by Dave Duncan
“Ansel is a pleasant enough young man, Father, but—”
“Pfaw! He’s a squeaky, dimwit midget like his father.”
“Apart from that.”
Again Granville chuckled and again Ambrose decided to see the joke, although normally he appreciated his own humor much more than anyone else’s. He was in an incredibly good mood tonight, a suspiciously good mood. There must be more skullduggery to come.
“You really still thought I was going to tie you to that herd of backwoods ruminants?” He had never hinted at anything else. “You’re far too valuable to throw away on them, my girl!” He roared, lifting his feet. “That’s enough, idiot! You trying to boil me alive?”
Malinda shivered. The King’s idea of value and hers might have little in common. “I am flattered, Your Grace. But why…?”
“You know I’m looking for another wife?”
“There has been much speculation around court, certainly.”
“Well it’s true. There’s plenty out there to choose from. Montpurse has been working on it for some time.” He pouted. “You were the heir then. If you’d stayed the heir, you’d have had to marry a Chivian, see? De Mayes’s son was the best fit and next in line after you anyway.” That argument ignored Granville, Courtney, and Ansel’s father. “I tied him up in case we needed him. But we don’t need him now, see—now you’ve got a brother.”
The King eyed his daughter narrowly, as if challenging her to object, but there could be no appeal against the politics of inheritance. Had she remained the heir, marriage to Ansel would have reduced the risk of a disputed succession. Conversely, with little Amby now set to inherit, both her claim and Ansel’s must be weakened as far as possible. Her destiny was banishment to some faraway realm.
“May I inquire…You have someone in mind, Your Grace?”
“The decision will be mine, child!”
“I am aware of that, sire. I am obedient always to Your Majesty.”
“Humph!” said the King. He tested the basin with one cautious fat toe. “Not so I’ve noticed. Self-willed minx, I’d say. Scofflaw! Where has the man gone now? Well, there’s Prince Favon of Sandearn. Built like an ox, I understand, but stupider. There’s the Czarevitch of Skyrria, but he’s only seven.” His voice was joking but his eyes were not. He was warning her again that she had no choice, no say. Her marriage would be an affair of state, and already Ansel did not seem such a bad idea after all.
“The decision is yours, sire.” When there was no immediate response, she dared to add, “If my wishes are worthy of consideration…A very, very small kingdom will satisfy me, Father, if the prince is kind and healthy. Especially healthy.” Not that she wanted any husband yet. Not even Sir Eagle. What did this have to do with her bastard half brother? Why was he there, witnessing her ordeal?
“Plenty of degenerates out there,” Ambrose agreed. “Don’t want any slobbering, lopsided grandchildren. Problem is dowry. A princess must have a dowry worthy of our honor. The Czar suggested a million crowns. He can’t think you’re worth much if you need that sort of subsidy! Treasury’s empty. This dogs thing is going to sink us.”
Puzzled, she said, “Sink us in what way, sire?”
“Aargh! Parliament won’t let me tax the elementaries now. The King’s Peace, security of the realm, and yabberyabber. Half the members have been bought and the rest are scared spitless. And you—you can forget those extra cavalry you were dreaming about.”
The Rector said, “I can only repeat what I told Your Majesty earlier: My men lack adequate winter clothing and shelter. If they do not get paid soon, they will cease to be an effective fighting force. Moreover, if you drop the loyal chieftains off your payroll, they will start going over to the Ciarán. One goes, they’ll all go.”
The Ciarán was either rebel chief or rightful king of Wylderland, depending on which way one was facing. The Chivial colonists were terrified of his guerrillas; he could give even the Rector lessons in savagery.
Ambrose scowled at each of them in turn. “And where’s the money to come from if Parliament won’t let me tax the elementaries, mm? Bah! The pickynickers won’t even vote me money to build ships, yet they all scream that the Baels have cut off trade. They won’t see that my revenues come from custom duties, and the filthy pirates are hurting me more than anyone! Scofflaw! More wine! If they won’t vote me taxes to stop the Ciarán driving Granville into the sea, then they’re not going to vote you much of a dowry, my girl.”
Granville frowned at Malinda, then at the King. And said nothing. Then she saw…No! He couldn’t mean it, could he?
“No helpful suggestions?” her father demanded. “Neither of you? Well, then. What about the Ciarán?”
Granville waited politely for Malinda to comment.
She had trouble finding breath, let alone words. If she provoked an outburst of the terrible royal temper now, anything might happen, but if she did not protest she might lose by default. She began calmly enough. “Surely Your Majesty is joking? I cannot believe that you would be cruel enough to give me away to a brute who lives in swamps and dresses in skins.”
Even that hint of defiance was enough to darken the King’s glare. “I’ll marry you off to any man I want!”
Despite herself, her voice began to rise. “Sire, there must be a dozen realms in Eurania who could find a better husband for me than that monster—a hundred! He’s a rebel! Is that how you reward treason—with your daughter’s hand in marriage? You said you want no deformed grandchildren. What sort of evil spawn would the Ciarán sire on me? Wed me to a cripple if you must, or a child, or pick a plowman out of the fields, but not that murdering brute!” She was on her feet and her wineglass shattered in the fire with a gout of flame and steam. “Spirits, if you gave me to the King of the Baels himself, you could do no greater—”
“Silence!” Ambrose roared. “By the eight, you great heifer, you’re not too big for me to take my belt to yet! And you wouldn’t be the first princess thrown in the Bastion!”
She gasped a few times to regain control; she forced herself down on her knees. “Sire, I most humbly beg your forgiveness. My tongue ran away with me.” She waited, head bowed, shivering.
“Hussy!” her father growled. “Impudent vixen! Rector, would it work?”
“Would what work, sire? Would he sign a treaty and swear an oath of allegiance? Probably—he likes variety in women. But as soon as you withdraw your army, he’ll raise the tribes again, I guarantee it. Probably roast your daughter alive or give her to his men. Her Highness is quite right when she says the Ciarán makes the King of Baelmark look like a gentleman. Inside a year you’d be the laughingstock of all Eurania.”
Ambrose harrumphed. That “laughingstock” would carry more weight with him than anything else that could be said. “Bah, you’re as bad as she is. She wants some scented court dandy to bed with, no doubt. You want the war to go on so you can be the fighting hero.”
“I am distressed if that is what Your Majesty believes. My commission is always at Your Majesty’s disposal.”
The King growled again. “Get up, girl! Sheath your claws! I won’t marry you off to the Ciarán. We’ll put that new chancellor of mine to work. Smart fellow. He’ll find a husband to take you at a price I can afford. Now get out of here and keep your mouth shut.”
The Trial, Day One
(CONTINUED)
“In his private life he was a tyrant,” Malinda said firmly, “and I never loved him, but his death was not something I planned or desired.”
Wind moaned in the chimney, wafting an especially acrid fog of smoke from the fireplace and rippling the ancient banners overhead. The elderly peer who had asked the question shifted uneasily on his stool. He was the Marquis of Midland, and King Ambrose had regarded him as a dimwit.
“The noble lord”—the chairman leaned forward and peered along the table—“may wish to reserve consideration of the witness’s feelings until after the facts have been introduced. It is not what she felt t
hat concerns the commission, but what she did.”
Unwilling to meet the agate eyes set in that skull face, the unfortunate peer shrank down. Satisfied that he had established who was in charge, the old man directed his pebbly stare at the Queen again.
“Let us begin. We have prepared a list of questions for the witness. It may be simplest if we consider the crimes in the order in—”
“Crimes?” Malinda snapped. “Your terminology is overly suggestive. Crimes there were aplenty, but I was rarely the culprit. For example, when I appointed you to my Privy Council, was I just naive or criminally negligent?”
“And were so many mysterious deaths accidents or murders?” the Chancellor rasped. “That is what we must establish. The committee will consider events in chronological order, starting with the sudden demise of Agnes, Dowager Baroness Leandre.” The old man produced no notes, because inquisitors were conjured to have perfect memories. If the questions filled hundreds of pages, he would still have every one of them at his fingertips. “Pray inform the commissioners of your relationship with the deceased.”
Malinda shrugged. “The facts are well known, so this is a waste of time, but time is something I have in excess. If the noble lords have nothing better to do, I am sorry for them. Agnes? My aunt Agnes. Family squabbles are an old tradition in the House of Ranulf. My father was one of five children, of whom three died in infancy. The other survivor was his eldest sister. Long before my own birth she eloped with a baron—yes, a mere baron! Not even a viscount.” She had hoped to win a smile or two from the commoners, but evidently none of the commissioners was in a mood for humor. “Shocked by this lapse of good taste, my grandfather locked them both up in the Bastion. Leandre died there of sewer fever. Agnes was eventually released, but was stripped of her royal titles and her infant son, who was raised at court. Even when my father succeeded, there was no reconciliation. Not until…368, I suppose. Yes, two years ago. He brought her to court. That was the only time I ever met her. She stayed a few weeks and then died quite suddenly.”
“And how did she die?” asked the chairman’s creaky voice.
“I was told that she went home to Castle Leandre, caught a fever, and succumbed very suddenly.”
“You were told. But was that the truth?”
No it wasn’t, and no one could deceive an inquisitor.
6
Hurting yourself is a valuable lesson; hurting other people is a crime.
QUEEN HARALDA
A week after the Night of Dogs, King Ambrose yielded to the will of Parliament and withdrew the bill to tax elementaries. But the sly fat man had not ruled Chivial for nearly twenty years without learning a trick or two. He had his new chancellor submit what he called a meringue, a trivial bill that did nothing except condemn evil enchanters. This banal measure naturally passed both houses without a murmur of dissent. The next day he dissolved Parliament and invoked that innocent-seeming act as his authority to investigate all users of conjury, to license those he deemed worthy and suppress all others, confiscating their property. Snake’s Old Blade irregulars were officially chartered as “Commissioners of the Court of Conjury.” They carried the war into the enemy camp and began uncovering horrors worse than anyone had ever dreamed.
The conjurers retaliated, launching what became known as the Monster War. Ambrose, who never lacked courage, increased the number of his public appearances, scorning attacks against his person. Just how many of those there were and what form they took, even Malinda could not discover. She knew that the Blades were all exceedingly jumpy and would not discuss casualties, but casualties there certainly were. Familiar faces disappeared and did not return.
Her own life was not immune. Now White Sisters were added to her household, tracking her everywhere, inspecting every room before she entered. She must not touch a single grape before a food taster had eaten half the bunch. These annoyances could be endured, she informed her father, but she absolutely refused to be shut up in a glass case like a china doll; she was of the Line of Ranulf, too, and a lot less valuable than he was. If he could defy the traitors, then so could she.
Reluctantly, but perhaps a little impressed, Ambrose agreed. Thus, in that winter of 368, Malinda enjoyed more liberty than she had known since she roamed the rocky shores of Ness Royal with Dian. She and her ladies went on numerous progresses, visiting towns she had never seen before. She launched ships, attended balls, made speeches. Civic banquets were a bloodcurdling bore, but being cheered in the streets could easily become addictive. She inspected some of the estates expropriated from condemned orders, gagging at the sight of cages where victims had been held prior to enthrallment, weeping for the mindless sex slaves created. Evidence of worse horrors was kept from her.
She got along well with the new Commander, Sir Bandit. He had the bushiest, blackest eyebrows ever seen, joined in the middle, but his mouth smiled so easily that he never seemed fierce. He was one of those rare people who could be amiable from morning till night, never grumpy or curt. When she dropped a hint that she considered younger Blades to be her most fitting defenders, he laughed and said, “They certainly think so, Your Grace!” but thereafter he assigned the juniors to attend her. She spent many an hour laughing with Eagle and his contemporaries as they rode the derelict winter roads together.
She missed Chancellor Montpurse. She was appalled when she returned from a progress and learned that he had been beheaded for treason. Treason? Montpurse? Unfortunate it was only minutes after she heard that news that she ran into his successor, the odious Lord Roland. Like her, he went nowhere now without an escort of Blades, not even along a palace corridor. He stepped out of her path and bowed low.
“Well!” she said. “How does it feel, my lord?”
“Feel, Your Highness?” He faked a look of extreme innocence. He was a tall man to have been a Blade, and admittedly striking in a dark-eyed, saturnine way, smooth as pond slime. Eagle and the others still worshiped him and spoke in awe of his skill with a sword—a knack whose relevancy as qualification for high office escaped her.
“To have uncovered a traitor so close to the throne? And so soon! To achieve so much so quickly must feel very good?”
He flinched. “No, Your Highness,” he said hoarsely. “It does not feel good.”
“Well, I expect you will get used to it.” After a couple of steps she looked back. “Do keep up the good work.”
Everything went well until Periwinkle Day.
Periwinkle Day was the fourteenth of Thirdmoon, around the time that spring reinvented lambs, flowers, and bright evenings. Her father and most of the Guard had disappeared; she assumed that they were taking advantage of the full moon to ride to Ironhall and harvest more Blades. The court was still resident at Nocare while Greymere was being refurbished, and just south of Nocare lay the Meald Hills, where a lady could fare forth with friends and fly a hawk or two. Malinda took an escort of four Blades, three grooms, and two falconers, but for female companionship she invited Dian and no one else. Lady Arabel frowned, Lady Crystal bleated, and Lady Wains babbled about a masque she had seen many years ago.
Malinda had never much cared for a sport that reduced pigeons to bloody feathers. She went prepared, in a divided skirt, and as soon as she was safely out of sight of the palace, she exchanged her dull little pony and sidesaddle for an eyerolling, fire-breathing charger named Thunderbolt, who made even the grooms clench their teeth. She sent everyone home except Dian and the Blades, and just barely managed to keep Thunderbolt under control until the rest were out of sight. Then she gave him his head.
Hooves thundering on the turf, he flew off over the hills like a spring gale, leaving the other five smelling his dust. This was riding! They would catch her soon enough, of course. For all her cuddliness, Dian was a superb rider and most Blades were almost as slick with horses as they were with swords. Sir Eagle, especially, was a marvel. He soon drew out in front of the others. When he began to close the gap, Malinda “accidentally” lost her hat so her hai
r would blow out like a banner of depravity in the wind. It gave him a chance to show off, which he did, whipping out his sword and retrieving her hat from the grass at full gallop. That did little for the hat, but a lot for laughter, flushed faces, and sparkling eyes.
It was spring.
At noon they picnicked in a sheltered glade, complete with mossy bank and chattering stream. The Blades always knew the latest court news and more secrets than even Lady Arabel. They did not deny that Ambrose had gone to Ironhall and might be gone several days, the roads being the way they were at this time of year.
“It’s shameful,” Eagle remarked. “Leader’s ripping the kids out of the womb to make up numbers. Fury’s Prime. How old is Fury, brother?”
Sir Hector shrugged. “Doubt if he’s eighteen yet.”
“Ridiculous!” Eagle was all of nineteen himself, just right to squire a sixteen-year-old princess. “A Blade must be able to maintain the Legend.”
“I’m sure you can handle his share for him.” Intrepid shot a sly glance at Malinda.
“Not if Iris hears of it he can’t,” Hector countered.
They began teasing Eagle about that unknown Iris and several other trollops as well. He turned a furious red and responded with comments on their own evening activities. Blades were notorious rakes—that was part of their appeal. Dian and Chandos, totally intent on each other, were edging closer and exchanging glances that grew hotter by the minute. It was spring.
“I think,” said Dian, preparing to rise, “that I shall be traditional and go pick some periwinkles.” Obviously she intended to enhance Chandos’s day in the woods considerably. He sprang to his feet and offered a hand.
“No you won’t!” Malinda lit up her best House-of-Ranulf glare. “I need you to witness that these scoundrels behave themselves.”
Pouting, Dian subsided. Chandos sighed piteously. Hector and Intrepid leered.
“Why do we have to behave ourselves?” Eagle asked innocently, giving her one of his skin-tingling looks.
