Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  More than six hundred men had gathered in the hall. The entire Royal Guard was present, still in the old blue liveries, alas, because the Queen could not afford to outfit them with new. Snake and his Old Blades were there in force, as were knights so ancient that they could remember Ambrose II and would insist on doing so if given the slightest encouragement. Every private Blade in the land had begged and bullied his ward to attend, and many had consented. These non-Blades were shunted off to a safe, quiet corner to dispose of a butt of fine wine from the royal cellar, but no other strangers were present.

  The ceremony was brief and matter-of-fact, yet many an eye blinked tears. Grand Master read out a blood-chilling list of additions to the Litany, including a “Sir Wolfbiter, slain in a far country” and ending with Sir Abel. But the main business of the meeting concerned the three Blades who had been crippled at Wetshore: Sir Bellamy had lost a leg, Sir Glanvil the use of an arm, and Sir Dorret had been both blinded and horribly mutilated by a kick from a horse. For half a year they had lived in torment, driven by their bindings to defend their ward and balked by physical inability.

  The conjuration to release them could hardly have been simpler, yet only the sovereign could perform it, and Amby had not been capable. Each in turn knelt before the Queen with bared shoulders, and she dubbed him knight, touching his flesh with the sword that had bound him. Right after that, as Snake cheerfully remarked, they could go off and get roaring drunk for the first time in their lives.

  Commander Audley floated in bliss, ever at the Queen’s side, being Leader before the entire Order, the youngest ever recorded. No other man had ever gone from Prime to Leader in just half a year, either. Much drollery was being lobbed around just behind his ears, on the lines of “do-you-supposehis-fencing-will-improve-when-his-balls-drop,” but he could pretend not to hear that. He was not allowed to hear the praise, of which there was considerably more; the Guard had developed an affectionate respect for its mascot commander. He had made no mistakes, and that was a talent swordsmen valued highly.

  Malinda, for her part, could breathe more easily. As long as she had the power to release Blades, she was sovereign. They recognized her, their bindings recognized her, and no one could deny her.

  That situation might change very rapidly, though, and her intention was to leave as soon as possible. If she went by midday she could reach Bondhill by sunset and be home before noon tomorrow. She would find more trouble waiting there, she had no doubt. So she fretted through the ceremonial meal—which was barely appetizing, because Ironhall was neither staffed nor equipped to create banquets—and through some very windy speeches after it. She cut her own remarks to a barely decent brevity and departed, knowing the knights would now indulge in a memorable orgy of drinking at her expense. Companions were kept sober by their bindings.

  Even in Ironhall she went nowhere without an escort, and she was dogged upstairs by fourteen young men who could hardly endure to let her out of their sight. She went straight to the royal chamber, a solitary oasis of luxury in Ironhall’s stony austerity, furnished with her father’s taste for over-stuffed, overcrowded mishmash. There she found Dian laying out her riding clothes, but she also found Winter.

  “What are you two getting up to?” she said cheerfully, then saw that he had more on his mind than Dian. She dropped the smile. “Spit it out! And I don’t mean your thumbnail.”

  “Your Grace…I’ve been talking to knights.” Winter was rarely so hesitant. Either he had not finished solving his problem or he could not convince himself of the answer he had found. “There are knights from all over Chivial here.”

  “And?”

  “There’s something strange going on just west of here.” He pulled his hat off and scratched his hair. “At Lomouth, Waterby, Ashter…all around Westerth, southern Nythia…Mayshire.”

  She waited, knowing that interruptions would only slow him down. Hunter and Vere were quietly inspecting the room for hidden assassins, while the rest of the fourteen had packed up in the doorway and corridor behind her, reluctant to push past their sovereign.

  “Lots of knights,” Winter mumbled. “Sir Florian from Waterby mentioned it first, then Sir Warren, who’s running a private fencing school near Buran…. They’re good men, my lady! So then I started asking, and hunting out others to ask, and I got eight or nine certains and a couple of probablies….”

  “Tell her!” Dian snapped.

  “Please do,” Malinda said.

  “Hiring swordsmen, Your Grace! And men-at-arms. And even farmhands. Strong arms and weak heads, if you know the expression. Several hundred, at least. I think someone’s building a private army out in the west, here, Your Grace.” He stared nervously at Malinda, like a child expecting a scolding.

  She was training herself to take time to think. So she took time to think. Her first conclusions remained unchanged. In troubled times, men of property naturally wanted protectors, no matter what the law said about private armies. Half a dozen bullyboys to guard a mill or dockyard were of no account. A thousand or two with weapons and veterans to train them would be something else entirely. But who could find the money to do that? She couldn’t!

  “Is it only hereabouts? Have you asked?”

  Winter nodded vigorously. “There’s some of it going on all over, yes. Fitzambrose is openly hiring in the north. Farmers everywhere are screaming about a shortage of hands to bring in the harvest. But it does seem a lot just west of here, Your Grace.”

  What else was bothering him? “Any idea who’s behind it?”

  “Mayshire seems to be the center, Your Grace.” Winter drew a deep breath. “Several people mentioned your cousin, Prince Courtney.” He waited anxiously to see how Her Majesty liked hearing her heir being accused of treason.

  37

  Until death do us part.

  CHIVIAN MARRIAGE CONTRACT

  The members of the Council rose when their sovereign entered—three women and sixteen men around a paper-littered table. She and her Guard had spent the night at Bondhill and been on the road again before dawn, pounding along in a blustery wind that threw rain and sleet by turns. At Abshurst she had told Audley to send his best two horsemen on ahead to warn Chancellor Burningstar to call the Council into immediate session. She stalked in with Audley and Winter, all three of them soaked, windswept, and muddy.

  “Please be seated, Excellency, my lords and ladies.” Malinda squelched down on her chair at the head, facing down the length of the table to Chancellor Burningstar.

  Everyone had noted Her Majesty’s evident displeasure and was trying to appear noncommittal, with varying degrees of success. The new Mother Superior, especially, tended to simper or chew her lip as conditions warranted. She was a pale little spider of a woman; it seemed she and her predecessor belonged to different factions of the Sisters, because they obviously detested each other. Today lip biting was in vogue. The Dowager Duchess of De Mayes was doing it too. None of them could come close to Grand Inquisitor’s graven inscrutability. Master Kinwinkle remained standing at his writing desk.

  Malinda chose to give the suspect a chance to redeem himself. “What bad news do you have this fine day, before I tell you mine?”

  The Chancellor peered over the eyeglasses she had recently adopted. “The members of your Privy Council are, as always, deeply honored to have you join their deliberations, Your Majesty. We were considering a map Master Kinwinkle has prepared, showing the insurgent garrisons.”

  A paper was hastily passed along and spread out before the Queen. She frowned at the red names disfiguring the outlines of her realm like festering pox. The north was especially bad, for Neville’s supporters were concentrated near the Wylderland border, but there were pustules less than a day’s ride from Grandon itself. The absence of trouble spots in the southwest now seemed ominous.

  “None of this is especially new. Can we continue to deny that we have a revolution on our hands?”

  “Local unrest,” grumbled the Duke of Brinton. “Horse of
a different color. These towns are being held against the Queen’s Majesty by armed bands of malcontents. The inhabitants in general are, we can be certain, loyal subjects of the crown.”

  “Is that true, Grand Inquisitor?” Malinda asked.

  Lambskin spread his hands. “We have conflicting information, Your Grace. In some case yes, in others no.”

  “So you see no imminent armed rebellion springing up?”

  “Certainly not imminently, no.”

  He had been given his chance. He had failed.

  “Setting Fitzambrose aside for a moment, I believe the Council should hear certain information we obtained at Ironhall. Sir Winter?”

  Winter stepped forward and began to recite. He was more confident now, having had time to prepare, and he spouted a damning stream of names and places. The last name, of course, was that of Prince Courtney.

  “Have the honorable members any questions to put to the guardsman?” Malinda inquired sweetly. Most of the honorable members were staring hard at Grand Inquisitor. It isn’t just me, she thought. They all suspect him. They don’t think it’s just age and incompetence.

  The old man glanced calmly around the table, waiting for others to speak first.

  Burningstar, who detested him, said, “Grand Inquisitor?” Her cheeks bore little red rosebuds of anger.

  “It is an impressive indictment,” he said. “All hearsay, of course, but still disturbing. If I may presume, without prejudice to your royal cousin’s loyalty, Your Grace, would it not be advisable, in these uncertain times, to summon His Highness to court to explain what, if anything, may lie behind these rumors?”

  “What can, other than treason?”

  Lambskin cracked his knuckles. “Defense. Baelish ships have been seen skulking in the Westuary several times in the last few months. The locals fear a major Baelish raid, which is something we have all dreaded since the collapse of the treaty last spring. Before Your Grace was born, King Æled scored the greatest triumph of his bloody career by seizing, looting, and razing Lomouth. While still not what it was, the city is now prosperous enough to repay another rape. Since his son has never touched it, Lomouth would not be an unlikely target for him to choose now.” He scanned the company again, as if assessing reaction. “Your boy may merely have stumbled on traces of many landowners looking to their own protection. To assume that His Highness the Duke of Mayshire is behind all the recruiting is to jump to unwarranted conclusions.”

  Butter should be so smooth. Malinda kept tight hold of her temper. “We fully intend to summon him before this Council. Would you care to explain why we learned of the situation at a drinking party, instead of from our Office of General Inquiry?”

  He shook his mummy head sadly. “Overtaxed resources, mainly, Majesty. The inquisitors have been concentrating on Fitzambrose. I did withdraw five agents from the north last week and dispatch them to the west country to investigate why our permanent personnel in the Prince’s household had fallen behind in their reports.”

  “What in flaming britches do you mean by, ‘permanent personnel,’ eh?” the Duke demanded, suddenly scowling.

  “You dare to plant spies on a prince of the realm, the Heir Presumptive?”

  Grand Master’s glassy stare avoided him, wandering around the rest of the company instead. “Her Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry keeps watch on anyone who might present a threat to the Queen’s Grace.”

  Brinton spluttered. “You implying the Dark Chamber spies on me too?”

  “Such matters should be discussed in private, Your Grace.”

  “I take the matter extremely seriously,” Malinda said. “I am more concerned about Courtney than I am about Fitzambrose.” To back Neville would be open rebellion—and there had been few signs of general support for him as yet—but many people who would draw back from that grim plunge into rebellion might see little wrong in forcing a juvenile queen into marrying a mature prince who was her heir and next of kin anyway. Even, perhaps, some of this very Council. Like grim old Horatio Gallows, there. Never treason! Oh no, just rationalizing the lines of command…. How many of the other councillors were in his power?

  “Is it agreed that we summon Prince Courtney?” she said harshly and watched the heads nod. “Then, if there is no new business, we can adjourn. Perhaps you would bring me the warrant to sign in an hour or so, Chancellor?”

  It was the twentieth day of her reign. Already she had defeated one rebellion, and now she faced two more.

  The Queen’s Chamber was the largest and finest room in the Royal Suite at Greymere, large, and commanding a fine view above huddled city rooftops to the hills of Great Common. It was renowned for its framed Duville tapestries, whose improbable shepherd youths and maidens frolicked in an idyllic landscape and a much warmer climate than Chivial’s. Queen Haralda had often threatened to hang smocks on some of them.

  As a child Malinda had wondered why her father did not claim the best room as his own, but she had guessed the reason after the Night of Dogs; and when she returned to Greymere as queen she made the Guard show her the secret door and the spyholes concealed by the famous tapestries. They posed no real problem, though, because they led through to a bedchamber in the attendants’ wing, and the door to that was fitted with a lock and a strong bolt. That was how Dog came calling after curfew.

  She had bathed, dressed in a comfortable gown, and was nibbling a snack of fruit and cheese when Chancellor Burningstar was shown in. As soon as her guest was seated and had accepted a glass of cordial, she went straight to what they both knew was the main reason for the meeting.

  “Is Lambskin playing me false?”

  Burningstar sighed. “I honestly do not know, Your Grace. I personally despise the man, but I feel that way about all inquisitors. To most White Sisters, a Blade smells like hot iron and an inquisitor of rot and decay. He reeks stronger than any. If your cousin is gathering and training an army, as you obviously fear, then you certainly have cause to dismiss your chief of security for not warning you of the danger.”

  “The next question is: Can I do it?”

  “Indeed it is! Who defends the hunter from his dogs? Your father always appointed elderly persons to head the Dark Chamber, on the theory that none of them could ever be trusted for long, and it was much safer to let them die off than to try and remove them.”

  Lambskin had not been many years in his post. Malinda could remember his predecessor, a huge and sinister woman, dramatically dropping dead at a concert.

  “Forgive my asking, but you are worth a hundred Lamb-skins to me. If he has any hold over you, I will sign a pardon for it, no matter what it involves.”

  Burningstar smiled, obviously pleased by the compliment. “I have nothing on my conscience except maybe some sarcastic comments when Your Grace was much younger. I fear that others on your council are more vulnerable. Your honored uncle, for example.”

  “Brinton?” Malinda said incredulously. “How can anyone blackmail a duke? Dukes can get away with anything.” Perhaps not murder or treason, but she could not conceive of the bovine Brinton murdering anyone. Boring them to death, maybe.

  “Well…” said the first minister of her government, “it is old gossip, and I swear I have never repeated it to anyone before….”

  Malinda grinned and leaned closer. “But when it is a matter of fealty to the crown…?”

  “Exactly. Do you know why he’s never fathered any children?”

  “Um, no. Do tell.”

  “When he was about ten,” the old lady said in a conspiratorial whisper, “he watched a mountebank juggling axes. He was so impressed that he went off behind the barn and tried it himself.”

  The Queen guffawed, much to her shame. “I can see why he would not want the tale told, but I don’t think he would let it trap him into open treason.”

  “It might sway his judgment if there were doubts. Add a few more cases like it, and your Council may have trouble supporting you against Grand Inquisitor.”

  “I
don’t need its support in a case of treason,” Malinda said grimly. “And this time I would not make the mistake of emptying my dungeons too quickly. But we have no proof yet. Let us see how Courtney responds to the warrant, and then decide.”

  She read over the summons to her cousin, which the Chancellor had brought, then moved some plates to make a space for signing it. When she looked up, she caught Burningstar staring at the tapestries.

  “My great-grandmother’s choice. I like the lad with the drinking horn. Impressive, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, I beg pardon, Your—”

  “Don’t apologize. Everyone reacts that way at first. For sheer beef, perhaps the one with the plow, and I don’t mean the ox in front.” For sheer beef, Dog put them all to shame.

  “I doubt if Prince Courtney will look much like that with his clothes off, but I know of course the Council wants me married, so—”

  “Not at all, Your Majesty! Far from it! You don’t think we’re enjoying ourselves? No, most of your Council…if you will pardon my presumption, Your Grace…we really think you are doing very well, and with a little more experience…and when we ourselves have more…I doubt if any of us wants to see Prince Courtney wearing the crown matrimonial. Most detest him.”

  “Thank you for this assurance. I am less worried by Fitzambrose’s threats of armed rebellion than I am by an insidious campaign to pressure me into marrying my cousin.”

  “Ah,” the Chancellor said sadly. “That wasn’t quite what I said. If Lambskin has sold out to him…The Prince has been around court all his life and may be as well equipped to apply blackmail as Grand Inquisitor is. Together they would be formidable indeed.”

  “I wonder why everyone claims to despise Courtney and yet he always rises to the top?”

  “Scum always does,” said the Lady Chancellor. “Begging Your Grace’s pardon.”

  “Pardon granted. What about that?” Malinda pointed out at the view of Great Common, still disfigured by rows of tents, a deliberate threat to the city. “I don’t want the Black Riders there when Parliament meets.”