by Dave Duncan
“A few hours.”
“Till sunset, say? Surely you can guarantee her safety that long, Grand Master! If she is willing to continue the deception after she has been shown around, can you not support her for a few days? Then His Majesty will arrive, and you can present your objections to him in person.”
This cunning mention of the King made him scowl. He began reading Lord Roland’s letter again. Kate shot a triumphant smile at Emerald, who returned it as best she could.
He soon discovered another grievance. “I am instructed to expect Princess Vasar of Lukirk. Who’s she?”
Good question. The name meant nothing to Emerald.
“I have no idea,” Kate said airily. “Some foreign royalty the King wants to impress? Possibly a relative of his betrothed, Princess Dierda of Gevily.”
The explanation rang like a tin gong to Emerald. Kate was not good at lying.
Grand Master sighed deeply and folded up the letter. He took a moment to become fatherly, then spoke in sorrow. “Sister Emerald, I beg you to reconsider. Believe me, I have only your own good at heart. I am much older than you are. I have known Ironhall since long before you were born, child, and I assure you that what you propose cannot succeed and will cause you terrible heartache. Consider the inevitable scandal, which may ruin your reputation and standing forever. Even if the urgency of the crisis is as great as Lord Roland believes—which I find hard to credit—why cannot you perform your duties in female clothing? Why this playacting, this mummery?”
“To keep my presence here a complete secret.” The Chancellor was certainly carrying security to extremes, but he had explained to Emerald that other governments had set every trap imaginable for the notorious Silvercloak. They had all failed.
“I did not say you must wear the habit of your Sisterhood. Why not be…oh…my niece, come visiting?”
Emerald returned the answer Lord Roland had given her. “Because a stranger would be noticed. I would not have easy access to every part of the complex, and because traitors, if any, would either take precautions or simply flee.”
“But—”
“Cases of treason may require extraordinary measures,” Kate said sharply.
Grand Master flinched. When treason was in the air, no one was safe. He shrugged. “Very well, my lady, Sister…under protest, I will do as I am ordered. If we are to keep your identity a secret we must follow the normal procedures exactly, yes?”
“As much as possible, please.”
He pulled a bag from a pocket. “Lady Kate, please wait outside while I test the ‘boy’ for agility.”
The test consisted of throwing coins for Emerald to catch. It did not take long. Then she had to crawl around on hands and knees to pick up the ones she had missed, which was all of them.
“If asked,” Grand Master said smugly from his chair, “you had better say you caught six. That is the minimum we ever accept.”
“Becoming a Blade is not my ambition, I assure you,” Emerald remarked from under the table.
“How fortunate! We rarely waste time teaching the Brat anything until we are sure he will be staying. But some time in the next few days Master of Rapiers will undoubtedly give you a foil and check to see whether you have any native ability.”
“Which I don’t.”
“Not a shred. If you were genuine you would be on your way back over the moor already.”
She scrambled to her feet. “Then I will have to twist an ankle, won’t I? As an excuse not to fight or play with foils, but nothing so serious that you need perform a healing on me.”
His eyes flashed. “Use that tone to a master, boy, and you will regret it.”
She reined in her temper. He was in the right, which did not excuse his obvious enjoyment. “I am sorry, Grand Master. It will not occur again.” Not until the next time.
“You still wish to proceed with this farce?”
“I do.”
“Very well. On your own head be it.” He rose and frowned out the window. Snow was still falling, starting to settle. “Mistress Dragonwife had better make haste. I will send a couple of seniors on horses to make sure her driver finds his way off the moor. Wait here.”
9
Intrepid
EMERALD SHUFFLED BACK TO THE WINDOW. SNOW hid the tors. Close at hand, though, three boys were running—not running to anywhere, just running, going in circles, clowning, laughing, shouting as they rejoiced in being young in snow. She could not hope to imitate that behavior.
Kate had fussed a lot about shoes, insisting that a boy of Emerald’s height would have feet twice as big, which was why she was now wearing flippers, their toes padded with wool.
“I can’t wear these,” she had protested. “I will trip over them!”
“Nonsense. You just need practice. And they will remind you never to run unless you absolutely must. Women don’t run the way men do.”
Behind her a door squeaked. A face peered around it.
It was not a conventional sort of face. It possessed a very snub nose; a huge number of sandy freckles; two large blue eyes encircled by fading yellow and purple bruises; and a puffed, inflamed lip. It had one eyebrow, which was the same coppery red as the tangled hair on the right half of its scalp. The other side had been shaved bald and bore the word “SCUM” in black ink.
“You’re staying?” he asked squeakily.
“Yes.”
He yelled approval: “Yea! Fiery!” And walked in. He was about twelve, about shoulder height. His threadbare jerkin and britches were squalid, as if they had been used to wipe out half-empty cook pots. “They said you didn’t look very promising material.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself at the moment.”
He scowled. “Watch your mouth! You’re the Brat now.”
Emerald cursed under her breath. “I’m sorry. I forgot!”
“Call me, ‘sir’!”
“Yes, sir.” Boxing his ears would have to wait.
“The first thing—” Grand Master said, striding in. He glared when he saw she had company.
“Ah, Brat…”
Emerald said, “Yes, Grand Master?”
He pointed. “You are still the Brat.”
“I am?” the boy howled.
“Until Master of Archives signs you in. Go and find him and choose your name. Then the new boy takes over.”
The Brat shot Emerald a predatory leer, made even more sinister by his swollen lip. “So he does.”
She was sure she could outpummel this one if she had to. If he was alone.
“But you have one more duty. You have to tell him all the rules and show him around.”
The kid shrugged offhandedly. “Mm…”
“Boy!” Grand Master barked. “I recall twice in the last two weeks when you couldn’t find a place I sent you to, and once you gave a note to the wrong master. That really was Wilde’s fault, for not training you better, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Grand Master,” the Brat agreed, stepping right into the trap.
“So if this new boy can’t find his way around, that will be your fault!”
The freak face fell. “But—”
“You arguing, candidate?”
“No, Grand Master.”
“Very well. I want you to show the new Brat everything, understand? Not upstairs in King Everard House, of course; not the servants’ quarters, and not the Seniors’ Tower, or they’ll skin you. But everywhere not off-limits. And see he knows all the masters by sight.”
“Yes, Grand Master!”
“And if he gets lost tomorrow, then it will be your fault, and you will be punished!”
“B-but…me? I mean, I can take him, but most places I don’t know what they’re called. How do I tell the names?”
“Ask someone, stupid.” Grand Master smirked at Emerald. “When you’re done, come back here. I will announce your admittance in the hall tonight.”
“Yes, Grand Master.”
“Off you go, then, boys.”
&nb
sp; Emerald did not like Grand Master’s smirk.
“The Brat can go almost anywhere,” Lord Roland had told her, “because he is errand boy. He attends no classes, has no other duties. If I send you there as a visitor, you will attract attention and your movements will be restricted. No one really notices the Brat. Other boys haze him, but Grand Master will be able to protect you from most of that without raising any eyebrows. You’ll have to put up with a lot of impudent heckling, I admit. You may find yourself dancing like a chicken or turning a dozen somersaults to order. Can I beg you to endure a few days’ humiliation for your King?”
But supposing he had been wrong? Supposing this water-and-chance Grand Master resented the Chancellor’s orders so much that he would not defend her? He had told her what she intended was impossible. He could make his own prophecy come true. Now he was pouting down at the Brat, who was holding out a hand to him. Grand Master fumbled in pockets until he found a small brass disk, which he passed over.
The boy showed it to Emerald as he opened the door. “The token, see? When a master sends you on an errand, get his token. Then you’re on business and can’t be jostled. Come on!” He went downstairs at a run.
Emerald followed as fast as her shoes would allow. She did not understand Grand Master, but she could guess what the Brat meant by “jostle.” “So you’re safe as long as you have a token?”
“More or less.” He ran along the corridor. There were no witnesses, so she ran after him, grinning down at his absurd, half-bald head. “This is First House,” he explained over his shoulder. “The oldest. That room we was in is the flea room. We go up here.”
First House was a maze, a warren of stairs and passages. She was never going to learn her way around, but judged it wiser not to say so. The Brat plunged around another corner…Yelp! Curse! Thump! Much louder yelp…. Emerald, following cautiously, discovered her guide sitting on the floor in a litter of books, rubbing a pink, freshly slapped cheek. An older, larger boy loomed over him.
“Stupid brainless swamp thing!” The other boy had a possible mustache on his lip. He wore no sword, but the size of his fists and shoulders said he could be dangerous enough without one. “Pick them up!”
The Brat scrabbled around, collecting the books. He knelt to offer them. “I am truly sorry, Most Exalted and Glorious Candidate Vere.”
The other took them. “Give me ten!” He watched as the Brat hastily stretched out and performed ten push-ups, then returned to his knees. “And what is this rubbish?”
Emerald could explain that she was not the Brat yet, but such technicalities were not likely to prove helpful. She knelt beside her guide. “I am to be the next Brat, sir.”
“Sir? You weren’t listening, trash.”
“I beg pardon, Most Exalted and Glorious Candidate Vere.”
“Better. But I’m tired of that name. You will address me as Supreme and Mighty Speaker of Wisdom Vere.”
“Yes, Supreme and Mighty Speaker of Wisdom Vere.”
“And don’t forget it.” Vere stalked away around the corner.
The Brat rose and slouched off the opposite way, rubbing his face, muttering words Emerald preferred not to hear. “The rest of the fuzzies are all right,” he said. “Vere and Hunter are the only real cesspits. Most of the beardless don’t jostle much either.”
“Sopranos, fuzzies…?”
“Sopranos, beansprouts, beardless, fuzzies, seniors. Seniors wear swords and don’t bother you. The rest you just get to know ranks by seeing where they sit in the hall.”
“Does it matter?”
“You call me ‘sir’!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Until I get my name. Then I’ll tell you how to address me.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emerald said, mentally chalking a scoreboard. “The fuzzies are the ones who shave?”
“Naw! Tremayne shaves, and he’s just a soprano. It’s fencing that counts. That’s why there’s so many sopranos just now—Tremayne’s such a woodchopper that they won’t promote him to beansprout and he’s holding up a half dozen.” The Brat chuckled. “They make him practice all day and all night!”
“Does Brat-hazing go on all the time, too?”
He shrugged. It was no longer his problem. “Jostling? In the day they’re usually kept too busy. It’s evenings you need to look out. Good, he’s in.” He walked through an open door and squeaked, “Sir?”
Without question, this was the archive room, stuffed with scrolls and gigantic books, smelling of dust and leather. The man standing at the writing desk under the window was suitably bookish, with ink stains on his fingers and spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. His mousy hair was almost as untidy as the Brat’s half thatch. Had he not been wearing a cat’s-eye sword, he could have been a clerk or librarian anywhere. He turned and pouted at his visitors.
“Brat? Ah, two brats! One brat, one candidate. Come to choose your name?”
“Yes, sir, please, sir.” Recalling his duties to Emerald the boy added, “This’s the record office. He’s Master of Archives.” He was relaxed now, and excited.
“Where did I put the book?” The archivist peered around, muttering. “Oh, where did I put the book?” He meant some special book, for books were piled everywhere—on shelves, on the floor, on both stools, along with boxes and heaps of paper. “…did I put the book?”
“Ah!” He retrieved a very slim volume and handed it to the boy. “Here is every name ever approved. The ones marked with a cross are in use. Those with triangles are available. You can choose any of those. Any other name must be approved by Grand Master and you stay the Brat until it’s settled. Take your time. You’ll be stuck with it for the rest of your life.” He turned to blink doubtfully at Emerald. “How old are you, lad?”
“Fourteen, sir.”
“Can you read?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was obvious from the Brat’s dismay that he could not.
“Good…. Anytime you have a spare moment and I’m here you can drop in and start going through the book. They can’t jostle you in here.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It saves my time in the end. Of course they can wait outside for you.” He turned to the Brat. “What sort of name? You want to take a hero’s name? Some boys prefer one they can make famous themselves. Or a descriptive name, like ‘Vicious,’ or ‘Lyon’? Trouble with those is that they can get you laughed at or start fights. The King doesn’t like them, so you may end up a private Blade and not in the Guard. There’s lots of names that don’t commit you to anything but sound good—‘Walton,’ ‘Hawley,’ or ‘Ferrand.’”
“Wanna hero’s name,” the Brat said firmly. “A Blade in the Litany. And a name that means ‘brave’!”
“Mm. Well, there’s ‘Valorous.’”
“Or ‘Stalwart’?” Emerald murmured.
Master of Archives coughed. “That one would not be approved…. I recall no ‘Stalwart’ in the Litany. We had the story of a Sir Valorous the other night. The one who was tortured to death, remember, but did not betray his ward?”
The Brat seemed unimpressed by that as a way to die. “Have any Sir Viciouses been heroes?”
“Don’t believe so. The only Sir Vicious I can recall is the last Grand Master. ‘Brave’…?” He fumbled pages. “Yes, there’s still a Sir Brave somewhere, although from the look of this ink he must be ancient. I could confirm that…. I think ‘Gallant’ is permitted. Yes. ‘Gallant’?”
“Don’t like it.”
“‘Doughty’?” Emerald suggested. She was anxious to begin her guided tour. “‘Audacious’? ‘Dauntless’? ‘Pertinacious’?”
The archivist frowned. She was not behaving like the average fourteen-year-old fiend.
“How about ‘Intrepid’?” he said impatiently. “Sir Intrepid is in the Litany. A fine lad. He died last spring saving King Ambrose from a chimera monster. Sir Dreadnought killed it. ‘Intrepid’ means ‘without fear.’”
“Intrepid?” T
he boy tried the sound of it doubtfully.
“It would be a very clever choice. When you’re ready to be bound, the King will remember what he owes to the last Sir Intrepid and will want to put you in the Guard.” He was looking ahead five years. Emerald would be quite content if King Ambrose were still alive five days from now, able to leave Ironhall and take her with him.
The boy hesitated, muttering the word as if frightened he might forget it. “There’s really chimera monsters? I thought they was just joshing me.”
Emerald had firsthand experience of the horrors, but she let the Blade answer. He told of the giant man-cat attacking the King in the forest, of his three Blades jumping to his defense, of Sir Knollys being disemboweled, of young Sir Intrepid closing with the monster so Sir Dreadnought could get behind it and kill it while it was breaking Intrepid’s neck. The Brat was convinced, his eyes stretching ever wider inside their bruises.
“Yea! Wannabe Intrepid!”
“Good! Now where did I put the current journal…?”
The name was entered in three different volumes, in one of which the new Intrepid made his mark. It turned out that there had been three Sir Intrepids in the Order and two of them had achieved immortality in the Litany.
“There!” Master of Archives said, putting away the quill. “Welcome to the Order, Candidate Intrepid! Report here for reading lessons at first bell tomorrow.”
“Reading? But I wanna use a sword!”
“No. No fencing and no horses until you can read and write. Off with you.”
The new candidate stamped grumpily out into the corridor, his lopsided mane waving.
“You can give me the token now,” Emerald said, following him. “Sir.”
He fumbled in his pocket and suddenly remembered. “Kneel when you speak to me, Brat!” He beamed as she obeyed. His eyes were not much above hers, even then. “What were those other ‘brave’ words you said?”
“‘Dauntless’? ‘Audacious’? er…‘Presumptuous’?”
“Then you address me as Dauntless, Dacious, Presumchus Intrepid.” He handed her the token.
