Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  His Excellency kissed her hand and released it. “He will not off course to Chivial come for the wedding. Is not the way kings are married.”

  “Just as well, or I might find myself trying to reassemble my husband for the wedding night.”

  His Excellency laughed diplomatically. “Certainly Radgar is not the most popular bridegroom you could have chosen, my lady. Chivial has a bad view of him, yes?”

  No worse than his bride’s.

  One nippy Tenthmoon morning, Ambassador Reinken came to Greymere with several clerks to begin discussing the wedding plans. Lord Whitney, the Chamberlain, was there also, a desiccated, permanently worried old man; he had scribes with him, too. Malinda brought only her Blades, confident that the sword was mightier than the pen, no matter what anyone said.

  Lord Whitney welcomed the acting Baelish consul. Ten nibs dipped in inkwells and began to scratch. Mijnheer Reinken responded. More scratching. Eventually the talk became relevant.

  “King Radgar especially asked,” Reinken said, “that you not attempt to become goot in Baelish before the wedding. He feels Baelish conjuration will be superior at imparting this language.”

  “And Chivian is his mother tongue anyway?” Malinda asked, causing the Lord Chamberlain to wince and the Ambassador to smile tactfully.

  Kings were usually married by proxy. The surrogate groom would then escort the bride to her husband’s realm for another marriage ceremony and all necessary et ceteras. “Worry you need not!” His Excellency proclaimed. “Radgar will send a bark or caravel. He will not make you cross the ocean in open boat!”

  “I want a dragon ship,” Malinda said firmly. It was, she felt, a tradition in the family.

  The old man shook his head dismissively. “No, no, my lady! A longship has no cabins! You will be exposed to the elements. Days of wind and spray! Storms!”

  “I want a dragon ship—shields, red sail, monster beak, and all! I want real pirates at the oars. It will give the guests something to remember.”

  “It will indeet!”

  The Lord Chamberlain shuddered. “Memo,” he dictated. “Have Yeoman Cavalry standing by.”

  She had won her first point. She then proceeded to argue her second. Forget tradition: she would not be married at Greymere. Mobs would riot in the streets of Grandon—her father had just been forced to prorogue Parliament after the shortest session in history because the members were enraged that the second in line to the throne was to marry the Baelish pirate. No, her wedding would be at Wetshore, which was a few miles downstream and handy for the longship. She quashed Lord Whitney’s protests easily. The King had given her a free hand, had he not?

  With Wetshore accepted, she had won all the points she needed. The rest could come later, when there was less chance of her father finding out what she was up to in time to stop her. Although she did not realize it, she had already opened the door to disaster.

  10

  Do you, Radgar, take this woman…

  CHIVIAN MARRIAGE SERVICE

  Her wedding day dawned, sort of. She had been lying awake for hours, listening to the steady drum of rain, the syncopated beat of the drips from the eaves, the trickling of gutters. A confused, uncertain daylight was creeping slowly in through clouds, casements, bed curtains. This was the day. The tides had determined it, but it happened to be Periwinkle Day. Poor Eagle!

  So far everything had gone according to plan. Incredibly, it had been less than a month ago that her father had lifted his head from his own grandiose plans for balls, masques, banquets, parades, and triumphal arches to look and see what his daughter had arranged for her wedding. He had then come very close to an apoplectic fit. “Spare no expense,” he had told her, and she had spared every expense she could find. No balls, no banquets, no parades, not even a buffet lunch. The Palace of Wetshore was a decayed and ramshackle dump, long due to be torn down, and capable of holding only a fraction of the notables who expected to attend a royal wedding. She had been able to omit many people she did not like—about four fifths of the aristocracy, three quarters of the diplomatic corps, and most of the King’s ministers. Unfortunately, Lord Roland, who had contrived her sacrifice, had duties that required him to be present. She had also included many people she liked and the King did not—Courtney, for instance, and all the Candlefens, who would have preferred not to come because they were relatives of the groom.

  To the world it would seem that her father had not merely sold her to a slaver but had even denied her a decent wedding. How wonderfully he had screamed when he found out! Petty? Certainly it was, but she would get no other satisfaction. Why should she want pomp and display? What did she have to celebrate? Soon would come the month-long celebrations of His Majesty’s marriage to Princess Dierda, and his daughter’s trivial fit of pique would be altogether forgotten.

  A clock chimed somewhere. She counted the strokes. Still too early to rise. She would embark at noon to catch the tide, sold and delivered. At least three days to Baelmark, perhaps three weeks if the winds were contrary.

  The loudest of Ambrose’s bellows had come when he realized that she was planning to depart without any entourage at all. Her household by then had been down to two, not counting servants. Arabel’s trunks were packed, and as soon as she had seen her princess dressed for the wedding, she would be off to a post Malinda had found for her as lady companion to a certain crotchety dowager. Dian, also, would be around to help this morning, but she slept now in the matrimonial bed of Sir Bandit, after a swift and surprising courtship. Her husband had no need for a bed or time to waste in one, but he did visit her there at quite frequent intervals. Sir Chandos had borne his loss with commendable courage and the help of friends.

  The invitations had been sent out, Baelmark had approved the arrangements, and the wedding itself could not be changed. Ambrose could do something about her train, though, and thus avert the scandal of a princess traveling unattended. Although no family wanted its daughters to endure such a journey or be prisoner in a faraway barbarous realm, he had found her two maids of honor, Lady Dove and Lady Ruby. How much they cost him in lands and appointments and royal favors no one knew, but Arabel insisted that the price had been enormous. Ruby was just a mouse who could not resist the bullying of avaricious parents. Dove was so stupid that she seemed to class Baelmark with Appleshire. Given half a chance, Malinda would leave them both behind on the beach.

  The next thing she knew was the bed curtains being thrown open with unnecessary vigor.

  “Terrible morning!” Dian said brightly. “Rained all night; roads will be rivers, but no wind, so the sea should be calm. I brought you some breakfast.”

  Malinda shuddered and pulled the quilt over her face. “No breakfast, thank you. I’ll stay here. I feel like a day in bed.”

  “No, that comes later,” Dian said. “That is the fun part, believe me.”

  She had only two events scheduled that day, and the first one was to go and spend an hour with Amby. He had a slight fever, was coughing a lot, feeling very sorry for himself. He did not know yet that he would never see her again, and in the end she did not have the heart to tell him. She stayed so long that Dian had to come and fetch her.

  Later, being dressed by Arabel and a team of helpers, Malinda watched the procedure in the mirror with a curious detachment. What would the slaver think of his prize when he ripped her clothes off for the first time? Her hair was her best feature, dark brown with bronze highlights, like old oak. Clean skin, but Baelish lice, fleas, and bedbugs would probably take care of that. Her breasts were still high and not nearly as heavy as those broad shoulders warranted—men were very interested in breasts, Dian said. Dian would naturally like to think so. If Malinda’s husband-to-be wanted her for childbearing he would approve of the wide hips; she ought to be good for a dozen or so before she wore out. If he preferred sylphs for bed wrestling, he could send her off to work in the fields. Would King Rat consider that hefty young body worth ending a profitable war? Or would he just ta
ke her and laugh and let the war go on?

  She had chosen a simple blue woolen dress, suitable for ocean voyages in open boats. Its open skirt revealed a gold kirtle to match her eyes. Over it she would wear a sable cloak that Father had given her, which had belonged to some of his wives, and on her head a gable hood with lappets to keep the worst of the weather off her face. No jewelry at all, she had decided. All the best jewels in Chivial had ended up in Baelmark long ago.

  “Ripped all his clothes off,” Arabel said.

  “What?”

  “The Countess. She practically ripped all his clothes off then and there.” The mistress of rumors was regaling the team with scandal while braiding Malinda’s hair.

  “Whose clothes off?”

  “Thegn Leofric’s. But Lady Violet got between them…”

  Leofric was King Radgar’s proxy for the wedding. He had arrived the previous day, the first Bael Malinda had ever seen, other than corpses rotting on gallows. His longship and its two escorts now awaited her, at anchor in the estuary not a mile from the palace. She had first set eyes on him when he had presented his credentials to the King. She had been required to stand on the dais beside her father and recite a set speech, which she delivered in a singsong to show what she thought of it.

  “Your Excellency is as welcome as the first swallows of spring, being a sign that my long winter of loneliness is over. Seeing the substitute, I am now doubly eager to meet the original.”

  If Thegn Leofric was not truly a welcome sight, he was certainly an unusual one by Chivian standards. His right eye socket was hidden behind a silver patch inset with what she had at first sight assumed to be a chunk of green glass; after a glance over the rest of him, she had realized that it must be an emerald. He was far from young, with jagged white scars on his ropy forearms and craggy, weathered face, but although his hair had receded and faded to a yellowish gray, he still had enough of it to dangle a ponytail halfway down his back. His clothes were equally bizarre but superbly made—a short-sleeved, knee-length sea-green smock, richly embroidered with coiling serpents in silver thread and bright stones; below that, ornate cross-gartered leggings and soft buskins. Like a servant, he wore no hat or cloak, and yet jewels glittered on his hands, belt, and dagger, while around his neck hung a triple string of glorious pearls as big as thumbnails.

  He spoke perfect Chivian, probably spiritually imparted. “My lord is as impatient for that meeting as your exquisite self, Your Highness, although the reports he was given have utterly failed to prepare him for the joy awaiting him. As you can see, we Baels have no horns, no fangs.”

  Humor was a game that two could play. “It is well known that you eat babies, though. Do you have any special instructions for the cooks?”

  The audience drew breath in shock.

  Leofric laughed easily. “No, Your Grace. Whatever way you normally prepare them will be agreeable to me.”

  Ambrose chuckled. The court exploded in applause. So she had lost the first round. When she could be heard, she tried again.

  “King Radgar has been Lord of the Fire Lands for almost twelve years, I’m told. I understand that few kings rule in Baelmark so long.” With luck she would be widowed soon and free to return home.

  The thegn shrugged. “He’s good for many years yet, my lady. I’m sure he can hold on to the throne long enough.”

  “Long enough for what?”

  “For one of his sons to succeed him.”

  “I didn’t know he had—” Then she understood and felt herself blush crimson, while her father led the court in communal guffawing. The idea that Baels could have a sense of humor like ordinary people was a considerable surprise, almost annoying.

  She had angered her father by inviting Courtney to the wedding; she decided to set him on Thegn Leofric at the earliest opportunity.

  Even unarmed, the Bael raised the hackles of every Blade who set eyes on him. They skulked in corners and slunk in shadows, stalking the invader with suspicious scowls. While lowering their eyebrows, he raised the ladies’, yet he seemed curiously indifferent to their attention. Despite that, he had been a considerable sensation at the party in the evening, and apparently even more of one after Malinda left. Several ladies of the court notoriously carved notches in their bedposts, and a genuine Baelish raider would be the catch of the year in the promiscuity stakes….

  “And who won?” asked Lady Ruby, shocked pink by the story.

  “Violet did,” Arabel said. “She practically dragged him upstairs by his topknot.” She would not have been there, but her information was usually correct.

  “I do hope he was worth her efforts,” Malinda said icily.

  “It seems likely.” Dian entered the conversation. “According to the Guard, he left Lady Violet’s chamber a couple of hours later and was admitted to the Countess’s.”

  Upstaged, Arabel snorted disbelief. “At his age?”

  “I think he could afford the very best in conjuration, don’t you?”

  Arabel said, “Hmm?” thoughtfully. “Well, I can find out how Lady Violet made out, anyway.”

  It seemed only seconds before Malinda was standing in a very crowded room between her father and that same Leofric, facing Lord Chancellor Roland, who was asking, “Do you, Malinda, take the man Radgar, here represented, to be your wedded…honor…obey…cherish…” She wondered what vows the Baelish wedding ceremony demanded, or if it was just a series of threats. She did not recall answering the question.

  “Do you, Radgar, take…?”

  She pressed her signet into the wax and watched Thegn Leofric do the same.

  She sat at his side in the coach, chaperoned by the blank-faced Lady Dove and the tensely suspicious Sir Dreadnought. A flashy troop of lancers from the Household Yeomen cantered alongside. Rain streamed down the windows. The park at Wetshore was a wide expanse of grassland, grazed close by sheep and used for events such as horse racing and archery that could be either sporting or military. It seemed very green under a dull pewter sky and skeleton trees, while off to the south stretched the leaden expanse of the Gran estuary. On the edge of the bank a gaudy canopy fluttered, and beyond that swayed the mast of a Baelish longship, red sail furled along its yard. Even a king would wait on a bride, and Ambrose was already in place, backed by the blue blur of the Royal Guard. Landward trailed a long serpent of umbrellas, hundreds of important guests waiting under the watchful eyes of heralds until they could advance to say their farewells. Lesser dignitaries were being kept in the background by lancers and men-at-arms. The Lord Chamberlain’s office had estimated this part of the ceremony would last two hours, but the tide had already turned and the ship must sail by noon.

  She should make conversation, but if she asked whether the hospitality had been satisfactory, Leofric might tell her in embarrassing detail. “What is your ship called, my lord?”

  Baels were all supposed to have red hair and green eyes, but his eye was a faded blue. “She is not really mine, Your Grace. I borrowed her. She is Wæternædre, which means ‘water snake.’ I think one of the others has come to fetch us, though.”

  Two more longships were just visible in the rainy distance. “And what are their names?”

  “Wæl and Wracu, mistress.”

  “Meaning?”

  He hesitated an instant. “‘Slaughter’ and ‘revenge.’”

  “Oh. Well, I did ask for a real dragon ship. I should not expect it to be called Duckling or Custard.”

  Just then the coach creaked, squeaked, and finally shuddered to a stop. As a herald opened the door, buglers played a fanfare—which she did not recall being in the program—and onlookers cheered. She was supposed to step out onto the platform directly in front of her father and curtsey, but he was not visible and the space under the little canopy was packed solid with senior nobility anxious to stay dry. They squeezed back to let her in. The rain had ruined all the plans, she was running late, and now there was shouting and men running. She registered Thegn Leofric emerging behind
her, the hateful, fishy stare of Secretary Kromman—how did that slime ever get into her wedding?—and the cynical smirk of tubby little Courtney, whose wedding present had been the largest diamond she had ever seen. Amid all the clamor and confusion, she heard Amby cough.

  With his fever? Out in this damp? Forgetting protocol, she thrust people aside—“Let me through! Out of my way! Let me through!”—until she reached him, down at knee level, clinging to his nurse’s finger, little face blue with cold. She grabbed him up and hugged him, glaring at the imbecile governess, Countess Napham, who would have brought him simply because she lacked the sense or courage to question a royal order. Malinda peered around. “Father? Your Majesty!” But she still could not see him, who was normally so visible in a crowd, and the shouting and bugle blowing was louder. Lancers cantered by, shaking the ground.

  “Trouble, Your Highness?” inquired the steel-cold voice of Lord Roland at her elbow. He must have followed her.

  “He’s sick!” she said. “He should be home in bed. Healers—”

  “Of course. Allow me. Sir Bloodfang!” That resonant voice could slash out commands that oak trees would jump to obey.

  “Excellency?” Bloodfang was not the sharpest of the Blades, which was why he so often found himself guarding a three-year-old.

  “Escort the Prince and his attendants back to the palace and have a healer look at him.”

  “Good-bye, Amby!” she whispered, passing him to the Blade.

  “Your Highness,” said Thegn Leofric at her other elbow, “your royal father has summoned us.”

  “What?” She looked around at the seething multitude of barons, viscounts, earls, marquises, dukes, government officials, military officers, consuls and ambassadors—and all their grand ladies, of course—all entitled and determined to kiss her fingers and wish her good chance in interminable detail. Dove and Ruby must be in there somewhere, saying their farewells. Good riddance! She laid a hand on the thegn’s arm. “Then let us respond.”