Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “Your Highness,” the sonorous voice began, “I am deeply sorry to intrude on so private a moment. The matter is very simple, but it will not wait.”

  Would he threaten her or beg for understanding? “This moment will serve as well as any other, Lord Chancellor. You have heard about Master Kromman, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  “And who do you think did that terrible thing?”

  They were out in the dark street already, so she could not see his face. Just because he was charming did not mean he was an honest man.

  “I have no idea. I expect they drew lots.”

  She gasped. “You admit it?”

  “I admit to saying what you heard me say to Fox and Fitzroy, Your Grace. I admit nothing more, and not even that much to anyone else. For seven years I kept the secret of Kromman’s crime, as I had promised your father I would. When I needed to get those swords away from your throat, that was the first means that came into my head. I am sure that neither Fox nor Fitzroy did the actual killing, because I got to them as soon as they were rational and made them give me their parole, but by that time they’d already told some others.” His tone sharpened. “I cannot mourn Ivyn Kromman, my lady. He was a despicable murderer, who betrayed one of the finest men it has ever been my good fortune to know. I rejoice at his death. Denounce me if you wish.”

  Burn the man! Denounce him for saving her life? Was that really what had happened? He was as slippery as an eel in an oil barrel.

  “I shall think about it. We are almost at the Common.” She heard him smother a yawn. “Was there some other matter you wished to discuss, then?”

  “Blades, Your Grace, still Blades. Ironhall has been stripped bare, as I am sure you know. Your father went there only a month ago, but since then the Guard has been almost wiped out. It is down to thirty-eight instead of about a hundred. Three of those men are crippled and there is no one to release them from their binding. Nothing we can do about that, but I am sure Grand Master could spare a few more seniors in such dire circumstances.”

  She smelled a trap. “Surely this matter can wait for the Lord Protector’s arrival?”

  “Certainly it can.” The Chancellor sounded patient, as if she were being tiresome. “But then his will be the hand that holds the sword that binds those boys.”

  “You are suggesting that I go to Ironhall and bind some Blades of my own? To me? Princess Malinda’s Blades?”

  “Yes, my lady, that is exactly what I am suggesting.”

  The coach had slowed to a crawl. She could hear a band playing a dirge somewhere close.

  “But that would require royal or viceregal authority. Who would sign the warrants?”

  “I would, my lady.”

  “That would be stealing…er, misprision.” Was that the right word?

  “Yes, it would. My authority to give away Blades is questionable at best, and the Lord Protector may be very wroth. But that is exactly what I am suggesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Your Grace!” he said with open exasperation. “There are only thirty-five Blades left—fifteen currently guarding you, sixteen your brother, and four me. What will happen if we have another Night of Dogs?”

  “I expect they will all rush to save Amby, because he’s their primary ward. But another Night of Dogs is very unlikely. Not likely at all. The traitor conjurers will wait to see whether the Lord Protector intends to continue the policy of suppressing the elementaries.”

  The Chancellor sighed. “You don’t know that!”

  “And if he does persevere, then he will need the new Blades more than I do now.” She could hear singing. The coach was barely moving. Any minute now they would halt and someone would open the door.

  “I’m not sure about that either,” Lord Roland said, even more wearily.

  What was he up to? Snaring her in conspiracy to commit misprision, whatever that was exactly? “You would never let me have Blades of my own before! You always talked my father out of letting me bind my own Blades.”

  “Yes, I did, my lady. But circumstances have changed.”

  “Oh, really? You no longer worry that I might jump into bed with one of them?”

  “You are older and hopefully wiser. Your father no longer holds your leash, and since you are the heir and will be for at least another fifteen years, you are not going to be married off to any foreign prince. Jump into bed with anyone you like.”

  “Insolence!”

  He grunted. “Sorry. I am very tired.”

  “And I am very angry. You have always picked on me, Durendal-Lord-Roland. Even when you were only Commander of the Guard, you used to watch and spy and see which Blades I was friendly with and then deliberately assign them elsewhere so I would never see them again.”

  He chuckled. Chuckled!

  “How dare you!”

  “Your Grace…I am sorry. It was that ‘only’ I was laughing at…Only Commander of the Guard? My feet didn’t touch the ground for a week after your father appointed me Leader.”

  “No! You were laughing at me. Why were you laughing at me?”

  The coach stopped, rocking gently.

  Roland peered out at the torches. “I never picked on you, Your Grace. I warned the lads that princesses were off limits, that’s all. And once in a while one of them would come to me and say something like, ‘It’s my turn now. She’s breathing steam at me.’ Then I would post him to a safer berth. As soon as you started giving them sultry looks, Your Highness, they wanted out, and fast! You’ve heard of the Legend? It’s real. It works. It’s a side effect of the binding and princesses are as susceptible as other women. Why should any Blade want to lose his head—literally lose his head, I mean—stealing kisses from a child when he could safely bed any woman who caught his fancy and take all night to do it?”

  After that, the silence seemed to tighten like the ropes of the rack.

  She wanted to die. Why didn’t Piers open the door and let her escape? She heard her voice say, “What did you do to Sir Eagle?”

  “What did you do to Eagle? He was expelled from the Order. They struck him off the rolls, dropped his sword down the drain, and impressed him as a deckhand on a square-rigger trading to the Fever Shores.”

  For one kiss? The brutal injustice of it turned her shame to rage. “A notoriously dangerous voyage! With orders that he was to be one of those who do not return, I suppose?”

  “My office gave no such orders, my lady.”

  “But isn’t that how they would interpret the King’s will?”

  “Most likely.” A sigh. “As it happened, the captain had instructions to let the lad escape at the first foreign port they reached.”

  “Your orders? You defied my father by giving those orders?”

  “Your father often repented at leisure of edicts he issued in the heat of—”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I am sorry.”

  There was nothing more to say, nothing at all.

  Sir Piers opened the coach door for her. Moving as if in a dream, she stepped down and went to stand beside other family members: Prince Courtney, the Duke and Duchess of Brinton, and young Ansel, who was the new Duke of De Mayes, and one or two other, even more distant, relatives, such as Lady Crystal’s dimwit brother, Lord Candlefen.

  The funeral itself was not as bad as she had feared it would be. A surprising number of the inhabitants of Grandon turned out to watch the torchlight parade and listen to the bands. The rain did not stay away altogether, but there was a convenient dry spell just when she had to walk over to the pyre and put the torch to it. She sat under a canopy during the speeches, watching golden flames dance in the darkness as they returned the remains of Ambrose IV to the elements from which they came. Not long after midnight the pyre began to collapse and a sudden downpour was excuse enough to declare the ritual over and head for home.

  Sir Piers and his men escorted her back to her carriage, and this time her companion was Courtney. Tonight he reeked o
f rose water.

  The coach had barely started moving when he said, “Gorgeous funeral!”

  “It is late and I’m tired.”

  “We need to have a talk, darling.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Or next year. Or never.

  “I don’t want those gossipy Blades of yours listening.”

  Was that why everyone wanted to talk in coaches? Her head ached. “Talk about what?”

  “Granville, dearest. He’s going to make a try for the throne.”

  “If Father had wanted—”

  “Your father is dead, girl. Dead people don’t count. He made a very stupid compromise—he acknowledged Granville but didn’t legitimize him. Then he blundered again, naming him Lord Protector. The Rector is not the man to settle for second best.”

  “The Council will control him.”

  “No, dear. That’s what Dear Uncle wanted, but the Blades spoiled it, don’t you see? Your father named the Council, but he named offices, not people—Grand This and Lord High That. Whenever he died and that will was needed, those places would be filled by people he had appointed to his own Council. The hand of the dead would still rule.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But—”

  Courtney chuckled. “Think, darling! He also said that the Lord Protector could not dismiss any member without a majority vote, so he needed six supporters to create a vacancy. However, he can appoint a replacement on his own—a very reasonable provision, because you don’t want a clique on the Council keeping it below strength.”

  “And the Blades…Oh, spirits!” The rampaging Blades had killed six of the men who should have been on the Council. Granville could start his reign by packing it with his own supporters. Then he could use his majority to oust the others, men like Lord Roland, and quash any hope of dissent or opposition.

  She had never heard her effete cousin show any interest in politics before. All her life the only question to ask about Courtney had been whose bosom was he clasped to now. From the barely nubile to the barely mobile, they had all been alike to him, so long as they had been female and had money.

  “It won’t,” her cousin remarked slyly, “take much to convince Parliament that an experienced soldier with a grown son is better than a sickly infant with a juvenile sister next in line.”

  “He is not sickly! He is the lawful heir.”

  “He may be very sickly if Granville meets with any resistance. Have you picked out drapes for your cell, yet, sweetheart?”

  “Your humor escapes me.”

  “Then think harder. The Lord Protector has to summon Parliament. That’s one thing he must do, but he may put the cart before the horse and seize the throne first. If he does that, then you and baby Ambrose are going to be breathing through the tops of your necks very shortly.”

  It was brutal, but there were precedents. “The Blades—”

  “The Blades,” Courtney sneered, “are the only reason Granville just may choose to work through Parliament, to save another massacre. Since the Blades are sworn to defend Uncle’s heirs and successors, they will defend our smelly-bottom liege against outright force, yes. But if Parliament accepts Granville as your father’s successor, then they will too. Their bindings will, no matter what their personal feelings are. So nobody will get hurt—except you and your brother, of course. You may just get married off to the Great Hoohong of Thud, perhaps, but the kid will certainly catch a bad case of pillow on the face.”

  “No!” Yes. It was all horribly logical. She had been resisting such thoughts for days.

  Courtney sighed. “Darling, don’t you see? Granville has a dozen ways to proceed. He can start by taking you out of play. It’s easy enough to make out a treason case against you, Cousin. King Radgar came to marry you, but after you explained things he changed his mind and killed your father instead. Whatever did you promise him? That’s all the argument your dear brother Granville needs to lock you up and chop you up.”

  “That is not true! I can defend myself before inquisitors.”

  “If you ever get the chance. Even if you do, inquisitors know which end of a boot to lick. Unhealthy place, the Bastion. When you pick out your summer gowns stick to a nice red that won’t show the bloodstains, mm?”

  “The Blades won’t let him arrest me.”

  Courtney snorted in derision. “They’re the brat’s Blades, dear, because he’s the heir. You’re only their second-best ward. The indictment for treason will bear his seal and be perfectly legal.”

  No! No! No!

  Maybe, maybe, maybe!

  Was this what Lord Roland had been hinting?

  “What are you suggesting?” The coach was almost back at the palace.

  “My dear, I’ve been bored to death these last few months. Mayshire is dull as a grave, but on balance, I believe it’s preferable, although narrowly so. ‘Out of sight, out of mind’ will be my motto from now on, but if I do get noticed, then I’m afraid it will be ‘Long live King Granville!’ as loud as I can shout. I hope you understand my problem. Just want to say good-bye, Malinda darling. I’m sorry you have to end this way.”

  There might be a hint of real regret under the sarcasm, but no one could ever imagine the dumpy, dandyish Courtney donning shining armor to defend his infant cousin’s life or rights. He was a hedgehog, never a badger. The wheels’ rumble became a roar as they passed through the palace archway.

  “Farewell, Courtney dear,” she said. “I hope you prosper in your rural retreat. Good luck with the carrot crop. I never credited you with political acumen before.”

  “Great spirits, girl! That just shows how good at it I am. I have spent a lifetime scuttling around wainscots.”

  “So you have. Can you give me any farewell advice?”

  “Advice is never worth more than it costs. What happened to that trinket I gave you?”

  “The diamond? It was so gorgeous! It must have cost you a fortune.”

  “No, it was an heirloom. I found it in among Mother’s things. Can you imagine? Stupid old trollop hung on to it all those years when she didn’t have enough blankets to keep her bed warm. Where is it?”

  “It was with the rest of my jewels and clothes. They were loaded on one of the Bael longships.”

  The carriage had stopped; a Blade opened the door.

  “Then I suggest,” Courtney said, easing his bulk along the bench, “that your safest course now, Princess, is to go to Baelmark and ask for it back. And stay there as long as you can. Good chance to you.” He clambered down the steps and minced off into the palace.

  Malinda accepted Piers’s hand to descend, feeling shakier than she could ever remember. The entrance hall was almost deserted and dark, with few lanterns glimmering. The Blades’ tread rang very loud on the tiles. Halfway across the wide floor, she said, “Sir Piers?”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Will you please inform Lord Roland that I was wrong, and that I have changed my mind? I will very gratefully accept his offer.”

  “Yes, my lady! Sir Fury, convey that message to his lordship.”

  The relief in Piers’s voice rang like bugles. Fury disappeared into the darkness in a clatter of boots. She had been a blind fool not to admit the dangers that lurked in her path, but if she had Blades of her own, then no one was going to serve warrants on her—not without a fight, at least. The worst that could happen would be having to testify to the inquisitors, and she had nothing to hide. Only a cynic like Courtney would suspect the Dark Chamber of trimming to the political wind. Perhaps cynics lived longer.

  “If I may suggest, my lady?”

  “Your advice is always welcome, Sir Piers. Please remember that.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. My lady, I think there’s no time to waste. That’s what Durendal says. Let’s go now.”

  16

  182: Sir Bandit who, on 14 Tenthmoon 285, while riding in escort on his ward in the Great Forest and having observed archers contesting their path, did charge them and was shot down, but his ward
lived.

  183: Sir Hoare who, on 1 Thirdmoon 292, disputed a royal warrant for the arrest of his ward and single-handedly slew three men-at-arms before dying of his wounds.

  IRONHALL, THE LITANY OF HEROES

  As the gibbous moon faded in the dawn, nineteen horses cantered along the Great West Road. Malinda had never foregone a whole night’s sleep before and felt strange, almost light-headed, but some of that strangeness was pure excitement. With her were Dian and fifteen young swordsmen in civilian dress. At first glance they were just a party of gentlemen escorting two ladies who chose not to ride sidesaddle, but a closer look would have detected their cat’s-eye swords. Gradually the sun climbed into the clearest sky Thirdmoon had offered yet, raising mist from waterlogged fields. The day offered lambs, daffodils, periwinkles. It provided thrushes, skylarks, and violets if you had time to look for them. For the first time since Ambrose’s death, Blades were laughing. It was escape. They all felt it, as if the court of Chivial had been shrouded in some dread miasma and they had broken free. Even Dian was smiling and doing a little of her old flirting. Grief and guilt and fear would catch up, but for a few brief hours they could be outrun.

  Roosters were still crowing when the company crossed the Gran at Abshurst and stopped to change horses. Finding so many fresh, decent mounts was not easy, but easier then than it would be later in the day. By law the Blades, like royal couriers, could take their pick at any posting house in the land.

  “All right, my lady?” Piers asked solicitously.

  “I’m fine,” Malinda said. “When will we reach Ironhall?”

  “Even on these roads we should make it for the evening meal, Your Grace.” Suddenly he revealed a glimpse of the old Piers, the one she had known before the Wetshore Massacre—a grave mien with hints of mischief twinkling underneath. “If you’re man enough to hold the pace, that is.”

  “Man enough? I’ll make you a wager.” She thought quickly, seeing the grins spreading. “If I once ask you to slow down, I’ll carry you into Ironhall in my arms. Otherwise you carry me!” She was as tall as he was and probably weighed much the same.