Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “Arise, Sir Dog.”

  She returned Sword to him. As he backed away, rubbing his eyes, Audley turned to face the throng. “Companion Dominic!”

  Dominic hesitated, face twisted in horror. Bloodfang shoved him and he stumbled forward.

  “Arise, Sir Dominic…”

  “Companion Oak!”

  Dog took Oak by the elbow and delivered him to the cushion as surely as a team of horses would have done.

  “Arise, Sir Oak.”

  Dominic brought the one after, and then the pattern was set. A few wept, but none of the Guard made a serious attempt to resist.

  Sir Reynard…Sir Brock…Sir Crenshaw…

  Most of the private Blades had to be dragged forward, although not one drew his sword or tried to flee. Normally only the death of his ward could release a private Blade, but in this dissolution of the entire Order, the effort was worth making. It might work for some of them.

  And last of all: “Arise Sir Audley…

  “I thank you all from the bottom of my heart,” Malinda said, “and wish you long life and happiness. The Treasury will distribute some funds…not nearly what you have earned, but all I can spare. I hope some of you will write a proper history of the Blades to replace the archives lost in the destruction.”

  She stepped down and Dog offered his arm to lead her out. The knights bent their knees to her as she went by them, but no one could manage to raise a cheer. After nearly four centuries, the Blades were finished. Radgar Æleding, once himself a candidate in the Order, had destroyed it with a single bolt. It was small consolation that his head now adorned a spike in Grandon.

  39

  I will be your friend, the lion told the antelope.The antelope replied,Then I shall not fear my enemies.

  FONATELLES

  On the twentieth of Tenthmoon, Courtney’s army pitched camp on the outskirts of Grandon, having marched from Ironhall without meeting resistance. Grand Inquisitor reported that Neville’s forces were scattering and retreating northward. Parliament had adjourned, with many members hurrying away to join the triumphant Prince, and most of the Privy Council had gone with them. Even the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had headed home to visit their families, just in case.

  The palace seemed deserted. As the sun was setting, Malinda sat in her private withdrawing room with Burningstar and Secretary Kinwinkle. They were eating sweet cakes and sipping dry mead. There was nothing more to be done.

  “How early it is getting dark now,” the Chancellor remarked.

  “Very symbolic,” Malinda said. “Tell me, both of you, what did I do wrong? If I ever write my memoirs, what lessons should I pass on to the next queen regnant, if there ever is one?”

  Burningstar displayed one of her grim little smiles. “You first, Master Secretary.”

  Kinwinkle looked stricken at the thought of criticizing a monarch, but he plunged bravely ahead. “I think you did very little wrong, my lady, nothing to be ashamed of. The dice were loaded against you right from the start. Lord Granville ruled badly and waited far too long to face Parliament, so you inherited a bankrupt realm. The manner of your father’s death…if you will forgive me, there is still some lingering doubt about your part in that. And the Blades’ rampage alienated everyone, so perhaps you should have disowned them instead of supporting them.” He stopped, watching nervously to see how she reacted.

  “Thank you.” Disown the Blades after three hundred years? Malinda looked to the Chancellor, who sniffed.

  “I blame your father. He should have either named Lord Granville as his heir or left him out entirely, certainly never made him Lord Protector. Your claim was left foggy. It was a miracle that you managed to win the throne at all, Your Grace.”

  “And you are too kind to tell me I was too kind to keep it?”

  Burningstar took a sip of mead in ladylike fashion. “Perhaps. You should certainly have left Prince Courtney and Master Fitzambrose in the Bastion until you had established your rule. Your leniency was an error, although one that does you credit. Apart from that, you made no real mistakes. Your father certainly blundered more than that in his youth, before he learned that kings must listen to their councillors and take time to weigh their actions. Courtney’s capture of the Bael was a drastic interference by the spirits of chance, against which no mortal can stand. Without that, we might have Neville at the gates instead of him.”

  That was no figure of speech; Malinda thought she could hear cheering in the distance.

  “I am too softhearted. I did not want even Granville to die as he did. As one of my Blades did…and other men…I did not want to cause any man’s death.”

  The Chancellor emptied her goblet in one swallow and clinked it down on the table. “If I may say so, Your Grace, you may still have time to redeem your final mistake.” Her eyes drilled holes in Malinda. “You admit that you do not wish to marry your cousin.”

  “I always found Courtney amusing, but as far as being married to him…I hope he still uses love potions.”

  “With respect, my lady, I have met your nephew only briefly, but he seemed a pleasant enough young man, quite ordinary. He ought to be a lot more malleable than your cousin. If you really want my opinion, I still believe you should have headed north to join him—yes, married him and made him King Consort! That debauched butter churn of a Courtney will be a hopeless disaster. There is probably still time.”

  “Unlikely, I’d say.” Malinda sighed. The cheering was growing louder. “I have thought much on this, these last few days. Neville seemed like a strapping stripling, I grant you, but he thinks I killed his father. He broke his oath to me. If I flee to him, I shall be throwing myself on his mercy and will end up a prisoner, not a wife or co-ruler.” She, too, drained her goblet. “It would still cause civil war. I do not want innocent people to die because of me!”

  After a moment she added, “Love potions or not, I can outlive Courtney.”

  The door swung open. Lady Burningstar and Master Kinwinkle rose. Two burly men-at-arms entered, Grand Inquisitor peered over their heads, and then all three went out again. Courtney came mincing in, resplendent in gold and scarlet, the feather in his hat as long as a scythe. He paused to consider Burningstar, who was halfway to the door already. She offered him a barely visible curtsey.

  He pouted. “You should have stayed with the wimple, darling. That neck is an eyesore. I’ll take the chain now.” He held out a finely manicured hand.

  She straightened so she could look down at him from as high as possible. “Her Majesty gave me this chain and until Her Majesty—”

  “Let him have it, Chancellor,” Malinda said. “He’s spiteful. And thank you again for all you have done.”

  Burningstar angrily lifted the golden chain over her bonnet and relinquished it.

  “If you are wise, lady, you will now return to Oakendown and stay there.” Courtney turned away from her and frowned thoughtfully at Master Kinwinkle, who wilted.

  “Footman? Gardener? Night soil attendant? No…You were the herald who read out Uncle’s will so badly. Well, run along and find something useful to do.”

  Dismissing them with a flick of his fingers, Courtney pranced the rest of the way to Malinda, bringing a powerful odor of cloves. The door closed, leaving them alone.

  “I did warn you, darling.” He helped himself to a chair and held the flask of mead up to the light to see how much remained.

  “You have still not sworn allegiance. I should not have let you get away with that.”

  “No, you shouldn’t.” He filled Burningstar’s discarded goblet. “But you did. And now you are going to be swearing wedding vows. I did warn you.” He sipped. “Mm? Too dry for my palate. We are currently preparing a brief ceremony, at which you will sign and seal a few simple documents: our betrothal, a proclamation announcing it and setting the date for our wedding, a bill granting me the crown matrimonial—and precedence—and letters patent appointing me regent in the meantime with plenipotentiary powers to stamp out the c
urrent unrest.” Removing his hat briefly, he looped the gold chain over his head.

  She did not bother to hide her contempt. His face was freshly powdered, the rich red velvet of his jerkin displayed not one speck of dust, and his fingers glittered with gems. He smirked like a satisfied child and took up his goblet again.

  “Can’t you at least say you are glad to see me? Even relatively speaking? Would you rather have that ghastly Fitzambrose boy sitting here? A marriage knot is preferable to a hangman’s. He has sworn to post your head next to King Radgar’s.”

  “He’s no threat now,” she said. “He must be scampering back over the Wylderland border about now.”

  Courtney smirked. “Um…no,darling. You have been misinformed. He’s south of Pompifarth, heading this way. But I am advised that we can meet him and wipe him out before he disturbs the peace around here. That’s assuming he turns down my final offer, which he probably won’t—it’s very generous. He will live in luxury for the rest of his days, few though those will undoubtedly be. Forget him, beloved, and think only of our future together. Tomorrow we shall hold the formal betrothal ceremony for the peers and diplomatic corps and so on. Then I will go off and deal with the Fitzambrose pest. You will stay here to bake the wedding cake.”

  “You must be the only general in history to lead his army in a coach and four.”

  He winced. “Dearest! You are not suggesting I should ride a horse are you? I leave all the nasty sweaty, smelly rough stuff to underlings. Except for breeding heirs, of course. I’ll attend to that in person.”

  “And if I refuse this romantic proposal you ply me with love potions as you did all those other women?”

  Courtney chuckled, laid down the goblet, and rose to his feet. He came close, and she instinctively leaned away from him. She had never cared for cloves.

  “Daaaarling!” he said, smiling down at her. “Do you know the nicest part of having an army at your back? You don’t have to keep being nice to people all the time! It did get to be wearing sometimes. No, my love, no potions. Have you ever heard of the Quiet Pool?”

  Something unpleasant was coming. “No.”

  “Well, you know those elementaries your father suppressed so energetically? All their books of evil enchantments were supposed to be destroyed, yes? Well, they weren’t. Very few, in fact. The College managed to get their palsied hands on some, but the Dark Chamber collected most. The Quiet Pool is a conjuration that used to be especially popular with henpecked husbands and bullied wives.” He chuckled again, studying her with bloodshot eyes.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” she said, her mouth suddenly dry with fear.

  Grinning inanely, he nodded and chucked her under the chin. “Oh, yes I would, kitten! Let’s settle it right now. Which is it to be? Will you be a good, obedient, and passionate wife, or do I have Grand Inquisitor turn you into royal jelly?”

  “He wouldn’t dare!”

  “No? He drools at the thought. You really should not have struck him that night in the Bastion, my sweet. He even dreams of being Chancellor—we’ll let him dream a little longer. Now, beloved, will you marry me?”

  That it had come to this! She wondered how bad Radgar Æleding would have been, really.

  “Yes, I will marry you. I have no choice.”

  “With passion and babies and all the naked-body-in-bed stuff?”

  “I will provide the body, as required. You’ll have to supply the passion.”

  He lifted her hand and kissed it. “Tonight, beloved, I will test your commitment. Until then, keep me in your heart.”

  She had always suspected that Courtney’s cynical mask hid a wounded, sensitive soul. Now she knew that the inside was much nastier than the outside.

  He paused on his way to the door. “I’ll have you fetched when we’re ready for the signing ceremony. Meanwhile, stay here, out of trouble.”

  The Trial, Day Three

  (CONCLUDED)

  The Governor’s hospitality must have been even more splendid than the chairman had predicted, because Malinda was left to her own devices for several hours. She paced her cell frantically, planning what she would say in her defense. “I know he’s vindictive,” she told Winter, “but even Horatio Lambskin will have to allow me a chance to speak. He must! Briefly, maybe, but he must let me make a statement and have an inquisitor tell them I am speaking the truth. Even in treason trials, they all get that grace. So what do I deny first?”

  Winter did not answer. Nor did Horatio, and poor little Moment down on the floor had been washed away by the fish soup Malinda had dropped two days ago, or had fled from it. Malinda had looked everywhere for her.

  Eventually she realized that she was staggering with exhaustion, weakened by the ordeal of the last three days on top of the months of physical and mental inaction. She fumbled in the dark to find her chair and flopped down on it. She had waited too long. It seemed only a few minutes before a chink of light crept in under the door, the lock clattered, hinges creaked. In came Nightmare, holding a lantern. Pestilence followed her and headed straight to Malinda, reaching for her, one-handed. Malinda leaped up and backed away, but there was nowhere to go. She was slammed back against the masonry with fingers at her throat choking her. A fist pounded into her chest—once, twice.

  She croaked, trying to protest. Her head was ground against the stonework. She knew better now than to struggle or fight back. That brought much worse hurt and humiliation.

  “This is a warning,” Pestilence snarled. Her breath was rank. “Tonight you behave yourself, or tomorrow we put the men to work on you. You think this hurts?”

  A foot stamped on her instep. Malinda squealed.

  “That was nothing, nothing at all. Now go!” The jailer hurled her across the room in the general direction of the door.

  Obediently, the prisoner limped down the gloomy, twisted stairs, with Pestilence and Nightmare and the lantern at her back, giant shadows swimming on the stonework ahead. At the bottom the usual squad of men-at-arms waited to escort her along tunnel-like corridors, back to Great Hall and her solitary chair in the center.

  Two of the commissioners already had their heads on the table. Another three arrived late, weaving along the walls in efforts to make inconspicuous entrances. Several of the foreign observers came with them, in a similar unsteady state.

  “The inquiry will come to order,” the chairman said, folding his snaky hands. He frowned to right and left, until the sleeping commissioners had been prodded awake by their neighbors. “We must now consider the last and perhaps the most despicable of this woman’s crimes. She will describe to the honorable commissioners her actions on the night of the twentieth of Tenthmoon.”

  Malinda gathered her wits for the battle. “I went to bed. I had instructed my ladies not to open the outer door of the suite to anyone or for any reason short of the palace being on fire. I bolted myself in, lay down, and went to sleep.”

  “There were how many doors to your chamber?”

  She was not going to let Dog be dragged into this. She had sent him away days before, and by that night he should have already been safe in Ness Royal. She hoped desperately that he was still safe, not caught up in the web of the Usurper’s vengeance.

  “Officially one. There was also a secret door known only to me, the sovereign, and senior members of my Royal Guard. The Guard had by then been disbanded and—”

  “A secret door to a lady’s bedchamber would be for purposes of illicit fornication?”

  “If you say so, Chancellor. It dates from long before my time.”

  “But you had a lover who used it?”

  Malinda stayed silent. She was not going to implicate Dog in this, no matter what. She had nightmares of him already chained up in a dungeon, tortured or mutilated. They might even try to shock her into some dangerous admission by producing him here.

  The clerks’ pens had stopped scratching.

  “The inquiry will note that the witness refused to answer.”

  “Was
that a question?” she said. “It sounded like a statement.”

  “How many lovers came to your bed?”

  She thought she detected a shimmer of disapproval among the commissioners, although none protested. “That question is indecent and irrelevant, and I demand that it be withdrawn.”

  “It is not irrelevant, as we shall see. So there was a second door. Did you also bolt that or leave it unbarred for your paramours?”

  “The secret door led through to another room and I made certain that the outer door to that was firmly bolted also.”

  “You claim you slept. When did you awaken?”

  “Around dawn.”

  “Who or what roused you?”

  The commissioners had come alert, all of them, and she suspected that all the foreign observers had, too. This was the story they had been waiting for, the mysterious palace murder that must have been the talk of all Eurania for months.

  “A very bad smell.”

  “And the cause of that smell?”

  “A corpse on the floor beside my bed.” Yes, she agreed, it was—or had been—her cousin, Prince Courtney. Yes, he was naked, and yes he had been run through by a sword. How long he had been dead she did not know, but of course death had loosed his sphincters. In his final appearance onstage, Courtney had not smelled of cloves or roses or lavender.

  Being unfamiliar with sword wounds, she did not know whether he had been impaled from front to back or back to front, but the chairman was careful not to ask her that. He and other inquisitors had arrived at the scene within minutes and had questioned her then; he knew that her statements had been truthful and her bewilderment genuine. Wanting now to brand her a murderer, he must allow her no saving denials.

  “What did you do?”

  “I screamed for help. For all I knew the killer was still there.” It was a lame excuse; in fact the scream had been sheer reflex. “I unbolted the door to let my ladies in. Then they screamed, too.”