by Dave Duncan
He remembered how Thrusk had sworn to get even with him, that day at Firnesse Castle. On the way to the latrines, Thrusk had collected a dozen men to come and watch the fun. Public executions were always a big draw, and no one had ever seen a thief executed quite this way before. The jokes were flying thick and fast.
When they reached their destination, one man blocked their path. He had gray in his beard and weather lines etched in his face, but a cat’s-eye shone yellow on the pommel of his sword, and a diamond Star on his jerkin warned that he was in royal favor.
“This joke is not funny, Marshal,” Sir Vincent said quietly. “Untie the boy. I’m taking him off your hands.”
Thrusk responded with a drum roll of oaths. Vincent took hold of his sword hilt and there was silence.
“If you call me one more bad name I shall draw. If you force me to draw, for any reason whatsoever, then you die first. This I swear.”
That was all it took. That was what it meant to be a Blade, even a Blade with a grizzled beard facing a dozen young men-at-arms. Thrusk sent a page to tell the Baron what was happening. He came at once and followed them all the way to the gate, screaming outrage. “Arrest that man! I am a lord of the high justice! This is rebellion against the King’s Peace! I shall complain to the Privy Council!” On and on. He was a plump little man with absurdly bowed legs and a very shrill voice. Sir Vincent mostly ignored him, and nobody dared interfere with Sir Vincent.
Unable to believe this change in his fortunes, little Wat Hedgebury the minstrel’s apprentice walked out under the portcullis clutching the lute he had almost died for—in hands that would not stop trembling. Vincent’s servant was waiting there with two horses. The knight gave the man the lute to bring and pulled the boy up behind him on his own mount, although he still stank mightily of his climb up the sewer in the night.
Before Vincent could urge his mount forward, Thrusk’s voice bellowed down from the battlements: “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this, thief! You can’t hide behind that old brigand forever. One day I’ll catch you and give you what you deserve.”
Vincent turned his horse to get a better view. “You want to come down here and repeat that?”
“Go while you can, old man. We’re about to loose the dogs on you. And if you do take that trash with you, don’t be surprised when your silverware starts disappearing. One day we’ll stretch his neck for him.”
“Don’t be so sure of that!” Vincent roared, the first time he had raised his voice. “Boys grow up. Next time you meet it may be his turn to jeer.” He kicked in his heels and the two horses cantered off along the road. For the next hour a gang of Thrusk’s flunkies rode at a safe distance behind them, shouting threats and insults.
They were leagues from Firnesse before Wat Hedgebury could speak at all. Then he just said, “Thank you, sir,” in a small whisper. His hands were still shaking.
The old man did not look around. “You are most welcome, lad. I enjoyed that little episode more than I have enjoyed anything for a long time. And you earned it.”
He did not explain that remark then. They stopped at the first Eastfare estate they came to, and he had his new friend throughly scrubbed and clad in fresh clothes. He ordered the old ones burned, and perhaps his own also. And it was there, when the two of them were eating a meal in a humble farmhouse kitchen, that he first spoke the magic name of Ironhall.
“You have wonderful agility,” he said. “You most certainly have courage. And you have a sense of justice. I think you would make an excellent Blade to serve your King.”
The future Stalwart had laughed heartily, convinced that the knight was joking.
The old man smiled, knowing that he was being misunderstood. “Was Owain a relative?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you any family at all?”
Wat shook his head, munching bread and cold roast goose.
“How old are you?”
“Almost thirteen, master.”
“‘Almost’ may be good enough. We must put you somewhere out of those men’s reach. The Baron is just a windbag, but that Thrusk is pure poison. He carries grudges. Somewhere far away. Do you really want to be a minstrel all your life, singing for the gentry, cap in hand for a copper penny? Sleeping in stables, trudging winter roads in leaky boots? Wouldn’t you rather be one of the gentles yourself?”
And Wat—he was always to remember that stunning moment when he realized that this talk was not just a gentleman’s joke—stopped chewing and stared in disbelief.
Sir Vincent shuddered. “Close your mouth, boy!”
After a swallow that almost choked him, the boy whispered, “Me?”
“You.”
“A gentleman? Is that possible?”
“I’d say the King’s right hand itself is possible. If you want, I’ll take you to Ironhall. Grand Master will accept you, I promise. You’re much too good to waste.” He chuckled at the boy’s stare of disbelief. “Weather looks good. They don’t expect me back at Valglorious for a few days yet. We can start right now if you’re ready.”
16
Unpleasant Journey
SKULDIGGER’S COACH-AND-FOUR MADE NO great speed along the dusty, rutted trail, but for comfort it could not be surpassed. It could seat four people at ease and six at a pinch on softly padded benches upholstered in mauve silk. Yet Emerald wished fervently that she were back in Wart’s smelly wagon. Thrusk’s blow had left the side of her head swollen and throbbing; she was going to have a black eye from it.
The bait had been taken. If the mysterious Sir Snake was hoping to catch her kidnappers red-handed, he had better pounce soon. While she hated to concede a point to anyone as odious as Doctor Skuldigger, it did seem that he had won the bout, that Snake had been outwitted and must still be watching the wagon. She had last seen it being driven by one of Skuldigger’s coach guards clad in Wart’s cap and jerkin, with Murther beside him sporting Emerald’s bonnet.
To increase her misery, she was a prisoner in a vehicle screaming with magic. It came from the coachman on his box, the grooms on the back, the remaining man-at-arms on the roof. At times she could even hear it from Thrusk’s escort when they rode close.
Skuldigger sat on the rear bench of the carriage, facing his two captives, and for a long time he seemed to be lost in thought, staring at nothing with the woebegone look of a basset hound. After an hour or so, the carriage left the rutted trail which was flattered with the name of highway and began following a barely visible path over the rolling moorland. Now it moved slowly, often splashing through shallow ponds and streams. The wind brought a scent of the sea. He roused himself.
“Well, Sister Emerald, I am ready to hear your—”
“I told you last night, Doctor! If I were a White Sister I should never have been riding in that wagon.”
He groaned. “Aw? Emerald, you must never, never interrupt me when I am speaking, or I shall be forced to punish you. If you do not answer all my questions courteously and truthfully, without attempt to mislead or omit pertinent information, then you will have only yourself to blame for what you will have to endure in consequence. Is this not correct, Sister Swan?”
Swan had been staring fixedly out the window. She turned toward Emerald but did not meet her eye. “He will have you flogged or branded. He is utterly without compassion, utterly ruthless. He is also completely crazy, but no one can defy him. Resist him and he will break you.”
Skuldigger showed no resentment at being called a madman. “A very exact description of the situation—if you disobey you must be punished. You cannot hope to escape from Quagmarsh, where we are headed, so you may as well accept reality now and save yourself unnecessary suffering. I cannot use sorcery on you without destroying the abilities I need in you, so I am forced to resort to brutality.” His tone and manner implied this was an unavoidable tragedy. “Marshal Thrusk supplies this quite willingly and in much greater quantities than you can possibly withstand. Clear?”
“Yes,
Doctor.” Her mouth was very dry.
“Sister Swan cooperates with me, you see? Her daughter, Belle, is a beautiful child, but she has the sort of fair skin that scars easily. Her mother knows that I left strict orders to feed the girl to the chimeras tomorrow, so it is essential that I return safely to Quagmarsh in good time to countermand those orders.”
Swan was staring out the window again. She seemed to be weeping.
“Now, Emerald,” Skuldigger moaned, “I want the true story. I am aware that Sister Swan cannot judge your truthfulness under the present circumstances, but when we reach Quagmarsh, I shall ask you if you lied to me. Swan can tell me then how truthfully you respond; if her reports are not favorable, terrible things will happen to you.”
Emerald had made a grave mistake in worming even a small part of the story out of Wart. If she were still as ignorant as she had been when she left Oakendown, she could talk freely. Now she knew things that she must not mention: Sir Snake, attempts on the King’s life that were not generally known, poisoned shirts, ensorcelled saddles, and even previous knowledge that Swan and her daughter had been kidnapped. If she lied she would be detected. If she refused to talk, she would be tortured.
“I am not a Sister. I was—for one whole day. Then I was expelled. The Companionship was shipping me home in that farm cart.”
The improbability of this tale made Doctor Skuldigger even sadder than before. “But you must have known you were being set out as lure for me?”
“No. I never heard of you—I knew nothing about you. And still don’t.”
He pouted. “Expelled for what cause?”
“I witnessed a sorcery and was ordered to lie about it. And wouldn’t.”
“Expelled? Expelled when half the country is screaming for White Sisters to protect them from myself and some of my colleagues? You wouldn’t be expelled if you committed multiple murders. Then you just happen to be billeted in the same room as Mistress Murther, who is my agent looking out for potential recruits. Are you so stupid that you believe this to be mere coincidence?”
“Not now I don’t. Now I think as you do, that I was deliberately set out as bait. But I am an innocent victim. I never saw the boy before and know nothing about him except what he told me.” She had spoken the truth so far.
“The boy will be questioned, do not worry.” The Doctor uttered another of his moans. “Aw? I am sure you are right. It is tragic that you must suffer so, but the fault lies entirely with the King and that bullyboy of his called Snake. He is a fool, though, and easily outwitted. Swan could find no trace of magic on you or the wagon or even the boy. I hope you do not disagree with her evaluation?” The bleary, red-rimmed eyes peered inquiringly at Emerald.
“I detected no sorcery.” Except an indefinable something about Wart…but lots of people bore such imbalances. It was certainly too faint to be of any importance.
Skuldigger showed his lower teeth in what was apparently a smile. “So Snake was relying on purely secular means to track you, my dear, and I have now outsmarted him. It is not the first time, and I am sure it will not be the last.”
“I am sure you are right, master.” Still she was telling no lies!
“When Murther sent word that she had located a suitable recruit, I suspected right away that you were a decoy. I detected the unsubtle hand of Snake, but I came anyway, because the man is nothing but a trained sword swinger, without finesse or ability. I suppose that eventually even the King will see that. But perhaps not, because Ambrose himself is a bigger fool than any. For years this fair land of Chivial has been molested by the evil Baels, and when someone attempts to do something about them, he is harried and persecuted. The King is not just a fool but also a profligate, power-crazy tyrant!”
Swan glanced very briefly at Emerald and then returned to staring out the window.
Emerald said, “I don’t think I understand, Doctor.” She would rather have the madman gloating over his own cleverness than interrogating her.
“The Baels, child! For years these pirates and slavers have molested our coasts at will. Foolish Ambrose can do nothing about them. Only superior sorcery will defeat them; yet I and others like me, who strive to develop this magic, are hounded by his government. Such research takes years and vast amounts of gold, yet we are persecuted by rapacious tax gatherers. And when some of my colleagues attempted to remonstrate, they were denounced as traitors!”
He was probably referring to the Night of Dogs, but Emerald did not need to comment. He was ranting, paying no attention to her or Swan.
“Now this despot is attempting to put us out of business altogether and ban our research! Well, we have ways of dealing with such incompetents, and you will have the honor of assisting us. Soon, I promise you, the crown will sit on the head of a three-year-old boy, and a regency council will certainly display more sense than his father ever did. The bungling Snakes and Durendals will be swept aside, and the government of this country will be in the hands of more rational men. Aw? I believe we have arrived.”
17
Reluctant Ally
HOW MANY HOURS HAD HE BEEN LYING IN THE wagon? His feet were as numb as his hands now, but the waves of pain around the gag in his mouth were worse than ever.
The wagon had left the road, and that was bad—very, very bad. That was disaster. He had laid the best trail he could, as he had been instructed, but it had turned out to be the wrong trail. At Three Roads he had bribed four separate boys to look out for men wearing cat’s-eye swords and tell them about the mysterious Mistress Murther and Doctor Skuldigger, a man with a Grimshank connection. Do not forget to mention Thrusk! he had warned them all.
And that had been a terrible mistake. The wagon was rocking over hillocks, it was splashing through streams and ponds. It was not on the public road at all. It was not going to Firnesse, so when Snake and his men learned that they had been hoodwinked, they would go looking in the wrong direction entirely.
That was exactly the sort of foul-up Sir Vincent had predicted.
About halfway on that other journey, the one from Ironhall to Valglorious, and about the time Stalwart realized that Snake was serious when he said they were going to ride right across the country that day, they picked up another of the Old Blades, Sir Chefney. He had been a fencer of renown and Deputy Commander back when Montpurse was leader. There was something utterly unreal in riding stirrup to stirrup with such men and casually saying, “Tell me about the times you won the King’s Cup, brother.”
Brother!
Chefney laughed. “Just twice—353 and 357. What was different those years was that Durendal wasn’t competing. I came second to him a couple of times, but I could never beat him. Never did, not once, even in practice. Then Jarvis came on the scene and turned me into a has-been. I hear you’re pretty fast yourself, brother.”
Brother!
After twelve hours in the saddle, Wart staggered into the great hall at Valglorious and the arms of Sir Vincent. The old man’s beard was pure white now, but his back was still straight and his eyes were bright as a child’s. Indeed they glistened and Wart could hardly see them for his own tears. Brushing aside the congratulations, he fell on his knees and took Vincent’s hand to kiss.
“It is your doing, sir! If I have achieved anything, it was because I had to be worthy of your trust.”
“Get up, you young rascal!” the knight said gruffly. “And no more of this ‘sir’ talk. You’re my brother in the Order now.”
“Never!” Wart said. “If you will not allow ‘sir,’ then I shall call you ‘father’ and nothing less.”
“Listen to that!” Snake said. “I can’t wait to hear how he talks when he starts chasing girls. Are you going to feed us, brother, or lay our bones in the ossuary?”
“Food’s coming,” Vincent said. “I don’t know any man who can eat like you and stay so thin. If you were my horse I would worm you. But first I want to see what Ironhall has made of this minstrel trash I picked up. Come along, all of you.”
“Good idea,” Snake said blithely. “Work out some of the knots.”
It was unbelievable. It was inhuman! Twelve hours in the saddle and they expected a man to fence? Of course they did. He was a Blade now.
The great hall, to which Vincent now led his guests, could have been used for horse racing or indoor archery. Lit that evening only by flickering candles, its walls soared up into mysterious darkness. There would be ample space, but light was going to be a problem. Even with blunt épées, fencing practice was never totally without danger. By the time they reached the senior class at Ironhall, future Blades scorned the use of padded garments or even face masks. Swordsmanship was not a game to them, and a few bangs with a steel bar taught the importance of a good defense like nothing else could. But Ironhall had an octogram and skilled enchanters ready to treat injuries right away. Valglorious almost certainly did not, so what Stalwart’s new brothers were proposing seemed utterly crazy. He wondered if it was his fencing they wanted to test or his courage. Poking out a friend’s eye would be a poor start to his career in the Guard.
Jerkins and doublets were shed. Wart faced off against Sir Vincent. His instinct was to let the old man win, of course, but he knew that such courtesy would be no kindness in this case. Furthermore, to deceive any man about his fencing ranked as mortal sin in the Blades’ code, and these men would not be taken in. He began cautiously, parrying every stroke and making little effort to riposte until he could judge the light. The swords clattered and clanged. Then he flashed in with Rainbow, one of his favorite routines. It was easy.
“A hit!”
Vincent laughed. “It was indeed. Try that again.”
Clink, clatter—Cockroach! “Another!” There! This is what you made of me!
“I’m dead!” the old man agreed. “I think my judgment has been vindicated.” He looked to Chefney. “Show us how your wind is standing up to the years, brother?”
