by Dave Duncan
Suppose that faint thread of light down there was real? It refused to go away when she blinked, but her hand could block it. She edged forward and knelt to explore the wall by touch, eventually concluding that there was a hatch there, about waist height, and it had not been perfectly closed the last time it was opened, which might have been a century ago. Possibly no one else in the world knew it existed, because only a lunatic would venture up or down this secret stair without a lantern, by night or day; and with any other light at all the tiny glow would be invisible. Even she had seen it only when her eyes were in exactly the right line.
She found raised moldings and pulled…pushed…shoved until she felt the panel slide and the crack of light widened. She restrained a strong desire to snigger. Had her ardent ancestor, Ambrose I, been aware that his Blades were spying on him when he called on Lady Blanche? This was certainly a vantage designed to overlook the royal antics. If Audley had told the truth about a dressing room off the gym, she should be able to turn the tables now and pry into the private lives of the Royal Guard. Of course a princess would never dream of spying on a bunch of scantily clad, sweaty young men, would she?
Unfortunately, yes.
She put an eye to the slit, but made out only a misty trellis of light and dark. When she pushed the panel wider she caught a whiff of sickly scents—beeswax, wine, perfume, people. She was trying to peer through one of the complex cornices that decorated the tops of the walls in this wing of the palace, but the plaster trellis was draped in a gauze of ancient cobwebs, loaded with dirt, dead insects, and candle smoke. Grimacing, she removed her nightcap and used it to wipe away some of the filth.
Then she could see down into the room that underlay her bedchamber. It was dim, lit by five or six candles on a chandelier and the flicker of a hearth almost directly below her. The original space had been divided by a later wall of plainer paneling; and what remained was crowded by a couch in front of the fireplace, a bed against the new wall opposite, and a table and stools in the center. This chamber was not how she would have expected a dressing room to look, but it explained Audley’s reluctance to show her the secret passage. The bed curtains were open, revealing bedclothes presently unoccupied but well rumpled. A least a dozen wine bottles were scattered around the room, although Blades were abstemious drinkers…and there was a man lying on the couch, reading.
He had let down the chandelier until it was not far above his head; it hung directly in her line of sight so she could see little more than his legs. That was extremely annoying. White hose and shiny-buckled shoes were almost universal on men at court; calves like those were not. The sword lying on the floor within instant reach was a full-sized two-handed broadsword, and she knew only one man who lugged one of those around.
She had never imagined Dog as a reader, but then he was a constant source of surprises, from his rare flashes of humor to his crazy outbursts. And here he was, whiling away half the night guarding the back door to her apartment! With a silent whisper of gratitude she slid the hatch shut and crept back up the stairs to her room.
Yet sleep eluded her for a long time. She kept thinking of the guardian downstairs, wondering what he read—poetry? Law? Some Blades had unusual fields of interest. And she also remembered Dog sitting on the anvil at Ironhall with his shirt off, the only one of the four who had faced death at her hands without a trace of fear.
Radgar Æleding raised the crossbow to his shoulder and laughed at her. She tried to scream but her breath would not come. She tried to run and her feet would not move. He fired and the bolt hissed past her ear. She turned in time to see—
In time to wake up, sweating and shaking. How often must she endure that dream? Some nights she saw her father with the bolt lodged in his eye. Some nights she did cry out a warning and it was he who laughed at her and all the Blades joined in. Some nights it was Sir Eagle on the longship, aiming the bow at her.
Dawn was not far off, the sky a paleness behind the chimneys.
Granville. Poor little Amby and his persistent cough.
Dog reading in the room downstairs. She smiled.
Wait! Something wrong? She thought back. Her nightcap…She had used it as a duster, and when she returned to her room she had tossed the filthy thing on the floor without a thought. How could a princess explain a nightcap covered with soot and grease and cobwebs? If the chambermaids noticed anything at all amiss, the Blades would hear the news through the pores in their skin. She scrambled out of bed and saw the deadly thing just lying there on the rug, smirking at her. Toss it out the window? It had her monogram on it. She had no fire to burn it. She would have to hide it, and there was only one safe hiding place. She slid the pilaster aside, opened the panel….
And again succumbed to temptation. The Blades would have changed watch at least once in the night, so who was guarding her now? What did he do to pass the time? She crept downstairs, trying to ignore the voice of conscience whispering that the bed was what really intrigued her. She had trouble finding the right molding without the telltale crack of light as a guide, but then the panel slid as silently as before.
The scene had changed. The couch was empty and the chandelier had been hauled up to a more normal height. Clothes lay scattered on the floor beside the bed, and its curtains were so nearly closed that she could not see inside. She thought they were moving, as if in a draft, but she could not be sure. The chandelier hung motionless on its rope, candle flames burning steadily.
Well! Innocent she might be, but she could guess what was happening or had been happening. Some of the strewn garments were certainly feminine, and although she could not tell color in the gloom, the man’s doublet and jerkin were too dark to be the Royal Guard’s blue. It might be her green, but other private Blades in the palace wore dark livery. Why argue, why be surprised? She had agreed that her Blades needed recreation and everyone knew what that meant to a Blade. Whichever one he was, he would surely have the outer door bolted and Blades never slept, so he was guarding the secret passage just as effectively as Dog had done. He probably had some kitchen drudge or chambermaid in there with him. No lady would come to a den like this.
The bed curtains promptly parted. A boy slid down off the mattress and straightened up in shameless nudity. He stretched luxuriously, arms overhead, looking utterly content with his lot. Slim, boyish, and almost hairless—it was Abel.
Malinda recoiled. It took her a moment to catch her breath and persuade her conscience to let her steal another look. By that time he had strutted over to the table to inspect the bottles. Was this where the decadent young scoundrel earned his pearl ring? And who had provided it? As if he could hear her silent questioning, he slopped wine into a goblet, strolled back to the bed with it, and flung the drapery aside. The occupant rose on one elbow to accept the glass. It was Lady Violet. The infamous Lady Violet! Naked, of course, with her great fat breasts flopping loose. She was at least twice Abel’s age. Slumming, evidently, because she owned a mansion near the palace and a huge suite of rooms within it—well, her husband did, but everyone knew they slept apart. He slept apart; she slept with any man who asked her and quite a few that hadn’t. Cradle robbing! Corrupting innocent boys with precious gifts!
Malinda closed the hatch, only just refraining from slamming it. She stumbled up the stairs, almost weeping. After all that she had done for them—overpaying them, dressing them in the best clothes money could buy, agreeing to give them time off—now they were betraying her like this! And with that trollop! She had not been so upset in…Well, not since she had been caught kissing Sir Eagle a year ago.
22
Princess Malinda is a strumpet who sells her maids of honor, orgies with her Blades all night long, and buries babies at midnight.
LORD PROTECTOR GRANVILLE
Next morning Sir Abel was the same peach-faced dewy youth as always, but Malinda could not look at him without remembering the naked libertine doing his catlike stretch after whatever he had been doing to, with, or for Lady Violet,
which had certainly not been merely catnapping. Why had Malinda been so stupid as to let her Blades walk around flaunting other women’s blazons? He sensed her antagonism and reacted with puzzled glances. To upset her even more, Winter was now wearing a ruby on his left index finger.
She began the day by visiting Amby, provoking the usual argument between her Blades and the Guard, which was resolved as always by having three of her Blades watch from the far side of the room and one escort her to her brother’s side. As always, the one who went with her was Dog, because he was Amby’s favorite. The King thought Dog was a wonderful name for a man, especially one with flaxen hair like his own, and he loved his wonderful doggy noises. “Growl!” he would say and Dog would growl. “Growl again!” And again. And again. With superhuman patience, Dog could keep it up for an hour, until Malinda was driven half crazy. The King was three years old and Dog was crazy to start with.
Dog just said, “I like him. He doesn’t care about other people, only himself.”
“That’s normal at his age.”
“Then it’s a good age to be.” Sometimes the big oaf could make all the rest of the world seem crazy and himself the only sane man in it.
Malinda passed the rest of the morning leading some noble ladies around the park, admiring spring flowers and first blossoms. After that, even the afternoon’s swearing-in ceremony promised to seem exciting. It was very close to being a coronation, with all the grand of the land present. The Lord Protector took the oath of office, followed by the members of the Council of Regency, including the new members he had nominated. Malinda had never heard of any of them before, but Arabel had told her that they were officers from his Army of Wylderland. If so, Granville had personal control of the country.
After that, the nobility swore allegiance to the new King, whether or not they had already done so. Malinda was first, Courtney second—there was a rumor that he had tried to leave town and been brought back under guard—and so on through everyone who was of any importance, down almost to the palace gardeners. It took hours. It was the first such state ceremony in almost four hundred years that did not include the Royal Guard. The only Blades present were a few private Blades, bound to officials or nobles.
When the interminable oath-taking ended, the Lord Protector made a speech. It was curt, as befitted the words of a soldier, but it said a great deal more than it seemed to. Of course he began by proclaiming that the Council’s first priority would be to ensure that His Majesty grew up in peace and health and was suitably trained to rule when he reach his majority. In the meantime, the Council would govern the realm with justice to all, curb extravagance, smite the King’s enemies, and foster trade. The audience applauded. The Council, Granville said, would also make thorough inquiry into the tragic death of King Ambrose IV and the disaster that had ensued. It would look into any similar or related incidents. It would take any actions necessary to prevent such tragedies happening in future. The assembly reacted with wild cheers.
The King’s Blades were in serious trouble.
And so was Princess Malinda.
There was a state banquet to follow, and on the morrow court would go back into mourning. As Malinda and her train hurried to her quarters to change, she was not too surprised to be accosted by a young herald, although of course Audley intercepted him. The worry in the boy’s eyes warned her of trouble before he spoke a word.
“Commander, His Excellency the Lord Protector bade me inform Her Highness that Blades will not be permitted into the hall this evening.” He bowed—message delivered.
“I will so inform Her Highness,” Audley snarled.
“Consider me informed,” she said. “Pray convey my sincere regrets to His Excellency.”
With another bow, the lad departed. She stood in the hallway and looked around the angry faces.
“Does that mean we have to leave the Blades outside, like servants?” asked Lady Dove.
“No,” said Sister Moment. “It means we all get left outside like servants.”
“No Blades, no Princess,” Alys explained. “No Princess, no maids of honor.”
“With your permission…” Audley began, and then started again. “I feel obliged, my lady, to institute Sian Rules immediately. Sir Dog, Sir Winter, proceed.”
Without a word, those two vanished in opposite directions.
“What,” Malinda demanded, “are Sian Rules?”
“Ironhall term, Your Grace. Shall we continue?”
She set off, flanked by Audley and Abel, the women following.
“Now explain.”
“Sian Rules refer to a drill devised after the arrest of Queen Sian in 361.”
Sian had been beheaded for treason after being found in bed with Sir Wyvern, but the King’s daughter had been told no details at the time and perhaps not all of them even yet. “I don’t think I know exactly how Queen Sian was arrested.”
“Sad story, my lady.”
“Please tell me.”
“She had four Blades.”
“I know that.”
“They were dropped at her feet,” Audley said grimly. “On the grass around her, all four at once—Yeoman archers, shooting from ambush. Their error was to offer themselves as a single target.”
Malinda stopped, appalled. “Oh spirits! My father ordered that?”
“Perhaps not specifically, Your Grace, but if he ordered the lady arrested, he must have known what would be required. So Ironhall devised Sian Rules, although I think this is the first time they have been invoked. Now we shall never be all in one room together or eat from the same pot.”
She looked then at Abel, who was understandably not quite his usual cheerful, cheeky self either. “You knew all this, too, of course?”
He nodded. “Standard training. And it’s in the Litany.”
She had been a blind and very selfish fool. “When I came to Ironhall, you all knew that I might already be under suspicion because of my father’s death and the Wetshore Massacre. You guessed that I wanted Blades as a defense against arbitrary arrest?”
“We knew.”
“And yet you were willing to be bound? All of you!”
Abel forced a thin smile. “Our duty, my lady.”
She shivered. Lord Roland and Sir Piers had been more ruthless on her behalf than she had realized. Grand Master had tried to keep his young charges out of her clutches. Admittedly she had been going to explain and give them a chance to refuse, but then the crazy one had volunteered and they had all followed his lead, unwilling to let him shame them.
“I am very grateful to all of you,” she said and set off hastily along the hallway. She should not grudge Abel and Winter their baubles. Courage must have its due. Binding was a burden and Blades deserved the privileges it brought them.
The rain had stopped. Malinda suggested brightly that everyone might like to go for a ride in the park. Everyone knew enough to agree, so a page was dispatched to alert the stables, and everyone went to change. The page returned to say that the stable master reported no horses currently available.
Soon after that Sir Audley took her aside and asked if she wanted him to organize an escape by river.
“Escape from what?” she demanded. “To where? It would be regarded as an admission of guilt. And I cannot desert my brother.”
She went to call on Amby and was informed that no Blades other than the Royal Guard were to be admitted to the King’s presence from now on, by order of the Council. No Blades, no Princess.
So she was effectively under house arrest, and during the next few days the Lord Protector steadily increased the pressure on her, simply by doing nothing. That was how she interpreted the silence, and she did not think she was suffering from delusions of persecution.
A court in mourning was as much as fun as an icehouse to start with, and many noble families were not on speaking terms with the princess who had caused the Wetshore catastrophe. Others shunned her because they sensed the way the Lord Protector wanted the wind to blow.
>
Her slightest requests were ignored or denied; meals were delivered late and cold; no one would come to tune the spinet; beeswax candles were replaced with common tallow. It was the death of a thousand fleabites, and even such pettiness might break anyone’s nerve eventually. Ruby and Alys both found urgent reasons to visit their families and asked permission to leave her household. Malinda refused it and waited to see what would come next.
What came eventually was a summons to meet Lord Granville on the library terrace.
It was spring and there was death in the air. Sunlight shone on marigolds and butterflies; birds sang of love and treachery. Malinda walked over the mossy paving, knowing that there were almost certainly archers posted somewhere nearby—on the roof, behind the hedges, in the gazebos or summerhouses. Audley and Winter could be struck dead behind her at any minute.
Granville was waiting for her at the balustrade, his back to the river. With feet spread and hands on hips he looked astonishingly like their father—younger, fitter, harder. He was unarmed and there was no one else in sight, but that did not mean much.
A few paces away she halted. Amber eyes locked on amber eyes. He was a lord protector, not a regent. She was a princess and the heir. But he was head of state. She gave him not much of a curtsey.
He bowed not much of a bow and smiled not much of a smile. “You have grown up, Sister.”
“You have risen, Brother.”
“We need to talk. Your dogs stay here.”
She nodded to Audley and went with Granville. “You know they can’t let me out of their sight?”
