by Dave Duncan
“Any Bael trouble?” he asked as he dismounted.
“None, master. I heard his grace gave a couple of them hospitality, but not the rest.”
Certainly not! Let fifty or so Baels in under your roof and it wouldn’t be your roof any more. A captain wouldn’t leave his ship, so it must have been carrying passengers, likely some high-rank Baels coming over to help their Queen loot Chivial.
Niall was damp, but not seriously wet. There had been no mail for Thencaster, so he bypassed the Post Office and ran upstairs to the Perch to make sure his door and shutters were firmly closed. The rain was driving in, both over and under the banister, so he sprinted. Two doors short of his Owl, he heard a scream from Eagle and stopped dead.
Then, from the window right above him, came a noise he knew of old. Someone said, “M-m-m-m-m!...” It was the sound a woman made when a man’s hand was clapped over her mouth.
Once, long years ago, when Niall had been walking in Grandon in the company of his sister Liana, that had happened to her. She had been around fifteen, and her assailant not much older, but likely drunk on rotgut gin. Niall, who had still been Will Scribner back then, had been only ten, and the attacker had merely swiped him out of the way.
He had bounced right back up, with fists clenched. The bully had Liana against a wall and was groping her, so his back did not offer many vital targets, but Niall knew where kidneys were located, and he was strong for his age. He landed a very respectable first punch. His second never connected, but some men came to help, and he escaped with two black eyes, a couple of broken ribs, and a badly stomped hand.
This time would be different. He felt a joyful thrill run through him from his groin up. He drew Denial, and gave her a couple of seconds to become visible while he stepped casually up the two steps to Eagle Room and pushed the door wide.
There were two youths there, both large, both Baels. One was lanky, with the diagnostic crimson hair and green eyes. The other was husky, his hair more red-gold than pure red. Sailors fresh from a long voyage, they each wore a month’s beard, and their body stench filled the room. They also wore swords, which was a surprise, a courtesy not normally granted to guests.
But no worry to a Blade.
The redhead was holding Fizz, clasping her to him with a hand over her mouth. The front of her gown had been ripped open, and his other hand was exploring inside it.
“Yes, there are tits,” he was saying. “Two of them, as I expected. They’re very small, but firm, and down here—”
Then both ruffians registered Niall, first that he was present and secondly that he was holding a naked sword. Fizz’s eyes widened.
Goldie reached for his own hilt. “I’ll handle this, Ath. You carry on with what you were doing.”
Niall felt an unexpected surge of joy. Stalwart had forbidden him to use the sword except in self-defence, so now he could. He was going to have a real fight! After years and years of play-acting, first with Sir Quincy and then at Ironhall, at last he was going to get to try the real thing. He could feel his Death spirits dancing with joy.
“Release her, Carrots,” he said, keeping his gaze on the other man.
The redhead said, “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re a dead man if you don’t release my wife. Aha!”
Blondie aimed a clumsy slash at him. Niall parried and riposted, meaning to cut off the man’s hand. At the last fraction of an instant he managed to turn Denial to strike the wrist with the back of her blade instead of the edge. The crack of the bones was audible just before the victim’s scream. So he was out of the fight, but not dead. Pity. His sword fell with a musical clamour. Niall kicked it out of the way, knowing that he wasn’t the only ambidextrous swordsman in the world.
Carrots released Fizz by throwing her onto the bed. He whipped out his sword. “Fool! I was trained by a Chivian Blade!”
Niall laughed. “I’ve met some of those. Come and kill me then.” Try to stay out of serious fights, but now he was going to kill this smirking popinjay and cut him into cutlets. Bloodlust surged through his veins like fire. This was living!
The Bael leaped forward, sword flashing. Yes, he did know Ironhall style, and he was fast. He attacked in an excellent sequence: Steeple, Violet, Swan, Eagle, Rainbow... but after the first two, Niall was ready for what followed. Barely needing to move his feet, he parried them all, not bothering to riposte. He gloated to see panic growing in the youth’s green eyes as he realized that he had more than met his match, and nothing he tried against this opponent worked. Panting, probably from fear, the juvenile horror backed away, lowering his sword.
“You’re a Blade!”
“Well, you know what happens to men who fight Blades. Now it’s my turn...”
Bloodlust! Then he became aware that Fizz was shouting at him, clutching her ripped gown closed, trying to get between him and the rapist he was about to execute. She grabbed his arm.
He changed his grip and parried his opponent’s instant lunge. “Out of my way, love. I have to finish this.”
Then her words penetrated. “No, Neal, No! You mustn’t hurt this one. He’s the Queen’s son!”
Momentary pause.... “What?”
“Prince Athelgar! The Queen’s eldest son.”
Oh? Queen Malinda... She and King Radgar... three sons.
Balls! Mustn’t! Mustn’t! Oh, Death!
“Give the bastard a state funeral, then.” Niall eased past Fizz and followed the Prince as he continued to back away from the deadly Denial.
“Drop your sword, rat!”
Athelgar’s sword hit the floor.
“And kneel!” the killer roared. “Kneel or I’ll hamstring you, you rotting sheep turd.”
Athelgar’s knees hit the floor.
Niall spat on him, and then turned his back. “Come, dearest,” he said. “Let’s find some clean air to breathe.”
On the way out, he stooped and snatched up the other man’s sword as a trophy of war.
Chapter 15
You called me your wife.
maiden fizz
Seeing three wine flagons on the table, Niall sheathed Denial and liberated one in passing. He handed it to Fizz to carry. The rain had shrunk to a drizzle and the wind to a breeze. He laid a hand on her shoulder and felt her shivering. He was trembling himself—with frustration. He had so much wanted to finish that bout properly!
“Owl room,” he said.
But after that, Spirits, comes what? The heir apparent and his pet goon raping the Marquis’s daughter? Even if she isn’t recognized by him as such? A Blade attacks the brute in raging bloodlust and comes within a heartbeat of killing him. So who gets hanged first—the Prince by the Marquis, or her rescuer by the Queen?
A flash of lightning made the owl jump out of the gathering dark. Thunder roared, rolling echoes around the three valleys. Niall unlocked the door, urged Fizz inside, followed her, locked the door.
“I didn’t do anything.” Her voice quavered, small in the dark. “I was just showing them to their rooms. Eagle and Heron, like Daddy said to. I didn’t do anything to make them think I wanted...”
“Of course you didn’t.” He found the tinder box, struck a spark. Lightning blazed in mockery. Instant, raucous thunder rolled. He struck again.
“It was Garbeald first, the blond one. He grabbed my arm, made a joke.”
Had she been foolish enough to laugh at his joke?
A tiny flame caught. He replaced the lantern cover and turned up the wick. A glow crept timidly into the room. He found a beaker and half-filled it with wine. “Sit here, my lady. Drink this.” He closed the shutters, but light would spill out through the chinks, showing that there were people inside. She was just sitting, holding the beaker, visibly shaking. Her ripped gown had fallen open. If her father arrives now, hunting for her—
Niall hauled the blanket
off the bed and wrapped her like a parcel. “Do drink some wine, my lady.” He ought to get help for her. Mustn’t leave her. But where to take her? In this state? How could he ever possibly explain to the Marquis without saying who he was, why he was there. Stalwart... The Queen... If Niall had to admit who he really was and why he was there, he might start the very rebellion he was there to avert. Damn that crazy Hedgebury!
Fizz was still dazed. “You called me your wife.”
Those five words alone would hang him. The truth was probably enough to do that, and the truth was never going to fight clear of the lies in this jungle. Prince Athelgar must even now be screaming for help for his thug Garbeald, whose arm was broken. He could hear it...
“This maniac Blade burst in on us—”
“Your Highness, there are no Blades in Thencaster—”
“My father was trained as a Blade and he taught me, and I tell you—”
“You called me your wife,” Fizz whispered again.
Niall knelt beside the chair. “Listen, my lady. I didn’t want a fight, but I knew that a fight was very likely. If I had walked in and announced, ‘That’s the Marquis’s daughter you have there, and I am his secretary—’ Well, I would have started an argument, understand? Not a fight. I didn’t know that stringy brute was first in line to the throne, but he would have told me so very smartly, and then what could I have done? But a man rescuing his wife is a major peril. He’s expected to use violence, even berserker violence. He’s a serious threat, understand? Battles are often won or lost before the fighting begins.”
“You called me ‘your love’. Also, ‘dearest’. Explain that.” Fizz drained the beaker and tossed it onto the bed.
“Staying in character. Not meant to be taken seriously.”
“You are a splendid knight errant, Sir Neal. Quite perfect!”
Now he saw the gleam in her eyes and relief made him roar with laughter. He stood up. “And you make a gorgeous damsel in distress, Lady Fizz.”
Before he knew it, she was upright and in his arms, pulling his head down to kiss him. If he expected a gentle Thank-you-Uncle-Neal peck on the cheek, he was... No, not disappointed, quite the reverse. Fizz knew how to kiss as if it she expected to keep it going right on, to much, much more.
Then her fingers found Denial’s hilt and scabbard. She jerked back, staring up at him.
He said, “Please sit, my lady. We have much to discuss.”
Still wide-eyed, she obeyed. He refilled her beaker and then poured wine in another, for himself. He had told Lady Emerald that he never lied. There was, he supposed, always a first time.
‘Watch.” He drew Denial and held her up so that Fizz could watch her become visible. Then he sheathed her and turned his back to show how she disappeared again.
“Magic!”
“Very powerful magic. Probably the only such sword in the world.”
That was assuming that the Dark Chamber wasn’t driving their slave enchanters day and night, making more.
“Athelgar called you a Blade. What is a Blade with a magic sword doing in my home?”
“Nothing evil, I swear. Remember that Malinda is a very new Queen. Her claim to the crown is beyond question, but a lot of people would rather have a man on the throne. In that case the choice would be between your father and that Athelgar slug. An easy decision, I’d think, but I have sworn allegiance to the Queen.”
“You’re a spy!”
He already knew that Fizz’s frothy facade hid a very sharp mind, and she wouldn’t need all of it to work that out.
“What I am not is an assassin, my lady. If I had been sent to kill someone, that person would have been restored to the elements weeks ago. Remember how close I came to killing both those Baels tonight? Now, if you tell your honoured father what I have just told you, what will he do?”
She did not want to answer. She did not even want to think about it.
He prompted: “Dangle me over the battlements by the neck? But I am a Blade, as that filthy raping Prince said. My hanging can only happen after I have been overpowered, which will cost several men killed or disabled. My lady, your father is the most powerful nobleman in Chivial and has a plausible but faulty claim to the crown. Can you wonder that Malinda wants to know what he may be up to? That is all of my behest—to watch out for signs of disloyalty. Nothing more.”
Fizz drank wine. “What are you suggesting?”
“I did you a big favour tonight, didn’t I? All I ask in return is that you tell no one what I am or mention to anyone that weapon I bear. If you must tell anyone what happened, say I had just returned from Swaid, and got wet waiting for the postern to open. I was hurrying to my room to change, still carrying the mailman’s sword, when I passed Eagle room and heard you scream. That’s all. Thank the spirits of Chance.”
“And what are those two Baelish pigs going to be telling Father?”
He had never heard her use that word for the Marquis before.
“Probably nothing. Athelgar will not admit how he treated you, or how some anonymous flunky ridiculed his swordsmanship. His bodyguard will claim that he broke his arm when he slipped on wet marble. I know you have an octogram, here in the palace. You do have enchanters to inspire it?”
She nodded.
“Then he is probably being healed right now. I must see you safely back to your quarters.”
Fizz drained her beaker. “I’ve lost a shoe. You’ll have to carry me.”
She had not complained of that loss on her way there, but back then she had had more important things on her mind. Niall flung open the closet door, and brought out another blanket. “Stand up!” he wrapped her in a second layer of blanket to muffle any sense of intimacy, then lifted her up in his arms. She was as light as a child.
She said, “Oo!” and leaned her head on his shoulder—the left one. He had lifted her that way, since his right one was occupied by Denial’s hilt.
“Stop that! I didn’t rescue you from attempted rape just to be charged with it myself.” He took her weight with his left arm while he opened the door with his right hand. The rain had stopped, but the wind was still gusty.
She said, “Oo!” again. “You are strong! And big. And sexy. Up these stairs.”
“Forget it, lady. You’re a marquis’s daughter. I’m just a clerk.”
“I’m the Marquis’s by-blow and you’re a Blade! A Blade is not just a clerk. Daddy raves about your work and how good you are. You’re a Queen’s Blade, and ever so sexy. Turn left here. Can you run upstairs with me in your arms?”
Probably, but he wasn’t going to say so. “Fizz, if you tell anyone—anyone at all—that I’m a Blade, then your father will send men to arrest me, and I will kill them. I mean that! The only way to arrest Blades is to fill them full of arrows from a safe distance. So keep your mouth shut for once.”
She sighed. “Then you’ll have to marry me.”
He very nearly dropped her. “I am not going to marry you, so don’t try to coerce me.”
“I mean I can never keep secrets. I’m sure to let it slip. But if you’re married to me, then Daddy won’t kill you. Run up these stairs!”
“Run up them yourself.” He dumped her on her own feet, extracted the invisible scabbard from her grip, and fled. He ran all the way back down to Owl room and locked himself in.
He drank the rest of the wine, which did not feel like nearly enough.
What a turd of a day! It had begun with the pleasing prospect of a ride to Swaid. Then the storm. Then those Baelish brutes. If the one he had spat on was truly the Queen’s eldest son and heir, then gallant Sir Niall had certainly dug a grave and buried himself and his career in it. He had also revealed his great secret to the worst muddled-headed blabbermouth in all Eurania. Challenger didn’t matter; he could and would keep a secret. Challenger would not betray a brother Blade if they racked him. F
izz would tell everybody before noon tomorrow.
Her shoe was under the edge of the bed.
And he was out of wine. Convinced that the day could not possibly get any worse, he hauled off his clothes and scrambled between the sheets.
He had forgotten to douse the lantern.
Plip... plop... Plip... plop... Plip...
The storm had added a second drip. Not surprising, after all that rain.
He was cold. Wanting his spare blanket, he crawled out of bed and took three cold steps over to the closet before he recalled that he had given both blankets to Fizz. How by all the spirits was he ever going to get those back without provoking questions or gossip? The day had indeed managed to get worse.
He had left the closet door open, and he realized that the dripping noises were coming from in there—from low down, at the back. Ignoring his shivering muscles and chattering teeth, he fetched the lantern and knelt down to see. There was a slight gap between the back panelling and the floor—a one-finger gap on the right, tapering to nothing on the left, as if a slab had been jammed in crooked. Furthermore, that panel was set back a thumb thickness compared to the wall on either side or above it. It very much looked as if it were a door—a kennel-sized door, but still a door. He inserted fingers and heaved. It resisted, the edge hurting his fingers.
Niall secretly prided himself on his strength. On rainy days in Ironhall, when the seniors wearied of coaching the juniors, they had sometimes turned to wrestling as a refreshing variant form of exercise, and he had been the only man who could ever throw Hereward.
If the slab was indeed jammed by its tilt, then heaving on the higher side might be jamming it even tighter. There was no handle to grip, so perhaps he was mistaken in thinking that it was designed to open at all. It might just be a sloppy piece of carpentry. But he wasn’t going to give up until he knew what lay behind it.
He needed a lever. Moreover, if he did manage to free the panel, he would need something to prevent it from slamming shut. The first need could be satisfied by the Baelish sword he had won. It would fetch a fair price even in a rustic backyard like Swaid and he was very likely to snap it. No sweat—he had little need of money at the moment. Then he saw a familiar yellow gleam from the pommel and took it closer to the lamp. A cat’s eye! The name on the blade was Spoiler.
