Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “Majesty,” Burningstar said, “may I have the honor of presenting Sir Wasp? He owns this floating palace. He claims to be Your Grace’s loyal servant and I can detect no falsehood in him.”

  “I am greatly in your debt, Sir Wasp.”

  He bowed low. “Nay, Your Majesty, I owe you great redress, whatever I can ever do to make amends.” He took a quick step to catch his balance as the ship heeled.

  “Please be seated, all of you,” she said. “Sir Wasp, you are a Blade?” Why would a Blade have trouble with balance?

  All three of them settled on the bench opposite her.

  “I was, Your Grace. I would still be a companion in good standing if the Order had not been dissolved.” He shot a smile at Audley. “I am honored to be included in the Queen’s Men.”

  “I am grateful to them all. Where will you take me?”

  “Drachveld, by your leave. Queen Regent Martha promises Your Grace asylum with full royal honors. You can be Queen in Exile while your supporters prepare to wrest your crown from the Usurper.”

  Again the awful prospect of civil war loomed. No, she would not go to Thergy. The answer lay at Ironhall. Could she hope to convince them of the truth she had worked out over the long dark months? Would she even have the courage to face it herself if Dog were here with her now? And who was this cryptic ex-Blade who wallowed in such wealth?

  “Who was your ward, Sir Wasp?”

  “Radgar Æleding, Your Grace.”

  They all watched for her reaction.

  “Sir Piers told me that my father had not only allowed the Baelish heir to slip out of his fingers but also had deeded him a Blade. It was fear of ridicule, I am sure, that made him insist on keeping the matter so secret.” Even male monarchs could make mistakes. She glanced around her other companions, especially looking at Burningstar, who claimed to find no untruth in the man, but who still seemed unworried.

  “You know it was my signature that bereft you of your ward, Sir Wasp.”

  “Not so, Your Majesty. I was released from my binding many years ago, under very unusual circumstances, but Radgar and I remained close friends. Until a year ago.” The ship heeled, Wasp shifted position, and Malinda saw that there was something wrong with his left arm. He was not using it, and that doubtless explained the awkwardness she had noted earlier.

  “Two years ago, my lady, when I was Baelmark’s consul general in Drachveld, Lord Roland came calling with a proposal to end the war by a marriage between you and King Radgar. I took that proposal to Baelmark and talked Radgar into it. I thought I had talked him into it. When the day came, you know what he did.” Wasp sighed. “Believe me, Your Grace, I was appalled! I had no inkling that this was what he intended. I would almost swear he did not know it himself. Even the earls and thegns were horrified at the breach of faith, and it takes a lot to scandalize Baels. For the first time in his long reign, his hold on the throne was put in doubt. If it please you, you may suppose that his treachery destroyed him, for I strongly suspect that his attack on Lo-mouth was betrayed.”

  “I am certain of it. Someone provided my cousin with money and information. The quarry was not I, but Radgar.”

  Wasp nodded grimly, accepting that theory. “I had always known he could be a hard man, brutal if necessary, but in all the years of our friendship I had never appreciated the depth of his bitterness against your father, whom he blamed for his own father’s murder. You know the story, I am sure, so I need not tell it again. He was obsessed by that foul act. Yet one treason does not justify another. I broke with him over it, Your Grace. I took my wife and children and walked out of my fine house in Drachveld and went to serve another master. I told Radgar to—”

  “What other master?”

  A flicker of a smile lightened Wasp’s somber mood. “The King of Thergy. We had a longstanding rivalry to see who could drink whom under the table. He usually won. I lost two royal friends in short order last year.” Another sigh, a shrug. “So my sacrifice was not as dramatic as I made it sound. And Radgar never gave in easily. He sent me the deeds to the house and its contents, the papers of this ship, everything. I sent them all back to him. He sent them back to me. And so on. When he died, they were in my hands, so chance decreed that I kept the ill-gotten gains of my friendship. When I heard of your misfortune, I resolved to see what I could do to make amends, because much of the blame rests on my shoulders. I misjudged Radgar.”

  Malinda sat for a while, struggling to think her way through a thicket of weariness and sorrow and confusion. Likely she would trust this Wasp even without Burningstar’s endorsement. He had an air of competence and frankness, of simplicity even, and yet there were depths to him. No lightweight, certainly, this friend of kings.

  “You admit you were Radgar’s friend, yet I cut off his head.”

  The former swordsman met her gaze steadily. “Should I seek revenge for that, Your Grace? From what I heard I had rather be grateful to you for ending his suffering. If I did want vengeance, would I not leave you where you were an hour ago?”

  She nodded dumbly. “Then I gladly accept you as one of the Queen’s Men and I am grateful to you for your service this night, as I am grateful to the others. But I will not go to Drachveld, much as I appreciate the Queen Regent’s kindness in her own sorrows.”

  The other three exchanged worried glances, perhaps wondering what her captivity might have done to her thinking. They would have much more to worry about soon.

  “Then where would you have us go, my lady?” Audley demanded.

  Not yet. She must be certain. “First let me speak with Sir Winter and Sir Jongleur.”

  The lanterns had to be shuttered before the door could be opened, and it was several minutes before the cabin was bright again. By then the others had arrived and Malinda was sipping a mug of meaty soup, which seemed to boil all the way down her throat and burn through every vein. Sir Wasp had a skillful cook, although anything would have tasted good after prison fare. The cabin was crowded; she had moved to the chair and left the benches for Burningstar and the four men.

  Winter’s fingernails had grown in and his chin had sprouted a whimsical little beard, so being an ex-Blade must agree with him. He beamed when asked about Dian. “Safe in Ness Royal, Your Grace. The Gatehouse is unmanned and there is not even a seneschal just now.” He grinned bashfully. “She is counting the days until Ninthmoon!”

  “Congratulations! I am sure Dian will be a wonderful mother. That is wonderful news.” It was terrible, horrible news. It was going to make things much harder. “Sir Jongleur? Considering my intemperate language to you the first time we met, I am doubly in your debt for your gallant service tonight.”

  “Your remonstrance on that occasion was well deserved, Your Majesty. I am glad to have had the chance to redeem myself.” Jongleur’s beard seemed grayer than she remembered, and his left arm was in a sling, but he was as pompous as ever.

  “You do recall the subject of our discussion upon that occasion?”

  “The query posed in your letter?” he said cautiously.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Six months in the Bastion have provided me with unlimited time to think over what you said then.”

  He paused a moment as if to plan his words. “I shall never again make the mistake of underestimating Your Grace’s learning in the spiritual arts.”

  “I am only an amateur, but perhaps my lack of formal training allows me to see paths that have never been adequately mapped. And in my dungeon, I was free to let my mind roam, if you understand that expression.”

  He nodded warily. “Of course.”

  “A certain inquisitor once revealed to me that the Dark Chamber obtains prophecies, which it refers to as readings, by a sort of inverted necromancy. It summons the spirits of the dead from the future instead of the past.”

  “That is a gross simplification of…Your Grace has stated a very generalized view of a very complex process, which rarely works as well in practice as it does in theory. Fe
w authorities would place as much faith in the procedure as the Office of General Inquiry seems to.”

  “But the point I wish to make is that spirits, unlike material objects, can be in two places at once! Minds can roam! Don’t you agree? Please do not digress into the distinction between spirit and mind.”

  “We can agree that both may wander freely in space and time, certainly.”

  “So why is the translation Dog wanted not possible?” Alas, Dog’s spirit was gone, disassembled, returned to the elements.

  Jongleur seemed as genuinely puzzled as the others were. “You are talking now only of the mind going back to a specific date and time in the past, not a corporeal body?”

  “A mind—a word—an idea.” Malinda resisted the temptation to grab the man’s broken wrist and twist. The ship was winding and turning as it edged its way down the river, but Captain Klerk was probably having much less trouble than she was trying to extract a straight answer from this pompous oaf. “Do go on, Sir Jongleur.”

  “The hypothesis would seem to have some theoretical merit, but I still believe that such a conjuration is impossible in practice.”

  “Why?”

  Jongleur stared very hard at her for a moment. “You are still speaking of the dead boy, Your Majesty? You are not contemplating essaying this for yourself?”

  “Just list the difficulties.”

  “There is a saying, my lady, that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.”

  “I could hardly have any less knowledge than I have managed to drag out of you so far. Are you loyal to me or the Usurper?”

  Jongleur’s plump face turned very red. “I am Your Majesty’s man.”

  “Then answer my questions. Is what Sir Dog wanted possible or not?”

  Audley looked completely lost. Winter was frowning, hanging on every word. Burningstar was probably keeping up also, for although the White Sisters’ knowledge of enchantment was more empirical and empathic than theoretical, the former Mother Superior was a very bright lady.

  “Even if it were,” Jongleur protested, “it would be futile. When the subject went back in time, he would be faced with the same situation he had met before, so he would act in the same way as before, and nothing would change. Unless, of course, he was possessed of the experience and memories he had gained in the future. Since he has not yet lived that future, that cannot be. You create a logical circularity, and the Prohibitions of Veriano still apply.”

  Malinda said, “Are you familiar with Hoffman’s Uncertainty Principle?” She saw Winter jump and raised an eyebrow to invite him into the conversation. “You are?”

  “ ‘Chance is elemental,’ my lady?”

  “Meaning?”

  He put a finger to his mouth and hastily removed it. “It’s why no conjuration works perfectly every time. The Destroyer General doesn’t always hit the target. Ironhall bindings can kill.”

  “But in this case, the uncertainty is an advantage. Right, Sir Jongleur?”

  Hating to admit anything, he muttered, “Possibly…You imply that translation might not be instantaneous. True, there could be a slight overlap, a few seconds or minutes when the subject should be regarded as existing in both times. If so, he would carry a transitory memory of the future and of his reasons for making the translation. Do I correctly comprehend Your Grace’s hypothesis?”

  “Those few moments might be enough for his purpose.”

  “Perhaps so,” the conjurer agreed, adding with a sour hint of triumph, “however—with all due respect, Your Majesty—the same uncertainty must apply to the overall translation, and on a larger scale. Even if we could invoke time elementals to carry us back, we cannot hope to aim them like crossbows. The boy would have had to revisit one exact instant in his past, because an hour too late or too early would make the exercise futile. Going back many years, as he wished, might introduce an error of weeks. Chance wins again. He presented an intriguing problem, but not one with any practical applications.”

  “That is the only objection you can raise?”

  “It is enough, my lady.”

  Winter had turned as white as snow. He had seen the next step in the path.

  “You have a suggestion?” she asked.

  He gulped. “Necromancy?”

  Sir Jongleur sat bolt upright, Burningstar muttered, “Oh, no!” and everyone stared in horror.

  “The moment of death,” Malinda said. “The deaths of many men occurring very close together. Instead of invoking elementals to send you back, Sir Jongleur, consider invoking compound spirits, the souls of the dead, to pull you back to that climactic moment. And, yes, you could trust their aid in this instance, because what you want for them is what they want—a chance to live again!”

  Pompous or not, Jongleur must be clever to have won admittance to the College after a career as a swordsman. His eyes glazed as he weighed the possibilities. “You mean Wet-shore, of course…But the risk, Your Grace! Invocation of the dead is the only conjuration I know where the enchanters stand outside the octogram. For what you propose, the—subject? the traveler?—would have to be inside with the reassembled souls. The danger of death or madness…”

  “I am on intimate terms with danger. What other objections can you raise?”

  “One spirit likely would not be enough…as you infer, you would have to invoke several, but those men did not all die at the same instant. You might be scattered…. Then there is the problem of a key, or bait, as it is vulgarly called. Some object the soul can recognize and crystallize around, something long familiar to—”

  “Their swords?” Winter wailed. “It would have to be their swords. But Ironhall was sacked, Your Grace! All the swords are gone.”

  “I doubt if the swords of the Wetshore dead were ever hung in the sky of swords. Sir Lothaire will know. Assuming we can find them, would it work? I never loved my father, but he was a strong and capable ruler. Chivial has suffered greatly since he died and seems doomed to suffer more. If—and this is what I need to know—if the souls of the lost Blades can call me back…all I need is a minute! Just one minute! If I can be returned to the moment when I left the longship and walked along the jetty; if instead I can run along the jetty shouting a warning to the Guard…Surely if I just cry,

  ‘Crossbow!’ to them they will bury my father under a mountain of flesh and Radgar will lose that easy shot. All our troubles come from my father’s death. One word of warning—”

  She had grown too emphatic.

  “More soup, Your Majesty?” Burningstar said, reaching for the jug. “This is a fascinating concept you spring on us. Don’t you agree, Sir Wasp?”

  Winter and Jongleur were staring hard at each other. Then the older man turned again to Malinda, but now he spoke without patronizing.

  “It is a terrifying concept! I need to think about this.”

  She found no satisfaction in being right, having had so long to work it out. “Time may be something we do not have! Lambskin—or Smaile or whatever his name is now—will be searching for me already. If his spies and arts gain him one whisper of what we plan, then he can block us utterly.” Every day they delayed was one more day when Dog was dead. “The answer lies at Ironhall. When Seahorse has cleared the river, Sir Wasp, pray set course for Ironhall.”

  Into the frigid silence stepped Countess Burningstar. “Your Grace, you have just emerged from a terrible ordeal. A few days’ rest to regain your strength will—”

  “No!”

  “Sir Lothaire is in grave need of an elementary,” Audley said. “We did bring conjured bandages, but he is still in great pain. And we have funerals to arrange.”

  “No!”

  “Your Majesty,” Jongleur protested, “you are proposing a major innovation in conjuration. I would expect to take months to finalize the invocations and revocations required, and many trials before it would work.”

  “You can have all night. Get to work.”

  Worried glances were passed around. Sir Wasp tried next.


  “We lack adequate supplies for that voyage, even if we do not expect to return. Furthermore, although Seahorse is very close-winded, we should have to tack off an unknown coast, lacking both charts and pilot.”

  “Stop making excuses!”

  Winter said, “If Lambskin has spirits seeking you, then you must not head for Ironhall. A day or two in Thergy will put him off the scent.”

  Malinda turned away from the look of horror on his face and felt her resolution deflate like a pricked bubble. “I suppose I am being hasty. To Drachveld then, Sir Wasp, if you please.”

  42

  I just wish his wife wasn’t quite so crazy about seahorses.

  RADGAR ÆLEDING

  Drachveld, the capital of Thergy, was laid out on a perfectly flat surface with the precision of a formal table setting. Seahorse sailed right through the city on a busy canal and continued a mile or so inland, to Sir Wasp’s desirable waterfront residence; there she tied up at the edge of the rose garden. His house was smaller than a royal palace but few dukes would have spurned it. The designers’ flair was evident everywhere from the water lilies by the dock to golden cupolas on the roof—wealth and good taste in perfect unison. Even a queen could be impressed, and an escaped prisoner who had spent half a year in jail was overwhelmed. Had she been compelled to find fault, Malinda would most likely have criticized an excessive use of seahorses as a motif. The gateposts were marble seahorses of more than human height; lesser seahorses appeared on china, towels, and cushions; in mosaic, fresco, and tapestry; as doorknobs and bedposts.

  Lady Wasp, who greeted her guests at the front door, combined the beauty of a porcelain figurine with the sparkle of diamonds. Her earrings were jade seahorses.

  Sir Lothaire and the other wounded were rushed to an elementary for healing. The other Blades set to the sad task of acquiring lumber and building a funeral pyre for the dead. Burningstar made repeated attempts to tuck Malinda into bed, but Malinda refused to be tucked. She greeted other members of the Queen’s Men—Fox, Jarvis, and several she knew less well. Informed that certain other exiles driven from Chivial by the Usurper dwelt in the city, she insisted on summoning them. She tried to help with the funeral preparations or at least assist Sir Jongleur with the incantations he was outlining. By the time she had been persuaded that her help was actually a hindrance, the pyres were ready, the wounded had returned healed, and the funeral could proceed. They let her light the balefire.