The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

“May the spirits favour you, and lead you to long life and prosperity,” Ambrose said. “And my doughty Sir Sharp...”

  The ritual was repeated, word for word.

  “And Sir Rhys...” But when that third Blade had been dubbed, the king said, “Our blessings go with you also, Sir Rhys. We have not forgotten Sir Spender and we honour him still. Give him our regards. You have our leave, gentlemen.”

  The king watched them go and the door close. He sank back into his chair with a sigh for the passage of years, for memories of all the terrified youngsters he had skewered in the Forge at Ironhall, for the few who had died for him and for the fortunate majority who had lived to be released and given their lives back, like these three. Now he could sit and watch the candles burn down until he saw that it was a respectable hour for him to summon Scofflaw to help him into bed. Until then he thought of old, unhappy, long-ago things.

  Spender? That had been the year he was tied up in the Nythia campaign. He had never gotten the whole truth out of that boy... Not a boy any longer. Might be a good idea to keep an eye on what his son did now. King Ambrose reached for the handbell that was always within reach.

  When an alarmed footman’s face appeared around the door, the king growled, “What kept you? Tell my secretary I want him. Yes, I mean Master Kromman, you idiot. Find him. I want him now!”

  A bear in a cave.

  Back outside in the anteroom, Dauntless returned the precious cat’s eye swords to their owners—True to Sir Trusty, Speedy to Sir Sharp, and Dragon to Sir Rhys. Then he shook their hands.

  He said, “Good luck, lads. Now you can go and get drunk.”

  Thus was the milestone passed.

  Dauntless had not mentioned the one last duty his three former subordinates owed to the Guard, but he had earlier warned the court haberdasher of the three men who were to be dubbed that evening, and new clothes in their respective sizes had been laid out, waiting for them in trade for their Guard uniforms—respectable, quality garments, fit for belted knights to wear into the unfriendly world outside the court.

  In each of King Ambrose’s palaces, there was a place where only Blades ever went, a lair in which to gossip, gamble, and drink ale. Sharp, Trusty, and Rhys were still Blades, but they were no longer Royal Guard, and to enter that noisy, yeasty lair that evening in civilian clothes would be to advertise the chasm that had so suddenly opened between them and their brethren. They would be greeted with a complex mixture of envy, horror, and sympathy, leading to a painful blend of celebration and wake. It was unthinkable. Without discussion the three free men headed instead to one of the mess halls where lesser mortals fed and quaffed—clerks, officials, secretaries, and such like.

  They found a shadowed corner and ordered ale, two tankards apiece. Intoxication might be in order, an intriguing state that none of them had ever explored, because the magical oath that bound Blades did not allow them to become drunk. Even when they were off-duty, a mild buzz was the best they could achieve before their beverage began to taste like sewage. That restriction no longer applied to dubbed knights. They clanked pewter together in a toast and poured ale down their throats in a wild demonstration of their new freedom. Then they put the tankards down and looked at one another rather sheepishly, as if wondering why the world seemed to have changed so little.

  They were all cast in the standard Blade mould—average-sized men, trim and agile. Trusty and Sharp were both thirty, Rhys was two years younger, which made him the odd man out, but the others hadn’t noticed that yet. Sharp was slightly taller than the others, and Trusty was heftier in the chest and shoulders, a natural sabre man. Rhys was the smallest, although not by much, and notably the fastest. All three were superb fencers, but he was outstanding, having won the King’s Cup in 379 and 383.

  He was amused to note the costumes the other two had chosen. Sharp was flaunting red and green, and the feather in his hat was almost as long as his rapier. Trusty had gone for unobtrusive grey and browns. Rhys himself had chosen blue, because although he had jet black hair, his eyes were an intense blue; several girls had told him how well the Guard’s blue livery set off his eyes.

  Boys admitted to Ironhall were allowed to choose a new name for themselves—within reason, for many thirteen-year-olds had gruesome imaginations, and Grand Master would veto anything too outrageous. Trusty had chosen his from the approved list, saying that it would give him something to live up to, and he had done so, for he was placid, solid and steady, a man who never been known to raise his voice in anger. In fact, he rarely had need to, for his face was scarred, one corner of his mouth being curled up to expose his left canine. Combined with his extra brawn, that let him look unusually menacing when necessary. The disfigurement predated his stay in Ironhall. Wounds there were not uncommon, for even button-ended foils could do damage in fencing practice and seniors usually practiced with real weapons, but Master of Rituals would swiftly organize a healing conjuration. Even his skills could not remove old scars, though.

  Sharp, by contrast, was fidgety and outspoken, always ready with an opinion on anything. He liked to be in charge, and had fancied his chances of being appointed Leader after Crenshaw was knighted, but Ambrose had chosen Dauntless. That might be why Commander Dauntless had taken the first opportunity to send Sir Sharp packing.

  Predictably, he was the one to start the conversation. “So what are you two planning for tomorrow and the rest of your lives?”

  “Two buxom dollies and stay in bed till noon,” Trusty said.

  “The dollies could be a problem,” Rhys warned, and they all sighed. Blades staunchly believed that their bindings made them irresistible to woman, and most would offer personal testimony to that effect. Increased freedom to drink was a poor exchange for liberal wenching.

  Trusty raised his tankard. “To the good old nights!” All three took another slurp of ale.

  “We need to find profitable employment,” said Sharp. “Failing that, honest employment.”

  “I recall Grand Master telling us that old Blades never starve,” Rhys said.

  Sharp snorted. “But some of them end up eating Ironhall food until the day they die. We could try Old Durendal,” he added, in a disrespectful reference to His Excellency Earl Roland, Lord Chancellor of Chivial. “He can often find jobs for relics like us. He tucked Crenshaw into bed as sheriff of Wayeshire. How about chief guard for some rustic earl? Husband for a lovely young heiress?”

  “Prison warden somewhere?” Rhys suggested. “State executioner?” He faced two angry scowls. “That would still be better than going back to Ironhall to teach snot-nosed sopranos which end of a sword they’re supposed to hold. What are you planning, brother?” he asked Sharp.

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked you two turnips. You?”

  “I’ll be heading north, to Squires Willow, near Ambor.”

  “Why?” Sharp demanded. Trusty would not have asked.

  “Because I have family there.”

  “Most Blades would rather forget their families,” Trusty said philosophically. “And vice versa.”

  Sharp frowned at Rhys. “What are you doing here at all, sonny? The king bound Trusty and me on the same day. He was the Brat when I was admitted. I might add that he promptly turned into the worst sadist in living memory.”

  “I’d been Brat for six horrible weeks!” Trusty said. “I had a lot of suffering to avenge. You were Brat for only eight days, although a particularly odious one.”

  “But young Freckles here,” Sharp said, indicating Rhys, “was two years behind us. He was bound two years after us. We’ve both served out our decade. Why are you being thrown out already, baby brother?”

  Trusty grunted as he saw the discrepancy, but it was Sharp who said, “Well? Why?”

  Here it came. “Because I asked to be released.”

  The other two stared at him in shock. No Blade ever wanted to be released from his
binding. Most were happy afterward, but to ask for it was unheard of, because the binding conjuration itself was an enormous motivation against it. Sharp’s divided loyalty had almost made him weep when Dauntless told him he was to be dubbed.

  Sharp said, “You did? And the Fat Man agreed?”

  Rhys nodded. “He must have done. Dauntless just said he’d ask.”

  Sharp glowered. “He asked, but then he added us to the list! So it’s your fault that we’ve just been chopped?”

  Rhys shrugged. “I might have shortened your careers by a week or two, brothers, but no more than that. You know Leader is trying to cut the Guard numbers. Ambrose doesn’t need guarding anymore. He never goes anywhere. He wouldn’t even go to Ironhall to bind the seniors if he didn’t have to do that in person.”

  Sharp asked, “What was it that Fat Man said to you at the end there?”

  Rhys sighed again, more deeply this time. “That he hadn’t forgotten Sir Spender. He’s listed in the Litany of Heroes.”

  “I remember. A private Blade, bound to some lord.”

  Rhys nodded. He was both amused at his companions’ puzzlement and annoyed at the interrogation. When a man has kept a secret for more than half his life, he doesn’t like to have it dragged out of him. On the other hand, he might have a very nasty problem ahead of him, in which case these two could be of considerable help.

  “Spender was bound by Lord Bannerville when he was appointed Chivian ambassador to Fitain. He already had two Blades, but it was a tricky posting, so the king awarded him a third. They got caught up in a civil war. Bannerville’s Blades brought him out alive, but Burl and Dragon died. Spender survived, badly wounded. When he could walk again, he Returned the others’ swords to Ironhall.”

  “He’s listed in the Litany and yet he’s still alive?” Trusty looked shocked at this breach of tradition, although death was not a compulsory requirement for hero status.

  “He earned every word of it!”

  “You named your sword Dragon, didn’t you?” Sharp said. “So what’s the connection?”

  “Spender is my father.”

  Even more shock. “A Blade the son of a Blade? Never heard of that happening!” Trusty said. “But he’s alive, you say, so you’re no orphan. He threw you out? You must have been a hellion and a half.” Ironhall admitted only the rejected and the hopeless.

  “Just a fool kid,” Rhys said. “He was a great dad when he could spare any time for me, but an only Blade has to spend every minute guarding his ward. I was too young to understand, and I suppose I resented it. As soon as I was old enough, I walked out and headed for Ironhall to prove I was as good a man as he was. If I’d had the brains of a squirrel, I’d have taken four times as much food with me and waited for springtime.”

  “I remember that!” Trusty said. “The butcher wagon found you on the moor and brought you in, looking deader than the beef. They rushed you to the elementary and conjured you back to life.”

  “The sopranos went very easy on you while you were the Brat,” Sharp added.

  “It didn’t feel easy. What would they have been like if they’d known I was a Blade’s son?”

  Trusty laughed. “I can’t even imagine it.” He emptied one tankard and reached for his second.

  Sharp said, “Wait a moment! Your father was bound to Lord Whatsit? You were brought up in an earl’s palace?”

  Rhys nodded. “That was something else I didn’t want to mention at Ironhall.”

  “Spirits, yes! And you’ve kept the secret all these years?”

  “Sir Silver got it out of me. As soon as a new Brat arrived and I was properly accepted, I offered my last coin to a carter to carry a letter for me. My feet hardly touched the ground before I found myself in Grand Master’s study explaining how come I could read and write and why I was writing letters, and to a Blade hero at that. I thought he was going to wring my neck for lying to him earlier, but he didn’t. I learned years later he wrote to Dad, enclosing my note and asking what Dad wanted him to do with me. Dad wrote back, telling him to make a man of me, because he couldn’t spare me the time I deserved. Silver never told anyone my secret, so far as I know. I don’t think even the king knew until today, when I had to tell Dauntless. Of course I wrote to Dad again as soon as I was bound and left Ironhall. He wrote back that he was very proud to have a son in the Royal Guard. We’ve written back and forth ever since.”

  “All very interesting,” Sharp said with a sneer, “but what does that have to do with what just happened? Does a Blade get special treatment just because he happens to be a Blade’s son?”

  “I received a letter this morning,” Rhys said. “Dad’s ward is dying. You know what that could do to him.”

  Even Sharp could not belittle this excuse. He muttered, “Oh, shit!” half under his breath.

  Trusty said, “Flames! You need some company? I’ll be glad to come along and do what I can to help, brother.”

  “I’d be grateful,” Rhys admitted. When a Blade’s ward died, he often went insane, frequently homicidally so. Everyone knew that, so Dad would be both a danger to the public and in danger himself. He might have to be tied up and guarded for weeks, or even years.

  Sharp said, “How far is it?”—which was typical of him. Trusty had volunteered without asking, but Sharp counted costs and calculated odds. When they weren’t wenching or fencing, Blades spent much of their time playing dice. Many of the Guard refused to play against Sharp. Trusty was trusty, but Sharp... While no one had ever proved anything, he was suspected of being a little too sharp.

  “In this weather? About half a day’s ride.”

  “You’re on!” Sharp raised his tankard in salute. “All for one.”