by Dave Duncan
“Whoever he is,” Badger said, “he wields a broadsword like a rapier. Very nice counter-disengagement on that last exchange, Your Grace.”
The King beamed down at him. “Thank you, my boy. You’re a deft hand with a rapier when you have to be. We hereby appoint you commander of our personal—”
“Idiots!” she shouted. “There’s another dozen swordsmen around somewhere!”
“Well? The lady has a point. Will they fight or run?”
Badger sighed. “Now they have friends to avenge. Owen won’t give up.”
“I’d hate to think we just won a battle only to lose the war.” The voice was the King’s, but the note of worry in it was Wart’s. “It’s not light yet, so we—”
“Look out!” Emerald yelled.
Sergeant Eilir and another man charged out of the twilight. They had donned proper battle gear—breastplates and steel helmets—and they carried shields. With that advantage, those seasoned veterans must have expected to dispose of untried, unarmored boys before they could work up a decent sweat. But their opponents were fresh from four years’ training in the world’s finest swordsmanship. They jumped forward to confine the attackers in the narrow doorway.
Eilir had put himself on the left so his blind side would be partly covered by his companion’s shield. He was a large and powerful man, but he did not compare to King Ambrose. He tried to block Wart’s broadsword stroke with his buckler, but the sheer power of the blow sliced it open from the top edge down almost to his arm and made him stagger. The other man parried Badger’s rapier successfully, but before he could riposte it flashed back again, stabbing at his groin. While he blocked that stroke, his shield caught on Eilir’s shoulder. Badger’s next lunge poked deep into his eye. The falling body fouled the Sergeant, who stumbled and was chopped down by Wart.
“Eleven!” roared Wart. “Who’s next?”
Emerald grabbed him with both hands and pulled him back into the shadows—the hall was now darker than the yard outside.
“That should slow them down a little,” he said, puffing hard.
“Some, but not Owen,” Badger said. “Come on!” He ran toward the far end of the hall.
Stalwart lumbered after him, feeling like a moving haystack. Size and strength were an enjoyable novelty, but he had lost his speed and that was not a good exchange. He was in very real danger still, which meant that the King was.
The elementary was too enormous to be defended by only two. Men with axes could easily chop away the rotten logs to enlarge the window slits and make a dozen extra doors. If the traitors just tossed a flaming torch in on the ruins of the gallery and turned the place into a furnace, it would burn like tinder. Would anyone in Waterby have listened to old Mervyn’s story? His rescue was not due until dawn, if it came at all. Dawn at the cliff top. It would take him and his companions time to reach the Hall, and Owen might have set guards on the path.
Stalwart followed Emerald into the back room. Badger was already hauling on a brass ring set in the floor, lifting one of the slabs to reveal empty darkness below.
25
Secret Passage
The hatch thudded shut overhead and cut off all traces of light. Standing at the bottom of the steps, Emerald could not even see Wart right beside her.
“I don’t like this!” growled the King’s voice. “We’re trapped!”
“There’s a bolt here,” Badger’s voice said from the top, “so they can’t follow us.” His boots tapped softly as he felt his way down. “This is an escape hole; it locks on this side.”
“Where does it go?”
“Just out to the riverbank, not far. Give your eyes a moment and you’ll see some light, I think.”
The air was dank, as if somehow dusty and moldy at the same time. Somewhere water dripped steadily. Emerald enjoyed the solid, safe feeling of a cave. So would Badger, but it would be torture to an air person like Wart.
“This is the secret passage you told us about? And who else knows of it?”
“Only us and one other in the world, I expect,” Badger said sadly. “I think this is why the old elementary was never pulled down—the owners, whoever they were, always liked to keep their back door a secret.”
“Owen knows of it, you mean. So he’ll cut us off.”
“He may have forgotten.”
“Nonsense!” Wart snarled, and Emerald agreed with him. Owen Smealey would never forget a secret back door.
“Hold on to me,” Badger said, “and watch you don’t bang your crowned head, Your Grace.”
Emerald laid a hand on Wart’s shoulder to complete the chain. She thought the cave must be natural originally, but its floor had been smoothed, perhaps paved. The walls felt rough to her touch as she felt her way with her free hand.
“It’ll be too light outside to make a run for the hills,” Badger murmured, his voice echoing eerily. “We’ll have to wait for Mervyn.”
“If he ever shows up.”
When they rounded a bend and saw a gray shimmer of light on the floor, Stalwart felt a huge rush of relief. He hated this rabbiting around underground.
“Let’s sit down and wait,” Badger suggested. “We can hold this place against an army.”
“No!” Stalwart said. “If I were your sweet brother I’d smoke us out like wasps or bury us alive. I’m going out to have a look.” The exit was a narrow shaft sloping steeply upward. He was not even sure he could get his bloated body through that crevice. Ignoring the others’ protests, he laid down his broadsword and made the attempt.
It was a very tight squeeze. He had to put his arms ahead of him and wriggle on his belly, but in a moment he scrambled out into a natural alcove in the rocky riverbank. Black and deadly, the swift-flowing Smealey ran twenty feet or so below him. The sky was blue, close to sunrise. To his left he could see upriver, across a wide meadow to distant hills. He assumed the foresters would be coming from the opposite direction if they came at all. His view that way was blocked by a spur of the cliff, but there was a sort of path around it, a very narrow ledge. Normally he could cheerfully have run along that while juggling flaming torches, but at the moment he was a very fat man, made unsteady by an unfamiliar body.
So he went slowly and carefully, watching where he placed his bare feet. He had hardly started when Owen screamed in triumph and jumped him.
He had been waiting just around the corner. As Stalwart staggered under the impact, the madman crushed him in his massive, horseshoe-bending arms. He laughed, hatred burning in his eyes.
“Die, King Ambrose! They’ll find you drowned in your bed. Take me with you if you can—I won’t care.” Owen made to hurl King Ambrose off the ledge.
“I care!” Stalwart bellowed. He twisted and slammed them both against the rocky wall. He was on the outside, of course.
Owen uttered a choking gasp of dismay. He pushed them both away from the jagged surface. Stalwart smashed him back into it again. Panic flickered in the sorcerer’s eyes—obviously he had no experience at wrestling bulls. He should have stamped on Stalwart’s vulnerable bare feet, but he didn’t. When his head and kidneys were ground against the rocks a third time, his grip weakened. Ambrose pounded him bodily against the cliff a fourth time for luck, then prized him loose. He held Owen out over the river and let go. The sorcerer vanished in silence, with barely a splash. Smealey River swallowed another Smealey and flowed on as if nothing had happened.
Alone again, Stalwart leaned back against the rock to catch his breath and wipe the sweat off his face. Even though he was due for a little good luck for a change, that had been an unpleasantly close call. Owen had been in too much of a hurry to reach the exit and block the fugitives’ escape, he assumed, and had not waited to round up help, or even a replacement sword.
Meanwhile he hoped the King was not about to have a heart attack. There were certainly advantages in having some weight to throw around. Owen ought to be going over the falls just about now….
But he had won! With Eilir and Owen
and so many others dead, the traitors would surely flee now. He must keep himself safe for the King’s sake, but surely he could send Badger to rally the loyalists and take over the Hall.
“What are you doing?” Emerald emerged from the cave.
“Just admiring a sunrise I had not expected to—what’s that?” He turned to peer upstream. It was not a hunting horn, it was a bugle. Dawn sun flashed off shiny breastplates and helmets; it blazed on flying banners and rainbow plumes. Hooves thundered. A troop of about fifty lancers came galloping across the meadow.
“Rescue!” Emerald yelled. “The King’s men!”
“Oh, pus!” Wart said. “Pus and puke! Yeomen! Household Yeomen!”
Why did this have to happen, just when things were going so well?
Ten minutes later, the cavalry was milling around in the yard. The leader, who swung nimbly down from his foaming charger, was not clad in the armor of the Household Yeomen. Nor was he wearing his customary scarlet robes and golden chain, but there was no mistaking his air of authority. He looked around the complex, then strode over to the corpses lying in the door of the elementary. He stopped and stared incredulously as Emerald emerged, stepping over Eilir’s body.
“Sister!” Durendal bowed.
Remembering that the filthy rags she was wearing were the remains of a man’s costume, not a woman’s, she bowed in return. “Welcome to Smealey Hole, Lord Chancellor!”
“Have I arrived too late for the excitement?”
“A few hours earlier would have been preferable.” She forced a smile, but she knew that she was on the brink of collapse. “You are a most welcome sight all the same, my lord.”
Why and how he came to be leading this troop of lancers did not matter. He was in control now, and all would be well.
Badger stepped out of the shadowed doorway and raised Sleight in salute.
It was an article of faith around court in Chivial that no face was more inscrutable then the Lord Chancellor’s. Negotiators from a score of countries and factions could testify that the only emotions he ever displayed were those he chose to display. But his eyebrows did rise as he noted the bloodstains and that tell-tale silver curl. He would certainly recall the long-ago battle outside Waterby that had established his reputation as the greatest Blade of them all. He scowled at the cat’s-eye on the hilt of the rapier. He frowned at the blood-smeared face.
“I’ve seen you before…not Guard…”
“In Ironhall, Lord Chancellor,” Emerald said. “May I have the honor of presenting Prime Candidate Badger?”
Badger nodded ironically. “Formerly Bevan Smealey of Smealey Hole. You met some of my brothers once.”
Lord Roland definitely let slip a blink of surprise at that news. Then he looked up at the third figure emerging.
History was made. He paled. His eyes bulged. His jaw dropped.
“About time, Chancellor!” boomed King Ambrose. “What kept you, man? We have been seriously inconvenienced by your tardiness. No, don’t bother to kneel.”
26
The Fall of the House of Smealey
When the story had been told, two lancers the size of fir trees conducted Badger over to a bunkhouse. He fell on the first bed he saw and slept until nightfall, and even then it was only hunger that woke him. Washed, changed, and fed, he began to feel alive again. He hoped that this condition would not be too transient.
Still under guard, he was taken to the office in the residence to face Lord Roland, and on the way there he met a second procession, comprising King Ambrose and another four troopers, although in his case they would be more bodyguards than jailers. Bewilderingly, the King flashed Wart’s smile at him. He was still dressed as an adept, in a cowled robe far too small for him. Perhaps there were no clothes in Nythia large enough to fit that king-sized bulk, or perhaps Lord Roland just wanted to keep the famous face concealed as much as possible. Badger was comforted to know that there would be a witness present, because he was well aware that his troubles were far from over. A lot of difficult questions need never be asked if the last of the Smealeys just accidentally fell in the river.
Sister Emerald was already present, seated on a stool, chatting with the Chancellor across the table. Her baggage must have arrived from Waterby, for she was decked out in the snowy robes and tall hennin of the Sisterhood. She had seemed wrong as a boy, too diffident, although certainly stubborn enough. As a young woman she conveyed confidence and determination, without being in any way unfeminine. Not every bachelor at court was going to crash at her feet, Badger thought, but the toll would be heavy.
The weary, red-eyed Chancellor had certainly not lain abed all day like his visitors. The table’s snowdrift of papers had been sorted into piles; the candles were well burned down already. He did not rise when the two men were ushered in; for a moment it seemed they would be left standing. Then two more stools arrived and the door was closed. Four occupants crowded the poky chamber like a beehive.
Roland looked them over. “I was just congratulating Sister Emerald on her courage and loyalty. She is absolutely the only person who comes out of this affair with credit.” He shot a pointed glance at Sir Stalwart. “My lady, I have ordered a carriage to take you into Lomouth in the morning, where the Sisters can provide hospitality and further transportation.”
“That is very kind of you, my lord.” She was not blushing or preening. She had accepted the praise as her due, but she would not let success go to her head—unlike a certain Blade currently present.
“I left strict orders that the transfer of Peachyard to your mother be treated as a matter of urgency. The deeds will be ready by the time you reach Grandon. You do understand that this Smealey affair and your part in it must never become public knowledge?”
Durendal turned to Badger and the smiles ended. “I have more questions for you, Master Smealey.”
Badger made himself hold that dark gaze without flinching. “I shall answer them if I can, Your Excellency.”
“By accompanying Stalwart from Ironhall, you tacitly put yourself under his command. If you found the situation intolerable, you should have told him so and returned at once to Ironhall. Instead, you accepted his instructions to go and report to Sir Snake. Then you disobeyed. You came here, to Smealey Hole.”
Badger nodded. He was determined not to beg for his life. If he had to die on the block like Ceri, he would do it proudly. Honor and duty and loyalty had failed him. Courage was all he had left.
Never changing his piercing stare, Roland continued, “You must have betrayed him to the sorcerers, since they knew the significance of the brooch. But then you gave him a knife so he could free himself. You fought at his side. Will you explain your purposes, when and why you changed your loyalties, and where they lie now?”
Badger shrugged. “Who can say exactly why he does anything? Motives may be very complex, Lord Chancellor.”
The great Durendal did not like that answer. “You are a cynic. I have always found duty to be adequate motive.”
“Duty? I was brought up to believe that my duty was to kill King Ambrose by any means whatsoever, even at the cost of my own life. My mother made me swear to it on her deathbed.”
There was a silence.
“I see,” Lord Roland said coldly. “And where lies your duty now?”
Badger had not thought about it. He took a moment to do so. “I cannot see that I have any duty or prospects in Chivial, my lord, so I suppose I must seek those elsewhere—if that option is available to me.” That was as close as he would go to asking for mercy.
The Chancellor lifted a paper from a pile and passed it across. It was a declaration by Bevan Smealey, son of the late Baron Modred of Smealey, that he waived all claim to the lands and defunct baronetcy of Smealey, and also any claim that any member of his family had formerly advanced to royal status or the overlordship of Nythia; that he would now quit the realm of Chivial and Nythia with all possible dispatch; that he would never return, nor ever take up arms against the Kin
g of Chivial, Prince of Nythia; and that he signed under no duress or compulsion. That last bit was probably only true so long as he did not ask what the alternative was, but it was a shrewdly worded document.
He reached across for a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed.
“Sister,” said the Chancellor, “would you be so kind as to sign also, as witness? Thank you.” He sifted sand on the ink. “And would you graciously allow Master Smealey to ride in your coach to Lomouth tomorrow? Now the Baelish treaty has been agreed, he should have no trouble finding a ship.”
He tossed a purse. Badger caught it and knew by the weight that it held gold. The clouds were lifting faster than he had believed possible. He would live! He was going free! Just for a moment—and because he was a Smealey in Smealey Hole—he wondered if all this might be some sort of trap. But when he looked again at Durendal, even he could not believe that. The man’s integrity almost glowed. No one could doubt that he deserved his reputation, or that nine tenths of the government of Chivial was present on the far side of the table.
“Your Excellency is most generous.”
Astonishingly, Sister Emerald demurred. She was a very determined young lady. “Surely he may be given a little time to arrange his affairs, Lord Chancellor? Whatever his actions yesterday, Chivial owes him a considerable debt for what he did this morning.”
“I have no affairs to settle, my lady,” Badger said quickly. “I speak fluent Isilondian; I am an Ironhall-trained swordsman. I shall not starve.” And tomorrow he would ask her to halt the coach for a moment beside the hollow tree. He would go forth to seek his fortune with a good sword at his side.
