by Dave Duncan
But they were only the first. At the far end, where she was, the water was deeper and the man trying to climb up was having trouble doing so while holding his sword. He had both arms on the boards, supporting his weight while his feet sought a foothold in the pilings. She ran forward and barely recognized Sir Falcon, so much had rage distorted his face. She slammed a foot down on the sword. “The King is dead!” she shouted. “Long live the King!” That was the recipe, the only thing that might bring rampaging Blades to their senses, because they were bound to defend both the King and his heirs.
“Long live the King! Long live the King!”
His Majesty King Ambrose V, aged three years and a few months.
Falcon screamed back up at her and tried to beat on her foot with his free hand. Then he found enough wits to grab her ankle and haul on it, so she swung a savage kick on his nose with her other foot and promptly fell flat on her back. Her ankle came free, though; he had gone, leaving his sword behind. She was up on her feet in an instant, grabbing it up hungrily. When his bloody face emerged from the water, his screaming sounded very different. Again he heaved himself partway up, and this time even got one foot on the deck, so she swung the sword down two-handed across his neck.
When she opened her eyes, there were only red bubbles…. She had probably just killed a Blade and had certainly disarmed one, which was even rarer. Two more of them were fighting a duel halfway between her and whatever was happening at the landward end. She ran to them, still clutching Falcon’s bloody sword.
“Long live the King!”
Alas, Screwsley and Orvil were far too busy battling and screaming to pay any heed to her as she stood there yelling her mantra, “Long live the King! Long live the King!” Then Sir Huntley ran Orvil through from behind. Before he could pull his sword free, he was struck down by Screwsley, who promptly swung around to deal with Malinda. She howled in terror and half jumped, half fell off the jetty.
The water was shockingly cold and black as midnight. For a few choking moments she could not tell which way was up, but here it was no more than waist deep. Spluttering and coughing, she struggled to her feet, sinking into the ooze as if trying to take root. There, right in front of her, was the bedraggled but still obviously crazy Sir Screwsley, who must have followed her down. Mad eyes gleaming, mouth wide open in his unending scream, he swung his sword.
A great wave swept her over and submerged her again in blackness. It slammed her against something very solid, probably pilings. Again she fought her way back to air and daylight. The cause of the current was a plunging, struggling horse. As the water cleared from her ears, she heard its rider shouting.
“Malinda! Quick! Malinda!” Incredibly, it was Lord Roland in his chain of office and crimson robes, although he had lost his hat. He sheathed his sword and held out a hand for her, keeping his horse under control with the other. She grabbed, and he hauled her up behind him—astride of course. Her waterlogged dress crawled right up her, leaving her legs exposed, and spirits knew where her bonnet had gone. Perforce she threw both arms around her savior to stay on. The body floating there must be Sir Screwsley.
The horse went plunging and splashing landward.
“What in death’s name are you doing here?” she yelled.
“Rescuing you, of course.”
This was a cavalry horse. How had he got hold of that? Had he ridden it down the bank? To save her?
“Thank you!”
“Thank me when you’re safely home!” he shouted. “Thank the spirits you sent the Prince away, though.”
Oh, Amby! “Will he be all right?”
“He should be—he’s the heir. And he’s only a baby…We must get to him before his guards hear the news, though. Hold on!”
They had reached the shore, and the rump on which she was so precariously perched tilted almost vertical. “You can’t ride a horse up this cliff!” she howled.
Yes he could.
The deluge of bodies had stopped; a few people were clambering back up on hands and knees. Hoof by hoof, the poor horse struggled to be a mountain goat. In grave danger of sliding off, she clung tight to Roland, her face hard against his bony back.
Her father was dead! That enormity had not penetrated yet. The giant presence that had dominated her life and the whole country for so many years was suddenly missing. She might not come to terms with that for weeks, or months. Amby was only a baby, a sickly child who seemed to need a healing every few days for coughs or fevers. So who would rule his realm until he grew up?
What happened if he didn’t grow up? She tried to thrust the thought away—spirits, her father wasn’t even cold yet—but the question kept slithering back. Princess Dierda was not going to provide any answers now. Malinda was heir presumptive again, and an heir much closer to the throne than was healthy. Life expectancy in royal families usually dropped significantly during regencies.
“What did Radgar say to you?” Lord Roland had his head in his horse’s mane.
“He said Father cheated…that Father must have known who he was.”
“He recognized him. They met in Ironhall, years ago. Radgar trained there.”
“No!”
“Yes. A clever, clever man! He distracted us all with that honor guard just now—it made us all think of swords and axes and forget about archery. We forgot that the war was a personal quarrel that needed only one arrow.”
Not far to go now, but she could feel her knees and hands weakening with the effort of hanging on. “Why didn’t Father tell me he knew him?” Why quote an “excellent authority”?
“Because…because Baelish kingship isn’t like ours, but twelve years ago your father pretty much had the heir to the Baelish throne in his hands. What he planned to do with him I don’t know, but Radgar made a fool of him—he escaped, went home, seized the throne by murdering his uncle, and then declared war on your father. Not on Chivial, on its king. I should have seen…Bandit…Death and fire! We should have all seen!”
Lord Roland would not enjoy being outwitted; it would be a salutary experience for him.
The gasping, shivering horse reached level ground and tilted the world back to its normal position. Roland patted its neck and gave it a few moments to breathe. The park looked like a battlefield, with bodies everywhere—men, horses, women, even a pathetic page lying stiff in his own blood. Not many of the dead were Blades. The canopy had collapsed. Here and there, survivors were sitting up, nursing wounds or wandering in shock, and there were lancers riding in the distance—they seemed to be chasing Blades and cutting them down. The only screaming she could hear now was the sound of the wounded.
Roland growled something she did not ask him to repeat. Then he urged the horse forward. If he went any faster than a walk, she was going to fly off. Her hair had fallen into a great lopsided knot over one ear and her skirts were bunched up around her hips.
“Those poor people!” she shouted. “We should help them!”
“No, my lady!” he shouted back. “You have duties to perform that no one else can.”
A broken neck would not improve her performance, but he urged the horse into a canter and she did not fall off. At least it was not a trot. They raced past small groups of survivors straggling back to the palace; she heard some angry shouts behind her, but could not tell whether they were directed at her or the Lord Chancellor.
Her father was dead. The history of Chivial had just changed direction. She was not married to a foreign pirate king. She was still here, not there. But nothing was the same and never would be.
13
I do swear upon my soul that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty Ambrose V as lawful sovereign of the realm of Chivial and Nostrimia, and Prince of Nythia, and I will defend him to the utmost of my power against all traitorous conspiracies or attempts whatever which shall be made against his person, crown, and dignity; and that I will do my utmost endeavor to disclose and make known to His Majesty, his heirs and successors, all treasons
and traitorous conspiracies and attempts which I shall know to be against him or any of them; and all this I swear without any equivocation, mental evasion, or secret reservation, and renouncing all pardons and dispensations from any person or persons whatsoever to the contrary.
THE OATH OF ALLEGIANCE
Roland rode right up the steps to the arch, where two men-at-arms and three dismounted lancers stood guard. Strong hands helped her down, and she realized that she had left her shoes in the mud flats. Roland’s heels hit the flags; he passed his reins to one of the Yeomen. “Any trouble, Ensign?”
“No, my lord.” The officer was a willow sapling with a cotton-fluff mustache and a very worried expression.
“It should be about over. If they can speak the oath of allegiance, they’re all right and you may admit them.”
“And if they can’t, my lord?”
“I told you what to do. Good luck. My lady?” Roland escorted Malinda into Wetshore Palace at a near run. “You need a change of clothes, Your Grace. Will there be anything in your quarters?”
“Probably.” She had left a few things for Dian to distribute among the servants. “But the doors may be locked.”
He went up the stairs two at a time, wet robes flapping around his ankles. She raised her sodden skirts and kept pace in her stocking feet.
“We’ll try the door first,” he said.
That meant he knew of a way in that she did not, just like in Greymere on the Night of Dogs. She made another mark against Lord Roland on her mental charge sheet. True, he had come to save her at no small risk to himself, but what were his motives? He was obviously trying to use her for some purpose of his own. Regencies bred their own especially foul brand of politics, and no doubt he would be one of the leading experts in this one. He was probably scheming to be regent himself.
The door was unlocked. They went into the anteroom, dim and cool and silent.
“Please be as quick as you possibly can, my lady.”
“Why? What do you want me to do?”
“Sorry!” His smile flashed and was gone. “Your brother is being guarded by four Blades. I ordered his quarters cordoned off, but I need your help in breaking the news to them. Please?”
The coldness in his eyes implied danger not mentioned. The horrors might not be over yet, and even Amby might be at risk.
“Of course!” she said, and ran. Her presence chamber was barren, stripped of furniture. She had no servants. She would need a whole new household, a new wardrobe….
She crossed her withdrawing room to her dressing room and at least that was still furnished. She went straight to the curtains and hauled them back to see what she was doing, then turned to the wardrobes, wondering where to start. If Lord Roland had arranged her father’s death…
“There she is now.” Sir Fox emerged from the closet.
Malinda’s scream froze in her throat.
“So she is,” agreed Sir Fitzroy, stepping out from behind the fourposter.
They both held swords. Fitzroy’s was bloodstained. Fox’s livery was splattered with mud and blood. Their smiles were mawkish, frozen, meaningless; and their eyes seemed horribly wrong—staring past her or through her, not at her. They converged on her, and she backed away until she met the wall. She knew she should scream, but she couldn’t even draw breath. Lord Roland would come running, but he was three rooms away and those swords were only inches….
“Stop!” she croaked, almost inaudibly. “What have I done?”
“Done?” Fox said, smiling at her left ear. “What has she done, brother?”
“She killed our ward, brother,” Fitzroy told the wall.
“Yes, she told the pirate to kill our ward.”
“She will have to die, brother.”
“Have to bleed.”
“No, it wasn’t her.” Lord Roland was leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. “If you want the traitor who killed your ward, it isn’t her.”
He was still too far away to rescue her if the madmen lunged, but his words distracted them. They rotated so their crazy eyes and frozen smiles were directed at him. Very gently, very slowly, Malinda began to edge crabwise along the wall.
“Who was the traitor, Brother Durendal?” asked Fox.
“Yes, Leader, tell us.”
“Who must we kill? We hurt. We must kill the traitor.”
“Mm?” Roland still seemed supremely bored. “Remember Sir Wolfbiter? Classmate of yours.”
“He died!” Fox said sharply. “He was your Blade and he died.”
“Did you kill our brother?” Fox began walking toward Roland.
Fitzroy followed. Malinda wondered if she should dive into the closet and try to hold the door against them. Or where she might find a weapon to help Lord Roland…
“I didn’t kill him,” the Chancellor said casually. “It was Master Secretary Kromman who killed Wolfbiter. Kromman killed your ward, too. It was his idea. He talked your ward into inviting the pirate to come in his ship so the pirate could shoot him. It’s Kromman you must kill, brothers.”
“Where is Kromman?” Fox whispered. The point of his sword was at Roland’s throat.
“He’s downstairs in my office, rummaging through the files. You’ll find him there, brothers. Go and kill him because he killed Wolfbiter.” He stepped casually aside and listened as the running footsteps died away. “All right, my lady?”
The room was swaying. She nodded uncertainly. Of course! I defy death every fifteen minutes just to keep on my toes.
He turned his back. “Then please hurry. It’s even more urgent now. They must be getting in the windows.”
She opened a wardrobe, then another, found some dresses. “Why did you follow me to this room?”
“Because I discovered the secret door ajar.” Lord Roland still had his back to her.
“What if they do catch Kromman? What if he really is where you said?”
“He probably is. He loves to snoop, and he never misses any chances.”
“Did he really betray my father?”
“I have no idea. I suspect the Baelish marriage was his idea. I know he’d developed a curious interest in the epic poetry of Baelmark. Can’t prove anything.”
“But they’ll kill him!”
“Tsk!” said the Lord Chancellor. “So they will. Are you nearly ready yet?”
“You could help me with these laces.”
In a dry dress and shoes and a bonnet pulled over the sodden bush of her hair, she hurried along the corridor beside him. “Will they remember? The mad Blades—when they come to their senses, will they know what they’ve done?”
He sighed. “Yes, we remember.” That was an odd way to put it. He would have been only a child when King Taisson died, and there had been no riot then anyway.
“Then why did you send those two after Master Kromman?”
He glanced at her with eyes like chips of frozen basalt. “I had to get rid of them somehow. My office ought to be locked.”
“But why Kromman?”
“Because today I am free of a promise.” He increased the pace and did not explain.
He must suppose that she was too far in his debt now—doubly in his debt—to reveal his part in the murder, if it happened. But what if he was the traitor and Kromman had gone looking for evidence to expose him? And how many other people would presume, as Fox and Fitzroy had, that she herself was the traitor? The assassination would probably have been impossible in Grandon, and holding the wedding at Wetshore had been entirely her idea.
They went up one more stair and along a gallery. Looking down, she could see people standing around in the entrance hall, and more streaming in through the main door. They were weeping, comforting one another, gabbling out tales of horror. It was still not long since her father died, and the survivors were only just returning to the palace. The death toll might not be known for days.
Except for that, Your Grace, did you have a nice wedding?
The gallery was bl
ocked by a dozen or so people, some of them lancers. The ensign in charge was even more chinless and worried than the one on the front door. He almost wept with relief as he reported to the Chancellor.
“No one’s gone in, my lord, as you said. These healers wanted to and I refused. Those two women came out, looking for them.” He swallowed. “I’ve been expecting a Blade to come looking to see—”
“Who’s left in there?”
“The Prince…” Another swallow. “I mean His Majesty and two attendants and the four Blades, my lord.”
“Not Lady Napham?” Malinda demanded angrily.
“No, Your Grace.”
So Amby’s governess had stayed at the farewell ceremonies, had she? Serve her right if she’d been chopped up by mad Blades!
Roland nodded inquiringly at Malinda. “Ready?”
Swallowing was contagious, suddenly. “What do I have to do?”
“I’ll try to get the women out of the room and the Blades in, all together. If I can’t, I can’t. When I nod, you pick up the child and break the news. It should work. Keep holding him and you should be safe.”
She nodded, and he opened the door. No more killing, please! In the antechamber, Sir Marlon and Sir Fury were playing dice, but they were on their feet in a flash. “Lord Chan—” Marlon began and then his smile vanished. “My lady? What—”
“Quick!” Roland strode past them. “There may be trouble brewing. Where’s His Highness?”
All four of them moved together, but only their hero, the great Durendal, could have won his way past the Royal Guard without an explanation. They sped through another room and into Amby’s bedroom. He was sitting on the floor, grumpily playing at wooden blocks with one of the nursemaids. The other stupid wench was snickering on a couch with Sir Hawkney. Sir Bloodfang was resignedly sharpening his sword with the glazed expression of a cow chewing cud.
“Lindy!” Amby said, brightening and holding up his arms to her.
She swept him up and hugged him. He seemed less feverish than before. “You feeling better now, big fellow?” Behind her, Bloodfang was grunting out questions; Roland was chivvying the two women out.
