Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  Piers looked shocked. “That would be beneath a princess’s dignity, Your Highness!”

  “The Royal Door!” Oak and Alandale said together. The other onlookers hooted.

  “The Royal Door is private,” Piers conceded. “But then there’s a staircase up to Grand Master’s study.”

  “It’s a bet!” Malinda said. “In and upstairs, too!”

  “I feel faint,” Dian muttered. “Leave me here, please.”

  The chill between Malinda and the Blades that had persisted since the Eagle affair was melting at last. As they cantered down the long hill to New Cinderwich, she said, “You know, Sir Piers, I had a terrible crush on you when I was young.”

  “I am most flattered to hear it.”

  “Did you notice?”

  Staring at the road ahead, he said, “Sort of, my lady.”

  “I wasn’t very subtle?”

  “Um…not very, my lady.”

  “Did you ask Durendal to transfer you to other duties?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, I did. It was a bit embarrassing, my lady.” His face was beet red.

  “Thank you for being honest.” She had been a terrible fool. The quarrel she had been waging with Lord Roland had been entirely her own invention. “I’m afraid I blamed him.”

  That remark provoked a half-hour lecture on the virtues of the former commander. She had heard it all before, but this time she believed it, or most of it. Nobody could be that good.

  “Who killed Kromman?”

  “I have no idea, Your Grace.”

  “Why—did you draw lots?”

  Angry glare. “Only those of us who knew Wolfbiter.”

  They trusted Lord Roland’s word enough to do murder on it.

  Third horse, fourth, fifth. She was raw from knee to knee; she would not sit down for a month; not yet past noon and she could barely keep her eyes open. Dian kept yawning, although she had enjoyed half a night in bed. At Flaskbury both posting inns together could not muster enough decent horses for them.

  “We’ll have to leave some of the men behind, Your Grace,” Piers said, “or else take a break. That’s a good inn, my lady. You could lie down for a while and—”

  “Get the blasted horses saddled and let’s go!”

  “There can’t be all that much hurry, my lady! I wasn’t serious about the wager.”

  “I was. Let’s go.”

  They left seven men to follow more slowly, and rode on as hard as ever.

  Fields and pastures, orchards and forests—it was all new country to her; she had never journeyed so far to the west before. She was amused to realize that Ironhall lay on the way to Mayshire, so Cousin Courtney would be following her along the Great West Road later today—considerably later. Noon would be an early start for him.

  She rode beside, and talked with, each of the men in turn, asking about Ironhall, filling in details of the strange monastic life that had shaped them, its peculiar traditions, and the bizarre and potentially deadly ritual of binding. As the day progressed, she noticed the joyful mood turning sour again. The Blades could not be suffering from lack of sleep, as she was, and they were all too fit and tough to be seriously fatigued. She found the answer when she asked young Alandale if this was his first trip back since his binding.

  “Yes, my lady. It’s usually a big event—swaggering before the juniors, bragging about women, part of the tradition.” His face said that there would be no bragging this time. It was guilt that had caught up with them.

  “They’ll have heard about the massacre already, though.”

  “Not the details.”

  “Must they hear the details?” she asked, thinking of the Council’s fairy tale. “Why not give them the official version and let the Baels do the killing?”

  “Can’t.” That one word held enough pain to fill a dungeon, but clearly brother could not lie to brother.

  This was not a good time to be recruiting new Blades. Again and again she mulled over her problems and Courtney’s warnings. Yes, it would be odd if Granville did not make a try for the throne when he was so close already. He was the firstborn. Her father had shut the door in his face and left the key in the lock. Why? Of course, Ambrose had not anticipated exactly this situation. He had not expected the will to be needed so soon, or Malinda herself to be still available, the Dierda union of no effect. He had been too vain, perhaps, to be the first king of Chivial who disinherited a lawful son in favor of a bastard.

  They changed mounts again in Holmgarth, where Sir Marlon pointed out the house where he was born. Blades almost never mentioned their childhood, because enrollment in Ironhall wiped the slate clean—and by all accounts some of the young demons had acquired quite messy slates even at that tender age. It was Marlon, an hour or so later, who diffidently asked Malinda if she had heard of the sky of swords.

  “Yes…all the cat’s-eye swords ever issued. A Blade’s sword always goes back to the hall?”

  “And they’re hung above the tables. Um, just thought I’d mention, my lady…” He grinned shyly. “If you haven’t seen it before, it can be quite scary. Of course, the new kids are told stories of chains breaking on windy days and so on, but that’s not true. They swing a bit and jingle, is all. I expect you’ll be eating in the hall, and it’s a sort of joke…. Visitors tend to stare…keep looking up, you know?” He craned his head back in demonstration.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that. No gawking! I’ll try to keep my eyes on my food.”

  “Oh, you won’t want to do that, Your Grace! Not Ironhall food.”

  It was Piers himself who raised the subject of Grand Master, and he obviously chose a moment when no one else could overhear.

  “His name was Sir Saxon. Did your royal father ever mention him, Your Grace?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Well, he’s not popular. Even the knights grumble behind his back. Bandit threatened to slit his nose for him, and that’s not like…Bandit wasn’t that type at all!”

  “What does he do wrong?”

  “He’s sort of…small, my lady. Mean, I mean. He natters. One day he treats the seniors like bosom friends and the next as if they’re still kids. Either way will do, but you can’t mix them.”

  “And how does he treat the younger boys?”

  “Well, begging your pardon, my lady—like dirt.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Piers pulled a face. “I suppose so you won’t be surprised if I slit his nose. I haven’t had much practice at this.”

  From Holmgarth on to Blackwater, a depressing little mining community on the edge of Starkmoor, and then up into the wild lands…wind rose, sky grew gloomy. The bleak tors were clothed in shadow and the tarns leaden. Malinda conversed no more, needing all her attention just to stay in the saddle and not fall asleep. Spirits, but she’d won her wager! And she was going to collect every step of the stakes, too. She could not imagine climbing stairs under her own power except perhaps on all fours.

  “There it is,” Hawkney said, pointing. “And we’ve been seen, see?”

  Constrained between moor floor and a felted cloud roof, the setting sun blazed straight in her eyes, but she could discern the forbidding cluster of black stone buildings under a rugged hill. Less easily, she made out other riders heading that way—four of them, well strung out, going as fast as they could to carry word of visitors.

  “It’s not easy to sneak up on Ironhall,” Marlon said approvingly.

  “Except at mealtimes,” Sir Oak countered.

  17

  242: Sir Havoc who, on 15 Seventhmoon 337, being in attendance on his ward at a wedding in Candlefen Park when it was assaulted by Baelish raiders, did slay five of them before being himself cut down, but his ward lived.

  243: Sir Rhys who at the same wedding was slain by a crossbow bolt, but his ward lived.

  IRONHALL, THE LITANY OF HEROES

  The Royal Door was an
inconspicuous postern at the base of a circular tower. Malinda tried not to wince as she dismounted, although screams of mortal agony would have been quite in order. Oak had opened the door. Hawkney and Marlon were holding reins. Everyone looked expectantly at Piers.

  “You’re really going to force me to do this, Your Grace?”

  Regretfully Malinda regarded the windows; she could see no faces watching, but she dare not risk a scandal now.

  “Maybe next time.”

  Piers moved closer. “When we’re inside?” he asked throatily, giving her a glance as sultry as a laundry.

  “No!” she said firmly. “I’m a big girl now.”

  She regretted that decision right away, for the stair was steep, but she clambered gamely on, coming at last to a solid-seeming door. Piers rapped once and entered. The room was small for its furnishings, old and shabby, and yet welcoming enough with a newly-lit fire crackling on the hearth. It held a table, three wooden chairs, one deep leather chair, and a settle beside the fireplace, some bookshelves, a very threadbare rug….

  “Sir Piers! It is true about Leader, then?” Grand Master was younger than Malinda had expected, perhaps not yet forty. His eyes had surveyed the two mud-caked women, flicking from one to the other, and his expression was guarded.

  “Leader and many others, I fear,” Piers said. “Your Highness, may I present Grand Master?”

  He bowed low. Malinda removed a mud-caked glove and offered her fingers to be kissed. “It is an honor to visit Ironhall and to meet you, Grand Master.”

  “Your Grace is most kind. May I offer a chair, some refreshment?” His sneer was probably just a habitual expression, not a greeting or comment. His clothes, like his room, were shabby or even threadbare. Although he was of middle size, like all Blades, she saw what Piers had meant about his being small, as if he were trying to seem larger than he really was. Or perhaps she was just prejudiced.

  “No chair, thank you. I am enjoying standing. I shall accept a share of your fire, though.”

  She moved closer to the hearth, aware that the chill in her bones stemmed more from lack of sleep than cold. The men adjusted their positions accordingly. Tension flickered between them like summer lightning.

  “And a quaff of ale would be very welcome,” she added in case the subject got overlooked. “You too, Dian? Two, please, Grand Master.”

  “Three,” said Piers.

  Grand Master went to the other door and spoke instructions to whoever was outside it. He returned, was presented to Mistress Bandit, said some maudlin things about the former Commander, inquired politely after Malinda’s journey. Then he remarked, “I am saddened to see the Guard frightened to travel in uniform.”

  Piers raised hackles. “A common precaution when we are not escorting the sovereign, as you well know.”

  “I cannot recall hearing of it.”

  The summer lightning flickered again. Fortunately, the ale was then passed in by an aged servant. That first swallow was one of the great experiences of Malinda’s life.

  Piers said, “You can guess why Her Highness has come to Ironhall, Grand Master. How many can you spare?”

  “You obviously have not read my reports.”

  “Dominic didn’t find Leader’s keys until yesterday and has had no time to read anything.”

  “Dominic is Leader now? I have not been officially informed.”

  “Acting Leader. The Lord Protector will make the appointment.”

  “How many casualties?”

  Piers glanced to Malinda for permission.

  “Go ahead, Sir Piers,” she said, fighting a need to yawn. If this meeting lasted more than a few minutes, she would fall asleep standing up and fall in the fire.

  “Three wounded beyond repair,” Piers said, “sixty-two dead.”

  “No!” Grand Master closed his eyes in pain. “Never has the Order taken casualties on that scale! Never!” His dramatics were overdone.

  “It has now. Plus, as near as we can tell, about two hundred civilians and Yeomen. The Council won’t reveal its tally.”

  “No, no!”

  “Yes, yes! The Guard is down to thirty-five, Grand Master, the smallest it has ever been. We’re also into a regency and you know what those can do to us. We’ll have both His Majesty and the Lord Protector to cover, plus Her Highness—and the Monster War may still be on for all I know. Politically, the Order will be fighting for its very life. So, Grand Master, how many Blades can you spare for Her Highness?”

  Saxon’s mouth settled deeper into its usual pout. “Deeply distressed as I am by the need to refuse Her Grace, the answer must be, ‘None!’”

  “Think a little harder,” Piers said coldly, bringing his sword around within easier reach.

  “Blustering won’t create warm bodies.” Grand Master turned a disagreeable smile on Malinda. “Your honored father absolutely cleaned us out a month ago. Ever since the Night of Dogs, my lady, we have been rushing boys through training much faster than normal. Our standard course is five years, but many candidates need longer and none of the present enrollment have been here even four years. We just cannot go any lower. The boys are not ready: physically, mentally, or emotionally. Their swordsmanship is totally inadequate.”

  “How many seniors?” Piers demanded. He seemed to have grown taller. If he was faking his anger, he was doing it very well.

  Grand Master continued to smile at Malinda. “Only six. Until yesterday we had four, but even they are barely fuzzies, and the two I just promoted hardly qualify as beardless grade. We need twenty or more seniors to partner the younger candidates in fencing. The standards have slipped much too far already, and I cannot in good conscience—”

  “Sewage!” Piers shouted. “Describe these four seniors. Pretend you’re still reporting to King Ambrose.”

  The old man rounded on him. “But I’m not, am I? Whose warrants did you bring, Sir Piers? Are they signed by the Lord Protector? Has the Lord Protector even taken the oath of office?”

  “They are signed by Durendal as acting chairman of the Council of Regency and they bear the Council’s seal. The Council is de facto ruler of the land until the Lord Protector takes office.”

  “Bah, housekeeping duties—milking the cows and emptying slops. Only the Lord Protector has authority to deed Blades. Suppose the time comes that he wants some Blades and discovers I have given away all I had on an inadequate warrant? What happens to me then, mm?”

  “Less than may happen to you now, you croaking incompetent! Report on these four seniors!”

  Grand Master shrugged. “Prime is Candidate Audley. He’s very handsome, will look marvelous in uniform, but he fences like a tortoise. Second…Your Grace does not want Second. He is crazy. In normal times he’d have been expelled long ago, but we keep him around to tutor the juniors. I would certainly not trust him at court with a sword.”

  “His name?” Piers snapped.

  “I forget what we wrote in the rolls. He won’t answer to anything but ‘Dog.’ Your late father used to become quite irate at such foolish names, Your Grace, but sometimes we have to accept them. Third is Winter. He’s probably the best swordsman of the bunch, which is saying very little, but he’s immature, highly strung. Bites his nails to the wrist.”

  “I wet the bed!” Piers snapped.

  Grand Master blinked, thrown off stride.

  Piers’s face was pale under the mud. “Many seniors grow nervous as their binding approaches. They can’t sleep, they twitch, and bed-wetting is not all that rare. In the name of mercy, we don’t talk about it, Saxon! And if it was true in my day, six years ago, think what it’s like for these kids, with Blades being eaten by monsters and chopped up by their own brethren? Monster War, Wetshore, and now a regency! Well, carry on. Who’s fourth?”

  “Abel. He’s just a silly kid. Makes obscure jokes, plays pranks. He’ll be all right in a couple of years.” Grand Master offered Malinda a quarter of a bow. “I am deeply sorry, my lady, but the barrel is empty.”

>   “We’ll see about that!”

  “Quiet! Quiet both of you!” Malinda was gratified to see both men flinch before her anger. Piers’s obvious hatred of Grand Master was not helping her cause, and the older man could balk her completely. “Stop behaving like children! Shouting solves nothing. When is the evening meal, Grand Master?”

  “Imminently, Your Grace. Of course the Order will be deeply honored if—”

  “Then, please have us shown to our quarters. Since Sir Piers is so distrusting, he may wish to test the four seniors’ swordsmanship. When the meal is over, we can continue this discussion in the presence of the men themselves.”

  “Men…?”

  “The four senior candidates.”

  “That is not how we traditionally—”

  “But,” Malinda smote him with her best House of Ranulf glower, “it is how we will do it this time. You say they are not ready, and you may well be right. Sir Piers suspects you of lying, while you question his authority. I say that protecting me from the dangers ahead may be beyond a dozen Durendals. I will not ask these boys to throw away their lives for me unless they are both adequately trained and properly informed about the situation.”

  Piers rolled his eyes as if he wished she would not interfere.

  Grand Master bowed. “I know the masters will be deeply honored if Your Grace would care to take a glass of wine with them before the meal….”

  The hall was longer and wider than Malinda had expected. When she entered on Grand Master’s arm, followed by the rest of the masters and the Blades who had brought her, all the boys rose from their benches and began a rhythmic cheer, a sort of “Hup! Hup! Hup!” They probably cheered any guest, but her identity would be known to them. Very few women ever saw the inside of Ironhall—although her mother had—and she wasn’t seeing a great deal of it now, for the only light came from candlesticks on the tables…and also, she suddenly realized, from a mist of flickering stars just overhead. The famous sky of swords dipped to not much more than twice head height above the center aisle, curving upward toward the sides, and every restless blade reflected the many dancing flames beneath. No gawking! she reminded herself, and kept her chin down as she paraded along the aisle.