by Dave Duncan
“Second, His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
And so on. Panther was a decent man and good with steel. After him it was Dragon’s turn. Dragon was only a month older than Stalwart, but looked at least eighteen. What hurt was that he fenced like a crippled cow. Master of Sabers had told him in public that he needed two more years’ tuition. Deputy Master of Rapiers muttered under his breath that he ought to chop wood for a living. Yet he was going to be bound and Stalwart wasn’t. No justice…!
“Candidate Rufus…”
Rufus was all right. His fencing was competent, although he was horribly predictable. Being predictable would not matter in a real fight against opponents who did not know his quirks. Besides, Rufus was nineteen and sported a beard like a gorse bush. Rufus would look convincing in Guard livery. Even Dragon would. But Stalwart…sigh! That was the trouble—not age, not competence, just looks.
Tonight at midnight there would be sorcery in the Forge. Spirits of all eight elements would be conjured. Each of the four candidates would swear his oath and—unless the magic went wrong, which it almost never did—the sword wound would heal instantly, no harm done. Then he would be a Blade.
Not only would Stalwart have to share the day-long fast and the cold baths that began the ritual, he would also have to assist in the ceremony. That was adding insult to injury. When it was over and the lucky four rode off to court, he would remain behind as Prime, and that was adding injury to injury. Prime’s job was to mother all the other boys and keep them from pestering the masters. Being Prime was always described as an honor, but it was an honor nobody ever wanted, communal nose drying and butt wiping.
“Finally, sire,” Grand Master bleated, “I have the honor of presenting Candidate Stalwart, who will henceforth serve Your Majesty as Prime, here in Ironhall.”
Rejected!
He had been told not to approach; he bowed where he stood.
“Stalwart the musician,” the King said.
Feeling his face flame scarlet, Stalwart stared in dismay at the royal grin. King Ambrose was known to have very strong likes and dislikes. Did he disapprove of swordsmen playing lutes?
“I do play the lute a little, Your Majesty….”
“So do I,” Ambrose said heartily. “Nothing wrong with lute playing. Maybe next time we can make music together.” Chuckling, he swung around in a swirl of velvet and brocade and fur. “Carry on, Grand Master.”
Grand Master hastily opened the inner door and stepped aside as the King swept by him, ignoring all the bows directed at his back. Dreadnought crossed the room to follow him. Orvil led the candidates back the way they had come, although his stupid grin was so broad that it seemed unlikely to pass through the doorway.
Maybe next time, the King had said. That might be a hint that he intended to foist Stalwart off as a private Blade guarding some minister or lord. Bindings were permanent. A man had only one chance at the Guard.
“Stalwart!” said Grand Master. “Wait. I want a word with you.”
3
Mysterious Alternative
THE DOORS WERE CLOSED. STALWART REMAINED, with only Grand Master and Commander Bandit for company. Lacking its normal shabby furniture, the Flea Room seemed even bleaker than it had been on that dread day four years ago when Sir Vincent had brought him here and thrown him on Grand Master’s mercy. It was smaller than he remembered.
“My commiserations, Candidate,” Grand Master said with a mawkish smile. He glanced briefly at Commander Bandit, who was staying back, out of the conversation. Then he pouted at Stalwart. Obviously he was in one of his crabbiest moods. “Had I put the question to you, how would you have answered? Would you be willing to serve?”
“Of course, Grand Master!” Why would he be there if he did not intend to become a Blade? Why would he be putting up with constant sneers and browbeating from Grand Master? Four years…
“It is unfortunate that you chose the name you did. You are not yet convincingly stalwart.”
“It is not for lack of wishing, Grand Master.”
“You have dimples!” Grand Master’s face was spotted with ugly brown blotches. Was being young more shameful than being old?
The school would not let a candidate sacrifice speed by growing too large, but it also required that he grow to man’s strength. Time and again, Stalwart had begged Master of Rituals to perform a growth sorcery on him, but every time he was refused with much the same words: “It’s not size that’s your problem, candidate, it’s just timing. If you’re still on the small side when you’ve got a beard to shave, then we can do something about it.”
“So you are willing to serve.” Grand Master gave him a look that seemed to contain equal parts contempt and pity. “How willing? Would you tell lies to serve His Majesty?”
Now what? Puzzled, Stalwart said, “After I am bound I will do absolutely anything to defend him, naturally.”
“That was not what I asked. I said serve, not defend. And I am not talking about when you are bound. I mean now. Would you lie to a friend if the King ordered you to do so?” Why was he so cantankerous this morning? Why take it out on Stalwart?
“I can’t believe King Ambrose would ever give me such an order, sir.”
“Can’t you? Oh, grow up, boy! Suppose I tell you that you could best serve His Majesty by kicking up dust…jumping the hill…disappearing…. Does your loyalty extend that far?”
In this game to show anger was to lose points. A man could never win when Grand Master chose to pick on him like this, but he could play to a draw by remaining calm and courteous. That was rarely easy.
“With all respect, sir, I should not believe you.”
“I assure you that this is His Majesty’s wish.” Grand Master’s smile came very close to being a sneer. “And if you are going to call me a liar, the Commander will confirm what I say.”
Dismayed, Stalwart looked to Sir Bandit, who shrugged.
“What Grand Master says is true, Candidate, but he is not telling you the whole story.”
Grand Master sniffed. “The story’s your business. I don’t know it and I don’t want to know. Stalwart, I was told to tell you that the Commander speaks with the King’s knowledge and approval. That’s all.”
He strode over to the inner door and shut it behind him with a thump that was very close to a slam. Bandit did not comment, but he rolled his eyes just enough to convey his opinion of that show of temper. Stalwart was duly grateful.
Bandit himself could hardly have been a more different person. Not in looks, of course. In appearance he was a typical Blade—graceful, athletic, neither tall nor short. His only remarkable feature was the way his eyebrows joined to make a single dark hedge across his face. He wore neither beard nor mustache. According to rumor, the Commander was one of the worst fencers in the entire Guard. There had been widespread surprise last Firstmoon when the King chose him to replace the legendary Sir Durendal, but he had proved to be an excellent choice. He had infinite patience. He spoke to the greenest recruit in exactly the same tone and manner he used to the King. His sword was named Suasion.
He walked over to the nearer window and stared out at the moor. “This is to be in confidence, every word.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“You were surprised that the King knew about your lute playing.”
“Surprised that it interested him. I suppose Grand Master described all the seniors to him this morning?”
Bandit turned to share a smile. “He did not have to. He sends me detailed reports on all of you every week. I pass them on when the King wants to see them. He has been following your progress ever since you were promoted from fuzzy, last Thirdmoon.”
“Oh!”
“He knows you’ve been here not quite four years and you won’t be seventeen till Tenth-moon. He has seen Grand Master’s reports describing you as lazy, insubordinate, and disliked by both the masters and the other boys.”
Stunned, Stalwart said nothing.
Bandit continued: “Over the last two months he has become increasingly critical. He describes your fencing as very bad, virtually hopeless.”
That was too much! “Sir! I suggest you ask the others. Master of Rapiers—”
“Says you can beat him nine times out of ten.” The Commander was smiling again. “Not half an hour ago, Grand Master assured the King to his face that you are diligent, courteous, and industrious. He said no one was better liked, and no one showed more promise or ability at fencing. Does that make you feel better?”
“I hope that’s closer to the truth, sir.” Not at all bad, either! No one better liked! Wow!
“You can’t possibly have had enough spare time here to learn how to play a lute. You must have brought it with you?”
“I was almost hanged for stealing it.”
The Commander’s long eyebrow arched in surprise, then he smiled. “Your past is your business. It’s your present and future that interest me. You’ve turned out to be a late bloomer. It’s no fault of yours and normally wouldn’t matter. You’ll get there in time; we all do. But, as Grand Master says, your chosen name does tend to draw attention to your current lack of stature.” On Grand Master’s lips the comment had been a sneer. When Sir Bandit said it, it was sympathy.
“Yes, sir. Puny would have been a better choice.”
“I don’t think the King would ever admit a Sir Puny to his Guard.” The Commander eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. “Don’t worry! It will come. And ‘stalwart’ doesn’t just mean ‘big and strong.’ It also means ‘brave and reliable.’ That’s the stalwart I need.”
The man in question drew a deep breath to soothe the sudden turmoil in his insides. “Yes, Commander?”
“You won’t know this, but this Grand Master has been forbidden to expel anyone else without the King’s permission—no one wants Ironhall-trained men running around the country with chips on their shoulders. In his written reports, he has twice asked leave to…in my day we called it puke you. Throw you out, I mean.”
Aware that the Commander was waiting for his reaction, Stalwart took a moment to think. Why should Grand Master write nonsense to Sir Bandit and the King, then turn around and tell them the truth in person? “He was ordered to write that trash about me? Who else reads it? Spies?”
“Well done! Yes, spies. Maybe spies—we’re not sure. You know the evil we are up against—”
“Not exactly, sir.”
The Commander turned and began to pace. “I mean you know about as much as we do. Counting the Night of Dogs there have been four attempts on the King’s life in the last eight months, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No. There have been ten, four in the last month. That number is a state secret, Stalwart. No one outside the Guard knows that total, not even King Ambrose himself. You won’t repeat it to anyone!”
“No, Commander.” Stalwart thought his voice sounded a little thinner than usual.
“Obviously we don’t know who the conspirators are or we’d hack their hearts out. Obviously they include some powerful sorcerers, and the attacks began when the King asked Parliament to levy taxes on the elementaries and conjuring orders. He saw no reason why wealthy organizations like those shouldn’t pay their share like everyone else. Some of them disagreed. Now he’s formed the Court of Conjury to investigate the uses of magic in his kingdom and it’s turning up horrible evils. This is open war, Candidate—and we don’t know who the enemy is!” Bandit returned to the window and stared out, probably seeing nothing. The King’s safety rested on his shoulders.
“We aren’t certain that the villains have eyes and ears at court, but it’s a reasonable guess that they do. The only people we Blades trust are ourselves. Our binding keeps us loyal. We can deal with anything mortal, whether it’s human or a monster created by magic. We have tasters for the King’s food—and two of them have died. When it comes to secret sorcery we must rely on the White Sisters to sniff it out for us.” The Commander swung around to stare at Stalwart. “I’ll let you into another secret—just last week one of the Sisters detected something suspicious in the royal laundry. We burned the whole lot of it. Another smelled sorcery in the stables and tracked it to the King’s favorite saddle. So you see that the evil extends right inside Greymere Palace.”
For a moment, Bandit looked old and worried. Then he smiled and was young again. “Don’t worry—Ambrose knows how you use a sword and he does want you in his Guard. Of course in normal times you’d have a dozen seniors still ahead of you, so you may not be quite as blazing good as you think you are. No matter, you are very good. The trouble is this absurd rule about taking men in order of seniority. There are good men coming along behind you, men like Badger and Marlon. I need those men. Forgive me, but I just can’t see you in a Guard uniform yet.”
Sigh! again. “I’d look about fourteen, wouldn’t I?” Courtiers would make jokes about make-believe and children’s pageants.
Bandit shrugged.
“Twelve?”
The Commander laughed, but not unkindly. “Not quite that bad! I’m glad you understand. Six months ought to do it. In the meantime I’ve got another job that you can do for the King, an important job. A risky job. He’s given me authority to swear you into the Guard without binding you. Are you willing to serve?”
But the rules said…Stalwart realized that he was standing there like a lummox with his mouth open. “Yes, sir!”
“Are you certain?” Bandit asked quietly. “This is where I need that brave-and-reliable Stalwart. It will be dangerous. A Blade never needs to worry about courage, because his binding makes him brave.” His eyes seemed to go out of focus. “On the Night of Dogs…some of those monsters were big as horses. They climbed three stories up the outside of the palace and came in the windows at us. They chewed through steel bars. They fought until they were hacked to pieces—and so did the Blades! I saw men with an arm bitten off pick up their swords in their other hand and go on fighting. A Blade defending his ward is more than human.” He blinked and came back to the present. “I hope you won’t have to face anything so bad, but you won’t have that motivation.”
Stalwart had been shown some of the gigantic teeth that Blades had kept as souvenirs. He shivered. “No, sir.”
“And here’s another secret. Some of the knights…well, let’s just say they did not live up to the traditions of the Order. Not being bound any longer, they had to rely on raw human courage, and one or two of them didn’t quite measure up.”
Blades running away? Stalwart was speechless.
“That night was just the start of it,” Bandit said. “There have been other horrors since. Twenty-four Blades have died so far—eight knights and sixteen companions. A score have been badly injured, and I’ve lost count of civilian casualties. We’re not calling this the Monster War for nothing. Are you stalwart enough, Candidate Stalwart? Can you take on a dangerous job without being bound?”
He hadn’t yet said what the job was. Apparently the planning had been going on for months and the King himself had authorized it. It must be important. Stalwart’s heart thundered in his throat.
“I’ll try my best, sir.”
“I can’t ask for more. Come with me.”
4
Coward
BANDIT LED THE WAY DOWNSTAIRS, UPSTAIRS, through the maze of corridors. First House was the oldest building in Ironhall, much of it dating back centuries. Now Stalwart had time to have some second thoughts—and a few third thoughts, too. What exactly had he been flattered into accepting? Was it necessarily better than being assigned to guard the Lord High Admiral or the Master of the King’s Chicken Farms? That was what happened to the dregs; only the best were allowed into the Guard.
So he looked too young to appear in Blade livery—why did that stop his being bound with the others? They could take him to court and dress him like a page if they wanted. What he was being offered instead was a major breach of the rules—and if the King had approved it, then why wasn�
��t the King saying so? A binding ritual could not begin before midnight, so Ambrose had all day to kill. It had to be the royal hand on the sword that bound a Blade, but was Stalwart so much less than the others that he couldn’t be spared a few minutes? Or did the King not want to be involved?
Bandit strode into the Records Office without knocking. Master of Archives stood at his writing desk under the window, surrounded by his usual wilderness of clutter. Heaps of scrolls and piles of great leather books filled the shelves, the chairs, and the floor, leaving nowhere to sit and precious little room to stand. He was stooped and perpetually untidy, with hair mussed and eyeglasses settled on the very tip of his nose. Even this day when everyone was spruced up for the King’s visit, he seemed ink stained, shabby, and dog-eared. Yet the cat’s-eye sword dangling at his side showed he was still a knight in the Order.
“Good chance, Lester!” the Commander said cheerily. Stalwart had never known, or even wondered, what the archivist’s name was. “Need you to witness and record something.” He fished a thin roll out of his jerkin and separated it into two sheets of paper. “File this. It’s a warrant promoting Candidate Stalwart to companion, no binding required.”
Master of Archives peered at it, holding it almost at the end of his nose. “I never heard of such a thing! In three hundred years there has never—”
“There is now,” Bandit said cheerfully. “That’s the royal signet. Fat Man is head of the Order and this matter is within the royal prerogative. You going to argue with him?” He handed the other paper to Stalwart. “Close the door, lad. Read that out.”
The text was very brief, closely matching the oath sworn when a Blade was bound to the King:
Upon my soul, I, Stalwart, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, do irrevocably swear in the presence of the undersigned, my brethren, that I will evermore defend His Majesty King Ambrose IV, his heirs and successors, against all foes, setting my own life as nothing to shield him from peril. Done this fifth day of Eighthmoon, in the three hundred and sixty-eighth year of the House of Ranulf.
