had changed his mind, and could he have his old job back? Fourteen was a marriageable age. Alas, if the young lady really existed, she wouldn’t have a clue who he was.

  The beer was superb. At first the two older men reminisced, and Niall just listened. He gathered enough scraps to learn that the baron had been a successful treasury officer for King Ambrose, and that Stalwart had told him very little about his complicated chicanery with one of the Queen’s Blades. Whinscar might not be dying of boredom, as Stalwart had claimed, but he was certainly tortured by it.

  Oddly enough, Niall learned more about Lord Hedgebury. Whinscar had been another of Ambrose’s cronies, so he had attended many cozy royal soirees. He recalled how the king would join in lute duets with the young Stalwart, who had been by far the better player. Princess Malinda had rarely been included, but their friendship must have started there. Ambrose had even made Sir Stalwart display tricks remembered from his pre-Ironhall youth as a gleeman— juggling, standing on one hand. The king had not been famed for his tact.

  Eventually it was Whinscar who brought order to the meeting. “So, Master Cleaver, is there anything more I can do to further your service to Her Majesty?” He knew that she was involved, anyway.

  “If I may ask a few questions, my lord? Just in case I get asked things I ought to know. For example, how long did I work for you?”

  “Mm... I must have hired you three years ago, when my health forced me to retire.”

  “I would have been seventeen or eighteen.”

  “Awkward age to be changing employers. Let’s make it four years ago, then.” Stalwart had chosen his accomplice well. The unemployed Whinscar jumped right into the game of building a credible Neal Cleaver. He showed no resentment at being asked to describe his family—three children, only one at home, two wives deceased. What sort of letters or other documents had Cleaver written? He had also maintained several ledgers, but Niall could remember enough of his childhood banking work not to be frightened by those. Three baronial homes... and so on.

  Stalwart, of course, could not stay out, and it was two large tankards of ale later before Niall confessed that he had run out of questions. The one thing he did not know, and could not ask without spilling secrets, was whether Baron Whinscar had ever met the Marquis of Thencaster. He would find out soon enough from the other party.

  By the time the two conspirators rode homeward to the Golden Jug, another day was ending. No message from the palace awaited Lord Hedgebury, meaning that the Marquis had not yet answered the letter.

  Stalwart fretted. “I was never good at waiting. A friend of mine used to say it was because of...”

  “Yes?”

  “Her name was Emerald. No reason why we can’t go and see her tomorrow. In a manner of speaking, she’s your most dangerous enemy.”

  Chapter 8

  Wart is flying again.

  lady emerald

  By sunrise they were riding out Grandon’s West Gate. Although the gate still stood, most of the wall on that side had long ago been swallowed and digested by the city itself.

  Emerald, Stalwart explained, had been a very talented member of the White Sisters, the “sniffers” trained in the detection of conjuration. She had assisted young Stalwart on several of his celebrated adventures. So he said, but some of the accounts that Niall had heard still floating around Ironhall implied that several times she had deserved more of the credit for their success than he had. That view might be due to mass envy, because Stalwart had won his White Star before he could grow respectable whiskers. He had never been the most popular member of the Royal Guard after that.

  Emerald had married a Blade, Sir Fury. After being dubbed, Fury had been appointed Master of Richly Downs, a small deer park close to the capital. Ambrose had enjoyed fishing and hawking there. Malinda either wasn’t interested or was still too busy to visit. The Furies had six children. Or was it seven?

  It was eight, from a babe in arms to an eye-grabbing young lady who swept down from the front door to take Stalwart’s horse’s cheek strap and greet him as “Uncle Stalwart.” Two younger males had already gone rushing into the house shouting the news. Dogs raced around, barking in hysterical excitement.

  The house itself was large and old, but it wore its age with grace. Its escort of giant beeches were bare still, but in summer they would be splendid, and the rows of windows suggested that it could hold many more young Furies if required. A torrent of them poured out the door and cascaded down the steps as vanguard for the Earth Mother herself.

  To a fancied fanfare of imaginary trumpets, Lady Fury appeared in the doorway, radiant in a golden robe and clutching Baby Eight wrapped in a dark blue blanket. She was tall, and in her long-ago adventuring days had probably been as svelte as that black-haired beauty still talking to Stalwart. Now, alas, after so many babies, Emerald was just very big. She waved to the visitors and began to descend—mustn’t shout and waken whatever-its-name.

  Niall dismounted and led Pepper over to the crowd around Stalwart. By the time he arrived, the person he was really interested in meeting had drifted around to the far side.

  “Oh, yuck!” said a shrill treble. Niall looked down at orange hair, multitudinous freckles, and a snub nose tightly screwed up to express disgust.

  “Are you addressing me, young man?”

  “You stink!”

  Niall balled a fist and placed it close to the offender’s freckles. “That is not a polite way to greet a visitor, boy.”

  Then he heard Stalwart speak his name. “Sir Niall of the Blades—Emerald, Lady Fury.”

  Niall bowed, kissed the fingers offered, and admitted to being honoured.

  “He stinks!” said Freckles.

  “Baelish, you must never say that about people. What you think you are smelling is not Sir Niall, but a conjurement he is carrying. Now tell him you are sorry.”

  Even a small chin could display obstinacy. “I’m sorry he stinks.”

  His mother sighed. “And I am sorry you are going to miss dessert today. Somebody take him away.”

  “I’ll take him away,” Niall said. “I have an iron cage that would fit him perfectly, and he will never get dessert, not ever again!”

  The malefactor screamed, “No!” and was dragged away by laughing siblings. Baelish couldn’t possibly be his real name, just a family nickname, mocking his colouring. Baels had been raiding the Chivian coast for centuries, and rape had always been among their offences. Baelish blood could show up to embarrass families in many subsequent generations.

  “I am truly sorry about Edwan’s manners, Sir Niall. Several of our children have inherited my talent for detecting enchantment. I usually hear it, but he, unfortunately smells it, and he hasn’t come close to learning tact yet.”

  “It was nothing, Ma’am. I have a sister with hair that colour, so I know the trouble it brings.�
��

  “He’s not a real Blade, though,” said another female, voice. “What worries me isn’t what he’s carrying; it’s what he isn’t.” Niall didn’t see who had spoken, but he caught Stalwart’s eye. This was what he had meant by Emerald being Niall’s most dangerous enemy—many people were sensitive to magic to some degree.

  Adjusting the baby on her shoulder, Emerald frowned, unerringly picking out the culprit in the sea of faces. “You can’t be sure of that, Rose, and even if you were, you should not say so. Now see that their horses are taken round to the stables. Come inside, Stalwart, Sir Niall.”

  As they went up the steps to the front door, Stalwart pointed at her burden. “Congratulations on that one, Em. Is it named yet?”

  “Not, ‘It,’ Stalwart! It’s a ‘He!’ His name is Hectar.”

  “Fury must be happy?”

  “Oh, he doesn’t care if they’re hers or hims, as long as they’re loud, so he knows they’re healthy. I warned him before we were married that I was an earth person and would keep on producing babies. He just said, ‘Great!’ and, ‘When can we begin?’ He’s inspecting the nesting today, but he’ll be back by sundown. You will stay the night of course?”

  Of course yes, because Stalwart had already told the Golden Jug that he would not return until the next day. A brief visit to a palatial guest room upstairs allowed Niall to remove his sword and scabbard. He hung the latter on a wall sconce and replaced the sword. Both disappeared. Baelish and his siblings should find him less odoriferous now.

  Stalwart led the way back down, and they found Emerald seated alone by the fireplace in the great hall. It was impressive, with a hammerbeam roof and stained-glass windows. She was pouring crimson wine into goblets. Two empty chairs facing her, flanked a low table laden with treats. She looked up with a smile as the Blades arriving, but the smile faded into a studied frown aimed at Niall.

  “Help yourselves, gentlemen. Sir Niall, Stalwart presented you as a Blade, but I can tell that you have not been bound. I assume, therefore, that he has involved you in another of his madcap schemes?”