by Dave Duncan
Closing the door, Roland nodded to her. The Blades were growing suspicious.
“The King is dead!” Malinda forced her brother around to face them, although he wanted to snuggle into her shoulder. “Long live the King! The King is dead. Long live King Ambrose V!”
“Long live the King!” Roland strode forward and knelt to the child she held. She joined in, and they chanted together: “Long live Ambrose V!”
For a terror-filled moment she thought it would not work. The four Blades had gone white with shock. Bloodfang’s eyes were taking on the same unfocused look she had seen on Fox and Fitzroy. Hands crept toward sword hilts. Then young Fury cried, “Long live the King!” and fell on his knees beside Roland.
Marlon followed…Hawkney…and Bloodfang. Done! She gasped with relief.
Roland rose. “Swear! Swear allegiance to Ambrose V.”
“What happened, my lord?” Hawkney groaned, and the others took up the refrain: “Oh spirits!” “What happened?” “Tell us!”
Only when they had sworn did Roland begin to answer, and he was interrupted by Fox and Fitzroy bursting into the room with Oak and Brock and Dominic right on their heels. All of them were bedraggled and blood-spotted, but it was the horror in their faces that Malinda noticed most, as if they had been tortured into insanity by expert tormenters. Moaning and babbling, they knelt to their new ward. In the distance, others were shouting out the oath to win admittance—under normal circumstances Blades would walk right over any Yeomen who dared to question them.
Still clutching her brother and king, Malinda grudgingly nodded approval to Lord Roland. Whatever his ultimate motives, this had been well done. “What next, my lord?”
He shook his head wearily. “That was only the Guard. Now comes the court, and after that the whole country. If you please, my lady, bring him down to the throne room when I send word? Sir Dominic!”
“Brother?” Dominic staggered to his feet. From the look of him, he’d been in the river, but there was dried blood on his sword hand. His lack of eyelashes accentuated his horror-stricken stare. “My lord, I mean.”
“I’m appointing you Acting Commander until Leader or Dreadnought turns up. Keep the Pr—keep the King safe. And Her Highness, also, of course. And get this filthy rabble cleaned up!”
At the moment Roland was no exemplar of elegance himself, but the deliberate brutality worked. Dominic stiffened as if he had been slapped.
“Yes, my lord.” He squared his shoulders and unleashed a bellow of his own: “You! On your feet, you despicable lot! Clear a path for His Excellency.”
Soon Malinda found herself standing beside the empty throne, still holding Amby, who kept drifting in and out of sleep. He was small for his age, but growing heavier every second. Perhaps she was feeling the weight of his troubles, poor little orphaned king. If he was king. They had all been assuming that he was, but that was still not certain.
Never adequate, the presence room at Wetshore was now so packed with the great of the kingdom that even the old and the wounded had to stand. Courtiers’ finery had been reduced to rags—torn, mud-soaked, and in some cases bloody. The stench of sweat and river mud seemed to mingle with a nauseating miasma of rage directed at Dominic and the dozen or so other Blades clustered behind the baby king. They were all clean and smart now, but ivory-faced, stark as corpses.
No one knew the toll yet. She had invited four dukes to her wedding and only two were present now, three ambassadors out of eight. Grand Inquisitor was there, and the Lord High Admiral, and Courtney beside her, but what of the Lord Mayor of Grandon, Ambassador Reinken, the Earl Marshal, the Lord Chamberlain, Mother Superior? Why had Dominic not yet yielded his command to Bandit—was Dian a widow so soon?
“Ready to assume your duties, Your Grace?” Fat little Courtney in his scrumptious apparel was nuzzling close. “I understand that the Act of Succession assigns the regency to the next in line.” Today’s scent was musk.
“Not the next man?” She could not recall, although she knew that past queens had served as regents while their husbands went off to war—her own mother for one. It was not impossible that she would find herself ruling Chivial in a few minutes.
Not very likely, of course, since she was legally still a minor. On the other hand, the standard rules of inheritance did not always apply to royalty. There was no certain age of majority for kings of Chivial, as several regents had discovered at extreme cost to themselves. She knew this because for years it had been her business to know this. No matter what the law said or how much hair grew on his chin, nor even how sturdy his sword arm, a Chivian king who had succeeded as a minor began to rule on the day the Royal Guard started taking his orders. Goisbert II had been twenty, Ambrose I a mere fifteen, to the astonishment and ruin of his wicked uncle. There were no such precedents for queens regnant, unless one counted the case of Queen Adela, whose Blades had suddenly decided that she was insane and stopped taking her orders.
“I can’t imagine your dear father letting me get the job, darling,” Courtney lamented. “But a regent has to be of the blood, and I think Brinton’s too remote. Besides, is he here? You can see better than I can. Did he run into some Blade trouble, do you suppose?”
“Yes, Brinton’s here.” But De Mayes was not. The Duchess was, comforting young Ansel, who was weeping.
“Go to bed now,” Amby mumbled.
“Soon.” If she became regent, she swore, she would be that rarest of gems, an honest one, dedicated to bringing her brother safely to a secure throne.
“Pray silence for His Excellency the Earl Roland!” bellowed a herald, and the grumbling subsided reluctantly.
The Chancellor was the calmest person present, and his deep voice took command of the room. “Your Graces, Your Excellencies, my lords, ladies, gentlemen. As your worships all know, the succession is determined by statute, the Succession Act of 242, which codifies the ancient customs of the realm—that only the sovereign’s lawful issue are eligible to succeed; that the crown shall pass first to his sons in order of age, then his daughters; and failing direct issue, then to his brothers and their issue per stirpes, and so on. However, that same act then acknowledges that the monarch may exclude particular persons for especial reasons. In practice, this means that the succession lies within the royal prerogative and is dictated by the deceased king’s will, within limits.”
He could have added that those ill-defined “limits” had provoked not a few civil wars. Half brother Granville, for example—if Ambrose had dared to name his bastard as his successor, would the country take up arms to give little Amby his rights? Or would the Lords and Commons agree that the Rector was the better choice in this instance?
Roland held up an envelope. “Some months ago, I presumed to advise His Late Majesty that his forthcoming marriage and that of his daughter, the Lady Malinda, might make a review of his current will timely. I stress, my lords, that I did not know then what that existing will contained, nor do I know now what changes he thereupon chose to make. A king’s testament is the most secret of documents. A few weeks later, he called me aside after a meeting of the Council, together with the Lord High Admiral, the Lord Chamberlain, and the Earl Marshal, and commanded us to witness his signature. The text was not revealed to us. We duly did so and I placed copies of the will in the vaults of Chancery. Master Kromman?”
Evidently the Secretary had survived the Chancellor’s attempted murder, because there he was, in his usual black robes, sour-faced and sour-voiced as always. “My lords, I testify that the package Lord Roland is holding is one I sealed on that occasion.”
When the seal had been shown to the senior notables, including Malinda, and all had agreed that it was genuine and unbroken, the package was opened; Roland and the Lord High Admiral testified to their signatures. Then Eagle King of Arms was commanded to read out the will. The bent little man was very pretty in his ornate tabard, but he had worn it for thirty years and no longer saw or spoke clearly. A younger, louder herald took over a
nd the room hushed for him.
As he droned through the preamble, Amby stirred again on Malinda’s shoulder. Did he sense that his life was at a critical moment? He was very hot; he weighed as much as a teenage blacksmith. She was not quite close enough to read the text over the herald’s shoulder, although she could recognize her father’s crabbed hand.
The beginning was unimportant—bequests to Scofflaw, to grooms, cadgers, huntsmen, falconers, and dozens more, on and on. She had trouble visualizing her father going to so much trouble, writing all that out personally in several copies; it was a touching and surprising view of him. Then suddenly: “‘To Granville, first Earl of Thencaster and currently our loyal Rector of Wylderland, in recognition of his superlative services to our realm…’”
The audience came alert.
“‘…we grant the right to style himself and his line “Fitzambrose” and we do bequeath to him the honor of Stonemoss, together with all lands, styles and honors that have historically pertained thereto…’”
“But he’s still a bastard,” Courtney muttered cheerfully.
Spectators glared at him. The herald paused. Amby coughed weakly and went back to sleep.
“‘And finally, our crown and right of Chivial…’”
Here it came…
“‘…we do thus designate our beloved son Ambrose Taisson Everard as our true and lawful successor, as set forth in the Act of Succession, but should he die before us or without lawful issue, we ordain the succession to such lawful male issue as the spirits may grant us within future marriages, and failing such further lawful male issue, we designate our lawful daughter Malinda, followed in order of age by such lawful daughters as the spirits may grant us within future marriages, provided that no such daughter shall succeed who is married at that time to any man not a subject of the crown of Chivial.’”
Malinda had not been dispossessed in favor of the hypothetical daughters of the now-hypothetical Queen Dierda—she was a little touched by that, the first hint of sorrow she had yet felt for her father. There had just not been time to mourn him yet.
She was the heir again, first in line!
“‘…failing succession of the heirs of our body, we decree that the crown shall pass to our beloved nephew…’”
“That has to be a misprint,” Courtney said loudly. This time a few people laughed at the Prince’s wit.
So long as Malinda remained heir presumptive, she was going to have Cousin Courtney at her back. She would have to trust the Blades to keep an eye on his dagger hand. The audience shuffled uneasily, waiting for the important part: Which of those two would be regent?
“‘We furthermore decree that in the event of our designated heir succeeding while a minor, we bestow governance of the realm and exercise of royal powers upon a Council of Regency of twelve persons, including and presided over by a Lord Protector; and we hereby appoint as Lord Protector…’” With sadistic stagecraft the herald took a moment to turn the page. “‘…the aforementioned Lord Granville Fitzambrose, first Earl of Thencaster and Stonemoss. We appoint as members of the said Council…’” The herald’s steady whine was drowned out by a belated shout of Long live the King! which was taken up by everyone. The King whimpered crossly at the noise and burrowed deeper into his heir’s shoulder.
Malinda and Courtney had both been passed over. She could see Lord Roland through the forest of heads around her, but his face was as unreadable as she hoped hers was. Had he expected to be named Lord Protector? Would he survive as chancellor under Granville? Who was going to be conspiring with whom to do what?
Courtney had much the same thought. “Fascinating!” he said. “Now the intrigue can begin. Who do you suppose will die first?”
The Trial, Day Two
The midday meal was usually the better of the two because it varied, so there was always a surprise to look forward to—roots or fish soup, rarely even meat. Today the overpowering smell of fish in the cell should have made Malinda’s mouth water, but she was far too upset to think of eating. Even as the main door was being barred behind her she stormed across the room and hauled on the other. It creaked open. As long as she behaved herself, it was left unlocked during daylight hours. She marched out into the rain.
The walkway was straight, about four feet wide, and led nowhere; fifteen paces brought her to the end, a permanently locked door into the next tower. She wheeled around and strode back. On one side flowed the Gran and on the other lay the great bailey of the Bastion, where Yeomen drilled, horses trotted by, sometimes a band played, and rarely children laughed at their play. Directly under her feet as she walked was the Rivergate, so she often heard boats arriving and leaving: splashes, men’s voices, sometimes women’s, sailors cursing when they thought no one could hear. She could hear all these things but never see them, because the walls were higher than her head and roofed near their upper edges with a ladder of iron bars. She had tried climbing on her chair and then pulling herself up, but she could not poke even her head through, let alone climb out.
Sometimes birds came to keep her company—pompous pigeons or sinister ravens. Today a gray and white gull stood on the landward wall, peering down at her with a beady yellow eye.
“It’s not fair, do you hear?” she shouted at it. “He cheats! Cheats all the time!” She put on the Chancellor’s croaky rasp: “‘Did the pirate make any promises to you?’ ‘No,’ I say. Then one of the inquisitors behind my chair blurts out, ‘The witness is lying!’ How am I supposed to concentrate knowing those two creepy horrors are lurking at my back all the time, where I can’t see them? And I think they’re cheating, too. Don’t inquisitors have to see your face to tell when you’re not speaking the truth? They can’t see mine. I think Lambskin himself signals them when he wants them to speak up.”
The gull did not comment. Queen Malinda turned again and marched back.
“So, ‘Well,’ I admit, ‘he did promise me he could end the war without marrying me.’ ‘By killing your father, he meant,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know what he meant,’ I say, or try to say, but I’m not allowed to get the words out; he cuts me off or one of those ghouls behind me slaps his hand over my mouth. ‘The witness will be gagged if she speaks out of turn and interrupts the work of the inquiry.’ He cheats, cheats, cheats! I’ve been questioned on all this before, so he has the records and knows what to ask and what not to ask.”
She realized that her bonnet and dress were getting wet, so she left the gull scratching its back and went into her cell. She could pace just as well in there, although only four paces, not fifteen. Four steps this way and four steps that way and four steps…
“Of course,” she told the spiders, “he went after Lord Roland, trying to make him out to be a traitor. ‘The witness is aware that Lord Roland did later confess to treason?’ ‘Yes, but—’ I say, meaning, ‘Yes but nothing to do with that,’ but I’m not allowed to say so! Not fair! ‘The witness is aware that Lord Roland directed the team that negotiated the marriage treaty?’ ‘Yes, but—’ ‘Was it not that treaty that brought your father to a place and time where Radgar Æleding could be sure of finding him?’ ‘Yes, but—’ ‘And Lord Roland reacted to the unexpected murder of his king and the consequent outbreak of mayhem and murder all around him by arrogating a troop of lancers that should have been attempting to control the slaughter, issuing them detailed instructions to the contrary, and sending them off to do his bidding, while also commandeering a horse and going to rescue you under dramatic circumstances—all this with no hesitation when he supposedly had no foreknowledge of what was about to happen?’ He was the greatest fencer of his day, so of course he had lightning reflexes, but do you think I was allowed to say so? Not fair!”
Four steps this way and four steps back…
She paused suddenly at the window. “Winter! You’ve caught a fly! How clever you are!” Watched her eight-legged friend feeding, she decided she might as well swallow whatever was in that bowl and stop it stinking up her bedroom. She sat on the c
hair with the clumsy bowl on her lap. She had plenty of time. The commissioners would be packing away a dozen courses and as many wines over the next two or three hours.
“He cheats. Horatio Lambskin cheats! That’s why he sat me so far from the foreign observers. They’re the ones he really wants to convince, and he’s put me a long way away so they can’t tell whether I’m telling the truth, because some of them must have had inquisitor-type training too.” She tried a spoonful of the fish and gagged.
“And it isn’t going to get easier, you know,” she whispered, looking down at the crack in the floor where Moment lived. She always thought of Moment, like her namesake, as being the most sympathetic of her tiny listeners. “He’s tied me in all sorts of knots over things I had nothing to do with. He’s tricked me and distorted what I said and refused me chances to explain what I really meant…and I’m innocent!”
Whereas there were things coming soon that she would find a little harder to explain at the best of times. Charges of misprision, grand larceny, complicity…the death of Kromman…other deaths that were certainly due to self-defense when properly explained but might not look that way by the time Horatio Lambskin had finished twisting the facts around….
Suddenly she leaped to her feet, sending the food flying. “Blades!” she howled. The crock hit the floor and shattered, spilling fish gruel in all directions. “My Blades! Where are you? Why have you deserted me? I need you!”
14
Readings are camel drippings.
AMBROSE IV
Master Kromman was about the last person Malinda would ever choose as a traveling companion, but he was waiting for her beside her coach—bowing, smiling his death’s-head leer, and “most humbly” craving the indulgence of a ride into Grandon with Her Grace so that he might bring certain important matters to Her Grace’s attention on the journey. She could not recall ever seeing him in sunlight or even outdoors before; he was something she associated with candlelight and shadows, like cockroaches.
