by Dave Duncan
“Well, if they’re paid for…” A bolt clattered. The door squeaked.
This was the tricky bit. All it needed was one wooden shoe in the door. That mythical blacksmith or woodcutter could have just straight-armed the man out of the way, door and all. Stalwart sorely lacked weight, but what counted was not so much weight itself as how you used it. Most people would throw themselves at the middle of a door, which was useless. The trick was to hit the edge, as far from the hinges as possible. He did have surprise on his side.
He leapt. “Open in the King’s—”
The door slammed shut, flipping him bodily out into the courtyard. He sprawled flat on his back and his head hit the cobbles with a star-spangled crack.
The blacksmith had been on the wrong side….
A whistle shrilled. Boots splattered in the filth as Chefney and Demise came charging past. Demise jumped right over him. “Open in the King’s name!”
Clang! Clink! Clang! The sound of swords clashing jerked Stalwart out of his daze. He was in a sword fight, flat on his back with boots dancing all around him. He scrambled to his feet. Someone screamed. Someone fell. Someone dodged around him and ran. He grabbed Chefney’s fallen sword and reeled a few steps after the fugitive. Old Blades came streaming in from all directions. Everything started to spin. Voices…shouting…
Stalwart’s knees melted under him and then there were three bodies on the ground.
Hooves clumped, harness jingled, axles squeaked….
“Almost there!” Emerald tried not to sound excited, which she was. Respectable White Sisters must certainly not bounce up and down, either. “I can’t detect any sorcery yet, can you, Mother?”
Her companion sniffed disapprovingly. “I detect old meat and fresh sewage. Cats and garlic. But no sorcery.”
The coach rattled slowly along as pedestrians grudgingly cleared out of the horses’ way. A surprising number of well-dressed young gentlemen had come slumming today, in among the usual shabby residents—Sir Jarvis standing in a shaded doorway, Sir Bram apparently haggling with a pedlar over a string of beads, Sir Raptor and Sir Grady strolling alongside Emerald’s carriage. None of them would be visible from number 25.
The coach passed an arch, and Emerald caught a glimpse of a covered walkway and a courtyard beyond. The high note of a whistle stabbed at her ears. Sir Snake appeared from nowhere with Sir Savary and Sir Vermandois beside him, all throwing themselves at the now-familiar green door, beating on it and yelling, “Open in the King’s name!”
“Oh, excuse me!” Caught up in the excitement, Emerald grabbed her hat, threw open the carriage door, and jumped out.
Holding up her skirts, ignoring what she might do to her shoes, she ran back to the archway and was almost bowled over by a man who darted out, dodged by her, and vanished into the startled crowd. She caught a whiff of unfamiliar magic, then he was gone.
Snake and four or five others were noisily forcing the green door, while two more Blades went swarming up the front of the building like cats, already past the overhang of the second story. She raced along the alley, footsteps echoing, into the courtyard where two women and a gang of small children were having screaming hysterics.
The backdoor stood open, emitting sounds of shouting. Two men lay facedown. Sir Torquil was helping Wart to his feet. He was filthy, dazed, unsteady on his feet.
“Take him, Sister!” Torquil said, and she grabbed Wart before he fell. “He’s banged his head.” Torquil ran into the house after the others.
“…’m a’wright,” Wart mumbled.
“You’re hurt.” She tucked her shoulder under his arm to steady him.
He blinked tears. “Chefney’s dead. And Demise.”
She glanced down at the two corpses and quickly looked away again. There was very little blood. She had seen dead men before, but this was different; she had liked Chefney—he had regretted the need to be devious, unlike Snake, who enjoyed deception. Demise she had barely known.
It was her fault. She should have minded her own business. She had sent these men here to die. “Let’s go inside.”
“Couldn’t help it,” Wart muttered. He walked unsteadily, leaning on her; his face was crumpled with grief. “Unarmed! If I’d had Sleight with me I could have helped them.” He swallowed hard, as if to banish the quaver in his voice. “Em, Chef and Demise were the best we had!”
“How many traitors were there?”
“Just one.” His eyes widened. “Em, there was only one man!”
“That’s impossible,” she said, and realized that that was exactly what he was trying to tell her.
“There isn’t a swordsman in the world who could best these two together!…’s impossible…. I saw it!”
The horror in his face frightened her.
The man running…“He had magic on him,” she said. “I didn’t see his face, but I’d know the magic again.”
The Old Blades had caught the hated Doctor Skuldigger and his horrible wife, Carmine, the renegade White Sister, who was almost as valuable a catch. They and another dozen men and women were sitting on the floor in a front room in glum silence, their hands on their heads. Sir Bram and Sir Grady stood over them holding swords as if they dearly wanted an excuse to use them. Sounds of boots upstairs suggested that the Blades were still completing their search of the house.
Emerald sat Wart down on a stool to recover. She went off, tracking an odor of sorcery into what was normally a kitchen, where an eight-pointed star had been outlined on the flagstones in red paint. No surprise—an octogram must always be on the ground floor. Earth spirits would ignore the summons if it were upstairs, and air elementals would not go underground.
There she found Sir Snake and Mother Spinel, together with Raptor, Felix, and Julius, who were thumbing through papers on a dresser. The ceiling was so low that Mother Spinel had to stoop, so she was not being Sister Spinal at the moment. She favored Emerald with one of her grim little smiles.
“There you are. A second opinion for the commissioners, if you please, Sister. What was the last enchantment performed in here?”
Emerald closed her eyes for a moment to consider the residual taint of enchantment. Air, fire…just what she had sensed in the coach, and there had not been time to perform another conjuration since. “It could have been a memory enhancement, but in that case I’d expect more earth elementals. A language spell does seem most likely, my lady.”
“Are you just saying that because I suggested it earlier?”
“No, Mother. But I am not absolutely certain, because this is a very recent octogram, not well seasoned.”
Spinel pouted. “Any fool can see that the paint is new.” She turned triumphantly to Snake. “A language enchantment has been performed here very recently, within the hour. You see?”
“I don’t doubt you, my lady.” He had lost his usual cheerful aplomb. He continued to thumb listlessly through a bundle of papers. “So now he can speak perfect Chivian? It doesn’t make me feel any better.”
The old lady shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Well, you lost him. I’m sure the prisoners have a fair idea of where he’s gone and what he looks like. Master Nicely will get the information out of them in short order. You collared Skuldigger! That’s what matters.”
“What matters is that I lost my two best men! Two very close friends.”
The old lady flinched. “I did not know that. I’m sorry.”
“No.” Snake swung around to peer at Emerald. “What matters is that we almost had Silvercloak and we lost him. And we never even got a decent look at him! Did you?”
Who was Silvercloak? “A man ran past me, coming out of the alley…. He was sheathing his sword as he ran, so he had his head turned away from me. I caught a whiff of sorcery on him, but not strong. I did not get a good look at him.”
“I did!” Wart said. He was leaning against the doorjamb, clearly still groggy, although now his pallor suggested fury more than dizziness.
“What did he look like?”
Snake demanded.
Wart shrugged. “Very ordinary. Young. Fairish. He seemed familiar, somehow. But I’ll know him again when I see him. Who was he?”
Snake threw the papers back on the dresser. “No one knows his real name or where he comes from. He’s been called Argènteo or Silbernmantel—Silvercloak.”
“A sword for hire,” pronounced Master Nicely, mincing in. “The most dangerous assas-sin in all Eurania, the man who killed the last King of Gevily and the Duke of Doemund. And numerous others. He is deadly, greatly feared, a master of disguise. We at the Office of General Inquiry issued a warning that he was heading for Chivial. In spite of that, you lost him, Sir Snake. His Majesty will not be pleased.” Master Nicely was, though.
Snake shot him a look that should have melted all the fat off his bones. “You can have the pleasure of squeezing his plans out of the prisoners. We got Skuldigger.”
“A poor second best. You missed the big fish.”
“I’d have got him!” Wart shouted. “If I’d had my sword.”
“You?” the inquisitor sneered. “When he can take on Chefney and Demise and kill both of them, you think you would have had a chance, boy?”
“He’s right, Wart,” Snake said. “Not having your sword with you today was probably the luckiest thing that ever happened to you.”
4
Hidden Agenda
NIGHT CAME EARLY IN TENTHMOON AND SUNSET brought a dreary rain that did nothing to brighten the grim mood in the Snakepit. The Old Blades mourned their dead and wondered what sort of foe could slay their two best single-handed. Magically enhanced swordsmen were not unknown, but the Blades had always held them in contempt. The King’s Cup was open to all comers, but only Blades had ever won it.
As miserable as anyone, Stalwart decided to take his throbbing head off to bed right after the evening meal. Then Snake informed him tersely that Lord Roland wanted to see him.
This news raised such interesting possibilities that he went up the stairs three at a time, headache forgotten. He had never been inside Greymere Palace, but he was certain that no visitor could reach the Lord Chancellor’s office without being seen by the Royal Guard. Hastily he donned the uniform he had kept so carefully pressed and stored for just such an occasion. It had been made for him on his one and only visit to Nocare, another palace, and he had worn it only once, at a private supper with the King. He was delighted to discover that the jerkin had become tight across the shoulders. The sleeves were too short, the hose too tight. He was making progress! He added the four-pointed diamond brooch that marked him as a member of the White Star, the senior order of chivalry in the land. He had never had a chance to flaunt that in public, either. Just wait until Orvil and the rest of the lads saw that!
When he trotted back downstairs, Snake’s only comment was a sardonically raised eye-brow. Under his arm he carried two sheathed swords, undoubtedly Chefney’s Pacifier and Demise’s Chill. He was wearing full court dress—resplendent, grandiose, and enormously expensive—and notably a star whose six points meant he was an officer in the order. Everyone knew about that, but even Felix, who was with him, obviously had not known that Stalwart was a member. His eyes widened.
“When did you collect that bauble, brother?”
Wart shrugged. “Couple of months ago.” What use was an honor nobody ever saw?
“Congratulations! I couldn’t keep quiet about it that long if it were mine.”
“King’s orders,” Stalwart said glumly. He had guessed from Snake’s reaction that his hopes of parading star and livery where the Guard would see him were about to be dashed, and he was right. Instead of setting off for the palace, Snake led the way into the back corridors that led through to 17 Ranulf Square. He had not mentioned earlier that this was to be a secret meeting.
Emerald, meanwhile, had been hustled back to Greymere to report the afternoon’s events directly to Mother Superior, whose obvious displeasure made even the formidable Mother Spinel seem mild and benign.
“Very bad news!” she barked. “I cannot assign much of the blame to you, but the consequences may be dire indeed.”
The two old ladies then proceeded to cross-examine Emerald at great length on the enchantment she had detected on the killer—mostly fire, some water, and traces of earth and death. There were no greater experts in the Sisterhood than that pair, but neither of them could recall encountering such a spell in the past or guess what it might accomplish. She suspected they did not believe her analysis of the elements involved.
“Well!” Mother Superior concluded, obviously meaning not well! “By all accounts, this Silvercloak man is utterly deadly. Inform Mother Petal that from now on you are to be posted in close attendance on His Majesty whenever possible. And if you catch even the slightest hint of that sorcery ever, anywhere, you are to give the alarm at once! Do you understand? Even if you have to scream at the top of your voice in the middle of an ambassadorial reception, you will alert the Blades instantly!”
From Emerald’s point of view, this was very bad news indeed. Close attendance on the King was always wearing and frequently boring. It involved endless traveling. At this time of year he spent days on end chasing game in the royal forests. Courtiers muttered darkly of cramped and drafty hunting lodges.
Besides, tonight Sir Fury had been going to take her to see a play being acted by the King’s Men. Duty came first.
She thanked Mother Superior, curtseyed, and hurried off to assume her new duties.
But that was not to be. She had just changed out of her travel-soiled clothes when she was informed that Lord Chancellor Roland required her presence. She had barely time to write a hasty note to Sir Fury before she and Mother Spinel were rushed away in a carriage, escorted through the rain-filled streets by a dozen Yeomen lancers on white horses. Night was falling.
All the clerks and flunkies had gone home, leaving the offices of the Court of Conjury dark and echoing. The meeting room was a gloomy, deeply shadowed chamber, lit only by the dancing light of candles set on a small table in the center. Two naked swords gleamed there beside them. There were no chairs, because the King believed people sitting down talked too much.
Sir Snake and Sir Felix were already present. Beside them stood a blond young man in Royal Guard livery—Sir Stalwart as Sir Stalwart wanted to be, flaunting his diamond star, a cat’s-eye sword slung at his thigh. Emerald smiled at him; he winked and grinned back proudly. Honestly, though, he still looked like a boy dressed up.
A familiar stench of rot warned her who was coming before Master Nicely rolled in, wearing formal black robes and biretta. With him stalked Grand Inquisitor himself, like a gallows taking a stroll. The two of them made an unlikely pair—the squat, tubby Nicely and his enormously tall, elderly superior. The only good thing to be said about Grand Inquisitor was that he made even Nicely seem human.
No one spoke. Inquisitors stared fishily across at Old Blades; Old Blades sneered back at inquisitors. Why was Emerald needed? Her report could hardly be simpler and she could add nothing more to it. She was starting to suspect that there might even be worse things in store than “close attendance upon His Majesty.”
The familiar dry odor of hot iron announced the arrival of Blades, in this case Sir Bandit and Sir Dreadnought, who were, respectively, Commander and Deputy Commander of the Guard. Bandit concealed warmth and courtesy behind the bushiest, blackest eyebrows in the realm; Dreadnought was blond and usually brusque. They bowed to the ladies, nodded coldly to the inquisitors, and strolled over to join Snake and his men. Stalwart slapped the pommel of his sword in salute.
“Fiery serpents!” Dreadnought said. “No wonder I can’t make the payroll accounts come out even! When were you bound, brother?”
“I’m not.” Wart’s face had gone wooden in an effort to hide his feelings, but he must be deeply hurt that even the Deputy Commander had not known about the secret guardsman.
“Admitted by special royal edict,” Bandit explained.
“I didn’t
know that was possible!”
“First time for everything. Brother Stalwart has proved amply worthy. He won that ornament at Quagmarsh, which was his doing—and Sister Emerald’s.”
Dreadnought saluted each of them in turn. “I am impressed!” He was flaunting a diamond star of his own, which he had won by saving the King from a chimera monster. Very few Blades in history had ever been appointed to the White Star—as Wart had explained to Emerald more than once—and all three of those still living were here in the room: Snake, Stalwart, Dreadnought.
“So am I,” Bandit said. “That uniform looks a little snug, guardsman!”
Wart lit up like a tree struck by lightning. “Yes, Leader! I’ll order another tomorrow.”
The Commander laughed, not unkindly. “Don’t be too hasty. His Majesty is very impressed by the work you’re doing with the Old Blades. He wants to keep you under wraps a little longer.”
Wart deflated with a sigh. “Yes, Leader.”
A click as the door closed turned all eyes to the impressive figure in crimson robes standing there, looking over the company as if counting. When he headed for the table, everyone else bowed, curtseyed, or saluted, as appropriate. Lord Chancellor Roland was another knight in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, the former Sir Durendal. He wore a cat’s-eye sword and a diamond-studded brooch alongside his gold chain of office—an eight-pointed star. Emerald had forgotten to count him. He was a full companion in the White Star, the highest rank possible. It went with the job of being the King’s first minister, head of the government.
For a moment he stared down in silence at the two swords, shaking his head sadly. No one spoke—Roland had the knack of being the center of any room he was in. Everyone else had become pupils before a teacher.
“I hereby give notice,” the Lord Chancellor said, “that these proceedings are Deep Counsel as defined in the Offences Against the Crown Act. That means that any mention of them after the meeting ends is automatically classed as high treason unless you can prove that His Majesty’s safety required you to speak. That includes mention to anyone else who was present.”
