Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  When she had scraped the bowl and choked down some water, she undressed and curled up small in her blanket. “Good night, all! Good night, Moment. Good night, Horatio. Good night, Winter.”

  How long could she spin it out? How long before the commissioners went away and left her alone again with the spiders?

  9

  The said monarchs do hereby pledge and agree…

  PREAMBLE, TREATY OF DRACHVELD

  Ambrose was first stunned and then infuriated by the news of his sister’s death—and uncharacteristically maudlin in his celebration of Malinda’s narrow escape. He heartily approved of what she had done to Courtney. “Can’t think why I’ve put up with the toad for so long,” he grumbled. “He might have been dangerous when his mother was my heir, but he couldn’t stir up trouble in a henhouse now. Wasted a good dukedom on him.” So the Prince was packed off to his new estates to arrange for his mother’s funeral now and her official death later. He probably enjoyed the irony of that, except that he had no one to share it with.

  The assassination did not persuade the King to abandon his campaign against the enchanters. Nor did he change his mind a week later, when it became Malinda’s turn to congratulate him on a very close call. Hawking in the Great Forest, he was cornered by a monstrous thing, half man and half giant cat; it disemboweled Sir Knollys and broke Intrepid’s neck before Dreadnought killed it. Even then, Ambrose never considered surrender.

  Around midsummer strange rumors began to fly. As usual, Arabel was the first to hear, and one breathless hot afternoon at Hilburgh Palace she came hurrying over the grass to tell Malinda, who was attempting to play ball on the great lawn with Amby and a reluctant Dian. No one over the age of three could consider such torture to be fun when everyone else was sprawled on couches under the trees, being plied with cool drinks by sweating pages. Only an especially spicy tale would make the Mistress of the Robes move at all.

  “They say His Majesty is about to announce his betrothal to Princess Dierda of Gevily.”

  “I hope the lady is of stoical disposition.”

  “Probably not, in view of her youth.” Arabel’s eyes gleamed. “Her Highness is a month younger than you.”

  Malinda missed an easy catch, causing the Crown Prince to shriek in derision. “Then you had better start looking out for my trousseau,” she said. Her father would never tolerate the ridicule that must follow a wife younger than his daughter. It would be daughter out before queen in.

  Marriage might be a release from a court that increasingly felt like a prison. The nobility found excuses to stay away, because court now seemed a dangerous place. There had been no more talk of governesses, but security alone curtailed Malinda’s freedom almost as much as Agnes had. The Blades and White Sisters were stretched to their limits, so she rarely ventured outside whichever palace was the current residence. Throwing balls for Amby was entertaining in small doses, but it did pall. Looking at his flushed face and dumpy figure, she tried to imagine him a year from now with a baby brother or sister—and herself holding his baby niece or nephew.

  “And whose blushing bride will I be?”

  Arabel shrugged her bulging shoulders. “Still the same two favorites—Prince Hesse of Fitain or—”

  “I thought he was dying of the coughing sickness?”

  “They think he’ll last a few years yet. But the Duke of Anciers is leading the pack now.”

  Malinda sighed. “I know—he’s the one whose last three wives died under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Not just wives, either,” Dian said. “I heard he has a strong preference for virgins.”

  “Someone should tell him we’re reusable. Is the ‘For Sale’ sign still hung on my back?”

  “Inscribed in fire.”

  Other news was mostly good that summer. In Wylderland the Rector won a great battle, capturing the Ciarán himself and sending him to Grandon in chains. The Baels maintained their blockade but seemed to have stopped raiding, and there were persistent rumors of a treaty in the offing. More elementaries were raided, more horrors uncovered, more orders suppressed. Familiar faces among the Blades and White Sisters disappeared and were replaced by disconcertingly young ones. Sir Snake and his Old Blades claimed to have destroyed a nest of traitor conjurers somewhere in the marshes of Eastfare.

  Court was at Nocare and the Meald Hills were gilded and bronzed by fall when a page brought word that Lord Chancellor Roland craved audience with Her Highness concerning her marriage.

  She should have received him privately, of course, in her withdrawing room with only Blades as witnesses. For some perverse reason she decided on a public audience in the presence chamber, with Arabel and Crystal for support and the ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor at the far end, just out of earshot. They were all dying of curiosity, but they could do so and cremate themselves for all she cared—this would be the most critical news of her entire life. Regiments of butterflies cruised her insides.

  Roland was punctual to the first chime of the tower clock. He left his guards at the door and swept forward with that distinctive grace, carrying a slim folder. Watching him approach in his rich robes, she realized that she could not expect a husband any handsomer than the Chancellor himself and should be prepared for much less—a child or a grandfather or some ghastly inbred degenerate…. He bowed, came forward, bowed again, and knelt on the cushion to kiss her fingers. His hand was warmer than hers.

  She wasted no breath on pleasantries. “How may I assist you, my lord?”

  She had not told him to rise. His eyes stared up at her, darkly inscrutable yet somehow suggesting that two could play tricks like that.

  “I bring joyful news for Your Grace.” He opened the folder and handed her a paper.

  It trembled in her grasp. She stared at a skillful drawing in silverpoint, the head of a youngish man gazing into the distance. He wore a close-cropped fringe of beard and hair much longer than a Chivian’s, both of which the artist represented as light in color; the eyes even more so. The features were strong rather than handsome, but they had the leanness of an active man. No indolent fop, this…likely intelligent. A soldier, perhaps, or even a poet—there seemed to be a gentleness about the eyes…. Would she see this face every night and morning for the rest of her days? Not nearly so terrible as her nightmares had prophesied…and somehow—maddeningly, vaguely—familiar.

  “A widower,” Roland said. “He has no legitimate children, and none at all that I know of. His wife was an invalid for more than ten years and he could have put her aside, but never did.”

  All very comforting! The sketch trembled in her grasp. She thrust it at Arabel and had to swallow a few times before she could speak. “Appearances can be deceptive, my lord. Has he a name?”

  “I believe his appearance is less deceptive than his reputation, mistress. He—”

  “Who is he?”

  Roland drew a deep breath. “Radgar Æleding, Your Grace.”

  “The pirate?”

  “The King of Baelmark.”

  Her hand flew up to strike him. Roland braced himself for the impact, but made no other move than that. She stayed the blow.

  “Is that the best you can find? Or the worst you can find? That slaver…murderer…that monstrous…” Her voice cracked. “You insolent upstart! You would sell me to a fiend? Chain me to those barren rocks? My father will hear of—” She ran to the door.

  She tried to run to the door. Roland was on his feet and holding her wrist before she had taken two steps. She had never known a man to move so fast.

  “Unhand me!”

  “Your father is not in the palace, Your Grace,” he said quietly.

  “Take your disgusting hand off me!”

  He released her, but he was between her and the exit. “His Majesty is inspecting coastal defenses and will not return for two days. Will you hear me out, my lady?”

  The Chancellor had chosen his moment well. Or else her father was not man enough to face her tears. At that realizati
on her anger burned up hotter than ever, drying away any hint of tears. Sold! Booty! She spoke through clenched teeth, for Roland’s ears alone. “I will kill myself before I go to that man’s bed!” Untold thousands of Chivians had been taken by the brute, enthralled into mindless tools, sold at the far ends of the world by Baelish traders. Dozens of cities he had burned, towns sacked, ships seized. Now the King’s daughter…

  “My lady,” the Chancellor said softly, “please hear me out. The peace treaty is already agreed and sealed. Your betrothal is the key to end this terrible war, which has dragged on for ten whole years now and caused so much suffering. But there is a clause in there that King Radgar himself insisted on. You must testify that you accept this marriage voluntarily, of your own free will and—”

  “My own free won’t! If that is the case you can rip your precious treaty into strips right now and hang it in the privy.” She was shaking with fury now, shouting at him, oblivious to the scandal her words must cause. “I don’t believe a word of it! If that ghoul—”

  Roland did not raise his voice, but its deep tones rolled irresistibly over her protests. “King Radgar’s own mother was carried off from Chivial by force on her very wedding day. He is adamant that he will not—”

  He was gone.

  Malinda turned. Again displaying astonishing agility, the Chancellor had jumped past her just in time to catch Lady Crystal as she toppled over in a dead faint. Half a dozen Blades sprinted across the room to help, and only then did Malinda recall that the woman Roland had been discussing had been Lady Charlotte Candlefen, Crystal’s aunt. That was why there had been a vague familiarity about the face in the sketch! King Radgar was Crystal’s first cousin, and through that slight connection, he was also a distant relative of Malinda herself.

  The Baelmark branch of the family was rarely mentioned.

  Later she went for a walk in the park with Dian, holding hands and kicking the fallen leaves, as they had done when they were children. Blades tracked them at a distance, half-seen figures moving under the great beeches.

  Dian was trying hard to be supportive. “You will appeal to your father, of course?”

  “If he’s signed a treaty it’s too late.”

  “Baelmark will be an interesting experience. I’ve never tried any red-headed lovers. I wonder if their…yes, of course, it will be.”

  Malinda shot her an astonished look to see if she was serious. “You’re not coming!”

  “Oh, of course I’ll come with you! You’ll need someone and frankly it’s not going to be easy to—”

  “You are not coming to Baelmark with me and that is final!”

  “So what else can I do?” Dian argued, but weakly. Obviously—and understandably—she was relieved not to be facing exile to the Fire Lands.

  “Get married. Or are you lying when you say Chandos proposes every time you go to bed?”

  “Who’s Chandos?”

  “There’s another? Tell me! I know he hasn’t got red hair, but what else has he got?”

  Dian sniggered. “The usual.” She began going into details.

  Four days passed before Malinda was allowed in to see her father, and even then he received her in his bedchamber, far from any public spaces. She could scream tantrums there and no one else would hear, except Scofflaw and the two young Blades standing rigidly by the door, Sir Orvil and Sir Rufus. The King was in his shirtsleeves and doublet, overflowing a bench, while Scofflaw brushed what was left of the royal hair.

  “Never mind kneeling and groveling. If you’ve come to whine, it won’t do any good. You told me once you wanted a healthy man, and Radgar Æleding is built like an oak keel. Nothing unhealthy about him. Virile as they come, I’d think.”

  “He’s a monster!”

  Her father’s face was ideally designed for pouting. “No he isn’t! I have it on excellent authority that he is a very personable man, even charming. The way he treated his first wife shows that.”

  Ambrose IV was an expert on the treatment of wives.

  “A slaver!”

  “Bah!” The King clenched his fat fists on his knees. “He’s a very ruthless fighter, that’s all. How do you think the Wylds regard me, hmm? Am I personally responsible for every rape or theft my armies commit in Wylderland or Isilond? War is war and what a soldier does in it has little to do with his private life. Don’t believe all that nonsense about poverty, either! The Baels may have started with a cluster of bare rocks, but they’re rich enough now to pave every inch of them with gold. Radgar Æleding could buy half of Chivial out of one pocket.”

  “Was this abomination his idea or Roland’s?”

  “Doesn’t matter whose idea it was.” He was growing impatient, hinting that she should now withdraw. “What matters is that now we have a peace treaty after eleven years of bloody war. If his price is one willful wench in honorable marriage, then who are you to say that the killing and slaving must go on? Do you rate yourself so high, hmm?”

  There was the pit of spikes. There was the dungeon that she could never escape.

  “How do you rate your honor, sire?”

  He stared at her as if unable to credit his ears. “You don’t speak to me like that!”

  “I do now! Any decent father would have had the grace to break the news to me himself. Or even told me the terms demanded and asked my consent.” She saw Scofflaw gaping at her, Scofflaw who normally noticed nothing.

  “Vixen! Ungrateful wretch!”

  “Oh, yes, go ahead and roar! Huff and puff! Throw me in the Bastion. Then hand me over to the Baels in chains and tell Monster Radgar that I freely consent to this marriage.”

  Ambrose heaved himself to his feet so he could glare down at her, and now his voice was dangerously quiet. “You have a choice, miss. You can agree to this marriage of your own free will or you can face a charge of high treason. Months it took Roland to negotiate that treaty and you’re going to throw it all away? You’ll condemn more thousands to death or slavery? More years of slaughter?”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me?” she whispered.

  His eyes seemed to shrink even smaller as he appraised her, wondering if he had won. “What would you have said?”

  There was no choice. “I’d have agreed of course.” As she said those words, all the anger drained away. Not even hate was left. Only contempt: he could have told her himself.

  “Then why trouble you any sooner than necessary? It might have all fallen through in the end, like all the others.” He stumped forward and clasped her in his great pillow arms. That way he didn’t have to look at her. “I know how frightening this must be for you. You’ve always had the courage of our great ancestors. Show it now. The Thergian ambassador will act as Baelish consul for the present. He’ll have to approve the wedding arrangements, but I’ll leave them all up to you. Lord Chamberlain will do whatever you want. Spare no expense, put on a great spectacle! I have my own wedding to organize. Let’s see which of us can stage the finer display, hmm?”

  She would be gone across the rolling seas before the future Queen Dierda arrived, so she would never see that other wedding.

  Ambrose released her. “Well?”

  “Most generous of you, sire! Every girl dreams of a showy wedding.”

  Incredibly, he believed her. Beaming, he patted her shoulder and told her to run along and get started.

  The most extraordinary rumors churned through the court—that she had struck the Lord Chancellor, that she had screamed at her father in public. She did not bother to deny any of them, and it would have made no difference if she had.

  Lady Crystal had fallen into a decline. In tears she begged leave to withdraw from court, and Malinda gave her consent, which she had no authority to do. Then all her ladies-in-waiting and maids of honor wanted to go, too, just in case they got packed off to Baelmark, so she gave every one of them permission and was left with only Dian and Arabel and some servants. The Lord Chamberlain duly published the departures in the Gazette and she realized that s
he now had power, because Ambrose needed her. She had escaped from her father’s rule and was not yet confined by her husband’s.

  She almost choked during the formal betrothal ceremony, when she had to make public declaration before the diplomatic corps that she welcomed the match and freely consented. She got the words out somehow, and later signed an equally false letter to Monster Radgar himself. His reply, when it came, she burned unread.

  But there was the wedding to plan, and the chance of a small revenge.

  The Astronomer Royal had designated 368 a thirteenmoon year, but the season was already late. Although Baels sometimes sailed in winter, no one else ever did, and Princess Dierda must travel by sea also…. Adding it all up, it was obvious that there was simply no time to organize the two weddings. The King sulked mightily but eventually agreed to put them both off until spring.

  Malinda cared for few of the ambassadors, but mijnheer Nikolai Reinken of Thergy was an exception, a silver-haired, grandfatherly man with twinkling blue eyes. He had been the first person to present her with a betrothal present, a pair of gold earrings which he swore had been enchanted to ward off seasickness. More significantly, he clasped her hand warmly in both of his and said in a voice both heavily accented and conspiratorial, “I have met your future husband several times!”

  “You have been to Baelmark?” She was surprised. Few who went to Baelmark ever returned.

  “No, no, but I hear is a very beautiful land. King Radgar comes to Thergy quite often. Incognito, of course. But he is goot friend of King Johan! Most charming man! Most courteous.”

  Her mind boggled at the thought of a charming pirate, a courteous slaver. She wondered if mijnheer Reinken was her father’s “excellent authority.”