The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  About a fifth of the people present were Wylds, with soot-black hair and eerily bleached complexions.

  After the meal he managed to find his own way back up to the office. A burly Wyld youth in riding britches was waiting there, leaning against the wall with arms folded. He spread a wide, friendly grin at Niall.

  Niall introduced himself.

  “I’m Traskar.” His boots advertised his usual workplace.

  Niall found the right key in his bunch—it was the largest—and opened the door. “Tell me if I don’t do things right. I’m brand new here.”

  “It’s all in there.” Traskar pointed to the postal closet. Regardless of what Stakwart has said, not all Wylds were huge, hairy, and horrible. This one was merely big, clean-shaven, and affable.

  There were four pieces of mail in there, plus a weighty book. Repeating what he could see had been done on previous days, Niall entered the date, the senders’ and recipient’s names, and signed his own. Traskar counted the items into the official satchel, and then painstakingly spelled out his name, letter by letter. Grinning proudly, he shouldered the bag, buckled on the sword, and showed his surviving teeth in another wide smile. “You did fine, sir.”

  “So did you. Have a nice ride.”

  As the door closed, the Queen’s spy reflected that espionage could never have been easier. That correspondence list would provide all the information Stalwart could possibly need to hang the Marquis, should the need arise.

  Not wanting to pry until he was told to, he opened no more drawers or cupboards, but Fizz had left two piles of ledger sheets on the table, so he started going through those, just out of curiosity. Most of the reports concerned farming or herding. One manor alone claimed seventeen foals dropped. The farms had no crops to report at that time of year, but they described their ploughing and seeding in Thirdmoon.

  Where were these properties? In Chivial or Wylderland? The names at the top of each page gave him the answer, or a reasonable guess at it. Bitter Springs and High Vineyard must be Chivian. Zan Kordat and similar gibberish indicated Wyldish.

  At the end of each report were lists that puzzled him until he realized that they must show dues paid to Thencaster Castle. There would be little or no coinage in this rustic paradise, but the Marquis would claim a share. At this time of year, he would be paid in lambs, or beef, or pickled eggs. Wheat, fruit, wool, or perhaps even grapes would come later.

  Finally came a puzzler: occupations. Bitter Springs’s end tally was fairly typical: “Domestic 5, pikes 8, artisan 2.” So, part of each estate’s rent was paid in labour, by housemaids, guardsmen, or such. Pikes were weapons in this case, not fish. So just how big was the Marquis’s army? Niall would be able to work that out, given time, and Queen Malinda would be most interested. But some of these pikemen, archers, and so on were from places with the gibberish names, presumably Wylds. How many of the race that had killed his father did Neville trust to man his battlements?

  And what had happened to that honourable, starry-eyed Earth-dominant lad who didn’t want to be a spy? Letting your warrior Death spirits take over, are you, Neal?

  Something rapped on the door, making him jump. Fizz had her own keys. Why wouldn’t the Marquis? Besides, Niall had not locked the door after Traskar left. Instead of trying to shout through the thick timber, he strode over and pulled it open. Outside stood a trim, slender youth in a stylish brown leather outfit. He wore a cat’s eye sword. He blinked in surprise.

  He said, “Niall! What by Death are you doing here?”

  Chapter 13

  Earth spirits give strength, stability, honesty, perseverance.

  lady emerald

  “Challenger!?” Niall was the larger. He grabbed his former friend by the front of his doublet and practically lifted him into the office, then slammed the door. “I am not here. You never saw me. Understand?”

  Back around Tenthmoon, the Lord Marshal had arrived at Ironhall bearing a royal warrant commanding Grand Master to bind the next two seniors to him. The king could no longer ride as far as Ironhall; whispers went around that even his signature looked shaky. Lord Marshall was the man in charge of all the king’s horses. Prime Starkiller and Second Challenger, the candidates next in line, became the butts of many jokes about what names did they want on their shovels?

  Detested as all private bindings were, theirs might not be too bad. The Lord Marshall already had two Blades, but they were aging. Most of their ward’s work, they explained, consisted of riding all over Chivian, to buy young horses and inspect the royal training schools, so expect a lot of travel—which, to Blades, meant plenty of romantic opportunities—and the rest of the time they would be stationed in palaces alongside the Royal Guard. Which meant much the same.

  Starkiller and Challenger were bound, and Quarrel became Prime.

  Challenger had been Niall’s closest friend in Ironhall. He was slight, a good rapier man, and always cheerful. No Death spirits in him! Moreover, he was one man Niall could trust not to babble. His binding twin, Starkiller, was a worse blabbermouth than Fizz.

  Challenger screwed up his eyes and peered hard at Niall’s face.

  “You’re right. I can’t even see your nose, only those ugly hairs growing out of it. You’re invisible!”

  “How can I help you, Sir Blade? I am Neal Cleaver, his grace’s private secretary.”

  Challenger rolled his eyes at that earthquake statement, but without commenting on it, stepped into the necessary role. “I’m one of Lord Marshal’s Blades. I’m looking for the Royal Mail. My ward wants this letter to go.”

  “You came to the right man, sir. I’m postmaster for the Thencaster office. Unfortunately, today’s pickup has just left.” Niall glanced at the seal and the address. It was addressed to Lord Hedgebury—which wasn’t surprising when he bred horses and Lord Marshal must be on a buying trip. “Rhapsody Hall is quite close, though. I might be able to send a man directly.” And he had just the right man in mind—ride over there and report his success!

  Challenger was wearing his about-to-explode expression. “It would have to be someone very trustworthy! Reliable, I mean.” Not some vagabond who slinks around under a false name, inspecting private correspondence.

  At that moment the door swung open, making them both dodge. In marched the Marquis and Fizz. Challenger bowed low, Niall but slightly, having done his grovelling earlier.

  He said, “This is one of Lord Marshal’s Blades, Your Grace. His lordship wants to send a letter to Lord Hedgebury, but he missed the mail. I wondered if you might want to send a courier?”

  Of the four persons present, three knew that it was Stalwart who had introduced Master Cleaver to the Marquis, and Neville would not have been human had he not paused to consider this situation. Apparently, he failed to find any nefarious conspiracy in the coincidence.

  He looked annoyed, though. “It’ll be about the boat, I expect?”

  Challenger said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Cleaver, run down... You don’t know the way. Pick out one of the boys outside here. One who can ride a horse. Tell him to run down to the boathouse, and tell them to ferry him across to Rhapsody. He’s to tell the Hedgeburys that Lord Marshal will be coming over tomorrow, so they’re to look out for the boat and send horses down to the jetty for him—him and how many Blades?”

  “Four, my lord.”

  “The boy can stay there overnight and return on the boat tomorrow.”

  By the time Niall had dispatched the page, both Fizz and Sir Challenger had left, leaving him alone with the Marquis, who did not go to his throne, but proceeded to make a tour of the office, opening every chest, drawer, and closet in turn, while rattling off instructions and explanations until Niall’s brain bubbled. He began to fear that he was now expected to run the castle, the royal mail, and forty-one outlying manors single-handed. He thought that Tom Twelvish’s exodus might not have
been so stupid after all.

  He thought so even more after the Marquis unlocked a door to reveal another locked door, this one steel-plated. Behind it were bags of silver and rolls of paper. The Marquis’s secretary was also his bursar, so Niall would be handling all the money. The Thencaster fortune was to be in his charge, and his first duty would be to sign for it.

  Secretary and Marquis moved the entire load from vault to table, checking each item off against a list. At the end, they were exactly one hundred crowns short. They exchanged glances. Neville did not look shocked. He looked as if he wanted Niall to explain the discrepancy. He thought he could.

  “Twelvish, my lord? If you can catch him, you can hang him for this.”

  “And you, if you ever try it. I’ll sign first.” Neville wrote a note in the cash book to explain the loss, and signed it. Then Niall signed to accept responsibility for 549,726 Chivian crowns. He hadn’t known there was that much money in the world.

  Once the money was safely locked away, the tables, chairs, and much of the floor were still covered with books, scrolls, and bundles of paper.

  “I’ll let you put the rest away, Cleaver. Try to remember where you put everything, because you’re the one who has to find it again when it’s needed. But first those letters I mentioned....”

  His dictation was terrible. Stalwart had been good at it, speaking complete sentences, even whole paragraphs. Thencaster could hardly mouth a phrase without changing his mind. Obviously, every letter would require at least one draft. Tom Twelvish’s decision seemed amply justified.

  It was soon after sunset when Niall fell into bed—a comfortable bed, wide enough for two, but those athletic nights on the road were only memories now, alas. His brain swirled with everything he had been required to learn. He ought to be exhausted, and yet sleep escaped him. What had happened to the missing Twelvish? It certainly wasn’t unknown for men to pull up stakes and hit the road without giving notice, but they usually took their clothes with them. If Twelvish had helped himself to one of the castle’s horses, surely the chattery Fizz would have mentioned it?

  Niall’s new job might pall eventually, but not soon. His pillow was too soft. He must ask for a harder one. Plop... plop... plop... there must be a leak somewhere.... He started to count the drips. He got to forty-three or was it fifty-three?...

  Chapter 14

  Go home to Chivial now; take Athelgar and set him up as Crown Prince.

  king radgar on hearing of the death of king ambrose

  Next morning the Marquis dictated four letters and three other documents he needed. Niall wrote drafts as told, then deliberately blotted each as an excuse to rewrite them. While doing so, he edited the bones to make legible meat. The Marquis noticed the changes, but signed the improved versions without comment.

  After that he usually just told Master Cleaver roughly what he wanted, and Niall’s long-ago training in his father’s bank led him safely through. He quickly mastered the bookkeeping, which Fizz was happy to leave to him. The office was a much quieter place without her fizzing. Sometimes too quiet. If the Queen had not chosen him to be her spy, would he have found Guard life any more exciting? Standing outside the royal quarters trying to look dangerous? Luring girls? Maybe not. He assumed that his Earth dominance favoured the tidy, humdrum routine of a secretarial existence.

  On the fifth day he was told to invite Lord and Lady Hedgebury to come and spend a night or two, and enjoy a musical evening... other guests... the Marquis would send his boat... The real purpose might be to thank Stalwart for finding Neville a good clerk, but that was not mentioned. The visit and musical event probably took place as planned; servants were not invited.

  He visited Pepper every day, befriending some of the stable hands, like Traskar, who approved of the interest he took in his mount. Seating at mealtimes was informal, and he began to befriend some educated people, including a portraitist, Vandam, and a pipe organ builder, Silvan, who came from Grandon and had attended Sir Quincy’s school long before Niall had. He learned his way around the labyrinthian castle and its immediate surroundings, also the Marquis’s family. Lord Stanesh was still absent, scouring Chivial for a bride willing to move to the barren north. Lord Kranith was the musician who wanted the organ. Danark took Niall on fishing trips.

  One day at evening supper he asked Shotte the bottler what “Fizz” was short for. The old man gave him a quizzical glance, and said, “Fitz.”

  “Like in Fitzambrose?”

  “More like in ‘Bad news, darling.’”

  Neville’s illegitimate daughter. Niall took that in...

  Shotte said, “You wouldn’t be the first to think of it, lad. It’s not advisable. They say she bites and so does he.”

  And she had three older, likely possessive, brothers.

  “Oh? But how old is she, then?”

  “‘Bout sixteen, seventeen. She fizzes like a kid, right? Daddy must like it. Spoiled brat.”

  Some of his work for the Marquis was interesting in itself, not just as spy fodder. Neville’s correspondence was surprisingly varied. Much of it was social, like inviting the Hedgeburys to a concert. He was obviously on friendly terms with all of the northern gentry, but his web spread much wider, encompassing nobility all over Chivial. He was constantly sending congratulations on betrothals, marriages, and births, or condolences on illness or death. His source of information must be the blizzard of replies that arrived day after day. He opened his own mail, so Master Secretary Cleaver did not get to read them. But Stalwart’s concern about the Marquis’s loyalty was now understandable. If Neville ever did raise a banner of revolution, he had a vast army of acquaintances to call on for support. Queen Malinda had no real army of her own. A civil war would be won by whichever side rallied the largest number of barons, earls, and other nobles to field their personal retinues in support.

  Neville was constantly seeking to improve his castle-palace. Although he employed numerous artisans of his own, he had Niall write to well-regarded builders, engineers, artists, sculptors, slaters, and so on all over Chivial. He invited musicians and actors to visit the north lands at his expense, and Niall was able to attend some memorable performances. His Earth dominant was interested in such art, although not fanatically so. His Death dominant remained indifferent, except once, when a tenor went badly off-key. Fortunately, Niall was able to suppress the resulting surge of bloodlust.

  Apart from his correspondence, the Marquis spent much time working on his stud, both his own herds and those run by his tenants. He was probably the most respected expert in Chivial, as Stalwart had grudgingly admitted. He was also a keen hunter in season, like almost all rich landowners. At other times of the year, he enjoyed fishing. His sons seemed to be following in his shadow as closely as they could.

  Every eighth day brought Niall’s own name to the top of the post office roster. Pepper was brought up to the upper gate for him, the postern that only family and senior officers used. Niall would then slide the letters he had written that morning into the official pouch, but he never bothered to take out the official sword that was kept in there. It was a badly notched, poorly balanced, inferior weapon, not to be compared with Denial. Instead he trusted his life to his invisible sabre, which he wore all day and every day and kept in bed with him at night. No one ever noticed that he seemed to be riding out unarmed.

  He always enjoyed his ride to Swaid, where he saw to his business at the Royal Mail office there, and bought any trifles he wanted. Then he rode back, wondering if he could arrange to have his name come up more often, or whether the other mailmen would resent that. Did they see their weekly outings as a chore or a treat?

  The weeks ticked by. Summer nudged spring aside. He had never yet met a single raindrop on his treks to Swaid, but then came Sixthmoon, and suddenly he could foresee trouble. The sun was bright and warm as he rode along the track that led from the postern down to the main trail alon
g the river, but the western sky was looming black. He already knew that bad storms could come roaring up the Frail Estuary, heading straight for Thencaster. He assuredly did not want to get caught outdoors in one of those.

  It was two moons since Queen Malinda had come to Ironhall and twisted his future so drastically. He had truly wanted to be a member of the Guard, and yet he was enjoying his work at Thencaster. No doubt Lady Emerald would say that the quiet and useful routine pleased his Earth dominant. He had never forgotten her warning to stay out of real fights. She had been warning him that he might lose control and go berserk. Except once, when he had happened upon some of the palace guards being drilled, he had not seen a drawn sword since his own fit of anger in Goat’s Gizzard.

  When he reached the bank of the Frail, he could already see a big swell rolling in. He told Pepper to go faster.

  He completed his work in Swaid quickly. As he was returning along the Ralop towpath, he was astonished to see a ship heading his way. Not just any ship, but a Baelish dragon boat, with its sail furled and its oars beating a slow pace as it worked its way between the shallows.

  A solitary rider, apparently unarmed, might be a tempting prey for slavers, but this crew must be hunting for haven from the storm. They would have run ahead of it and now were looking for a safe place to beach, but a really bad westerly could raise water levels even far up the Ralop.

  Niall urged Pepper onward, waving to the crew as they passed. The sweating oarsmen could not respond, but the man on the steering oar waved back. Niall realized that he had probably missed a full alert in the castle. The sight of even one Baelish ship would make trumpets sound and drums beat. True enough. By the time he reached the postern gate, rain was starting, being hurled in faces by a spiteful wind. Men were still removing emergency barriers, including raising a portcullis he had never noticed before.