by Dave Duncan
“Name it.”
“You did tell one man who the Brat really is, didn’t you?”
Bandit nodded sheepishly. “Had to warn him when I sent him to fetch you. Didn’t want him letting any cats out of bags.”
“Give me your solemn promise that you will not tell him you told me you’d told him!”
“Er…I promise.”
Oh, did young Fury have something coming to him!
21
The Way into My Parlor
NOT A DOG BARKED IN BLACKWATER. THE hamlet lay like a corpse under the stars, with only a rare bat squeak to show life. Yikes was footsore and far too weary to attempt the climb onto Starkmoor.
Stalwart thundered on the hostler’s door with the hilt of his sword. “Longberry!” he yelled. “Osbert Longberry! In the King’s name!”
Osbert must sleep soundly. He was not in Sherwin’s class for thinking—not the fleetest steed in the meadow, Snake said—but he was painstaking and honest.
“Know you,” said a growl from an upper window. “You’re Sir Stalwart.”
“You have wonderful eyesight!”
“Knew your voice. Gave me a silver groat, you did.”
“I did. I’ll give you a gold crown tonight.”
Osbert cackled but stayed at the window. “In a hurry to catch up with the King, likely? Called me by name, he did. ‘Good chance to you, Master Longberry,’ he says. Always remembers me, His Majesty does, spirits bless ’im.”
So much for Bandit’s efforts at security!
“And I ride on his service. But tell me, did another man come this way tonight, after the King and the Blades?”
“Well, old Will up the valley, and farmer—”
“A stranger?”
“Oh, a stranger…darkish fellow, hooked nose? All alone. Very jumpy sort, peering every-where?”
“That sounds like him,” Stalwart said. “How about a horse?” Or dawn would find him frozen to death on this doorstep.
“Nothing left. Need their sleep, horses do. Came a long way.”
“Two gold crowns?” Bribery might not work on Osbert; he loved horses much more than money.
“Well there’s Lumpkin,” he said reluctantly.
“What’s wrong with Lumpkin?”
“Nothing. Big strong gelding. Just some folks think he’s got a hard trot.”
“Lumpkin will do fine. He’ll keep me awake. Now, please, Master Longberry!”
So Yikes found her dry stall, with oats and a good rubdown to come—Osbert would not skimp. He solemnly swore he would keep the mare just for Stalwart, not trade her away. He saddled up Lumpkin, who was indeed a tower of muscle. And a very hard ride.
Stalwart paid the two crowns and set off up the moor trail, feeling as if he were being bounced on a picket fence.
The night was cryptically still, a huge icy silence broken only by the steady clop of his horse’s hooves. Stars filled the sky to bursting. It was long after midnight before he saw the black bulk of Ironhall rise against them.
His lantern’s feeble glow writhed over the trail ahead. So far as he was aware—which was not very far—the Guard never patrolled outside the walls. He hoped his light would be noticed, because to sneak up on the Royal Guard was an excellent way of becoming very dead. Not that he was far off dead now. Cold and a sense of failure had sunk deep into his bones. All the long hours of clop…clop…clop…Not to mention the pounding from Lumpkin—
Panic! The gelding tossed up his head and screamed a whinny, then jittered sideways, catching his rider by surprise. It was the first spark of personality he’d shown.
“Easy, fellow, easy! Lumpkin! Nothing to be scared of.” Stalwart wrestled him under control, although he remained skittish. “What spooked you, lad?” Then an owl soared in silence over-head and he laughed. “Never seen an owl before?”
He had decided to bypass the gate. The Royal Door would be less public. It would certainly be guarded, but the mere fact that he knew enough to go to it should allay some suspicion.
He veered off onto the almost invisible path that led around the back of Main House. Candlelight glowed in the King’s windows, with the royal heraldry in them as blazon stains of red and blue. Candidates were never allowed inside the royal suite, but there was a balcony outside the presence chamber. Anywhere a squirrel could go, the younger Stalwart had gone. He had peered in those windows—had even taken a peek in the window of the next room, clinging to the bars with his feet dangling. What a crazy kid he had been!
The lights meant that there were Blades in there, standing watch outside the King’s bed-room. In fact they would be sprawled on the floor, playing dice. No matter. Either Bandit or Dreadnought would be in charge. Stalwart could flip a few pebbles up at the door and introduce himself. But then he might break one of the King’s windows or waken the big man himself, and His Grace could be very ungraceful when he wanted to be. Better stick to the original plan.
The tower, when he reached it, was dark. He had expected to see light in the windows beside the Royal Door. Surprisingly, there was a glow of candles visible up in Grand Master’s study, so either the old sourpuss had not yet gone to bed or the Guard had taken it over.
He groaned as he slid from the saddle. Never had he been more pleased to end a journey. He tied the reins to the rail and patted the gelding’s neck. “Well done, big fellow. I’ll beg some oats for—”
Again Lumpkin whinnied in alarm, jerking at his tether, stamping feet. “Whoa, there!” Stalwart laughed. “Easy! You’re too big to be an owl’s supper.”
Leaving the lantern to comfort the animal, he hobbled over to the door. There were chinks of light showing above and below it, so the windows had been draped. He hammered on the planks and then hopefully tried a tug on the latch string, and felt movement. A gentle push at the door made it creak open a finger width. This seemed suspicious, if not downright hair-raising. Normally this postern was left unlocked for the use of secret visitors, but tonight it should be barred, surely?
“Friend!” he said. “Stalwart of the Royal Guard. I bring an urgent report for Commander Bandit or Sir Dreadnought.”
No reply.
Thinking, Here goes! he put a foot against the door and pushed. It was stiffer than he expected. He pushed harder and suddenly it flew wide. He stumbled off balance.
He had been so long in the dark that even candles could dazzle him for a moment. A moment was long enough. Hands jerked him forward. He was tripped and slammed facedown on the floor. The door thundered shut behind him, a bolt thudded home.
A sword point pricked his back, right above his heart.
“One twitch and you’re dead,” Dragon said. An unseen hand slid Sleight from her scabbard and took her away.
“I recall a candidate called Stalwart,” a deep voice remarked. “Didn’t know he’d been bound.”
“He wasn’t.” That was Panther. “He was next behind us three.”
Rufus: “Should have been Prime—”
“—but he ran away,” Dragon finished.
“Wha-a-at?” scoffed the unidentified man. “You’re telling me Prime ran away? Nonsense! I’d have heard about that.”
“He never was Prime.” Panther was a decent guy, with more brains than either Dragon or Rufus. “He disappeared before we were bound. He was always lippy, so we thought he must’ve sassed Grand Master once too often, but the old man swore he hadn’t puked him. He just puked himself.”
“Di’n’t wanna tell anyone this,” Dragon muttered. “But we saw him today, Rufe an’ me. He was shoveling horse stuffing in the posting yard at Holmgarth. Dressed in rags, stinking, an’ filthy an’—”
“Isn’t it about time,” yelled a voice from the floor, “that somebody asked me for my side of the story? I came here with a very urgent message for Leader, and you are treating me like…like…” Like Silvercloak would be treated. “You may not believe this, brothers, but I’m as much a member of the Royal Guard as any one of you.” They had better believe it, o
r he was in trouble!
“That’s a genuine cat’s-eye sword,” said the deep voice. “Lovely rapier. Name of Sleight. That familiar?”
Two men grunted, meaning no.
Panther said, “Does sound like what Wart might name a sword. And he’d no use for sabers.”
“Well, let him sit up. Remember what Leader said. He may not be who he looks like. At the least sign of trouble, strike.”
Moving very gingerly, Stalwart rolled over and sat up. He crossed his legs. He could see two swords pointed at him and guessed that there were two more at his back. The deep voice belonged to Sir Fitzroy, one of the senior guardsmen. He would undoubtedly have been knighted and released by now had it not been for the Monster War. He wore the sash, of course. No one would trust any of those other baboons with responsibility.
Like the Seniors’ Tower, this one was a hollow drum, with a spiral staircase winding up the wall, complete with marble bannister. Rusty iron shackles in the walls suggested that horses had once been kept there, or it had been used as a punishment cell. It was off-limits to candidates, but anytime Stalwart had peeked in, it had been empty. It had been empty when he came through with Emerald. Tonight some stools and candles had been added, plus a rug so the watchers could roll dice, the Blades’ invariable antidote for boredom.
“You look like I remember,” Fitzroy said. “Explain.”
“Watch him, brother,” Rufus growled. “He’s nimbler than a cricket.”
“I know. I remember the last time I tried him on rapiers.”
Stalwart ignored that. “The day these three and Orvil were accepted for binding, Leader took me aside and offered me a special enlistment into the Guard before I was bound.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“The King—Fat Man!—approved it. They needed someone to track down some sorcerers, to help Snake. Which I did. Which I have continued to do. And today I was on a special posting for Durendal. I’d have hoped that old friends might have given me the benefit of a little doubt.” He glared up at Rufus. If he had the grace to blush, which he probably did not, his massive black beard hid it.
“It’s illegal to wear a sword like that without a binding scar,” Fitzroy said. “Show it.”
“I told you, my binding was postponed! And if you think Silvercloak could disguise himself to look this much like me, wouldn’t he be able to fake a little sword scar?”
“If he thought of it.”
“Silver who?” Dragon said.
Fitzroy looked even less trustful now. “That’s the man we’re watching for, but not many people were told his name.”
“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Stalwart said. “Fetch Leader! Or Dreadnought. Or Grand Master! Or Master of Archives! Any of them will vouch for me. Or the King. I’ve played lute duets with him, burn you!” He should guard his tongue—why not tell them about his White Star and end the conversation completely?
Fitzroy said, “You three knew Stalwart. Is this him?”
Rufus and Dragon made uncertain noises.
Panther said, “Yes. And I never did believe he’d run away. I thought Grand Master was lying.”
“We’ll take him upstairs. Search him.”
“Up!” Rufus said, nudging the prisoner with a toe. “Should tie his hands?”
Fitzroy hesitated. Then—“No. I won’t risk binding a brother Blade.”
Nevertheless, they made Stalwart remove his cloak. They searched him and took away his scabbard and baldric.
Were he not so tired and discouraged, he would have been spitting fire. As it was, he fumed. “I can understand your having doubts about me, Sir Fitzroy, but these dogs will kneel when they apologize to me. Or I will make them kneel.” Dueling was a serious offense in the Guard, but it happened.
Fitzroy, granted, was looking unhappy. “You know we must do our duty. Up you go. Panther, Dragon, stay here. You will not open that door if the King himself orders it, understand?”
The stair was narrow. Fitzroy went first, the prisoner second, and Rufus followed with drawn sword.
It occurred about then to Stalwart that the only other time he had come up these stairs, some two months ago, he had been less than tactful in his encounter with Grand Master. He had done his best to humiliate the old black-guard. He had succeeded very well. Chance, as they said, was a great leveler….
Fitzroy knocked and pushed open the door. Grand Master and Master Inquisitor Nicely were lounging on either side of the dying fire. A chess set on the table revealed how they had spent their evening. The candles had burned down to stumps; the air reeked of tallow, wood smoke, and wine.
“Pardon the intrusion, Grand Master,” Fitzroy said. “Sir Rufus, cover that other door. Gentlemen, this person claims to be a companion in the Order, although he admits he has no binding scar. He was carrying this rapier, which certainly looks authentic.” He laid Sleight on the table. “He says you can vouch for him.”
“He does, does he?” Grand Master leaned back in his chair. “He was a candidate here, certainly…Stalwart, I think. That right, boy? ‘Stalwart’ was what you called yourself?”
The glint of spite in his eyes sent Stalwart’s temper flaming skyward.
“Sir Stalwart! You know I was admitted with-out binding!”
“That is forbidden under the charter.”
“The King ordered it! You know that! You know I came back here later, bringing a royal warrant, wearing royal honors!”
Grand Master reached for the decanter. “More wine, Master Nicely?”
“He’s lying?” Fitzroy demanded.
“It certainly is not a very believable story, is it? Improbable, I mean. I suppose an unorthodox enlistment would be possible if His Majesty issued a special edict, but I have never seen such a document. I don’t know how the boy got hold of this sword, either.” He took up Sleight to peer at her hilt and inscription. “It looks genuine enough.” Nothing he had said was an actual lie.
“Wait!” Stalwart howled before anyone else could speak. He was almost mad enough to throw himself at the detestable old phony’s throat. “Master Inquisitor Nicely! You know me and who I am! You know what I’ve been doing these last three months!”
The inquisitor’s unreal eyes stared at him without expression. “Sir Fitzroy, I have never seen that boy in my life before.”
Fitzroy’s hand grabbed the scruff of Stalwart’s neck. “Thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to have disturbed—”
“What are you going to do with him?” Grand Master inquired with a yawn.
“Shackle him to the wall downstairs. Even if he is a coward and turncoat, we can hardly throw him out on the moor—not tonight. And if he is the assassin we’re expecting, he’ll do no harm there.”
Rufus was at the far side of the room. Sleight was back on the table with her hilt toward Stalwart. He stamped hard on Fitzroy’s instep, which released the grip on his neck, grabbed up his precious rapier, and spun around. Fitzroy had his sword out already, but he was no match for Stalwart. Grand Master and Nicely and Rufus all drew and leaped forward and ended in a hopeless tangle with the table. Four or five flickering parries and Sleight stabbed into Fitzroy’s forearm. He yelped.
“Sorry!” Stalwart shouted, slamming the door. He plunged down the stairs. Panther and Dragon heard the racket and ran to intercept him at the bottom. Sword in hand, Panther swung around the newel post to face the threat charging down, but Stalwart jumped up on the bannister and came racing down that, leaning into the curve. Before Panther could spit him, he leaped off. Dragon had just time to turn toward him and not enough to raise his sword before Stalwart’s boots came down on his shoulders. He collapsed with a scream. Stalwart’s bounce took him almost to the door; he swung around to fend off Panther’s attack. He wished it were Rufus, not the only one of the three who had believed his story.
He had always respected Panther’s fencing, but that was before Chef and Demise had made him over. No time for subtlety. Rufus and Fitzroy were hurtling down the stair to help. Panther cri
ed out as Sleight ripped his ear.
Stalwart slid the bolt and pulled the door.
“Sorry!” he said again, vanishing out into the dark.
22
Rats, of Various Sorts
EMERALD WAKENED VIOLENTLY, DREAMING SHE was choking, buried alive. She sat up, bewildered and gasping for air. She was in Falcon, the dormitory. It was large and dark, smelling stale and chill, unused. A froth of stars shone through the windows opposite, and starlight glimmered spookily on beds arrayed along both walls. A tiny chink of light showed from the dark lantern she had set on the chair beside her bed, left lit in case of emergency.
Sorcery! That was what had disturbed her. Earth elementals…death elementals…close. Very close! Not Silvercloak’s personal sorcery but something else—earthy, dark, detestable. There was fire in it, too, which seemed wrong. It was over…there?…no, more that way…. There!
It came from those eyes…two tiny eyes peering in a window…. She slapped open the lantern shutter. The room blazed impossibly bright after the dark, and the eyes vanished. They had not been peering in at her. They were inside the dorm. A rat leaped from sill to bed, from bed to floor, and streaked along the room in a skitter of tiny claws. It vanished under the door.
Ugh! Nasty, filthy vermin! But sorcerous vermin? The stink of enchantment had gone when it did. Master of Rituals claimed that there were no rats in Ironhall. Death and earth would certainly be right for rats, but why fire? Incendiary rats? Fire included heat, light, vision…. Spying? Could a sorcerer send rats, real or conjured, to spy for him?
Hunt down the King, perhaps?
Emerald threw off the covers and leaped out of bed.
In the few moments it took her to dress, she almost lost her nerve. She would be challenged by armed guards, hair-trigger-ready to strike at imagined assassins. Even when she reached Bandit, would he believe her? Silly, flighty girls see rats and imagine sorcery all the time, of course. This was not imaginary! There had been a vile little sorcery right here in the room with her. Her duty was clear.
