by Dave Duncan
“I am honored to be under your command, Your Excellency.” Confidential aide to the great Durendal? This was trust indeed. What man could possibly refuse such an adventure?
“Glad to have you.” Roland flipped a leather purse at him. “Expenses.”
Stalwart caught it; it was heavy and clinked. He felt the belly thrill of excitement that came at the beginning of a new quest. “For?”
“Hasten over to Sycamore Market and dress yourself as a stableman.”
“A gentleman’s hand or just a churl?”
The Chancellor chuckled. “How about a well-paid, well-tipped, assistant hostler who sells his employer’s oats out the back door and short-changes the customers? Throw in an extra shirt. You may be gone some time.”
At least Stalwart would not be shivering in rags, but he still wasn’t going to be a Blade. His disappointment must have shown, because his visitor snapped, “You do want to see Chef and Demise avenged, don’t you?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“I’m offering you first shot at the killer. I want you to catch Silvercloak for me. Do that, my lad—” Lord Roland smiled “—and you’ll be a hero to the Blades for the rest of your born days. Now, do you want the job?”
“Yes, my lord!”
“Then head out as soon as you’ve collected your gear. You can make a few leagues before dark.”
“Can I wear my sword?”
“On the journey, yes. Now listen. The King will be going to Ironhall very soon, as you guessed. And despite what Leader and Grand Inquisitor and the King and everyone except you and me think, my guess is that Silvercloak will follow—or even be there waiting.”
He paused, waiting for comment. Testing.
“He may go by stagecoach, or he may ride,” Stalwart said cautiously. “It’s too far for a single horse, so if he rides, he will need fresh mounts on the way. And if he goes by coach…Yes! Either way he’ll have to visit posting houses.”
The Chancellor was smiling and nodding. “But which posting houses?”
“He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t know the roads. He may go by coach as far as he can, which means…The nearest the stage would take him is…Holmgarth? And if he’s riding, he’ll need a remount after that long stretch from Flaskbury…. Yes! Holmgarth, my lord?”
“Very well done! You worked it out faster than I did. It’s not quite certain. He may see the danger and take a roundabout route. Because, Brother Stalwart—and remember this always—Silvercloak is the smartest person you have ever met! Repeat that to yourself once every hour, twice when you go to bed, and three times when you get up in the morning. Never underestimate him! Your life will depend on it. If he does slip up and go by way of Holmgarth—”
“I’ll be there?”
Durendal nodded. “You’ll be there.”
The hamper creaked as Stalwart scrambled to his feet, too excited to stay seated. “When I see him I challenge?”
“No. You’re too precious and he’s too deadly.”
“But—” Wait for the rest of your orders, stupid.
“But you won’t have the Old Blades to back you up this time. No Royal Guard, no Household Yeomen. I could give you any of those, Stalwart, but if I try hiding a dozen armed men behind hay bales in the stables, the whole town will know. Sure as death, Silvercloak will get word of it somehow. I don’t want to scare him away! If he takes fright we’ll lose him, and he’ll strike at some other time and place.”
Stalwart nodded doubtfully. He thought the Chancellor was carrying respect for his enemy to absurd lengths.
“We are laying a trap for the smartest man, remember?”
“Yes, my lord. And the deadliest swordsman. So what do I do if I see him?” Hit him with a shovel?
The Chancellor shrugged. “That’s up to you. A long time ago the King taught me that when you send a man to do a job, you tell him what you want done and let him work out how to do it. If I try to direct you at this distance I’ll get it all wrong. You’ll be the man on the spot—you decide what to do.”
“I appreciate the trust you place in me, my lord.” Unless there was more to come, Stalwart was hopelessly out of his depth.
The great man chuckled and produced a sealed packet. “Take this letter to Sir Tancred in Holmgarth. He’s a knight in our order but an old man now—he was Leader back in the reign of Ambrose III. After his stint in the Guard he ran the Holmgarth posting house for many years. His sons and grandsons run it now. He was also the county sheriff until his health began to fail this summer. I’m letting his son try out for the job, so he ought to be eager to show his mettle by helping you.”
Sheriffs could call out militia. Stalwart would not be alone.
“Without mentioning Silvercloak by name, I’ve told Tancred about Chefney and Demise and the danger to the King. I’ve ordered him to give you any help you want. Work out a plan—and let me know what it is. I want a detailed report from you every day by the eastbound stage, understand? Even if you have nothing new to report.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Are you familiar with that posting house?”
“I’ve been through there a couple of times.”
“Very solidly built.” Lord Roland smiled. “You’ll see what I mean. And stablemen are a tough lot. Organize your reception for Silvercloak so that the moment you see him—snap! Just don’t let him see you first, or you’ll be one more name in the Litany of Heroes. And I don’t want a dozen dead stableboys, either.”
“No, my lord.”
“Any questions?”
There must be a million questions. “He may have magic tricks?”
“I’m certain he does.”
“I have authority to kill him if necessary?”
“Certainly.” Then Lord Roland sighed. “But if you do, for spirits’ sake be sure you’ve got the right man! You can’t say ‘sorry’ if you haven’t.” He waited for the next question.
Stalwart could not think of a single one, which was frightening. He was probably too stupid to see the difficulties until they were on top of him.
Lord Roland said softly, “This may be the toughest assignment I’ve ever given anyone. Your record is so impressive that you’ve earned the right to be lead horse on this one, but if you want me to put an older man in charge to take the heat off you, I’ll do that. I won’t think any less of you for asking. Knowing your own limitations is not cowardice. And sending a boy to do a man’s job isn’t smart. Is that what I’m doing?”
Stalwart squared his shoulders, wishing they were just a little broader. “No, my lord. I can handle this. If the killer comes through Holmgarth, I’ll get him for you.”
6
Stalmart at His Post
Done by my hand at Holmgarth Posthouse,
this 22nd day of Tenthmoon, in the year of
Ranulf, 368.
With humble salutations…
Stalwart dipped his quill in the inkwell and sighed. He had barely begun his job and the eastbound stage left in an hour. He was writing his first report. He would rather duel to the death any day.
Pursuant to Your Excellency’s instructions, I made haste to Holmgarth. I arrived late last night. I gave your warrant to Sir Tancred. The noble knight offered most gracious aid.
The old man was frail now, but his mind was still sharp. He had already retired, for the hour had been late, and he had looked with deep suspicion on the exhausted juvenile vagabond who came staggering into his bedchamber, dripping mud and flaunting a cat’s-eye sword. The moment he finished reading the Chancellor’s letter, though, he had ordered food and drink for his visitor. He had summoned his two sons and directed them to do anything the stranger said, without argument or delay. The elder, Elred, was courteous and silver-haired, keeper of the inn adjoining the stable. Sherwin was a rougher character; he ran the livery business and was also the county sheriff. Stalwart would be dealing more with him.
After a solid night’s sleep, he was just starting work, so what more could he possibly p
ut in his report?
I can easily observe horsemen arriving in the stables. But the stagecoach and private carriages usually stop at the post inn to disembark passengers before entering the yard.
Perhaps he should not whine about his problems, but he was proud of the solution he had discovered for this one, and it would show Lord Roland that he had achieved something already.
I asked the innkeeper to hire workmen to tear down and rebuild his porch. This construction blocks the front entrance to the inn. Now all traffic will come first into the yard and stop at the rear door. I most humbly request that your lordship will approve the expense.
A simple two-day carpentry job might have to be dragged out for weeks. If they made Stalwart pay for it out of his Guard wages, he would be poverty-stricken for the next hundred years.
Another clatter of hooves brought his head up as a two-horse gig clattered and squeaked past his window. The passenger was an elderly, plump woman, but he kept watching until he had a clear view of her driver—Silvercloak would not sneak past him disguised as a servant!
Two horsemen rode in, three departed. Another carriage…The post yard was still shadowed but starting to bustle as the sun came over the walls. Men and boys were walking horses, feeding them, currying them, mucking out stables, wheeling barrows, saddling, harnessing. Their breath showed white in the morning chill, and fresh dung on the paving stones steamed. There had been ice on the water troughs at dawn. A farrier’s hammer clinked.
Standing at an important crossroads, Holmgarth was one of the busiest posthouses in all Chivial, employing scores of people. Every day hundreds of horsemen hired remounts there and a dozen coaches changed teams. The King boarded horses there for his couriers and the Blades. As if to demonstrate, a horn blew in the distance and men started running. Moments later a royal courier thundered in past Stalwart’s window. By then a horse had been led out and was being saddled up for him. In moments he went galloping out through the archway again. Show-off!
Could Silvercloak disguise himself as a courier—or even a Blade?
The yard was large enough to hold two stagecoaches and their eight-horse teams. It was shaped like a letter E, its east side the back of the inn, and three long alleys leading off to the west, flanked by rows of stalls. There was only one gate and the walls were high, because valuable horses must be well guarded.
In tomorrow’s report, I shall describe to your lordship my arrangements for catching the
Sir Stalwart pondered a good way to spell “malefactor” and wrote “felon” instead. He had no idea yet what those arrangements were going to be. The iron-barred window of the cashier’s office was right by the yard entrance, designed to give a clear view of anyone trying to sneak a horse out without paying. The cashier on duty was Mistress Gleda, Sherwin’s wife—a plump, ferocious-looking woman with a visible mustache and a deep distrust of this upstart boy who had taken over half her worktable. Fortunately she was kept busy handling money and tokens brought to the window. Keeping track of all the horses going in and out must be a huge job.
If she was asked, Stalwart was her nephew, visiting dear Aunt Gleda.
This seat gave him a clear view of anyone arriving. So far so good. He would certainly see Silvercloak if he came, but putting a collar on him was going to be a lot harder. To sound an alarm—ring a bell, say—would alert the quarry as much as the posse. Then the quarry would either escape again or cause a bloodbath.
Roland had dropped a hint—
As your lordship graciously advised, these stables are built of solid masonry. Any stall could serve as a cell.
But if Silvercloak was so smart, how could he be lured inside and locked in—alone, with no hostage to threaten? The answers would have to wait for tomorrow’s report. Lord Roland would understand that there had been no time to write more in this one. Now to sign it and then seal it. Blades used the inscription on their swords as their seals. Stalwart’s was—in mirrorwriting, of course.
The door at his back creaked open, and the office was suddenly full of Sherwin. The Sheriff’s well-worn leathers bulged over the largest barrel belly Stalwart had ever met, even larger than the King’s. He had the biggest hands, too, and a jet-black beard fit to stuff a pillow. At his back came a rangy man, younger and clean-shaven.
“This here’s Norton,” the big man growled. “Nephew. Can’t find me, talk to him. He’ll be your sergeant, like. This is Sir Stalwart, Norton.” He made that last remark seem surprising.
Stalwart rose and offered a hand to the new-comer, whose horny grip did not crush as it might have done. “Please don’t use that title, not ever. My friends call me Wart.”
“‘Pimple’ would be better,” said Sherwin, looming over him like a thunderstorm. He had very dark, very glittery eyes. His face—the part visible above the undergrowth—was deeply pitted with old acne scars.
“Looks like you know more about pimples than I do. Glad to have your help, Master Norton.”
Norton just nodded, but he had not disapproved of the pimple riposte. Sherwin’s wife sniffed in an amused sort of way, and Sherwin showed no offense. Perhaps he had just been testing a little.
“We picked out seventeen men for you,” he said, “all good lads in a roughhouse.”
“Not outsiders?” Stalwart sat down to show that he was in charge.
“You already said you didn’t want outsiders. They all work here. Some all the time, some sometimes. I’m not stupid, sonny.”
“Will they keep the secret?”
“I don’t hire stupids, either. You want all of us on duty every day, all day? King’ll pay for that?”
Oh, why, why, why had Stalwart not asked Lord Roland how much money he could spend?
“We’ll work something out.”
“Work it out with Gleda there. You won’t cheat her.”
Stalwart held fast to his temper as the fat man sneered down at him over his jungle of beard and mountain of lard.
“I don’t cheat anyone.”
“And if this killer you want is so dangerous, how much danger money will you pay them?”
“How much do you usually pay them? You’re the sheriff, so I’m told. We’ll cover costs the way you usually do.”
Mistress Gleda uttered a disagreeable snort behind Stalwart’s back.
“You want me call the lads in so’s you can tell ’em what this outlaw looks like?” her husband demanded. “How’re you goin’ to tip us off when you see him? What d’we do then?”
These were exactly the questions baffling Stalwart, but he was not about to admit this to his troops. “I’ll explain all that later. I must finish this letter first. Then I want to take another walk around.”
If he was still stymied at noon, he would have to ask for help.
“Why’d Lord Roland send a boy to catch a dangerous killer?”
Stalwart gave the fat man what he hoped was a cold stare. “Because it takes one to know one, I suppose.”
“You, Pimple?”
“Me. But I only kill traitors, so you should be safe, shouldn’t you?”
Before Sherwin could counter, another coach rumbled past the window and headed for the inn door. But the inn door was some way off, and now there were men and boys and horses everywhere, blocking the view. With a yelp of panic, Stalwart jumped for the door, ran outside, and dodged through the crowd. When he got close enough to see the heraldry on the carriage, he almost fell over a wheelbarrow of horse dung being pushed by a skinny, chilled-looking boy.
An octogram and a waterfall? Those were the arms the King had granted to Emerald after the Nythia adventure—a very rare honor for a woman.
He didn’t trip. He just stood and stared with his mouth open as the porter opened the coach door, lowered the steps, and stepped back to let the occupants emerge.
Stalwart had never met Emerald’s mother, but he did recognize the woman descending. She was not Emerald’s mother.
She was not Silvercloak, either.
Silvercloak would h
ave been less surprising.
And the youth in shabby, ill-fitting clothes shuffling along behind her? Yes, Stalwart knew that face also, although the close-cropped hair-style was new. Fortunately both newcomers disappeared into the inn without noticing him standing there like a lummox.
How many unexpected tricks did Lord Roland have up his sleeve?
This one was almost unthinkable. She was crazy! Why had she ever let him talk her into that?
He wandered back into the cashier’s office and flopped down on his stool. Norton and Sherwin had left, fortunately, and Mistress Gleda was dealing with a procession of grooms and customers. Stalwart’s report, which he had stupidly left lying there, had been moved and therefore read.
More horsemen trotted into the yard and he craned his neck to watch them go by. He had not, as he had thought earlier, solved even the first of his problems. This window would not let him see everyone who arrived, because the coaches unloaded too far away and the crowd would often block his view. So he was right back at the beginning again.
Except he now owed someone for the cost of the inn’s new porch.
He must close his report to Lord Roland. He added one more paragraph.
I respectfully advise your lordship that your gracious lady wife passed through Holmgarth this morning with a companion known to me. I judged it fitting that I not address them.
I have the honor to be, etc., your lordship’s
most humble and obedient servant,
Stalwart, companion.
7
The Meat Wagon
EMERALD’S PREVIOUS VISIT TO IRONHALL HAD been made in rain and pitch darkness. She had missed nothing in the way of scenery, for Starkmoor was well named. Under a leaden winter sky the rocky crests of the tors were streaked with snow; thorn and scrub tinted their slopes drab brown; and the tarns in the hollows shone a frigid, rippled gray. The only color any-where was the sinister, lurid green of bogs. Even cattle were rare, and she had seen no houses for hours. As the coach limped and lurched along the track, with wind whistling through every tiny gap, she huddled her blanket more tightly around her.
