The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  Annoyed to be given orders on what he considered to be his own expedition, Niall said, “No. Reckless is not the same as brave. This tunnel has already killed one man. Assuming that you’re right about opening the door from the outside—to get into the palace—it would only need one broken wrist to kill both of us. Now move over and let me in.”

  Danark hotched sideways and winced. “If you’re right that Twelvish came in here and was trapped, why isn’t his corpse lying right here, with blood on his fingers from his efforts to claw through?”

  And why hadn’t the missing secretary foreseen the need to prop the panel open when he went exploring? Surely he couldn’t have been that stupid.

  “That’s what we came here to find out. Now move and let me go first. That’s what we agreed, remember?”

  Danark tried to sit up and grimaced. His clothes were soaked, and he was lying on a rough rock surface. Niall offered him a hand, helped him out of the tunnel, back into the closet. There were pink spots of blood on his shirt.

  “As soon as we come back, you’d better visit the elementary and get your scrapes conjured.”

  Danark took that innocent advice as a slur on his toughness. “We may have more problems than that if we don’t get on with it smartly. Let’s move!”

  Which is what Niall was thinking. An irate Marquis, coming in search of his secretary and youngest son, would not be pleased to have to follow them into a cave that reeked of rotting meat.

  “You bring the rope and I’ll take the oil bottle.” Niall found getting into the tunnel trickier than it had been the first time, because now he was wearing his back scabbard, so he had to bend lower, and he didn’t want Danark to notice his contortions. If Fizz had babbled about Denial, he would be watching closely. Even if she hadn’t, he was still a sharp kid.

  When he reached the natural cavern, Niall was able to straighten up, with his toes on the edge of the wooden bridge. The brighter lantern showed how huge the cave was—at least as long as Ironhall’s dining hall, and much higher. Draperies of white rock decorated the sides, white icicles dangled from the roof or pointed up at them from below. The floor was a madhouse of jagged blocks that must have fallen from the roof in past ages.

  The scene grew even brighter when Danark arrived with his lantern. He had looped the coil of rope round his neck and one shoulder, which was the natural way to carry it, unless you were trying not to show an invisible sword on your back.

  He said, “Wow! I didn’t realize.... There he is!” he pointed with his free hand at the dark shape that Niall had seen in the night, one that might indeed be a body, down in the nightmarish rock pile. Either in excitement or deliberately, Danark jostled Niall slightly, just enough that for an instant they both teetered off-balance, in danger of joining Tom Twelvish. Then they steadied—with Danark’s hand gripping Niall’s shoulder, where the scabbard straps were.

  Their eyes met.

  “Your sister isn’t very good at keeping a secret, is she?”

  Unrepentant, Danark grinned. “Not unless she wants to be. Then she’s extremely good. Will you let me see it, later? Please?”

  “You may see the hilt protruding from your guts, because I, too, swore to keep it a secret, and I am very good at that.”

  In truth he wasn’t. He should have put his mission ahead of rescuing Fizz from the Baels. When she first met Niall, her childish efforts to flirt had puzzled and annoyed him. Quite likely she had tried them on Athelgar and Garbeald, who had taken them seriously. If she was as fluent in foreign languages as she claimed, she should have appreciated the culture chasm between herself and a pair of adolescent thugs raised as pirates, freshly come ashore after weeks on a winter ocean. Niall had let pity lead him into folly. Now it could only be a matter of time before Neville learned of the invisible sword, and that would be that; game over.

  Danark took a step forward, and then it was Niall’s turn to grab a shoulder. “Stop! Keep your feet off the bridge; it’s a trap.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Twelvish’s body down there. This is a secret way into the palace, right? So anyone from the palace who finds it must die, and die as soon as possible—right here! Let’s make sure. This is why I brought the rope.”

  Together they knotted one end of it to Niall’s lantern. Then Niall knelt at the edge of the abyss, told Danark to keep a tight hold on his back scabbard, and lowered the lantern. It swayed as it descended, making shadows leap and rush madly around. Glints of brightness from below hinted at puddles of water among the great boulders down there. That made sense, because the corpse would have mummified had there been no moisture.

  Soon there was little doubt that the motionless shape down there had once been a human being.

  “Fire and Death!” Niall muttered. “I hope the fall killed him.” It would certainly have smashed his lantern, and imagination reeled back in horror from thoughts of a badly injured man lying there in darkness, in a maze of boulders, unable to tell even which direction led to safety. “Here, hold the rope for me until it stops swinging.”

  While Danark did that, Niall scrambled over to peer down from the other side of the bridge. In a moment, he said, “Good. I mean bad. It’s a body. Haul in, mate.”

  Nothing more was said until the rope had been pulled up and securely looped.

  “How?” Danark demanded, eyeing the bridge. “How does it work? It looks solid enough. I wouldn’t hesitate to ride a horse over that.”

  “A smart horse might refuse to carry you.” The bridge certainly looked sturdy—about four feet wide and fifteen long. The bed was made of planks laid crosswise, firmly spiked at each end. Niall lay down, keeping most of his weight on solid rock, and reached over the edge. He learned that the side timbers were beams almost a foot thick. There were no handrails. Got it!

  He said. “There is no central pillar to help hold it up.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Because while you were holding the lantern over that side, I looked from this. If there were supports underneath, I would have seen their shadows.”

  Danark said, “Um.... right. So how does it work?

  “Imagine a table top supported by a leg at each corner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Except that one end has two legs and the other has only one. It would still be stable unless someone put some load on it somewhere. Now do you want to walk across, my lord?”

  “Death and Fire! When I’m halfway across.... It tilts!”

  “It tilts forwards and sideways. You weren’t expecting that, and you shoot off the left side to join Twelvish. He was halfway across, but not directly under the bridge itself. It may not be quite that simple, and there must be some way for the Wylds to prop up that far end when they want to march their army over it to invade the palace. Our journey ends here, my lord. Now we go and report to your father.”

  But there was no handle on the castle side of the panel. Niall had found it only because it had jammed at a slight angle. Could it really have remained slightly open for forty years without anyone noticing it? Or had someone murdered Tom Twelvish? If so, who? And why?

  Chapter 18

  I never tell lies.

  sir niall

  As Niall was scrambling through the secret hatchway into the closet, he could hear frantic banging on the door of his room. He guessed the cause even before he stumbled across to open it. There were two red-faced pages out there, not just one, and they spoke in unison.

  “The Marquis wants you!”

  “Immediately,” said the larger as the smaller added, “In the Post Office.”

  Then they both remained open-mouthed. Niall realized that he must look a mess. His hose were torn, muddy, and in places bloody. His hands and doublet were not much better. He was still wearing a military helmet.

  “Thanks,” he said. “No, don’t disappear yet. Lord
Danark needs your help with some things.” By that time Danark had arrived beside him, looking at least as bad. Likely today’s table gossip in the hall would tell of the two of them having had a fight.

  Niall handed his helmet to one of them and set off at a run. The time had come for the imposter to throw away his mask and face the storm. He ran down the stairs at breakneck speed, being met by a sigh of relief from stooped old Chancellor Barden. The pages’ bench was empty, suggesting that they were all off scouring the castle in search of Master Cleaver.

  Niall gestured at the Royal Mail’s studded door, receiving an affirmative nod. “Lord Danark will be here in a moment. Better send him in, also.” His presence might limit the fire and mop up the blood, if any were shed.

  Niall strode over and entered without knocking. Marquis Neville was seated on his throne, his brow thunderous. His rage was diverted by Niall’s dilapidated appearance, but probably only for a moment, “Where have you been?”

  Niall took a moment to catch his breath. “Lord Danark and I have been confirming the place and manner of Tom Twelvish’s death, Your Grace. Are you aware of the secret entrance to the palace via the Owl Room?”

  “No, no, no. Leave that for now. I was informed this morning that you are a Queen’s Blade.”

  Did that mean that the imposture mattered more than a man’s death or the security of the castle? Informed by whom? Fizz, or Prince Athelgar?

  “I do have that honour, yes.”

  The Marquis’s face grew even redder. “And what is a Queen’s Blade doing here in Thencaster, scrounging around in my private affairs?”

  “Obeying orders, Your Grace,” Niall said sadly. He was determined to remain true to his personal code. No matter what the cost, he was not going to start telling lies. Lies could only make matters worse. If he could stick firmly to the truth, whatever happened he would at least retain his self respect. Besides, only Malinda could defend him from the wrath of a Marquis. If she chose not to, she would alienate the entire order of Blades—not just the Royal Guard, but also the hundreds of former guardsmen now dubbed knights. A huge number of them served her in government posts all over the country.

  “Whose orders?”

  “The Queen’s, Your Grace.”

  “The Queen has no right to spy on her honest subjects like this!”

  That was neither a question nor a statement that Niall would dispute. He remained silent, hoping that this would convey agreement.

  The Marquis kept his predatory gaze fixed on him as if preparing to pounce and rend with fang and claw. “Lord Stanesh and I were in Grandon when she arrived. We were among the very first to kneel and swear allegiance. And now she suspects me of plotting against her?”

  “My understanding is that she does not, Your Grace. She has been advised that Chivial has been poorly served by Queens regnant in years past, which is true, and some people—presently undeclared—believe that no woman should ever be allowed to wear the crown.”

  “Which is wrong! The Act of Succession is quite clear on that matter.”

  “Aye, Your Grace. But I was told that the Queen is only human, and therefore fallible. Chivial is not Baelmark, where she has lived for so long. Her father made mistakes after he succeeded, so it is not disparaging to expect her to. We all do. But the moment she puts a foot wrong, those anti-Queen persons will rally around the late king’s closest male heir. I was sent here to watch for any sign that this might be happening. That is all.”

  “I would say that it has just happened,” his grace said icily. “Or at least has just been exposed.”

  He might well be right. The spirits of Chance could be ironic. If the rest of the nobility suspected that the Queen was planting spies in peers’ houses, their outrage would be enormous. Stalwart’s medicine might start the very disease it had been designed to cure.

  “So what have you reported to Lord Hedgebury so far?”

  The Marquis was no illustrious scholar, but he did not need to be to see Stalwart’s hand behind this disaster.

  “Nothing. I have neither seen nor heard anything requiring reporting. I am sworn to serve Her Majesty, who ordered me to come and be your secretary. However distasteful I find such duplicity, I must obey.”

  “Yet last night you drew your sword and tried to kill her oldest son, Prince Athelgar.”

  Niall caught himself smiling, so he left the smile where it was. “Had I meant to kill that rat, Your Grace, I would have done so on my second or third pass. He intended to kill me, I am sure, for spoiling his fun.”

  The Marquis barely glanced at the door as Danark cautiously peered in. Danark took silence for consent, and closed it with himself inside.

  “Tell me your version of that scuffle, Cleaver.”

  “It was no scuffle, Your Grace. It was a fight to the death until Fizz intervened.”

  The Marquis fell back on his throne. “Fizz was there?”

  “I happened to be going past and heard her scream...” Niall realized that he was now enjoying himself.

  Neither of the listeners interrupted the story. At the end, Danark said, “That is exactly what Fizz told me, Father. I have never known her so upset.”

  She was an incredible actress if she could flummox a brother of her own age, but perhaps she hadn’t had to embroider the truth too much.

  “Death and Fire! And I have sworn loyalty to Malinda’s heirs?” The Marquis glared at Niall as if this, also, was his fault. “You are mistaken if you think I am King Ambrose’s closest male heir. I never was. Quite apart from the fact my father was born out of wedlock, Athelgar was born before he died.”

  “I have sworn the same oath, Your Grace. Unknowingly last night I totally humiliated Prince Rat as a swordsman. But even after Fizz told me who he was, I made him kneel so I could spit on him.”

  The Marquis grimaced at the outrageous thought of a commoner so defiling a royal. “I doubt that he will ever forgive or forget that. Nor will his mother, if she ever hears of it. But when her heir’s behaviour becomes known in Chivial, her own popularity will greatly increase.” Neville sighed. His rage against the Blade spy was forgotten. “I owe you a debt for rescuing Fizz, Sir Neal.... That is your real name?”

  “Almost. I am Sir Niall of the Queen’s Blades, but I am content to remain Neal Cleaver while in your service, my lord.”

  Which might be all of ten minutes, but the Marquis did not say so. He said nothing, just chewed his lip and endlessly drummed fingers on the arm of his throne.

  So the truth was out. For the first time since his fateful meeting with Queen Malinda, Niall need not worry about divided loyalties. As a subject of the Queen he was required to help defend her realm, and at the moment a Wylder invasion looked possible. The Marquis seemed paralysed, out of his depth. Nudge?

  “Your Grace? May I suggest that the secret tunnel off my bedroom be bricked up as soon as possible?”

  ‘What secret tunnel?”

  Neville listened grimly to the story. This was the day for bad news, but he still seemed to find the second revelation unimportant.

  “I can’t see that there’s any great hurry. If it’s been there for forty years, the Wylds must have forgotten about it. Besides, I have taught them the folly of trying to fight Chivial. I shall move you out of that room and post guards there. From what you tell me, even the entire population of Wylderland could come through there, but only one at a time. Danark, Stanesh took you caving sometimes. Did you recognise the cave?”

  “No, sir. I never saw any that big. See, he never took me into anywhere that difficult. I mean, there’s nowhere to walk in there. It’s impassable, rocks all over the floor.”

  The Marquis bit his lip and fell silent.

  Niall said, “But, Your Grace, has the passage been there for forty years? Could the hatch have escaped notice for so long? Suppose for a moment that it is a recent addition.”


  Obviously, the Marquis did not suppose easily. “Twelvish slept there for two years. Are you suggesting that he didn’t notice the sounds of hammering and rock carving right beside his bed?”

  “I am suggesting, Your Grace, that Twelvish might have been murdered. How long between his disappearance and my arrival?”

  Danark said, “Three moons! Almost four.” He spoke eagerly, obviously more open to such wild suggestions.

  “So,” Niall continued, ignoring the Marquis’s scowl of disbelief, “for three moons the Wylds could work on their project all night long. No doubt they would keep the really noisy bits for daytime, when neighbouring rooms were less likely to be occupied. And all that time, Tom Twelvish’s corpse has been lying in that cavern like garbage.”

  It was a mad theory, and it hinted that the would-be invaders must have accomplices within the palace itself. Again the Marquis seemed to dismiss the notion without comment. “Dan, send for Kranith. And Fizz. Sir Niall, how do you suggest we recover Twelvish’s body? It must be given proper honours.”

  While Danark was passing the word for his siblings to pages outside, Niall was forced to admit that he had not given thought to retrieving the secretary’s corpse. “It will be dangerous, Your Grace. If I am right about the booby trap, it must have a safety device at the far end, but getting across to it is the problem. Perhaps build the pyre over him where he lies?”

  The Marquis grunted. “Have to wait, then.”

  Why? Wait on what? The lord of the march was thinking ahead of the dumb sword jockey.

  The door opened. Enter Fizz. Niall saw her quick appraisal of the situation and instant assumption of little-girl mode. She ran to Neville. “You want me, Daddy?” Niall thought for a moment that she was going to climb into her father’s lap.

  But his grace was not feeling graceful. Nor was he in game-playing mood. “How long have you known that Cleaver is a Blade?”