by Dave Duncan
It was a star with only four points, though. He had hoped for at least six. Even the brainless Marquis had that many, and Stalwart had the full eight.
That night he was carried shoulder high all around the palace. Bound Blades could not get drunk, but he could. And the others made sure he did.
In the next couple of days, he did manage to make sense of the guard roster. He also survived an interminable rehearsal for the coronation, during which he learned that the golden Sword of Justice that he had to hold weighed as much as a full-grown warhorse in armour. On the other side of the throne, Bowman held the silver Sword of Protection, which was no heavier than a usable weapon.
After the rehearsal, with belly hollow and shoulders aching, Deputy Niall turned in the monster sword and headed back to his quarters, which were a bachelor-sized cubicle. He found his door guarded by a Blade in a hideous orange and blue livery. He had seen a few men in the same colours at the rehearsal, but had not yet learned who their colour-blind ward was. He knew the youth at his door though. Leopard had been about twenty behind him in Ironhall. He seemed very young to be sporting a cat’s eye sword.
Although he was not part of the Royal Guard, he saluted the silver ribbon.
Niall had a strange premonition of danger. “Leopard! Sir Leopard, of course. Spirits be with you.”
“And with you, Deputy. The Prince wants you.”
Prince? Athelgar! So now was reckoning time? Niall had always known that it must come sooner or later and now his tenure as Deputy might be the shortest on record. Evidently Athelgar had not learned his name at Thencaster. Not seeing his face around the palace, he must have assumed that the mystery swordsman who had so shamed him there had to be a private Blade, bound to someone other than the Queen. In any case, it would be highly unusual for a member of the Royal Guard to travel so far away from her. But now he had recognized Niall at the rehearsal.
There was no way of avoiding this confrontation. “Lead on, Sir Leopard.”
The junior candidates in Ironhall strongly believed that they would grow up to fit the names they had chosen, so no one had been surprised when Leopard had been smitten by the worst case of acne in the history of puberty. Even now he still had spots.
Niall had never been close to him, but bore him no grudges and would much prefer to be friendly. “How are you enjoying life as a bound Blade, brother?”
There was a significant silence before he received an answer. Blades were ever reluctant to criticize their wards
“The food is better,” Leopard said. “Congratulations on your triumph in Thencaster, Deputy. And on the Star, of course.”
The walk continued.
“Where exactly are the Prince’s quarters?”
“Almost there. Temporary quarters for the coronation. He has a palace of his own across the river.”
“And good cooks?”
“But fewer girls.”
“Tough.” Short as their marriage had been, Niall was already missing Fizz. Sex was extremely habit-forming.
“It won’t be for long,” Leopard said. “I have it on very good authority, although of course you mustn’t repeat this, that the Queen intends to abdicate within two years, and go home to Baelmark.”
That sounded like a valuable warning. Niall murmured, “Thank you.”
Two Blades in the hideous orange were standing on guard at a large and imposing doorway. One of them wore a green—green!—baldric.
Leopard halted. “Deputy Niall of the Guard, Leader.”
The man addressed held out his hand. Deliberately misunderstanding the gesture, Niall shook it.
“Your sword, Deputy!”
Niall mouthed a well-known obscenity without actually saying it.
“No one may enter His Highness’s presence while armed.”
Niall said, “I have received no such waiver. I am required to bear my sword at all times.” In fact, the rule might be valid for laymen, but it would certainly not apply to bound members of the Royal Guard. These flunkies could not know that this one had yet to be bound. He could easily imagine Athelgar ordering him to kneel to be spat upon.
Impasse. Niall had a strong impression that the third member of the Prince’s guard was having trouble keeping a straight face.
“Wait here.” Green Ribbon opened the door and disappeared, no doubt going in search of further instructions.
After a few minutes he reappeared and held the door open. “Come this way.”
Niall followed him across an anteroom and into an audience chamber. At the far end stood a throne, although not an especially grand one, and the buttocks resting on it belonged to the stringy, red-haired, would-be rapist on whom Niall had so brazenly expectorated that night in Thencaster.
“Deputy Commander Niall, Your Grace.”
Niall marched smartly forward to an appropriate distance, halted, and tapped Denial in salute.
Athelgar said, “That will be all, Leader.”
“But, Your Grace—”
“Go!” Obviously, the Prince would not want to discuss vagrant saliva in the presence of witnesses, even one of his own Blades. Nor would he explain that he did not fear this visitor because he had been at his mercy once before and nothing fatal had happened.
The leader of his guard departed. The door closed.
“So we meet again!” said the heir apparent.
After some concentrated thinking, Niall had concluded that he was in no immediate danger. Panoleo’s death had taken care of that problem. Athelgar was never going to admit in public what had happened on their first meeting, or why. Even if he told his mother about it, she would take no action against a man she had so recently and so publicly honoured. In fact, Niall could tell the swine to publish and be damned.
That was now. But Leonard had just warned him that in two years the degenerate sop was going to become king. When that happened, there was no telling what might happen to Niall.
The Future never matters, only Now.
He frowned. “I most humbly beg Your Grace’s pardon, but I do not recall being granted this honour before.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
Niall bit his lip and tried to look worried and confused. One did not contradict princes. “I... I fear that Your Royal Highness is confusing me with someone else.”
Athelgar’s face was growing as red as his hair. “I suppose that you have never, ever, in your life visited Thencaster Castle?”
“Once, briefly, yes, Your Grace.”
“When?”
“Um... I arrived there on the third day of Sixthmoon this year. I was sent there by Lord Hedgebury, on some business for Her Majesty.” That was after the fracas with Athelgar and Garbeald. “I departed on the sixth.”
“You swear that?”
“Certainly.” He feigned affront. “Your Grace suspects me of lying?”
This was it. Athelgar could send for an inquisitor. But surely the wretch wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t see what Niall was suggesting?
The staring match continued for an unbearably long time. The throne was high enough that the judge was higher than the accused, but it was the Prince who yielded. Eventually he nodded.
“Then I have indeed confused you with someone else. The likeness is remarkable. You may go.”
Niall saluted again. Now it never happened and may belly worms eat your guts! He turned and marched away.
Chapter 37
Treasure your honour, because it is your most valuable possession.
absalom scribner to his son
He was halfway back to his room and rounding a corner when he came face to face with his old buddy Challenger, Lord Marshal’s most junior Blade. He looked pleased about something.
“There you are. Been looking for you. I have Maisie and Mousey lined up for tonight. They’re identical twins, four great big beautif
ul boobs! I promised I’d bring a friend. They’d be hard work for one. You free?”
“I’m free. Are they?”
“Guys pay for the wine. We can’t drink much, so one bottle usually keeps them jigging all night.”
Unlike all other Blades, Niall was not yet an all-night man, but he was willing to proceed to exhaustion.
“Let’s do!” he said.
“This way then. Usual bets?”
The weather did not cooperate for the coronation. The actual ceremony went smoothly enough, with Ranulf Hall even more crammed that it had been for the Blade Assembly. One entire gallery was taken up by the Royal Choir, but its singing was stupendous. By ancient Chivian custom, the monarch was actually crowned by his or her heir presumptive, so Awful Athelgar got his chance to perform.
The Deputy Leader of the Loyal and Ancient Order, Sir Niall, managed to support the Sword of Justice long enough, while hoping that his arms would not fall off. He kept scanning the crowd for his mother, and eventually picked out five or six diminutive old ladies with white hair, any one of whom might be she.
After that came the great procession to Central Square, by a circuitous route, so the subjects could view and cheer their monarch. Bowman and Niall carried their symbolic swords directly in front of the royal coach. The rain did not let up for an instant.
After lunch the following day—which was warn and sunny—Niall reminded Bowman that he had assigned himself that afternoon off. Then he chose a flashy grey stallion and rode out to 69 Moss Street. He tied the reins to the nearest hitching post and was at once accosted by two urchins offering to stand guard for him.
Before any more could appear, Niall said, “I’ll hire both of you. Two mites apiece. All you have to do is tell them that this is one of the Queen’s horses. See the crown marked on his hooves? Steal this one and you get hanged. Understand? And don’t get too close or he’ll bite you.”
He straightened his doublet, took a deep breath, and marched back to the door, but he had been seen and it flew open as if hit by a tempest. Out blew children and adults, like leaves in an autumn storm. He had never imagined his reunion being publicly held in the street, with neighbours flocking around to watch.
Mom, of course. They let her be first. Spirits, how she had shrunk since he was sixteen! They hugged, which wasn’t easy when he was a foot taller than she. She was weeping floods, but he mustn’t even drop a tear; it wouldn’t be manly. Yes, she had been there at the coronation—and wouldn’t stop telling everyone about it until the day she died, Liana said.
Liana, Lily, and Star—they had all grown horizontally. Then five nephews and four nieces! Amazing what three women could produce in just six years. How would he ever remember all these names? And birthdays? Fortunately, only the oldest of them, named Will, was brave enough to go close to this big man wearing a sword. Niall drew her for him and knelt to show Will her engraved name.
Yes, Will, this ribbon meant he was Deputy Commander of the Royal Guard. And almost certainly to be Leader in a few months, but he did not say that. And this shiny bauble the Queen had given him for working hard and being good at his job.
Three sisters and three husbands. It was easier to remember professions than names or who went with whom—a carpenter, a weaver, and a pawnbroker. Niall thought he approved of the first two. The pawnbroker poked the White Star with a grubby finger and said, “What’s this worth, then?”
“Four men’s lives.”
Either Mom had not heard that, or had not understood, because she was still happily sobbing. “Oh, Will, Will, your dad would have been so proud of you!”
“I hope he would,” Niall said, trying not to let his doubts show.
Afterword: The Blades Saga
Every Blades book is a standalone novel, but they are best read in the following order. The numbering is for present convenience only.
1 The Gilded Chain
2 Lord of the Fire Lands
3 Sky of Swords
4 The Monster War
5 One Velvet Glove
6 The Ethical Swordsman
7 Paragon Lost
8 Impossible Odds
9 The Jaguar Knights
Many of the characters in this book have appeared previously, or will appear later:
Durendal is in all the books
Malinda, 1, 2, 3
Lady Kate, Caplin, 1
Bowman, Hereward, Bloodhand, Crystal were all in Book 1
Stalwart, Agnes, Lindsay, 4, 7
Parsewood, 1, 7
Emerald, Fury, Skuldigger, 4
Neville, 3
It has been a long quest. Although The Gilded Chain was published in 1998, I wrote it in 1995, a generation ago. Malinda did carry out her promise to Radgar and reigned only two years. As told in Paragon Lost and The Jaguar Knights, Athelgar, misled by his evil genius, Garbeald, so offended the barons of Chivial that they rose in a revolt led by Neville, but they were defeated, and a humbled Athelgar retained his throne.
This is the end. There will be no more Blades books! (Thank you for liking them so much.)
About the Author
Originally from Scotland, Dave Duncan lived all his adult life in Western Canada, having enjoyed a long career as a petroleum geologist before taking up writing. Since discovering imaginary worlds were more satisfying than the real one, he published more than sixty novels, mostly in the fantasy genre, but also young adult, science fiction, and historical. He was at times Sarah B. Franklin (but only for literary purposes) and Ken Hood (which is short for “D’ye Ken Whodunit?”)
His most successful works were the fantasy series: The Seventh Sword, A Man of His Word and its sequel, A Handful of Men, and eight books about The King’s Blades.
He and Janet were married in 1959. They have one son and two daughters, who in turn are responsible for a spin-off series of four grandchildren.
He was a founding member of SFCanada, and was inducted into the Science Fiction and Fantasy Hall of Fame.
His prodigious talent is sorely missed. But his legacy remains in his novels.
One Velvet Glove
A Tale of the King’s Blades
By Dave Duncan
At the start of Lord of the Fire Lands (Book Two of the Tales of the King’s Blades series) a Blade hero, Sir Spender, brought back to Ironhall the swords of two Blades who had died defending their ward. Spender himself had been grievously wounded on the same mission. He never reappeared in any of the later stories, so details of this tragedy have never been published.
New information having now come to light....
He had grown old and lame—and also fat. His beard had faded to white and he rarely ventured out of the palace. Yet, like a wounded bear in a cave, he was still dangerous.
Having ruled Chivial for over a third of a century, Ambrose IV no longer went galloping like a madman through the royal forests in pursuit of venison, or paced his workroom barking dictation at his secretaries. Gone were the masques and balls that had once made his court sing and sparkle. Most evenings he settled quietly in his withdrawing room, where he would not be disturbed, made himself comfortable in his oversized and thickly padded chair, put his sore leg up on a stool. There he might listen to a minstrel or fiddler; or reminisce with an old crony, although those were dropping like fall leaves now, one after another.
Quite often he would discuss important business with Lord Chancellor Roland. That way no one else need know that the royal eyesight had faded until he must have everything read to him. The idea that Lord Roland had a wife and family and might like to see them once in a while probably never entered the royal head. If it did, it was not allowed to stay there for long.
But one unseasonably hot evening he had an appointment, a duty that he could not delegate to any man. It would be a sad reminder of former times, of friends cast off and forgot
ten—even of decisions that might have been hasty and ill-advised, but could never be recalled, and so must not be discussed.
A diffident tap on the door heralded the arrival of Sir Dauntless, the new commander of the Royal Guard, leading in three other Blades. Ambrose had always honoured his swordsmen, or at least flattered them that he did, so he heaved himself out of his chair and rose to his full, imposing height, hiding aches and stiffness with a fearsome, piggy-eyed smile.
All four of the newcomers were tense and nervous—Dauntless because it was less than a week since he had been appointed Leader, and he had not done this before. He saluted, and indicated the first of his white-faced followers. “Sire, I have the honour to—”
“No need to introduce them, Commander!” Ambrose growled, in the husky residue of a voice that had once boomed like a great bell. “I know Sir Trusty as I have known every Blade who has served me in the last half century, and I am grateful for his many years of service. Your sword, Guardsman.” He held out a huge plump hand.
Many times the king must have watched Blades whine and plead when faced with this terrible moment of release, and for a moment it seemed as if Trusty would refuse the royal command. He handed over his sword obediently and sank to his knees, but his reluctant fingers took a shamefully long time to open his doublet, unbutton his shirt, and pull them both back to uncover impressive shoulders.
The king raised the sword that he once had driven through Trusty’s heart in the conjuration that had bound him, but this time he merely used it to tap those husky shoulders: right and then left. “I dub thee knight in our Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades. Rise, Sir Trusty.”
Trusty blinked in momentary confusion as the conjuration that had bound him for the last ten years faded away. Then he rose, smiled, stepped back, and bowed. The king passed the sword to Commander Dauntless, for only a bound Blade might bear arms in the royal presence.
