by Dave Duncan
Voices, mocking and resentful…a snarly order…then a clattering of bolts and bars. Emerald slithered faster, confident that the newcomers were making too much noise themselves to hear the rustles and crackles of her progress. Puffing, she reached the back of the roof just as the door was slammed shut again.
Through a small grille set in the stonework, she heard Wart’s voice, and then Badger’s.
19
The Seventh Brother
Since Owen’s departure, Stalwart had been curled up on a sack of goose feathers—which was unfortunately the only one of its kind in the root cellar. He had built himself a cave out of apple barrels and boxes of sun-dried plums. In this lair he huddled around the lantern, hungry for any trace of warmth. The blankets he had been promised had not appeared. When he tried shouting through the door, the guards outside either did not hear or would not heed. If he put an ear to the jamb he could hear them out there, cursing over their dice, so he knew they had not gone away.
His stocktaking of his cell had not taken long. Although the building was old, it was solidly built of fieldstone and massive timbers, and he found no weaknesses he could use. The absence of mouse droppings proved that the roof was sound and the door was snug in its frame. There was no window, the only ventilation came through a shaft in the masonry of the rear wall, and that was barely wide enough to admit his arm. He reached in past his elbow before his fingers found a mesh of metal wire covering it on the outside. If he lit a fire to keep warm, he would suffocate.
He brooded on failure, which had an unfamiliar taste. Quagmarsh had been such a triumph! Now he had hatched a total calamity, and all because he had put too much trust in an old friend and not enough in a new one. Badger’s horrified reaction to the first mention of Smealey Hole should have been a giveaway. So should his denial of his previous story that he had found a secret passage there. So should his announcement in Waterby Castle, shouted for the Fellowship’s spies to hear. He had claimed to be unfamiliar with the area and then identified landmarks. Unwilling to believe an Ironhall brother would betray him, Stalwart had ignored Emerald’s warnings.
Idiot! Sucker! As punishment for his stupidity, the youngest-ever Blade was going to have the shortest-ever career with the Guard. Alas, Sleight would never hang in the sky of swords at Ironhall, and the name of her owner would not be inscribed in the Litany of Heroes. He would vanish unheralded down the Hole, after whatever horrors the sorcerers had in store for him. Perhaps, as a last request, he would ask the traitors to explain how Lord Digby had managed to die twice.
The usual clattering of bolts and locks warned him of visitors. By the time they entered, the lantern was back on its chain and the prisoner was seated on the chair with his arms folded and ankles crossed, desperately trying not to shiver, although he was sure his lips must be blue. The first man in was Badger, wearing a sorcerer’s black gown. On his heels came the big, hideous-faced sergeant, carrying a bundle. “Brought you some dry clothes,” he said.
The door was being closed and barred again as usual. Neither man was armed; the soldier’s scabbard dangled empty at his side. Prior Owen took precautions to lunatic extremes.
Stalwart had never wanted anything as he wanted those dry clothes. Perversely, therefore, he made no move when the Sergeant dropped the heap at his feet.
“What’s the price?”
“No price,” the ugly man growled. “You got splat-all to pay with.”
Taking his time, Stalwart began unlacing his doublet. “It took you long enough.”
“Been busy.”
“Sergeant Eilir has been working on your behalf,” Badger said.
Stalwart stopped for a moment to stare at him. “I used to have a friend who looked just like you.”
“You still do. I can’t save your life, but I’ve arranged so you’ll die quickly.”
Wart peeled off his doublet. His fingers were almost too numb to manage shirt buttons. “You have curious ideas of friendship.”
“I’ve been arguing for the last hour with a dozen sorcerers and a score of men-at-arms. It was only when Eilir backed me that Owen and his cronies yielded. They wanted to kill you by inches. Now he’s agreed that he’ll just cut your head off.”
“Why?” Stalwart took up the clothes provided and discovered a hooded gown of black wool and a brown fur cloak, nothing else. He pulled on the gown. “It’s murder. And treason. You can’t expect to get away with this. What have I done?”
Badger sighed. He did look miserable, give him that. “You won that star from the King, that’s what. The Fellowship has a spell that needs a link between the victim and someone else, and that link must be a gift. The star in your case—”
“And Digby gave Rhys a hunting horn?”
“Exactly. Did you get a good look at the body in the river?”
“It was—It seemed to be Digby.”
Badger glanced at Eilir, who shrugged as if to say that revealing secrets to a man in Stalwart’s position really could not matter.
“It wasn’t him,” the Sergeant growled. “It was the forester. The sorcery turns one man into a simulacrum of the other. By itself, the change is harmless and doesn’t last long. The adepts practiced on one another and some of the novices, and they all changed back in a few days. But while the spell holds, whatever happens to the simulacrum happens to the original, or the other way round. Stick a pin in one and both will yell. Nobody knew if the effect went as far as causing death, so when they’d made the Digby simulacrum, Owen put a sword through his heart. He sent a man off to Grandon to find out what had happened, to see if the sorcery reached that far.”
Stalwart stared in disbelief as he tried to comprehend this insanity. Trouble was, he did believe it. It was the implications….
“Are you saying they’re going to make me into a copy of King Ambrose? Me and what ox? He’s three times my size.”
This time it was Badger who shrugged. “They say that size doesn’t matter. I brought you the biggest robe I could find. And they’re certain it doesn’t hurt.”
“Except when that mad brother of yours cuts off my head! I bet that stings.” He dropped his britches and hose and wrapped himself up in the cloak, shivering more than ever.
“Yes!” Badger snapped. “We’re going to cut Ambrose’s head off just the way he cut off Ceri’s and Aneirin’s. You’ll die by a sword, the way they did, and Kendrick and Edryd and Lloyd did! Owen and I are the only ones left, and we will have our revenge.”
“The King’s head will fall off while he’s at breakfast?”
“Perhaps. He’ll certainly die.”
So would Stalwart. There were worse ways to die than having your head cut off. There were a lot more good ways to keep on living instead. “As I recall, Aneirin was executed for strangling your dad. I’m not saying your father didn’t deserve it. I’m sure he did. But why wasn’t Aneirin hanged like any other common killer?”
Eilir answered. “He asked to die beside his brother, and the King graciously granted his request.”
Badger was scowling. “Listen, Wart. I’m sorry this has to happen, truly. I swore an oath…” He shot an uneasy glance at the Sergeant. “I was the baby, much younger than even Owen. I was only a child when Nythia rose against the tyrant. I worshiped my brothers—Ceri was the oldest, and the leader by right of perfection. There was nothing Ceri could not do, nothing he did not excel in. Everyone worshiped Ceri, so you can imagine how he seemed to me. And the rest were little behind him. Kendrick was a swordsman; Lloyd already a sorcerer of note, although only an amateur; Edryd an artist…But that doesn’t do them justice. They were strong and skilled in a thousand ways and beautiful as the stars. They taught me everything…. Ceri rallied all Nythia and kindled the torch of freedom. Monster Ambrose brought in his army to stamp it out.
“By winter, half of my wonderful brothers were dead. Owen was at home, being passed off as just a boy, although he was fifteen and had seen some fighting near the end. Ceri and Aneirin were outlawed, hidi
ng out in Brakwood. I was seven, old enough to help smuggle food to them. The wolves closed in. Sheriff Florian was sure that the fugitives were in the area; and he came here, to Smealey Hole, violating guarantees the King had given the Baron. He took Owen and me away, and Anwen, our mother. He swore to the Baron that none of us would eat or drink until Ceri was turned over to him. Ceri surrendered, of course. He would have died for any one of us, let alone three.” Badger fell silent.
No boy in Ironhall discussed his own past openly. Some of them had very lurid pasts and the others wanted everyone to think they did, too. So hints were allowed, but open bragging was cause for disbelief and retaliation. That way, everyone could pass as a murderer until proved guilty of innocence. Stalwart had never heard this terrible story; he did not want to hear it now. It was full of deceit and distortion, possibly direct lies, but it was also grievous and he did not want to feel sympathy for traitors.
“You’re saying Aneirin was a little hasty when he strangled Daddy?”
“Aneirin was fine until the siege of Kirkwain. What he saw there unhinged him. He seemed to be recovered, but he had a brainstorm when he heard about Ceri. Owen wasn’t there. Mother and I weren’t strong enough to stop him.”
“You saw it?” Stalwart squealed. “You were there?”
Badger chuckled, sounding not quite sane himself. “Oh, we had exciting times in our family! When Aneirin realized what he’d done, he went to Waterby and asked to die in Ceri’s stead. The King allowed them to die together. Kind of him, wasn’t it? Understanding, you must agree?”
There was no answer to that.
“Tell him what happened next,” Eilir said.
“After Father’s death?” Badger was pale and his voice almost shrill, as the telling dug up memories he had buried long ago. “Ceri was the new baron. He had never sworn loyalty to the House of Ranulf, but he was found guilty of treason—the trial took all of half an hour. His life, title, and estates were forfeit. The very afternoon the news reached Waterby, the Sheriff came with his men and drove us out of the house in the clothes we had on our backs. Literally! Not even a cloak or hat. Yes, it was snowing.” He stared defiantly at Stalwart, who said nothing.
“Owen, and Anwen, and me. Anwen’s health was poor. She and I would certainly have died without Owen. He had just turned sixteen, but he kept us alive that winter. The next year he got us across the sea to Isilond. He hired on as a mercenary, and we all starved together on a man-at-arms’s pay. For eight years he lived by the sword. Do you wonder that I love my brother, Sir Wart?”
Stalwart wasn’t going to admit that. “He isn’t worth spitting on, let alone loving! He doesn’t trust you, Badger! How can you trust him? He sends this hired pikeman along with you and even disarms him. Did he think I’d grab the man’s sword out of its scabbard? Or you would? Or we both would? He’s crazy, raving, deranged!”
“He’s careful,” Eilir said, “the finest warrior I ever knew. No man ever outsmarts or outfights Owen Smealey. I hired him as a raw recruit and discovered he was already a match for half the men in the troop. Within a year he was my captain. I could tell tales…” He shrugged.
Stalwart ignored him and concentrated on the man he’d thought was his friend. “How did you end up in Ironhall? And why? You couldn’t seriously have wanted to join the Guard.”
Badger chuckled again, a sound to raise the hair on the back of a man’s neck. “Owen made his fortune in loot eventually, but too late for Anwen. On her deathbed she made us both swear that we would be avenged on Ambrose of Chivial.”
Stalwart shuddered. “Plague and corruption, man! Owen maybe. He was a mature, veteran soldier. But you? How old?”
“Sixteen.”
“You were too young to—”
“Bah! How old are you now, Sir Wart?”
That was another question with no good answer. Not now. In a few more weeks the answer would be different. There weren’t going to be any more weeks! There wasn’t even going to be a tomorrow.
Badger sneered at the lack of response. “We came back to Chivial, Owen and I. He’d had enough of soldiering, and he’d conceived the idea of the Fellowship. The only real school of sorcery in Chivial was the College, and there were many sorts of enchantments it wouldn’t teach that people wanted and would pay for. Owen, although no great enchanter himself, had the dream and the money and the leadership. The Crown had put Smealey Hole on the market; it would be an ideal location. And when he had built his team of sorcerers, he could move against the tyrant, as he had sworn. That left me. How does an eager young man go about assassinating a monarch guarded at all times by the finest swordsmen in the world?
He quirked an eyebrow. “No guesses? Need a hint? No man can bear arms in the King’s presence, right?”
Stalwart said, “Oh, no!” but obviously the answer was Oh, yes! In the ritual of binding, the Brat gave the candidate his sword; the candidate stood on the anvil to swear loyalty to the King, and then the King struck the sword through his heart to bind him. The same sword. The candidate had to pass that sword to the King. If he leaped down from the anvil and passed it point first, even the Blades present could never move fast enough to block him. “You’re Prime!”
Badger’s smile was right out of nightmare. “I hope that tonight you will relieve me of the need to go back, friend Wart.” His eyes were too bright, his teeth too big. “But if I must go, I will go, because when Owen and I parted at the door of Ironhall, we swore to each other that we would not step off our chosen paths until Ambrose was dead. If I do go back, then the next binding he attempts will be his last. The sword will go through the other heart.”
Stalwart was aghast. It was unthinkable. “All these years? All the time I have known you, you’ve been plotting this? But it’s suicide! The Blades will kill you right away, and even if they don’t, then you’ll die a traitor’s death.” He shivered. They were all crazy, the whole Smealey brood. The curse on the Hole was plain insanity, nothing more. “No wonder Grand Master said you were jumpy! Fates, man! You put yourself under sentence of death?” He stared in horror at Badger’s mocking smile. “All these years?”
“All these years. But now my good friend Wart has come along to save me at the last minute. It’s you or me, Wart. More exactly, it’s you for certain and possibly me as well, if tonight’s attempt doesn’t work. Tomorrow at dawn I carry on to Grandon with your message to Snake. If Owen has failed and the King lives, then I must return to Ironhall and the binding. They’ll be starting very soon.” He turned away.
“Wait!” Stalwart yelled, jumping up. “Badger, this is madness! It wasn’t Ambrose who caused all the deaths and suffering, it was your precious Ceri! Nythia didn’t rally to his banner, you know that. You heard the history lectures in Ironhall. Very few people supported him. Even your own father didn’t!”
Badger kicked the door with his boot. Bolts and bars began clanking.
“He had no claim to the throne of Nythia!” Stalwart shouted. “The royal line died out ages ago. If anyone is heir to the old princes, it is Ambrose himself, through his great-umpteenth-great-grandmother. The people didn’t want Ceri and his mad ambitions, nor his sinister friends, either.”
Badger had his face to the planks, his back to Stalwart, refusing to listen. Eilir was watching the argument with what might have been meant to be a smile.
“And you?” Stalwart yelled, turning on him. “Where does your loyalty come from? Just money? Friendship? Or are you as mad as the rest of them?”
“See this?” The Sergeant pointed to the nightmare ruin of his face. “I was about your age once, sonny. I looked human, those days. Quite good-looking, in fact.” He took a step closer. “Not now, though! I lived in Waterby, see? I wasn’t a soldier, not then. I was a glassblower’s apprentice. Then the war came, and the siege.” Another step made Stalwart recoil from the abhorrence leering closer. “Your precious Ambrose set his Destroyer General on us, hurling great rocks at the town. It was one of them hit a wall and exploded right
in front of me.” Another step, and Stalwart was back against the chair. “All the rest of my family died, so I was lucky, wasn’t I?”
The door creaked. Stalwart ducked nimbly past the Sergeant and grabbed Badger as he tried to leave.
“Listen! Your darling Owen’s unstable as a two-legged horse. Maybe he was a father to you, but he cared so little for you later that he made you swear to kill yourself. He wants to torture me to death! He’s curdled in his wits. He’s a raving, demented—”
Eilir’s iron hand took him by the shoulder and hurled him back. His leg caught the chair and he pitched headlong. It was fortunate that he knew how to fall; perhaps even more fortunate that he was well padded by the thick gown and fur cloak. He didn’t break anything. The door boomed shut behind the two men. Then came all the noisy rigmarole of shutting it.
Groaning, the prisoner sat up and rubbed his knee, his shoulder. His elbow hurt, too. He was starting to shiver again. Dead men didn’t shiver.
A very soft whisper said, “Wart?”
20
A Sleight Problem
Stalwart hurtled to his feet, knocked over the chair, banged his head on a dangling net full of onions, and hit the back wall at a gallop. He would have hit it with both shoulders had it been possible for his head to fit in the air shaft. “Em? That you?”
