by Dave Duncan
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he mumbled.
“No you shouldn’t.”
He tried to rise and her fingers closed in his hair.
“But you did and I didn’t break and I still love you.”
“I must go away. You’re right—I’m an animal.”
“You’re staying right here. I love you.”
He raised his head in alarm. “You can’t love me! You mustn’t!”
She licked the salty tears off his eyelids. “But I do and there’s nothing you can do about it. Now you’re going to make up for what you just did. I’m sore and you’re going to have to go very slow, take twice as long. You can start now.”
“I can’t. A man needs time.”
“A woman needs more. You will begin by nuzzling my right earlobe. When I’m satisfied with your performance there, I’ll give you further directions.”
A long time after that, when the sky was pale gray beyond the casement, she stirred and wakened, and saw Dog sitting by the light of the last guttering candle on the mantel. Despite the chill, he had no clothes on; he was reading a book, scowling with concentration, spelling out the words with a finger. Sensing her gaze on him, he dropped it and hurried across to her. Now he was eager, and visibly excited again. “Again?” He hauled off the covers.
“Spirits, man!” she said. “I’m not sure! Is it possible? You’ve been going all night. How many times…?” But he was already in bed beside her, and she was facing a wolfish expanse of big white teeth, some broken, many missing. She realized that Dog was trying to smile. Sore or not, she could not refuse him. “All right,” she said. “Begin gently.”
In broad daylight, when the maids were dressing her, she saw his book still lying on the rug and asked for it. It was old, dirty, and tattered—junk picked up for a copper groat. The title was worn off the cover and the title page missing, but she recognized the Arcane Lore of Alberino Veriano, one of the classic spell collections. It had been written in deliberately obscure language and the formulae in it were long out of date, even those that had been of any value to start with. No one would study enchantment with this anymore. The place-marker ribbon had been inserted at a conjuration headed “Invocation of the Dead.”
25
A king should be a sheepdog, not a wolf.
AMBROSE IV
Two days later, as if to prove that the mysterious Stealth was a reliable prophet, the Royal Guard disappeared. Later the Gazette reported that the Council of Regency had chosen the palace of Beaufort as the most suitable residence for the King’s Majesty during his childhood. Where the King went his Blades went, so the familiar blue and silver liveries were gone overnight. The Princess’s Guard continued to work on improving its swordsmanship with the help of the few knights and private Blades who remained in Greymere.
The first Malinda knew of the new arrangement was when Arabel arrived in distress, clamped her Princess to her copious bosom, and wept on her. Lady Cozen had been appointed His Majesty’s governess and Lady Arabel’s services were no longer required.
“He needs faces about him he knows!” she sobbed. “They packed him off with strangers! They could have let me go with him, at least for a few weeks.”
They could also have consulted, or at least informed, the child’s sister. Comforting her old friend, Malinda reflected that the faceless they that everyone talked about was a mask for Granville, and she now had just cause to hate the Lord Protector.
Her turn came a few days after that, when she was called before the Council. She was not caught unprepared. Almost every day one or other of her Blades would bring a verbal message from Sir Snake.
“Stealth says,” Dog grumbled as he scrambled into bed, “‘Tell her the Council’s going to question her. Tell her to talk freely about anything that happened before her father died and nothing after. Tell her to keep an eye on Ratface. He’ll bluster, but he’s really on her side.’ And you’ve got to be specially careful when he rubs his ear.”
“Who’s Ratface?”
“Didn’t say. That’s it. Can we forget all that now?” Dog was very single-minded.
Next morning she was summoned on an hour’s notice. Eight men sat behind a long table, but only three of them were members of the Council, the rest inquisitors or mere clerks. The one introduced as Sir Wrandolph was so obviously Snake’s Ratface that she decided the other two would be Mouse Rampant and Pig. Pig was chairman. At first the proceedings were decorous enough, the tone respectful. She sat in the center of the room under a cloth of estate, flanked by Abel and Audley. Dian and Sister Moment shared a bench over by the fireplace.
“Will Her Highness graciously inform the Council who selected Wetshore palace as the site of her wedding?” Pens scratched as the clerks filled up tomes.
“I did.”
“Will Her Highness graciously inform the Council why she made that choice?”
And so on. Some of the topics surprised her, as when she was questioned for some time about the death of Aunt Agnes. Having nothing to hide, she answered truthfully. Gradually the queries grew more pointed. Would she confirm that she had made all these plans in concert with Ambassador Reinken and the Lord Chamberlain, both of whom had died in the massacre?
“I did not see their bodies, but I was so informed. However, the deliberations were recorded, so the Chamberlain’s office can confirm what I have said.”
Would she specify all matters on which her stated preferences were overruled? Ratface scratched his ear.
“I can’t recall in detail. Not all the final arrangements were my first choices, certainly. May we have the records brought?”
Of course not. She agreed that her father had been annoyed by her parsimony, but pointed out that he had retained personal control over the security arrangements. She reported what she recalled of the wedding itself. No, she had not been alone with Thegn Leofric at any time, even after the ceremony. She described her conversation with King Radgar.
“Will Her Highness graciously inform the Council,” inquired Mouse Rampant, “how much time elapsed after she disembarked from the longship before her father was shot?”
His real name was Marshal Souris and he was clever. Pig was pompous and unsure of himself; Ratface—whether because he was secretly helping her or just from incompetence—was always wandering off into irrelevancies; but little Souris with his long nose and bristling mustache was brisk, brusque, impatient, and asked the most penetrating questions.
“Just moments,” she said. “I walked about half the length of the jetty…roughly the length of this room.”
“Her Highness did not see the longbow being shot?”
“It sounded more like a crossbow. I did not see it at all.”
Mouse Rampant’s eyes glittered. “Will Her Highness graciously explain to the Council how she could have overlooked a crossbow, which must have already been spanned and ready to hand? In an open boat? It is not the sort of object that can be hidden in a pocket.”
She awarded him a patronizing smile. “The ship was not an empty box, Marshal; it was cluttered with chests and ropes and barrels and heaps of leather covers. The bow was hidden somewhere. It was not in view, I assure you.”
What happened when the first shot was fired? Soon they were approaching quicksand—Fox and Fitzroy and the Kromman vendetta—but so many people had seen her on Lord Roland’s horse that she could not deny that he had been her rescuer.
“Can’t we move on?” Ratface complained, digging for earwax. “Will the accused tell the court what happened when she returned to the palace with the Chancellor?”
“Court?” She jumped up. “Accused? I understood that I was assisting the Council of Regency in its inquiries, not that I was on trial. A princess can recognize only a court made up of her peers. I have been deceived. I refuse to answer any more questions.”
Pig and Mouse Rampant glared at the ham-fisted Ratface.
Malinda walked out and no one tried to stop her.
The next day a tr
oop of men-at-arms came for her. They tried to keep her Blades out of the meeting room, but wisely decided not to argue the point when shown Evening and Willing, both of which had very sharp points. Inside the chamber, respect and politeness were things of the past. The clerks and inquisitors had been relegated to the background; men-at-arms were posted at the door as if to prevent anyone leaving. She was expected to stand while the three Councillors sat on grandiose chairs like thrones—Pig and Mouse Rampant as before, but Ratface had been replaced by Fish-Eyes.
Malinda protested this insult, then refused to utter another word. Granville wanted no public scandal, Stealth had said, but she could guess that the inquiry had been told to find enough firewood to light one, so that she could be forced into a marriage. Remaining silent in the face of threats and insults was hard work. After several hours of it, when everyone was coming close to a boil, Fish-Eyes made the same sort of clumsy error Ratface had made the previous day. He uttered an outright threat to have Malinda thrown in the Bastion.
Evening flashed out of its scabbard. “Try giving that order, my lord,” Audley snapped. “You won’t finish it.”
Pig jumped to his feet. “Guards, remove those two men!”
The guards’ eyes were on Audley. Abel perhaps seemed too young to be dangerous, but it was Abel who flashed across the floor and slid Willing between Pig’s legs.
“Please be careful, my lord,” he said earnestly. “This edge is very sharp.”
Pig had his throne at his back and nowhere to go. When his men-at-arms started to draw their swords he screamed at them not to move. “You won’t get away with this!” His normally ruddy face was ashen, and dribbling sweat.
“On tiptoes might be safer, my lord.” Abel raised the blade slightly. “Higher still? That’s better. Now, I believe you were about to adjourn this inquiry? Her Highness and her escort are free to go?”
Pig nodded.
“Say it, my lord.”
Pig squeaked out those instructions and watched as Malinda and her train departed. Abel stepped back, bowed, and followed them, but he kept Willing in his hand and used it to gesture aside the men-at-arms on the door. They let him go unimpeded. He ran after his ward, leaving the door open so they could hear his laughter.
Malinda staggered back to her rooms with a screaming headache. She needed to lie down, she said, and did so. Audley sent Dog around by the secret passage to help her. In fact Dog was not much good at just-lying-and-holding, which was what she needed, but after a while she felt restored enough to let him proceed with what he was good at, and that helped too.
As night was falling she sent him off, made herself respectable, and rang for a ladies’ maid. The summons was answered by Commander Audley clutching a warrant with seal dangling. His dark eyes were grim with worry. “Decree from the Council, Your Grace. A royal residence has been set aside for your use. An escort of Household Yeomen for the journey…first light tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere called Ness Royal, Your Grace. Winter thinks it’s on the coast, northeast….”
“I know it.” Strangely, the prospect of being shut up in Kingstead, that moldering pile, did not appal her. It even held a certain appeal. Her image of it was softened by the golden mists of childhood, and she was intrigued by the thought of running free with Dog there. Anywhere would be better than court now.
Meanwhile, Audley was looking very young and out of his depth. “What are your orders, my lady?”
“What are my options?”
“Submit or flee, I suppose.”
Not flight, even had she anywhere to fly to. “I cannot see that I will be in any greater danger at Ness Royal than I am here. And I am certain that you will be safer.”
Audley bit his lip. “If we arrive.”
“Oh! I see.” No wonder he was frightened. The ride north would take three or four days, some of it through very wild, open country where Sian Rules would be of little use. She might arrive with four fewer Blades than she had when she started. “I need Stealth’s advice. Dog went off to do some fencing, so he may have heard from him already. If not, you’d better hunt him down.”
The news set her household a-twitter. Dian said she would certainly accompany Malinda back to Ness Royal and visit her family there. Even Arabel thought she might come, although she had hated the place before. The maids of honor were unsure, and Sister Moment would need permission from the Prioress. There was a great upheaval as the packing began, with box after box being sent down to the stable to be loaded on wagons.
After that, everyone was sympathetic when Her Highness decreed an early night, even dismissing her ladies’ maids, saying that Dian could give her all the help she required.
The instant the door was closed, though, Malinda drew a deep breath and said, “I have been keeping something from you.”
Her friend grinned and hugged her. “If you’re going to tell me you’re in love, darling, that’s no secret. You’ve had the sun in your lantern for weeks.”
“Oh!” Malinda was nettled. “It is not weeks….”
“You’ve been lighting up the world! Don’t suppose other people would notice, but I know you too well. And since your Blades are not crawling around peeking under doors and through keyholes, I can guess who it is. Congratulations!”
“You can?”
“Oh yes! He’s gorgeous. I’m jealous.”
No one would ever describe Dog as gorgeous unless he had a sack over his head. Malinda shook her head. “Guess again!”
“Not the Commander?” Dian pouted and then smiled knowingly.
“Oh, well he is very clever, and…Not him either? Why, that young rogue! He is reputed to be the fastest needleworker in the palace, but I’d never have guessed—”
The door opened just wide enough to admit Dog and his trusty broadsword. He closed it silently.
Dian’s smile fell into ruins. “He’s a striking hunk of man,” she whispered gamely. Scowling at her, he stuck his big chin out, marched over to Malinda, and thrust a single red rose at her.
She said, “Thank you, darling,” as if this was his usual practice, and offered her lips to be kissed. She hoped she was hiding her astonishment better than Dian was. Had the others put him up to this, or was it his own idea?
What Dian might have said next remained unknown, for Dog then proceeded to open a section of wall and admit the rest of the Princess’s Guard. With them came a very surprising visitor indeed—not Stealth, as Malinda had expected, but the man whose equivalent nom de guerre would be Harvest. He had almost twenty years on everyone else in the room and his clothes were nondescript compared to his usual crimson robes, but Lord Roland was still man enough to turn Audley into just a pretty boy. He bowed low to Malinda.
She bussed his cheek. “I misjudged you for a long time, my lord. Now I appreciate your singular loyalty and I am ashamed that I ever doubted you.”
“You were right to distrust me, Your Highness. My first loyalty was always to your father. Now it is to your brother—your younger brother.” His smile was as deadly as his cat’s-eye sword.
“There is no divergence between his interests and mine, and never will be.”
“I was already sure of that but it gladdens my heart to hear you say so.”
“Come and sit, Excellency.” She led him to a chair and took one beside him. The others moved in, remaining standing. “If Granville can persuade Parliament to legitimize him, then where will your loyalties lie?”
Lord Roland looked over his audience, his gaze hesitating a moment at Dian. Even sitting, he dominated the room. “His Excellency is, of course, being encouraged to summon Parliament as soon as possible for that very purpose.”
Malinda sensed evasion under the charm, like some deadly water monster lurking in a sunlit pool. “Encouraged by whom?”
“By me and many other loyal supporters,” the Chancellor said blandly. “Unfortunately, your royal father bequeathed him a very full treasury…. I’m sure you know that no ki
ng of Chivial may collect taxes until Parliament has voted him the necessary authority, known as ‘supply.’ With the wealth of the elementaries in hand, the Council of Regency so far needs no supply. That situation cannot long endure, since the Baelish war has been resumed and the Lord Protector must still support both the army he left behind in Wylderland and the troops he brought south with him. He will run out of money before winter.”
The Chancellor had parried her question, not answered it. “So why cannot he just suppress a few more conjuring orders?”
Lord Roland smiled. It was not the sort of smile one would like to see on an opponent. “Resume the Monster War? That would require the help of Sir Snake and his associates, or else a new band of similar daredevils. It would also require the White Sisters, and I have reason to believe that Mother Superior is proving uncooperative.” He shook his head in sad disapproval. “Furthermore, the Lord Protector has refused the protection of the Royal Guard. His mercenaries are sturdy enough on a field of battle, but they may lack something in subtlety when it comes to dealing with monsters and similar treachery.”
“He won’t dare?”
“Let us say he should be loath, if he has any brains at all. Which he does. He is a clever man, Your Grace. He is hesitant to summon Parliament, because he knows that its moods are never predictable. Returning to your original question, why am I encouraging him to summon a Parliament? First, it is highly unlikely that a bill to legitimize him would ever pass. Consider your former betrothed, His Grace of De Mayes.” Roland waited to see if she had caught up with him, which she had not. “Until he comes of age, his mother will act as regent for him. The duchy is one of the greatest landowners in the country. Although he cannot yet take his seat in the House of Lords, his mother can sway many peers who are his relatives or tenants. He controls a score of seats in the Commons. But he has two older brothers on the wrong side of the blanket—do you suppose his mother will favor legitimizing Lord Granville? Many peers have sons they would prefer not to acknowledge in daylight. I could go on, Your Highness, but you get my gist. Legitimization would create far too many precedents; it is possible but not likely.”
