by Dave Duncan
Instantly Fizz aged ten years. She waved her eyelashes in Niall’s direction. “Just since I watched him fight last night. Oh, he was magnificent!”
“He’s a spy. Queen’s Blades do not normally work as clerks. Why did you not come to me and tell me what had really happened, instead of leaving me to hear those two scoundrels’ version? Why did you not come straight to me and tell me we had a Blade snake in our midst?”
“Because there was no harm done!” she snapped, her voice an octave lower, and in the most adult tone Niall had ever heard her use. “Because of what I owed Sir Neal. Unfortunately, I discovered that what they say about Blades isn’t true at all, at least not in his case. We were right there in his bedroom and that Baelish pig had practically torn the clothes off me, yet I couldn’t even get his—”
“Quiet!” her father bellowed. “We’ll talk about this matter later. Ah, come in, Kranith.”
The middle son had inherited more of the Ranulf inheritance than the others had. He was built like a woodcutter: tall, thick, and wide. His hair was ginger, and his eyes bright amber. A fringe of reddish beard failed to hide the menace of his great jaw, and yet Niall had seen those massive fingers coax songs as sweet as larks’ out of a harp.
He looked as if he had been running, but no doubt everyone summoned to the Marquisian presence was expected to arrive looking that way. Niall wondered briefly why he hadn’t brought a cello along for realism.
“Are you aware,” his father demanded without preliminaries, “of any really large cavern close to us.... Describe it, Cleaver.”
Niall had barely begun, when the second son started nodding.
“Zarin Fosen,” he said. “Has to be. Means ‘Big Uterus’ in Wyldish.”
Fizz sniggered. “No it doesn’t.”
“And the entrance? Must be near Zos’parn?”
“It’s right in Zos’parn, where the spring emerges.”
It was his father’s turn to nod. “Is it accessible at this time of year?”
Kranith’s puzzlement was rapidly turning to annoyance at this unexplained interrogation. “You’d get soaked, at least, and more likely just washed away. It’s easy in the summer, when the stream’s low. There may be other ways in, though.”
“One’s enough. Dan, take him up to the Perch and show him, just to make sure. Tell him what you found—and stay away from that booby-trap!”
Danark said, “Ye-e-s, sir,” with the exaggerated politeness of an adolescent who feels he is being babied. The brothers left.
Fizz obviously knew that something serious was going on and she was being kept out of it, but she studied Niall and did not comment. The Marquis drummed fingers again, then looked to Niall. Apparently he would at least consider his secretary’s madness.
“If you’re right, then they’re waiting for drier weather. Zos’parn is a Wyldish village on the far side of this hill, about a mile away as the crow flies. It gets its water from a stream that runs out of a cave. At this time of year, the stream is at least knee-deep or deeper, and fast.”
Niall had guessed most of that, although he was reluctant to believe in crows that could fly through mountains. He knew from the monthly reports that Zos’parn raised both horses and cattle, and it must be close, because in season, as now, it delivered fresh milk and cream to the castle.
“Something else, Your Grace. I did not mention this, because I am ignorant of your local geography, and it did not seem important, but now it seems very relevant. Tribute from Zos’parn this year is down significantly, by almost a quarter.”
The Marquis’s icy frown qualified as a reprimand, but he spoke in a neutral tone. “So the village must be feeding extra mouths? I still do not believe that they will start anything until after spring thaw is complete—unless, as Lord Kranith suggested, they know of other ways in. If the going is as rough as you saw in Zarin Fosen, they must have spent years building their road. They would have had to start their bridging and levelling at the far end and the secret hatch in Owl Room would have been the final link.”
Niall nodded agreement. “Which explains the death of Tom Twelvish?”
The Marquis still did not like that suggestion.
Chapter 19
An absolute nitwit
common expression
“Fizz darling,” the Marquis said, “I need to confer with several people: Marshall Lonard, Commander Abrander, Chief Enchanter Osthorn, Surgeon Snith.... Those will do for now. Don’t tell anyone why, but I want them here right away. Go.”
Fizz pouted at being treated as a mere page and stormed out, closing the big door with a peal of thunder.
“Sir Niall, I intend to visit Zos’parn tomorrow or the next day. I will take Fizz along as my interpreter. Would you extend your duties to include acting as my daughter’s bodyguard?”
Cleverly phrased! The hidden meaning was, “You owe me this.” To refuse might result in a humiliating dismissal. To accept would be a pleasant break in routine.
“I shall be honoured, Your Grace. You understand, of course, that I can deal with swordsmen, even two at once, but I am useless against archers or lancers?”
“Of course. I do not anticipate any of either.” Neville showed his fangs. “And you understand, of course, that although she was not born in wedlock, Fizz is still a virgin? More important, she has royal blood in her veins, whereas Blades are dragged from the sewers and ditches.”
Not this Blade, but Niall’s adolescent experience with Master Banker Ephraim Morley had taught him how to deal with unwarranted abuse from his supposed betters, so he just stared at the Marquis without saying a word.
After about fifty heartbeats, Neville realized that there was no use waiting for an answer and broke off the staring match.
“Sharpen your quill, Secretary; take a letter to Lord Hedgebury of Rhapsody.”
For once the Marquis had no trouble expressing himself. His dictation flowed like a river in spate, with no corrections or long pauses. Several times Niall had to ask him to slow down, which had never happened before. Neville did not direct one word of blame at the Queen, although he stated that he would raise the matter with her, but his fury at Stalwart’s treachery was ferocious. It was a wonder the ink did not boil nor the paper burn. There would be no more invitations to musical soirees in the Hedgeburys’ future.
The Marquis repeated himself over and over, taking an entire page to say what Niall could have expressed more effectively in three lines. He did not offer to edit it. Indeed, when the tirade ended, and Niall was sifting sand over the ink, he inspected his handiwork with a satisfied grin as a silent statement of his approval. Neville did not comment, but even he would understand so obvious a message.
“May I deliver this personally, Your Grace?”
“No. I want you here to take notes. But send it right away.”
Niall went to the door, beckoned the nearest page from the collection on the bench, and told him to fetch stableman Guk, whose name was next on the courier roster.
“On the day I hired you,” the Marquis said, “when I told you that Twelvish had left without notice, you promised that you would never do such a thing. You wish to terminate your present employment now?”
Tricky questions need tactful replies. “I am a sworn Blade, serving here at Her Majesty’s pleasure—and on your sufferance of course. Your letter to Lord Hedgebury will serve as my report, and he will have to inform the Queen that I failed her. Should you so wish, I will happily continue as your secretary until I am recalled by royal command.”
Sir Niall was going to be very unpopular at court. Malinda must either apologize to the Marquis or deny all knowledge of the stupid affair. In that case she might have to throw both Niall and Stalwart in the Bastion. Worse, she would certainly have to support her son’s version of what had provoked the swordplay in the Owl Room, in which case Niall must be found guilty of treason. Iro
nhall had made him a good horseman. Perhaps he should mount Pepper and ride off to find work as a cowboy in farthest Wylderland?
Guk appeared and was sent off to Rhapsody with the poison letter. Niall told him that there would be no reply, and to warn Nako, the next in line, that he would be doing the routine mail run after dinner.
In a remarkably short time, Fizz brought in the four men Neville had summoned. Niall knew them all by sight, for they and three or four others sat at a separate table in the dining room, obviously a table reserved for senior officers. He would have thought that His Grace’s confidential secretary would have qualified, but so far he had not been invited. He was not yet one of the Thencaster gang, and now he never would be.
Fizz, to her obvious annoyance, was thanked and dismissed to go and see that Niall’s effects were moved to another room. She flounced off angrily. By that time Niall had set up his equipment and was ready to play his part as recording secretary. The Marquis introduced everyone, naming names; nods were exchanged.
Blades were duellists, not warriors, so Niall’s knowledge of tactics and strategy was little more than that of any educated man, but he could see that the Marquis would benefit from Ironhall’s lectures on leadership. He did not state the expedition’s purpose or name its destination, only that it was one of the closer Wyldish settlements. Every man there was supposedly an expert in his own field, yet Neville did not consult any of them; he issued orders. Only if the victim objected would he then allow discussion. For example, he was eventually persuaded that the commissariat would need more than two wagons, probably six.
Earlier he had spoken as if his visit was to be little more than social—lord of the manor checking on his serfs, but later he claimed it was to be an “Exploratory Visit,” and dropped hints more sinister than that. A few hostages might be taken. However, there was a chance of armed resistance, so he would be taking both Red and White Battalions. That raised eyebrows; glances were exchanged. Niall knew now that this meant about two thirds of the entire garrison, over two hundred men. Very few nobles in Chivial could muster such a force at such short notice.
Not once did the Marquis mention the secret passage. Perhaps he was ashamed to admit that he might have lived in the palace all his life without knowing of it. More likely, since he was not taking his senior officers into his confidence, he must suspect that the Wylds had spies in high places—which in itself was a confession of incompetence.
When the meeting concluded, Niall felt that it had accomplished very little, other than to give Fizz time to complete her rummage through his belongings.
But if the rebellion that Stalwart foresaw ever marched under the Marquis’s banner, Queen Malinda ought to have an easy win. Neville was an absolute nitwit.
Chapter 20
Self-confidence is a great virtue until it gets you dead.
lord hedgebury
Neville had assumed that his army would be ready to move out at sunrise the next morning. Reality and gross inefficiency added two days to that estimate, but eventually the fateful day arrived.
Then Thencaster was a scene of boiling confusion, as the Marquis’s little army tried to assemble in the lower reaches of the fortress. Up at the palace level, there was less turmoil, because only Neville and Fizz were supposed to leave by the postern gate. Niall had foreseen the problem and had asked for Pepper to be brought up there also, whatever the rules said. Even back at Ironhall, he had known that cultivating stable hands could produce favours.
He had donned the same nondescript riding outfit he had worn on his journey north with Stalwart. Denial hung invisible on his back. No one should look at him twice, or even once.
In contrast, both Fitzambroses were very grandly dressed. The Marquis wore hunting garb of green calf skin with polished black knee boots. His hat flaunted a long osprey feather, while the hilt of his sword gleamed with silver and gems. He sat a grey stallion of at least seventeen hands, which he did have under control, if only just. Fizz was wearing white, a divided skirt and a simple pleated jacket. She sat astride a fine palfrey as black as her hair. Being mounted made her seem taller, of course, and clearly she enjoyed being able to look down on the world for once.
The Marquis glared at Niall. “You agreed to serve as her bodyguard. You should be armed!”
Obviously, Fizz had not told him about the magical sword. The temptation was childish but irresistible: Niall whipped out Denial and raised his hand. The sabre appeared in salute position.
“At your command, Your Grace!”
Apparently, a sense of humour was not among the prerequisites for a marquisate. Neville flushed a furious red and—whether deliberately or not—jabbed his stallion with his spurs. The horse did know a joke when it saw the need of one, for it instantly bucked, reared, and very nearly threw him. Fizz caught Niall’s eye and very nearly returned his grin.
An hour so later, the army was on its way. Red Battalion marched ahead, carrying their pikes. Neville, his officers, and the commissariat wagons followed, and the White Battalion cavalry brought up the rear. Niall insisted on positioning himself and his charge behind the wagons and just ahead of the cavalry.
Fizz did not approve. “I am Daddy’s translator! He can understand most Wyldish, but not when they deliberately gabble and jabber at him. I can’t help him from back here. You expect us to shout?”
“No, but he doesn’t need you yet, and you and I must now have a serious talk.”
She turned on her coquettish pose. “About our future together?”
“First of all, about the sword I won off the blond Bael brute.”
“Thegn Garbeald.”
“Whoever. You kept it when you moved my clothes from Owl Room to Parrot Room.”
“You’ve already got a sword, a magic one. You don’t need another.”
“I need that one. It is a criminal offense for anyone except a Blade to own or wear a cat’s eye sword. The original owner of that one must be dead, so his sword must be Returned, which means taken back to Ironhall and hung in the Sky of Swords with the thousands of others there. One day mine will go there also. I’m serious, Fizz. I will not leave Thencaster without that sword.”
She pouted. “All right.”
They rode on in silence for a few minutes, still heading northward on the path along the bank of the Frail. The hills ahead were higher and rockier, looking less like good horse country and more like good goat range. There were no trees anywhere, except where people like Stalwart had planted them.
“What’s the second thing?”
“What happened the day Tom Twelvish disappeared?”
“Nothing happened! That was what was so strange. He ate with some buddies at suppertime, and then they all went down to the Rabbit Hutch to give the girls a hard time. And next day he just wasn’t there. How come you never go to the Rabbit Hutch, Neal?”
How come she knew that?
“And in the morning your father wanted some letters written, so he sent a page to bang on Twelvish’s door? Am I right? And when there was no answer, you began to wonder if he might be sick, so you were sent, because you have all the keys. And you found no Tom, no lantern, just the hatch propped open. Was the sun up, or had you brought a lamp with you?
“I did not find any hatch open! I never heard of the stupid tunnel until Danark told me about exploding it with you. I couldn’t have found it because the closet door was closed. I do wish we had the band leading us. Kranith works them hard practising, and they so rarely get to play in public, but I suppose it wouldn’t be right, when this is supposed to be a surprise visit.”
Niall gave her what he hoped was a disbelieving smile. If it wasn’t it should be. “All those moons ago and you still remember wondering why the closet door was closed?”
“Closet doors are supposed to be kept closed!”
“Of course they are, so you should not have noticed such a trivial d
etail or recalled it after such a long time. You’re lying, Maid Fizz.”
She spluttered angrily. Likely she would have ridden off at a gallop, but she was trapped between wagons ahead, the cavalry behind, the river on her left, and a jumble of rocks and shrubbery along the roadside to her right.
“So you found the hatch open. Obviously Twelvish had gone exploring, but there was no light in there. Did you even know about the burglar trap?”
“Of course not! How could I?”
“I think we’ll get to that soon. Did you call out to him, Fizz? He was lying somewhere in there, in the dark, horribly injured, his body broken. Did you call his name? Of course he might have been unconscious. Or dead. Or not. That didn’t bother you, did it, Maid Fizz? You shut the hatch and left him there to die—in pain and terror, alone in the dark.”
“That is not true, and you have no evidence to suggest it is.”
“Ah, but I do! You managed to pull out whatever poor Tom had used to prop the hatch open, probably a chair. But then it dropped very hard—so hard that it bounced, and wedged itself at a slight angle, so there was a gap underneath it. Even I had a hard job freeing it, so I understand why you had to leave it the way it was.”
“Stop that!” she screamed. “I did not look in the closet. Nor under the bed. I saw the bed had not been slept in and called his name. That’s all. That tunnel must have been there for forty years, ever since Ciarán Pfari used it to take the castle.”
Which might or might not be true. Niall hoped it was. He’d come to like the devious little chatterbox and hated the idea that she might have abandoned Twelvish to a lonely, lingering death.
“That’s what your father is hoping to find out today, of course.”
“Thank you for telling me. I have been wondering what all this claptrap was about.”
“That’s the second charge against you—even your father doesn’t trust you. He sent you out of the room when he held his council of war.” Before she could protest, Niall continued, “But let’s consider the most serious one. You tried to kill me.”
