The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  He allowed a moment for that dread pronouncement to sink in.

  “Let us begin with a quick review of the facts. Sir Snake, will you outline this afternoon’s events?”

  Snake spoke swiftly, tersely. He began with Emerald’s arrival at the Snakepit, went through to the prisoners being formally assigned to the inquisitors, and then doubled back. “The door was magically booby-trapped. Stalwart is no ox, but none of us could throw him around like a pinch of salt. The felon then slew Demise and Chefney and escaped into Quirk Row. Unfortunately Sir Torquil and Sir—”

  “Who saw the killer?” Roland must know the answer; he wanted it to be a matter of record. It was soon established that Stalwart was the only one who would be able to recognize the man again. Torquil, Julius, and the rest had seen only his back as he fled and could not even agree whether he had been left-handed or right-handed—a matter of much concern to swordsmen. Even Emerald, who was now called upon to describe her encounter, had not seen his face.

  “Just a young man in a pale-colored cloak and a floppy hat. I would know his magic, again, though. It was unusual—fire and water, mostly.”

  “A disguise spell?”

  “Not like any that I was taught to recognize at Oakendown.”

  “Young, you said. He moved nimbly, I assume, like a swordsman?”

  Emerald hesitated.

  “Take your time, Sister,” Lord Roland prompted gently. “If you have more to contribute, we are anxious to hear it.”

  “There was something…odd about the way he moved, my lord.” She could not place it. “Sir Stalwart said he seemed familiar, and I felt the same.”

  “Interesting! It might be helpful if you two prepared a list of all the people you have both met on your adventures. That might trigger memories.”

  The Lord Chancellor paused, and the room waited. Emerald wondered why Wart was looking so almighty pleased with himself all of a sudden. Eventually she worked it out. She was the only Sister who might hope to recognize the notorious assassin by the enchantment he used, and only Wart had glimpsed his face. So Wart, too, was going to be posted in close attendance on the King from now on. His days of undercover work were over and he would be moving his lute to the palace at the close of this meeting.

  Roland sighed. “We are dealing with most potent sorcery! I am not without knowledge of fencing myself”—the Blades grinned widely—“and I assure all of you that, even years ago, when I was in my prime, I could not have disposed of Demise and Chefney together like that. So we have two of the King’s men slain and an illegal octogram. We can be certain that heads will roll or necks stretch.”

  “Let us hope that royal blood does not flow!” Master Nicely said. “Had Snake followed proper procedures instead of rushing off in the pursuit of personal reputation, this catastrophe would never have happened.”

  The temperature in the room shot upward. Snake’s bony features flamed red. His hand went to his sword. “It was not my reputation that concerned me, Inquisitor. That is safe enough. It was security.”

  “You need not shout,” Nicely retorted, although Snake had barely raised his voice. “You are accusing someone of treason?”

  “Keep personalities out of this!” Lord Roland said. “But if you have charges to bring, Sir Snake, we’d better hear them.”

  Snake must be in considerable trouble if even his friend Roland was taking that tone with him. Emerald wondered just how angry the King was over the day’s events. Oh, why had she not minded her own business?

  “We know the conspirators have spies at court,” Snake growled, glaring at Nicely. “We also know that the Dark Chamber employs more sorcerers than even the Royal College of Conjury. I suspect that some are not above doing favors for old school friends. Or accepting some of their ill-gotten gold. If we had followed the rule book as you suggest, I’m sure we would have found twenty-five Quirk Row an empty shell.”

  “You may be sure, but have you evidence to persuade others of your lies and slanders?”

  “Yes I do. You take charge of all prisoners. Explain to me why three of the men we arrested today are men we have arrested before? Did they receive royal pardons? Or did they buy their release from their jailers?”

  The inquisitors’ fishy stares gave no clue to what they were thinking. No one liked inquisitors, but very few people dared quarrel with them openly like this. The idea that the Dark Chamber might betray the King was terrifying—who could call it to account?

  “Is this true, Grand Inquisitor?” the Chancellor demanded.

  The gaunt old man displayed long yellow teeth in what could only loosely be termed a smile. “Five days ago we released several suspects—two who had been arrested at Quagmarsh and three from Bosely Down. There was, in the justices’ opinion, insufficient evidence to proceed with their cases.”

  “Insufficient evidence?” Snake howled. “That is the most—”

  “Wait! Continue, Grand Inquisitor.”

  “Thank you, Excellency. Two of them had agreed to turn King’s evidence and we believed they would be reliable informants, since we still have their families in custody…for their own safety, of course. The other men were being most carefully tracked.”

  “You are telling me that you had this nest of traitors under surveillance? You had not informed me of this, nor Sir Snake, apparently. Is His Majesty aware of these double agents of yours?”

  After the slightest of hesitations…“I did inform him, yes. Verbally. Perhaps hastily, as he was occupied at the time in—”

  “I have warned you before, Grand Inquisitor,” Lord Roland said sharply, “that your reports are to be made in writing and passed through me. Anything you tell His Grace in conversation you are to write down promptly and submit to me. We shall pursue this matter further tomorrow. If you have been subverting criminals with promises of royal pardons, I shall expect to see your authority to do so. Meanwhile, what have you learned from the prisoners taken today?”

  “Little so far. The persons apprehended…” Inquisitors’ memories were magically enhanced, and the gaunt old man rattled off a score of names without hesitation. Emerald recognized only those of Skuldigger and his wife. “Of course it took us some time to locate His Majesty and obtain the royal seal on the necessary warrant. And the Question is a lengthy conjuration.” He glanced around the circle, peering down at everyone as if curious to know who shuddered or grimaced at this mention of the most horrible of sorceries.

  “So far we have used it only on the prisoner Skuldigger. He had just begun talking when I left to come here. It will be many days before he can stop talking, of course.”

  “And what was he saying?” the Chancellor asked with distaste.

  “Much as we surmised, Excellency. The traitor sorcerers, having decided that their efforts to kill the King by magic were meeting with little success, banded together to hire the notorious assassin Silvercloak. He arrived in Grandon in an Isilondian ship this morning. He was taken to the hideaway on Quirk Row and made fluent in Chivian; that was the sorcery the girl detected. He probably answered the boy’s knock on the door just to practice his new skill.”

  “And what of his plans?”

  “Skuldigger knows nothing of them. Silver-cloak works alone and keeps his methods secret.”

  “But he works for money,” the Chancellor said. “Now we have captured those who hired him, he cannot hope to collect whatever fee he was promised. Surely he will simply give up and go home, back to wherever he came from?”

  Again Emerald had the odd impression that Lord Roland was asking questions to which he already knew the answer. So who was he trying to impress?

  Again she wondered what she was doing here—and Wart also. They did not belong in an emergency meeting of senior ministers.

  Then she wondered if those two questions were somehow related.

  Inquisitor Nicely replied. “Only two things are generally known about Silvercloak. One is his reputation. He has never failed. None of his chosen victims has ever surv
ived, and he will not want to make an exception in this case. That would be bad for business. The other open secret is that his agents are the notorious House of Mendaccia in Porta Riacha, the most secretive of bankers. Skuldigger and his fellow conspirators deposited an immense sum of money—two hundred thousand Hyrian ducats—with the Mendaccia. It will be paid to Silvercloak if His Majesty dies by Long Night.”

  Emerald calculated, and no doubt everyone else did so also. This was a thirteen-moon year, so there were still almost ten weeks left in it for the killer to earn his blood money.

  Lord Roland nodded as if satisfied with the way the script was being followed. “Leader, we must assume that His Grace is in grave peril.”

  “His Grace is spitting fire!” Bandit said glumly.

  “You are taking all possible precautions?”

  “All reasonable precautions, my lord.”

  There were persistent rumors that when the monsters started coming in the windows of the royal bedroom on the Night of Dogs, Roland, who had then been Commander Durendal, had locked his sovereign lord in the toilet. But Roland was exceptional; if Bandit tried that he would be beheaded. Emerald knew how disinclined Ambrose was to take precautions or put up with restrictions on his movements. Kings did not hide, he insisted. The Blades grumbled that he had more courage than brains and made their work much harder than it should be, but they loved him for it.

  “Are there any additional measures we could take to increase the King’s safety?”

  “Certainly,” said Master Nicely. “The Royal Guard may be adequate protection under normal circumstances, but it is obviously not capable of dealing with the world’s most deadly assassin. Today Silvercloak showed he could dispose of two of the highest-ranked Blades with no difficulty whatsoever.”

  Lord Roland frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Dogs. As I have previously informed Your Excellency, we can provide a pack of trained and magically enhanced hounds guaranteed to stop any swordsman. Much more effective guardians.”

  The Blades and Old Blades all growled angrily. Nicely smirked.

  “And the answer remains the same,” said the Chancellor sharply. “His Majesty refuses to consider the idea. He will not have monsters eating his Blades, he says.”

  “Or his inquisitors?” said Felix. “Hard to keep a dog away from carrion.”

  “Snake, if you cannot keep your man quiet, send him home!”

  Coming from the great Durendal, that rebuke was enough to turn Felix’s face bone white. The Chancellor went back to business.

  “Leader, I hope you are taking especial care that His Grace’s plans are never announced in advance?”

  “Standard procedure, my lord. Our best defense against assassins is always to prevent them from knowing where His Majesty will be or when he—”

  “Ironhall?”

  This time the interruption came from Wart. Perhaps he had not meant to speak aloud, because he blushed when everyone turned to stare at him.

  “You have a comment, guardsman?” The Chancellor’s voice was a stiletto dipped in honey, but even he could not intimidate Wart when he had a bright idea to suggest.

  “Ironhall, my lord. Fat M—His Grace has been going down to Ironhall to harvest seniors every two months ever since the Night of Dogs, and he’s overdue. It’s almost three months since I was, er, not bound.” His eyes gleamed. Ironhall rules said that candidates must be bound in order of seniority, so the next man up should still be Wart—assuming the King chose to play by the rules, which kings did not always do.

  “An interesting point, brother. It is indeed likely that the King will choose to go to Ironhall in the near future. Right, Leader?”

  Frowning, Bandit nodded. “Grand Master reports a good crop ready, and spirits know I can use the men!”

  “But if his visit is so predictable—no offense intended, Brother Stalwart—then we must take extra care that his enemies do not take advantage of it.”

  “My lord!” Sir Dreadnought protested. “Ironhall? Surely the King is safer there than anywhere?”

  “Mm? What do you think, Master Nicely? You’ve studied Silvercloak’s methods.”

  The tubby inquisitor pursed his fat lips. “How many people live there?” No inquisitors, of course. Probably no inquisitor had ever set foot in the school.

  “It varies. Do you know the present tally, Sir Bandit?”

  “One hundred and ten boys just now, my lord. Fifteen masters and about a score of other knights—several of them in their dotage—and roughly as many servants. But everyone there knows everyone else. A stranger would stand out like a full-grown lion. And it’s all alone on Starkmoor, leagues from anywhere; an assassin could not hope to escape afterward.”

  “And the Guard goes there when the King does,” Dreadnought added.

  “True.” The Chancellor turned. “You want to continue this argument, Sir Stalwart?”

  Wart blushed even redder. “I apologize, my lord. I spoke without thinking.”

  Emerald knew that Wart knew there had already been a plot—another plot altogether—to kill King Ambrose on his next visit to Ironhall. He had uncovered it by accident and thwarted it, but only the two of them and Lord Roland were aware of it. Perhaps the King had been told, but almost certainly no one else, even the most important people in this room. Apparently Lord Roland did not consider the information relevant.

  “If no one has any other suggestions,” he said, “we can adjourn. I remind you again how secret these proceedings are; I charge you all to be especially vigilant in the face of this terrible threat to His Majesty. If you have any suspicions at all, pray do not hesitate to inform me or Commander Bandit.”

  Emerald glanced around the room and saw her surprise reflected everywhere. Why had this secret meeting been called? It seemed to have achieved nothing. Lord Roland was a very clever man, not the sort to waste people’s time to no purpose.

  What was he up to?

  5

  Stalwart to the Fore

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON STALWART WENT to the Snakepit fencing room for his usual workout, but it wasn’t the same without Chefney or Demise. No one else could give him a fair match. Only Dreadnought and some of the other crackerjacks in the Royal Guard were in his class now, and they were off-limits for him. He had just put away his foil in disgust when Snake appeared in the doorway and beckoned him out.

  His hat and cloak were damp; he smelled of wet horse. “I want your warrant, Wart,” he said brusquely.

  Stalwart almost said, What? like a dummy, but remembered in time that Blades did not question orders. “Yes, brother.”

  He scampered up the stairs. His commission in the Court of Conjury was an imposing piece of paper bearing the royal seal. It gave him enormous authority. Why was he losing it now? Was he being discharged from the Old Blades at last?

  The attics were silent and deserted—but there was a faint odor of wet horse up there, too. The door to his cubicle was ajar. He had left it closed. Warily, wishing he had a sword with him, he stood back and kicked it wide. A man in nondescript, drab-colored clothes was sitting on his bed. Astonished, Stalwart opened his mouth—

  Lord Chancellor Roland said, “Sh! Come in. Leave it open a little so I can keep an eye on the stairs. Sit down.”

  Bewildered, Stalwart perched on the clothes hamper, hoping it would not collapse under him. The great man was smiling, which was a good sign.

  “At a recent meeting I mustn’t mention, you made a suggestion I won’t describe.”

  “And was shown my folly in speaking out of turn, my lord.”

  “No.” Lord Chancellors could even grin, apparently. “I apologize for snubbing you. Your idea was brilliant. I didn’t expect anyone to see that opportunity. I stamped on you because I didn’t want it taken seriously.”

  Again Stalwart swallowed a What!? “Thank you, my lord.” Then he realized the implications. “You think there were traitors—”

  “No.” Durendal turned serious. “But the
danger to His Majesty is so extreme that I do not intend to take anyone into my full confidence. Even honest people can be overheard or speak without thinking. I have a job for you if you think you can handle it.”

  Stalwart could feel a smile creeping over his face, despite his best efforts to remain solemn. “Identify the killer, my lord?” He was going into the Guard at last!

  “No.” The Chancellor frowned. “You expect me to set you at the King’s elbow to shout if the assassin approaches? You haven’t thought it through, Stalwart. Put yourself in Silvercloak’s place. He has only nine weeks or so to fulfill his contract. He may have some accomplices we don’t know about, but in the end he will act alone, because he always does. Now do you see what you missed?”

  “Er…” It was very flattering to be asked to give an opinion, and very humiliating to feel so stupid. Lord Roland had the reputation of being as fast with his wits as he was with a sword.

  “Where does he begin?” the Chancellor prompted.

  “Ah!” Got it! “He scouts the ground, of course! He’ll watch what the King does, where he goes, how he rides out in public, how he leaves the palace. And if he sees me with him all the time—”

  “Then he kills you first. Or he finds a way around you. You know his face, but he knows yours, too. Not many errand boys issue commands in the King’s name.”

  “So what do I do instead, my lord?” The hamper under him seemed to sense his excitement, for it creaked alarmingly.

  “I want to put you in the front line. No one—absolutely no one, not even Leader or the King—knows about this. You are to turn in your present commission to Snake, but Commander Bandit has agreed to assign you to Chancery for a special duty. Will you take my word for that? We haven’t had time to do the paperwork and there probably isn’t a proper procedure anyway.”