by Dave Duncan
Snake said, “This one may well be how your great-great-something-great grandmother Queen Estrith escaped from the rebels.”
“Then it has a lot to answer for. The silly woman should have stood her ground.” Malinda spoke brazenly, but apprehension of danger was making her skin prickle. Durendal’s illicit private army now seemed like a very good idea indeed, burn him! His planning had been excellent. “I know what I’m going to do.” She sat down on the bed closest to the stove. “Pass me another blanket, Dian. Thank you.”
“Your Grace!” Crystal protested, outraged. “You can’t—”
“I can try.” Malinda lay down and made herself comfortable, turning her back on them all. “Guard me from my guardians if you want, or go to sleep. I don’t care. Rattle your dice quietly, please, Sir Snake.”
He chuckled. “Seems like a smart idea to me.”
After that no one said anything more; quiet footsteps and creaks of bed webbing soon stopped, leaving only a faint, steady dripping from one corner. Malinda knew she could never sleep, but it would do no harm to pretend. She was not frightened now. Furious, yes. Furious at the insolence of open treason. Furious that busybody Durendal had been right all along. More than furious that he had manipulated her into a bedchamber with a secret entrance without confiding in her. Worried about her friends in the Guard, especially Eagle and Shadow, and Dian’s Chandos, battling monsters around their ward. Worried about her father…Even worried about what would happen to the country if anything happened to him. These last revelations were so astonishing that she was still considering them when she fell asleep. She was probably the only resident of Greymere who did sleep that night.
Knuckles rapped on wood: thrice, twice, once. Malinda angrily pulled the blanket over her topside ear. Voices…sounded like Sir Felix, who had not been long released from the Guard…cold, damp…Stink?
She came awake with a start. She heard the door close again. Footsteps approached in the gloom.
“The emergency appears to be over, Your Grace. His Majesty and the Crown Prince are both safe and unharmed.”
Blearily she sat up, keeping the blanket tight around her shivers. “How many are not?”
“The present count is twenty.” Snake’s voice was very unlike his usual bantering tone. “Some injured may not survive. Very nasty wounds, I heard.”
“Not all in the Guard, surely?”
“Oh no. Some of them were women. Four of the Guard, my lady: Sailor, Shadow, Vance, and Heron. The Knights’ count is uncertain still.”
Not Eagle! Nor Chandos, who was Dian’s current favorite. But Malinda had known those four and liked all of them. “Burn them! Burn the traitors who did this horrible thing!”
“We will certainly try, Your Grace.”
Back at her suite she found not only the eight girls and women she expected but also another thirty or so and a dozen men, all slumped around in a state of nervous exhaustion—laundresses, hairdressers, dressmakers, her falconers, even her sergeant-porter. People who normally lived in servants quarters at the far end of the palace had flocked to hers in search of safety. Had she been a target for the monsters, this would have been almost the worst place they could have chosen, but fortunately not one single mutt had tried to enter. The only calm person present was Lady Wains; misled by all the chatter about dogs, she was describing a deer hunt in her youth.
“Out!” Malinda roared. “The monsters have gone. All except me, and I am more dangerous. Back to work, all of you. Lady Crystal, Lady Arabel…kindly make ready. We must go and wait upon my father.”
She found six Blades on duty outside her door, twice as many as usual. One of them was Eagle, and it was a relief to confirm with her own eyes that he had escaped without a scratch or bruise. Sir Piers wore the officer’s sash; he whipped out his sword in salute.
“To His Majesty,” she said.
“He may not be in his quarters, Your Grace. They are uninhabitable now.”
“Then I shall view the battlefield, and you may tell me of the battle while we walk.”
She liked Piers; normally he was reticent, almost curt, but he seemed genuinely unaware that he possessed the second finest profile in the entire Guard, with eyes to drown in and the darkest complexion, smooth as oiled walnut. She had once had quite a crush on Piers. Now he formed up his squad to escort her, but they were all still bubbling like kettles. All of them except Piers himself sported one or more gigantic bloodstained teeth hung around their necks like lockets, and even Piers joined in the bragging and chatter.
It was only natural for a princess to dream of a prince of her own, even a princess betrothed to a ducal tadpole— especially a princess betrothed to a ducal tadpole. Malinda’s paradigm of manhood had changed form several times over the years, but he almost always haunted her fancy in the livery of the Royal Guard. As a child, she had found an ever-present armed escort to be a vexing restriction. Later she had come to understand that it was a significant honor. Without accepting the Blades’ conviction that they were the object of every woman’s most fervent desires, one could admit that most of them had sparkle and dash. Their duty roster was determined by Commander Durendal, so she had helpfully provided him with a list of those she preferred to have attend her. He had ignored her wishes. A year or so ago she had suggested to her father that it was time for her to bind some Blades of her own. Ambrose had been agreeable until Durendal talked him out of it—a Princess’s Guard would not be under his control, naturally. Small wonder that the Commander’s name headed her list of enemies!
Just before Long Night, her father had ridden off to Ironhall to harvest the next crop of swordsmen. He had returned with eight new Blades, the youngest of whom was Sir Eagle. She had never seen a man who walked so like a cat; he raised goose bumps on her arms with every dark, appraising glance. At once she had known exactly what her dream prince should look like, how he should laugh and smile and handle a horse. So far she had concealed her approval from Commander Durendal, lest he clip Eagle’s wings as he had clipped the others’. She could only hope that no one noticed how close she came to melting whenever he looked at her.
That morning he had discarded the smoldering eye and husky voice. He was as raucous and high-spirited as the rest of the troop, jubilant in the aftermath of a major battle. She had no chance to speak to him, or indeed much chance to say anything, as all six swordsmen jabbered about the night’s struggle, of monsters invading the King’s quarters, and how Leader—Durendal, of course—had locked His Grace in the garderobe at one point. Another Blade legend had been born, obviously.
The walk through the palace was a scene out of a nightmare, and even in nightmares she had never imagined having to step over gobbets of raw flesh in the heart of Greymere. Workmen were collecting it and wheeling it out in barrows; floors and even walls were spattered with dried blood; everywhere reeked of disemboweled dog. Her father’s suite truly was a battlefield, with empty holes where the windows had been, and head-high heaps of dog flesh. Apparently a couple of rooms had escaped the turmoil, for their doors were being guarded by Blades as the workmen hustled in and out. She knew at a glance that her father was missing.
Master Kromman, his secretary, was not. He was sitting at his desk in the anteroom, busy amid the blood and slaughterhouse stench. He rose and bowed to her. “I was about to come looking for you, Your Highness. His Majesty requests your presence at a reception scheduled for the Rose Hall one hour after noon.”
Everyone detested Kromman. He had been an inquisitor in his youth and still sported inquisitorial black robes and biretta, plus the distinctive fishy stare. “Fishy” was flattering; his bloodless complexion and straggly white hair would have suited a drowned corpse. He came around the desk to her, bringing a paper.
“You will enter through the west door, probably twenty minutes later than the time I just stated. The heralds there will cue you. You are to bring your full retinue. When you greet your father’s Majesty, a moderate amount of emotional display may be app
ropriate. I have some words here that you may find suitable, although of course you must appear to speak extempore.” He offered the paper.
She ignored it. Obviously, this had to be one of those supposedly spontaneous functions that Ambrose liked to organize. She found the hypocrisy despicable and pointless, since nobody was deceived. “How efficient of you, Master Kromman! I had hoped you were about to impart my father’s congratulations on my safe deliverance or even his inquiries after my health and well-being.”
Trying to snub an inquisitor—even an ex-inquisitor—was like chewing rock. The glassy eyes stared at her for what felt like a long while before he answered. “Do you think that I would omit to deliver such a message if His Majesty had entrusted it to me?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps not. I was just hoping. Did he dictate that speech you are waving at me, or is it your own composition?”
“I formalized his instructions.”
“Then I shall deformalize them. Both my words and the emotion accompanying them will be my own.”
He bowed without conceding defeat. She spun around in a swirl of skirts and departed. Kromman was a snoop. He did not rank with Durendal on her list of crawly things, but he came very close behind.
4
Fear nothing except a lee shore, lightning, and blood relatives.
RADGAR ÆLEDING,
UNPUBLISHED LETTER TO HIS SONS
Inevitably, the ceremony was late in starting, so the anteroom outside the west door became packed with people waiting to make their entrance. Heralds fussed obnoxiously, as heralds always did, issuing orders, waving lists, and climbing up on the vantage to peer through spy holes at what was going on in the hall itself. Malinda joined them up there and commandeered one of the viewpoints. Nobody dared order a princess away.
Every noble within reach of Grandon had hastened to the palace to congratulate the King on his narrow escape. So had the diplomatic corps. Every guild had sent a delegation—the Ancient Brotherhood of this and the Worshipful Company of that. Ambrose stood foursquare on the dais and accepted the tributes with high good humor, although he could have had no sleep in the night. He loved pomp and adulation, especially together. In all his elaborate finery—slashed and padded jerkin, fur-trimmed cloak, plumed hat, jeweled orders, and all the rest—he looked twice the size of anyone else in the hall. Among the dignitaries at his back, only the gaunt Grand Inquisitor was taller. There seemed to be no proper order or precedence being observed, as if the entire reception was completely spontaneous, but she guessed that a dozen heralds had worked since dawn to organize it.
Some courtiers, specially favored, were being invited up to stand alongside His Majesty, so the dais was gradually filling up with the heads of the ministries and orders—Mother Superior of the White Sisters, Grand Wizard of the Royal College of Conjurers, Grand Inquisitor of course, the Lord Chancellor…Lord Granville? Still?
An overpowering odor of lilac made her look down just as a padded shoulder nudged her breast. Cousin Courtney was apparently attempting to peer out the spy hole, although he had to stand on tiptoe to do so and was using the move as an excuse to snuggle against her.
“By the seven saving spirits!” he lisped. “Just look at the Rector! It’s easy to tell whose little darling he is!”
Malinda moved back against the rail, both to find some fresh air and to discourage further body contact. As the son of her father’s sister, Courtney should by rights have been at least a duke and more properly a prince, and yet at forty he remained merely Baron Leandre, the title he had inherited from his father. He was the quintessential courtly fop, a man of lethal wit, exquisite taste, exaggerated gentility, and no importance whatsoever. He had never married, but he moved from one mistress to another with apparent ease, dalliance to liaison to affair, oblivious of all scandal. Ambrose detested him and had appointed him Malinda’s Master of the Horse just to ridicule him, but not even the King could quash Courtney. He flaunted his title while bragging how he had never seen the inside of a stable in his life.
The object of his current scorn was another problem relative—the House of Ranulf must contain more black sheep than the palace had rats. The large man standing next to the King was Granville, Lord Rector of Wylderland and Malinda’s unacknowledged illegitimate brother. He had turned up for Long Night festivities after not being seen at court for several years; she had thought and hoped that he had gone away again, returning to his duties of burning hovels and butchering peasants. Ambrose had been making all too much of him and apparently still was. He was a younger, harder replica of the King—not quite so tall, nor so obese, but with the same yellow eyes and fringe of bronze beard. He was deliberately wearing similar green-and-gold clothing, too, just in case any onlooker missed the resemblance.
“Magnificent!” Courtney sighed. “When the Wylds finally manage to put a hole in him, all we shall have to do is sit him on a bronze horse and he can be his own monument!”
“You have a point. There is something monumental about him.”
“My spleen is my most perceptive organ, dear.”
“Royal bastards are an unavoidable waste product of monarchy,” Malinda said, to show that she could be malicious too—Courtney’s parents’ marriage had never been officially recognized. “In Chivial, unlike some other countries, they are never acknowledged.”
The little man turned to look at her, having to tip his head well back. He was sweating profusely, eroding his face powder into islands. He seemed to be doing quite well for himself again, with gems glittering on his fingers; his clothes were lavish and styled to minimize his tubbiness. He smirked with painted lips. “Everything has a first time, darling. Besides, Granville has always been an exception.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, well!” He beamed and edged closer conspiratorially. He was probably even more skilled at picking up gossip than Arabel, although he rarely bothered to impart any to Malinda. “It was before my time, of course—Granville’s several years older than I am, you know.” The Rector was actually four years younger. “It was a truly tremendous scandal! The Marquise of Newport bore a son. Well, that does happen, you know, although I am sure you are too innocent to know why. But the Marquis was gauche enough to point out that it was not his and accuse his wife of adultery! I ask you! What else are adults for? He even tried to name the Crown Prince as the father. The problem was that your dear father, then the Crown Prince of course, was several years short of the age at which such charges are normally even considered, and the lady was three times as old!”
Ambrose was fifty, going on fifty-one. Granville was thirty-six. Malinda had never worked out the implications before. And here she was, an ancient virgin of sixteen! She raised her eyebrows and made encouraging mm? noises.
“The matter was suppressed—mostly by rank intimidation. The babe was grudgingly accepted, and there the matter rested, until just after your dear father succeeded, when the Marquis was dying and his own sons had predeceased him. His brothers were very much opposed to the title and lands passing to a royal bastard. Disloyal of them, don’t you think? Your father allowed the boy to be disinherited, but Granville was old enough by then to cause trouble on his own! His price was an earldom and command of a regiment.”
“And now he’s Rector!”
“Oh, my dear! A very successful commander! He has had more success pacifying Wylderland than anyone since Goisbert II.”
“Graveyards are usually peaceful.”
Courtney giggled approvingly and patted her arm. “Very droll, my dear! I must remember that!”
Chivial had been trying to subdue Wylderland for centuries, but each new campaign just made the Wylds retreat into the bogs and hills and sharpen their swords for the next round. Granville was an efficient butcher, an expert at massacre and scorching earth, but his success would be as temporary as all his predecessors’. Nevertheless, Chivial’s recent war with Isilond had ended in national shame; the conflict with Baelmark had dragged on for ten years, with Ba
els ravaging Chivian coasts and shipping almost at will; only the dashing Lord Granville ever produced good news.
“That is a pretty gown, dearest,” Courtney said, reaching out to stroke it. “You look good in red. You look good in any color.”
Malinda responded with a sharp kick to his ankle. The little man winced and withdrew his hand quickly. She wondered how one family could have produced two such dissimilar men as her half brother and her cousin—the towering, ruthless warrior, and the dumpy little voluptuary. Yet both were successful conquerors, for the curious thing about Courtney was that a man so obnoxious was enormously successful with women. She despised him, yet she could not deny his charm. Perhaps it was because his spite always seemed to be directed at other people; he invited you to share his caustic view of life.
“Ah!” he said. “Excuse me, beloved. There is my dinner at last.”
He bobbed his head, minced down the three steps to the floor, and went squirming off through the crowd like a fish through reeds. He surfaced near the door to embrace a countess whom Malinda had believed to be very happily married.
She turned her attention back to the hall. It was more crowded than she could ever recall seeing it. As the air grew ever more festive, her anger waxed hotter. Why celebrate a massacre? What of all those dead people? Who was mourning them? Several of the Blades on display were bandaged. She could not see Eagle anywhere. There were more White Sisters than usual, too, although Arabel had reported that the residual taint of enchantment lingering in the palace was driving them out of their minds, so that Mother Superior was urging the King to move the court to Nocare or Oldmart.
Chancellor Montpurse had already gone, alas, because any ship of state hitting a wave this bad must drop someone overboard. Malinda was sorry about that; he was a true gentleman. She hoped he would enjoy a long and happy retirement. She was even more sorry that the golden chain had come to rest around the neck of Sir Durendal, who was Lord Roland as of this morning. He looked thoroughly glum over there on the dais, but he must have weeks of work ahead of him just to learn what he needed to do first. The Commander’s silver baldric gleamed on the chest of Sir Bandit, a very surprising choice. She approved of Bandit. Everyone did. She would have expected her father to promote Sir Dreadnought.
