Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “We shall be delighted to have the pleasure of your company, Master Secretary,” she said, and if his inquisitor’s skills told him that she was lying in her teeth, the problem was his. The trip should take no more than an hour, unless the rain had washed out the roads. She accepted a hand from Sir Piers to mount the steps. Her father had been dead for two days; court was moving back to Greymere for the state funeral. As soon as her train cleared the gates, another would start assembling, and the wagons would still be rolling at sunset.

  The yard was a swarm of men and horses. Dominic had divided the surviving Blades in two—half under himself to protect the infant King, and the rest under Sir Piers for the Princess—but the Guard here was seriously outnumbered by lancers of the Household Yeomen. She could think of several reasons why she might have been assigned so large an escort, and none of them appealed. She assumed it must be Lord Roland’s doing.

  She settled on the rear bench, opposite Kromman and next to Dian, pale-cheeked and subdued in her mourning.

  “Leaving this place,” she said as Piers closed the door on her, “feels like the best thing I have ever done. I shall never return.” As if the wedding, massacre, and funerals were not enough, a mass departure of servants had turned Wetshore into a free-for-all. Even a princess had been forced to scrounge meals in the kitchens. She had taken it on herself to appoint Arabel to the office of King’s Governess. She had designated Dian as her matron companion, commoner or not. Dominic continued to run the Guard and Roland seemed to be running the entire country single-handed, but everything would depend on Granville. Until he arrived and took charge, nothing could be settled.

  As the carriage began to move, she said, “When shall we see the Lord Protector?”

  Kromman pursed his bloodless lips. He seemed even more gaunt than usual, red-eyed from long nights at his desk. “The Council’s first act was to send a courier north, of course, but it will take him at least four days, perhaps a week, to ride to Wylderland. The roads are very bad just now. A copy of the dispatch was sent by ship.”

  “That will be faster?”

  “Unless the Baels intercept it, which is very likely. Allow as long for His Excellency to make the return journey.”

  “And how many vacancies are there on the Council?”

  “Six. His Excellency will undoubtedly wish to name replacements as soon as possible.”

  Was that what this slimy inkworm was hunting—a seat on the Council?

  Sad fingers of smoke showed where another day’s funeral pyres were being lit, the sun rising mistily over a waterlogged landscape. The carriage and its fifty-horse escort went boiling through Wetshore village in a storm of mud, heading for a highway that would be even muddier. Kromman sat in silence, clutching a dispatch case and staring steadily at Malinda, waiting for her to ask his business. Dian just gazed fixedly down at her clasped hands. She had hardly spoken in the two days since Bandit bled to death in her arms.

  “Have you a final count on the death toll, Master Secretary?” Whose secretary was Kromman now—the Council’s?

  He pulled his mawkish smile. “Fifty-four, Your Highness.”

  “What? Oh, that’s ridiculous! The Guard alone lost more men than that. Three hundred? Four?”

  “The Council’s official bulletin specifies fifty-four, Your Grace, including eight men in the Royal Guard.”

  “Eight?” Dian cried, waking from her nightmare and looking as if she wanted to use his gullet for fish bait. “Bandit, Dreadnought, Flint, Mallory, Panther, Chandos, Raven, Herrick, Fairtrue, Huntley, Dragon—”

  “Stop, stop!” Malinda said.

  Dian did not stop, she changed direction. “They did it to themselves! The other people panicked and were trampled or fell down the bank and drowned in a foot of water. The Blades were all together around the King and when they rampaged, they turned on one another. The lancers rode them down like animals! Even after they’d come to their senses, the Yeomen rode them down. Blades were slaughtered as they begged for mercy or lay on the ground wounded. And then the medics and healers ignored them. Walked right past to find—”

  “Stop!”

  “The bulletin does admit that there was some panic,” Kromman agreed primly, “but it attributes most of the deaths to the Baelish archers. The Council considered the wording with much care.”

  “And you stop, too!” Malinda was sickened by the hypocrisy. The truth lay somewhere in the gulf between Dian’s distortion and Kromman’s outright lies, yet obviously the Council version would do less damage to the country. Better to blame such carnage on the Baels than the Blades.

  The three of them sat in silence for a while—or, to be exact, they bounced on the benches without speaking. The carriage was growing dim as mud painted the windows. Hooves and wheels together sounded like a river in spate.

  “What was the matter you wished to discuss, Master Secretary?” If he was going to start angling for a job in her household, he had better bait his hook well.

  “The matter, my lady, touches on the security of the realm and yet is so near to Your Grace’s person that I hesitate to lay it before the Lord Protector without Your Grace’s permission to do so.”

  “You may proceed. I keep no secrets from Lady Bandit.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. Have you ever heard of readings, my lady?”

  She had certainly not expected that question. “Fortune-telling? Chicanery or superstition, I always thought.”

  He showed yellow teeth in his awful smile. “In most cases, certainly. Sir Snake has exposed many instances of…No matter. On the other hand, the Office of General Inquiry has developed certain methods that have, on occasion, yielded results of some merit and value.” He used words like an angler used feathers.

  “The Dark Chamber can foresee the future?”

  “Grand Inquisitor would not put it so baldly. Just say that certain information can be obtained concerning a person’s fate or future behavior, and often without that person’s knowledge. Indeed, I believe that the subject’s presence makes the reading impossible.”

  “Go on. How is this done?” Malinda noticed that Dian was taking an interest in the conversation, and that could only be good for her.

  “I am no conjurer, Your Grace.”

  She gave the expected response. “But you can outline the principle?”

  He sighed. “As far as my limited understanding goes, the conjuration is a form of reverse necromancy. Your Highness is doubtless aware that skilled enchanters can reassemble the spirit of a dead person under the right circumstances. Again, most such claims are ‘chicanery and superstition,’ as Your Grace so aptly put it, but not all are. Of course, the essential key is what is vulgarly referred to as ‘bait,’ some item very closely associated with the deceased—such as his corpse or some bones…it was to prevent such tampering with the dead that cremation was instituted during the reign…I beg Your Grace’s pardon. Thoughtless of me. A lock of hair works well or a significant possession—a wedding ring, for example, worn constantly for many years. Given this, a good team of conjurers can often reassemble the spirit of the departed.”

  “But can you trust what the spirit tells you?”

  “Provided you trust those who conjured it, Your Grace. Now the readings I mentioned work on similar principles, except that they call back the elements of the spirit that has not yet been disassembled by death. In effect, they are communication with the future dead. Obviously the element of time must be revoked with care, and there can be no repeat; it only works once. Yes, the results are often ambiguous or fragmentary, but they have proven valuable in many instances. The Dark Chamber is rarely gullible.”

  But often manipulative, she suspected. “For instance?”

  “For instance, the inquisitors have known for more than fifteen years that Lord Roland was destined to kill your father.”

  Was she now to hear the other side of the feud? “King Radgar killed my father.”

  “But Lord Roland directed the commissioners
who negotiated that treaty, Your Grace, and thus provided the opportunity. In the moment of crisis, did he not take charge with truly remarkable presence of mind, almost as if—”

  “My father was aware of this reading?”

  “Certainly, but he was a skeptic on the matter, I fear.”

  She knew how Ambrose had heaped scorn on opinions he did not share. “Then I think I am, too, since he had much more experience than I have.”

  The Secretary sighed. “He did not have access to all the information, Your Highness.”

  Sneak! Now he would start negotiating terms of employment, no doubt, in return for the rest of the story. Unless…No! “Are you implying that you did a reading on my father without his knowledge?” There must be a law against that.

  The windows were now so caked with mud that the Secretary’s features were hard to make out. “Whether or not the previous Grand Inquisitor obtained His Late Majesty’s permission I cannot say, but the report I have read indicates that his reading confirmed the one made later on Sir Durendal, as he was then. It accused him of regicide.”

  “And what reading have you obtained on me?”

  Again she expected him to sidestep the question until she crossed his palm with silver, but again he answered without hesitation. She was still underestimating nasty Master Kromman.

  “The reading is that you will be Queen of Chivial, Your Grace, although not for very long.”

  Dian gasped. Malinda nursed her anger for a moment before she spoke, choosing her words with care. She knew very well that her value had increased, now that only one tiny heart beat between her and the throne. She knew that this ink-slobbering slug would be only the first of many trying to ingratiate themselves with her. Lord Roland had begun doing so within minutes of her father’s death. She knew Amby was a sickly child and what Kromman said was not an unreasonable guess. Above all, she must do nothing, say nothing, make no alliance that would encourage anyone to shorten Amby’s life and reign.

  “There are laws against imagining the King’s death!” The coach was rocking and bouncing over gravel and she had to shout above the racket.

  “With deepest respect, Your Grace, although I did not mention His Majesty your brother, I see I have given offence and humbly beg pardon.” The secretary shut up like a strongbox.

  Slime! “What reading did you get on my brother?”

  After a suitable pause…“I may speak without prejudice, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. All right. You have my word.”

  “They could get no reading from your royal brother. Nothing coherent. Only weeping. The conjurers speculated that he dies very young.”

  She wanted to choke him and tear his corpse to pieces. She felt tears in her eyes. She knew that she was strongly inclined to believe him.

  Believe him in this. Not in everything.

  “If you wish to lay this bizarre tale before the Lord Protector, then I have no objections.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. It would be best to draw his attention to Lord Roland’s treason.”

  “Suspected treason. By the way, Master Secretary, have you ever heard of a man named Wolfbiter?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “Sir Wolfbiter—a Blade.”

  He chuckled. “I assumed so. Ironhall lets those boys pick the most bizarre names for themselves: Wyvern, Snake, Bloodfang…”

  “Or Bandit?” Dian snapped.

  “Never mind!” Malinda said hastily. “Listen! What is that noise? Dian, can you open the window a crack?”

  Dian could, and they all peered out. They were in Grandon already, and Malinda realized with a lurch of dismay that the people lining the street were booing. Their jeers and yells were loud enough to be audible even over the rumble of the coach and thunder of hooves. Booing her? Probably not, because they could not tell who was inside the mud-splattered coach. They were shouting Killers! and throwing things at the King’s Blades.

  15

  The Princess is looking for ladies’ maids and if you were in her service we could see each other every day.

  UNIDENTIFIED BLADE

  State funerals were distilled torment for the participants. Malinda could remember enduring Haralda’s: bands and speeches, torchlight procession, flames leaping skyward in the night, her shock at seeing her father weep in public. She had played only a minor role in that one. This time she would be chief mourner, with no one to back her up except Cousin Courtney. She had been tempted to delay the ceremony until the Lord Protector arrived. Had she screamed loud enough, she could probably have had her way, but five days was long enough to store a corpse, even in an icehouse. Let the new order arrive in celebration, a week or so from now, with loyal addresses and triumphal arches.

  It was close to sunset and she was seated at her dressing table in her ugly black mourning gown, with Dian demonstrating to three newly acquired ladies’ maids how Her Highness liked her hair pinned up. The cortege would be lining up in the courtyard; the pyre stood ready on Great Common. This would be a long night even if the rain held off.

  The worst of it all was the feeling of hypocrisy. Five days was long enough to come out of shock—even Dian had started smiling again, once in a while—and after shock came realization. She could not honestly mourn a father who had given her so little cause to love him. Although his absence was a gigantic hole in her world, it did not ache and she suspected her life might be easier in future. She regretted his death, yes, for it would bring great troubles to the land. She also felt guilt over it. Had she reacted faster when King Radgar rejected her, she would have realized that he was tearing up the peace treaty. She could have run along the jetty, shouting warnings. Useless to tell herself that security was the Blades’ job, not hers.

  “He’s had his nap!” Arabel declaimed, rolling in with all her chins smiling. “He seems much better. I do think he could come along for the first part. You know how he likes bands!”

  Malinda swung around on the stool, causing her almost-completed coiffure to collapse in an avalanche of pins, combs, and braids and Dian to yell an unladylike word at her. Being faultlessly trained, the maids did not need to be told they were not wanted; they bobbed curtseys and disappeared, closing the door quietly.

  Arabel watched them go with the annoyed expression that meant she sensed a story not yet heard. “Half the dowagers in court are up in arms because you stole their favorite maids. How did you find them all so quickly?”

  “I called in a team of experts to help,” Malinda said cryptically. It had given them something to think about. “Amby is not coming and that’s the end of it!”

  Arabel pouted. She fancied herself on the reviewing stand, holding up the King to watch his troops march past. “But Lord Chancellor Roland—”

  “Lord Chancellor Roland will never overrule me on this, because if Amby were to catch the merest snivel of a cold at the funeral, then Lord Fancypants Roland would get his head chopped off for treason! Understand?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Of course, Your Grace.” Arabel shrugged, then smiled as she did when she had a gem to share, which was likely the real reason she had come. “You’ve heard the news?”

  Malinda’s sour mood had little use for gossip. “What news?”

  “Murder!” Lady Arabel’s eyes gleamed.

  Dian squeaked. “What? Who?”

  “Master Secretary Kromman. Yes, indeed! They found him about an hour ago, down in the rose garden with a sword beside him and a hole through his heart. Can you imagine a mousy little man like him fighting a duel?”

  He would have had no choice, and no chance either. Malinda caught Dian’s horrified eyes and looked away hastily.

  “Hmm…no.”

  “But why?” Arabel demanded, for once missing the undercurrents. “That’s the question! I know he used to be an inquisitor, so he’s probably had some training with a sword, but what gentleman would call out a mere clerk?”

  “Well, I daresay we shall find out in time. My hair, please, Dian.”

 
They would never find out, and it had not been a gentleman; Ironhall enrolled refuse from gutters and ditches, not scions of the nobility. No doubt Lord Roland had an excellent alibi. He would not have needed to dirty his own hands, because any Blade would be happy to do a favor for the great Durendal, no questions asked.

  Master Kromman would not be laying any charges of treason before the Lord Protector.

  Malinda was still pondering the crime as she paraded downstairs with a dozen Blades around her. There was no use trying to denounce Lord Roland while Lord Roland was the government. By the time she reached the entrance hall, she had decided she must wait and see what the Lord Protector did. If Roland was confirmed as chancellor, then she would have to reveal her suspicions, but if he was thrown out to sink back into the cesspool, she would leave well alone.

  Once upon a time every Blade escort had been a pack of hounds eager for the chase, but now they plodded like footsore beagles. Only time could heal their ghastly memories. Piers was even more solemn than usual, almost old. She tried to remember how he had looked when she was thirteen and she had swooned unto death a dozen times a day for secret love of him.

  Down many stairs and across the great entrance hall, with her train rustling on the tiles and spectators kneeling to the chief mourner. Out to the torches in the courtyard and the coach and four. When Piers opened the door, she stopped abruptly. That was not the right man inside.

  “I understood I would be riding with Prince Courtney.”

  “There’s been a slight mix-up, Your Grace,” Piers said quickly.

  And how did he know that, when he had been upstairs with her? “A mix-up on purpose?”

  “Hmm, sort of, Your Grace.”

  Angrily she climbed inside and sat down opposite the murderer. He was wearing a black hat, and a black cloak covered his scarlet robes. Just by the way he sat, he conveyed exhaustion. The door closed; hooves clattered as the Blades swung into their saddles; the coachman cracked his whip. The coach began to move.