Impossible Odds

by Dave Duncan

  “Upon my soul…” Ringwood whispered.

  No answer. Grand Master was chewing his lip. Could they stop the ritual at this point? Substitute another man, another sword? Or would it all go awry and kill someone? Ringwood, specifically.

  He poked Ranter in the small of his back and prompted again. “Upon my soul, I, Ranter…” This time it worked.

  “Upon my soul, I, Ranter…” He was barely audible.

  “Candidate in the Loyal and Ancient Order…”

  “Candidate in the Loyal and Ancient Order…of the King’s Blades, er, do irrevocably swear—”

  He had it now. Sweating, Ringwood went back to his place, but he twitched nervously at every breath. Ranter finished his oath, remembered what he had to do next, and managed to jump off the anvil without falling flat on his face. He knelt to the Duke to proffer the sword, then backed away until he found the anvil by falling on it. Goodwin and Ringwood were there to grab his arms and steady him for the stroke.

  The Grand Duke wasted no time. He strode forward three paces. “Serve or die!” He jabbed the sword into Ranter’s chest, but not through it. Ranter jerked against his friends’ restraint, but by then the blade was already out and the trickle of blood had stopped. He stared down disbelievingly as the wound closed, then looked up with a big, proud smile.

  “Hey!” he said.

  Everyone else said, “Shush!”

  Ringwood saw him safely over to earth point and put himself at death, thinking his own binding would be a cinch after that. He watched with joy as the Brat brought forward Bad News with the bright gleam of her new pommel. He whipped off his shirt without waiting for Ranter to remember his duty. He was relieved that it was Goodwin who marked the target.

  Then he jumped up on the anvil, holding that magnificent sword aloft. “Upon my soul,” he shouted, “I, Ringwood…” This was a dream! For almost four years he had waited for this.

  When he rose from his knees before his ward, he even remembered to sit on the anvil away from the damp patch Ranter had left. He spread his arms, felt Goodwin and then Ranter grip them. Brace for the agony…. Here it came. He watched the sword rush forward.

  It didn’t hurt as much as everyone had promised it would. It didn’t last long enough to be real pain. He rose to acknowledge the wild cheers of the audience, accepted his shirt from someone, and struggled vainly to put it on while people were thumping him on the shoulder and pumping his hand. Juniors were “oohing” at his back, where they had found a scar matching the faint reddish mark on his chest.

  The Duke was peering at the sword. “What does it say?”

  “Bad News, sire. Bad news to Your Highness’s enemies, that is.”

  Rubin laughed. “Good! Well done!” He returned her.

  Ringwood’s heart’s blood on the steel looked disappointingly like any other blood. He wiped it clean with Ironhall’s shirt. Masters and knights came crowding in to shake his hand. He pushed past them so he could keep his eye on his ward. He tousled the Brat’s hair in passing and said, “Thanks! Well bound.”

  The Grand Duke shook Ranter’s hand, then turned.

  “Sir Ringwood?”

  “Sire?”

  “I appoint you commander of my Blades.”

  For a moment Ringwood thought he had misheard, but the hubbub hushed in widening ripples of silence, like waves on a pond.

  “What?” Ranter roared. “He’s three years younger than I am!”

  Two-and-a-half!

  “That doesn’t show,” his ward said.

  “Not fair! He’s baseborn and I’m not!”

  “That doesn’t show, either. He is Commander. Grand Master, I think you mentioned food next?”

  Ranter’s glower at Ringwood promised terrible retribution for this insult.

  Candle flames by the score danced on all the tables in the hall and reflected back a hundredfold from the famous sky of swords overhead. Yesterday had brought a Returning, a time for mourning, but now two Blades had been bound, and that was cause for celebration. Ninety young omnivores were free to gorge until they could eat no more and then go away and sleep as long as they wanted. The hall rocked with noise.

  Sir Ringwood was at high table, standing behind his ward. No one had told him to do that. No one was going to tell him what to do ever again. Although his appetite was notable even by Ironhall standards, he just knew that all the rumbling in his belly and the oceans of drool in his mouth could not be satisfied yet. He had told Ranter—Sir Ranter, if you please—to go off and stuff himself in the kitchen, then come back and relieve him. So far Ranter seemed to be succeeding better at the former than the latter, but that hardly mattered. Ringwood was not at all sure he could take his eyes off the Grand Duke for any reason whatsoever. The urgency would pass in a few days, they said. At present it was a pleasurable sort of hurt, like the ache of muscles after a workout.

  Rubin of Krupina was seated in the place of honor at Grand Master’s right. The odious fat Baron was on Grand Master’s left, leaning halfway across him to eavesdrop on their conversation, feeding himself with both hands as he did so. The seniors’ table was overflowing with sixteen more seniors and five guardsmen. Sir Calvert, whom Deputy had left in charge of the reduced troop, was at high table. So, surprisingly, was Bellman, now officially a guest, no longer a candidate. He was laughing happily with a couple of the yackiest knights and showing no signs of bitterness or regret.

  “I am sure he is and he won’t,” Grand Master said. He poured a glass of wine and passed the decanter on to his left, apparently not noticing that he was putting his elbow in the Baron’s eye. Then he failed to let go for a moment, so his arm shut the Baron out of the conversation.

  The Grand Duke half turned his head. “Sir Ringwood?”

  Ringwood bent closer. “Your Highness?”

  “Are you eavesdropping on what Grand Master and I are discussing?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “Then will you tell me what you think of his proposition?”

  “Not here, sire.”

  His ward chuckled. “You win, Grand Master!”

  That felt good. Ringwood was merely following his instincts, and apparently they were correct so far. Then he saw Ranter hurrying back in and decided he could run and eat something after all. A pair of roast boars, say. Dying of starvation would be a poor start to his career.

  By the time Grand Duke Rubin returned to Main House with his Blades swaggering along behind him—trying not to bang things with their swords—the Royal Guard was already on duty at the bottom of the big staircase. Ringwood was surprised to see Bellman there, too, talking with Sir Calvert. Grand Master must have pointed him out, because Duke Rubin knew who he was.

  “You don’t waste time, young man, do you?”

  Bellman bowed. His smile was perfect, neither insolent nor buttery. “I am available at Your Royal Highness’s convenience.”

  “Wait upon me tomorrow. Sir Calvert? Have you counted the spiders under the bed yet?”

  “No, Your Grace. I was sure Sir Ringwood would just count them all over again.” He raised an eyebrow at Ringwood.

  Who nodded, meaning, Yes, I would like a lesson, please.

  “Let’s get it over with,” Rubin said and went up the stairs at a trot, letting the rest scramble to keep up with him—or get ahead of him in the case of his Blades, who flung open the doors to make sure nothing was lying in wait. Candles were hastily lit, many candles. By the time Baron von Fader arrived, puffing and huffing, there were lights everywhere.

  Ringwood had never seen inside the royal suite before. The first room was lofty and large, with big windows out to a balcony. “Presence chamber,” Calvert said, and led the way through to another. “Dressing room…and lastly the royal bedchamber.” The furniture and decor far outclassed anything else in the school—fit for a king, of course.

  “Who sleeps in the dressing room?”

  “Normally a valet. Now the Baron.”

  Ringwood regarded the royal four-po
ster distrustfully. It bothered him, somehow. There had been a cot in a corner of the middle room, not big enough to hold all of the Baron at a sitting. “And we twiddle thumbs in the anteroom?” He frowned at Calvert’s smug smile. “I think the dressing room should be the guard room, next door to our ward. The Baron should sleep in the anteroom.”

  “Then do it. You’re the boss now—Sir Ringwood.” Calvert grinned more warmly. “I like to go by the book myself, but Tancred didn’t make a fuss.”

  Having been a senior only a week, Ringwood didn’t know the book. It just felt right in his bones, the same sort of instinct that was making Ranter stay out in the anteroom with their ward. It was like having a pile of gold bars to guard. Having to make the decisions didn’t feel good, it felt worrisome.

  Baron Fader came lumbering in, huge and bad-tempered and drunk. “What’s going on? His Royal Highness wants to go to bed. So do I.”

  Ringwood looked at the four-poster again. It really bothered him. “My lord, explain to me about these shadowmen. They can go through solid walls?”

  The fat man scowled at him. “There are no shadowmen here tonight, boy.”

  “I still need to know.”

  “Tomorrow for lessons, boy. Tonight for bed. Now!”

  “The sooner you answer my questions, my lord, the sooner you’ll get to bed.”

  The bullfrog swelled with rage. “They can go through walls if there’s light, boy. When it’s dark, they’re solid and dangerous. In light they are only shadows and harmless. Is that so difficult for you, huh?”

  “What if there’s light on one side of a wall and dark on the other?”

  Baron von Fader shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs; his jowls wobbled. “They can go from the light to the dark, not the other way.”

  “What’re you getting at?” Calvert said, frowning.

  “That bed,” Ringwood said, “is against the wall. My ward will sleep with candles burning, I expect. I’ll insist he sleeps with candles lit. So even if the night’s hot like this, he’ll want the bed curtains closed. Suppose there’s light on the far side of that wall? Those undead things could reach through from that room”—it was another guest bedroom, he thought—“right into the bed itself.”

  Calvert gave him a cold stare. “You trying to tell me my job, shaver?”

  “No, Sir Calvert, but—”

  “Well, you just did. Never thought of that. The Order hasn’t written the book on these shadowmen horrors yet. I’ll see that notion gets in it. What will you do about it?”

  “Move the bed away from the wall? Make sure there’s candles between them?”

  “Don’t ask me, Ringwood. Don’t ask anyone. Command! You have seven men here who will obey your orders and one Baron you can bully.”

  “What?” the Baron demanded angrily.

  “And we’ll also be moving your cot out to the anteroom, my lord,” Ringwood said cheerfully.

  “What!?”

  “Sorry, I’m just letting power go to my head.” Even so, he mustn’t ask von Blubber to help move furniture. “Bring in your oxen, Sir Calvert.”

  That was not the end of it, of course. He had to look under the bed, and in every chest, wardrobe, and drawer. He peered in the ewer, in the garderobe, behind the drapes, at the casement fastenings, into every fireplace and chimney. Ranter was doing the same in the anteroom. The Baron frothed and gnashed and bugled, but the Grand Duke waited patiently until his Blades were satisfied, making no complaint. A good ward, Calvert whispered.

  “Thank you for your patience, Your Highness,” Ringwood said at last, returning to the anteroom. He must be covered with dust and cobwebs, and it was almost dawn. “Sorry to take so long.”

  “It was your duty and I am grateful for your diligence.” Rubin headed toward his bedroom, gesturing for Ringwood to follow. “Could you have done all that yesterday?”

  “I could, but I wouldn’t have felt it was necessary.”

  Rubin held the door until he was in and then closed it almost in Ranter’s face, so the two were alone. “Can you lie to me?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “You can?” The Grand Duke had not expected that.

  “But only if it is necessary for your protection, Your Grace. Only as a last resort. Never otherwise. I need you to trust me.” That was soprano-class stuff.

  “I see. Grand Master is quite insistent I should hire this half-blind failed student, Bellman. To do what is a little vague.”

  “He’s an excellent man, sire, and I’m not lying to you. I would trust Bellman with my life. Not with yours, of course.”

  The Grand Duke smothered a yawn. “He will be traveling to Grandon with us. We can decide there. Good night—Commander.”

  Ringwood bowed low. “Good night, Your Royal Highness. And thank you for the trust you have put in me.”

  “Thank you for your life,” Rubin said.

  Out in the dressing room sat Ranter, glowering, fuming, nursing the anger he had been stoking for hours. Both doors were closed, and faint sounds of the Baron’s snores were already filtering through the massive oaken door to the anteroom.

  Thank you for your life? An odd expression. But apt, in a way. Ringwood’s life belonged to his ward now. How old was Rubin? Forty? Sixty? If he died of natural causes and slowly, so his Blades had time to adjust to the idea, then they should survive all right. It was only when a ward died by violence that his Blades went berserk.

  Ringwood wasn’t sleepy. Bound Blades never slept, or almost never. But he was weary, and a few hours on a bed would be nice. There was no bed here, but there were a couple of half-decent-looking chairs.

  Ranter rubbed his knuckles. “We have something to discuss, brother Ringwood.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Ringwood sat down and pulled off his boots. The left one was pinching after so many hours.

  Ranter grabbed the front of his jerkin and hauled him upright. There was a crazy look in his eyes. “We have to discuss who’s leader here, Pimple.”

  Ringwood had nothing to fear from Ranter now. “I’m Leader. Our ward decided.”

  “We’re going to outvote him, you an’ me.”

  Ringwood shook his head sadly. “No.” Poor Ranter. It must be terrible to be wrong so often, wrong about just about everything, every day and all day.

  The big lunk balled a fist like a sledgehammer.

  “Try it,” Ringwood said. “I’m your ward’s Blade. You can’t hurt me. Your binding won’t let you.”

  For a long minute nothing happened, except that sweat began to sparkle on Ranter’s forehead.

  “See?” Ringwood said. “Accept it and relax. You got the easy job. I have to do all the thinking. If there are mistakes made, they’ll be my mistakes. Then you can ask His Nibs to fire me and I’ll back you up, I promise. If he dies, you can stamp me into mush. Now sit down. You didn’t bring any dice, did you?”

  Then he remembered that Ranter had learned not to play dice.

  About half an hour or so later, Ringwood thought he heard something from the bedchamber and came alert. Ranter had seemed to be dozing, but he looked up instantly when his companion moved. Putting a finger to his lips, Ringwood moved to the door and opened it a little way, very slowly, very quietly. The bedroom was bright and if the bed curtains were drawn, his ward should neither see nor hear him.

  He listened. After a moment he closed the door again and went back to his chair. Ranter looked puzzled, so Ringwood just shrugged. He didn’t bother to explain that what he had heard was the sound of a Grand Duke weeping.

  • 5 •

  A few furlongs east of Ironhall, the Blackwater road dipped into a gully and twisted sharply to get out of it. The top of that bend provided a fine view of the school, with its fake towers and battlements. Bellman knew it would be his last sight of his erstwhile home. He twisted in the saddle to watch it disappear behind the rocks.

  “Regrets?” Sir Ansel asked at his side.

  “One big regret and many happy memorie
s.”

  Horseback was a good place for private conversations and Ansel a good confidant, sensible and discreet. He, Bellman, and Bernard had been a threesome until the King’s most recent visit. Ansel had been the last man bound on that occasion, narrowly escaping being packed off to Baelmark with Lord Baxterbridge the following week.

  “There’s a rumor that you’re going to work for His Nibs.”

  “It’s only a rumor so far,” Bellman said. “Oh, look at that!”

  Ringwood had claimed the right to ride alongside his ward. Ranter and the Baron were following close, both trying to move up whenever the trail widened enough to allow a third horse in. The jockeying was fierce, and Ranter had very nearly been thrown off into a patch of thistles. The spectators were laying bets.

  The sun had barely cleared the tops of the tors and was already hot. Somewhere aloft a lark was singing, and off to the south a herd of the King’s deer fled in panic from the intruders. Starkmoor in summer was breathtakingly beautiful.

  After a moment, Ansel said, “His Nibs’s visit has not been profitable. Ranter is a social slug and Ringwood’s only a boy. They’re both untrained. Ironhall can usually do better than that.”

  “The B Team? He has the option of hiring a blind man as well.”

  “I did not mean that!”

  “I know you didn’t. I think they’ll do all right. Ringwood has wits.”

  But did he have enough of them? Bellman was already regretting his promise to Grand Master. He no longer trusted this mysterious Grand Duke and his bullfrog Baron. Yesterday he had knelt to the man and asked to enter his service, but he had been relieved when he was not accepted on the spot. He had a strong hunch that the man was not what he seemed.

  “Grand Master speaks highly of you,” Rubin had said, leaning back in his chair and frowning. “So do my Blades, whose judgment I must and do trust. But you have no special skills other than swordsmanship, at which I am told you cannot exceed any ordinary man-at-arms now. Sir Ringwood has said you would be helpful to him in Grandon, where he has some tasks he wishes done. He cannot easily leave my side. I understand that. But I do not expect to remain long in Chivial—”