Impossible Odds

by Dave Duncan

  “Language conjuration is expensive!” Baron von Fader interjected. “What can you contribute to offset that expense every time His Highness crosses a border?”

  Seeing that he was expected to answer, Bellman said, “Honesty, Your Highness, and an eagerness to serve. Although I am master of no trade, Ironhall has made me jack of several. I write a fair hand. I know horses.” Also dancing, basic conjuration, court protocol, Chivian history and law—nothing relevant, in short.

  “I have a hostler and a secretary already.” The Grand Duke shrugged. “Grand Master says you can have the charges against you dismissed?”

  “There were no formal charges, sire, but I am confident I can clear my name as soon as we reach Grandon.”

  “Do that. Assist Sir Ringwood as he requires, and then we shall see. I will pay you for your time. You have our leave…”

  Ansel broke into his reverie. “What did you name your sword?”

  Instinctively, Bellman’s hand sought the comfort of that hilt at his belt. The stone of the pommel was black, for cat’s-eyes were reserved by law to the Blades. Even an anonymous sword from the Ironhall armory was an illegal gift, but Master Armorer had insisted with a straight face that this was just one he’d found lying around. Obviously Grand Master had approved that happy discovery.

  “No name so far,” Bellman said. “I was tempted to call her Bluff, or Fraud, but I could not insult her so.” Being honest with himself, as was his custom, he knew a flippant inscription would reduce her value. He might have to sell her just to buy food, and only gentlemen were allowed to wear swords anyway. “Can you spare me a couple of hours when we get to Nocare? I’ll need a guide.”

  Ranter had lost out in the jostling stakes again and was riding alongside the Baron. Pity that one’s horse!

  “Can probably arrange it.” Ansel smirked. “There are better bordellos in Grandon itself. That is what you have in mind?”

  “No. Ranter has, though. He talks of nothing else.”

  “How about Ringwood?” Ansel said thoughtfully.

  “Let him wait. The kid has enough on his mind without starting that.”

  With dry roads and days still long, aided by the new bridge over the Flaskwater, they pushed on into the night, reaching Nocare before the moon set. The Grand Duke’s party moved back into Quamast House. Yeomen and Blades were dragged out of bed to guard it. Nothing molested them.

  Next morning Ansel appeared at the door, come to collect his friend. Although Bellman was wearing the best hose, jerkin, and cloak that Ironhall could provide, he was not dressed for a palace. Moreover, the dispatch folder he carried marked him as a clerk, so he’d left his sword behind.

  “The Dark Chamber,” he said as they set off through the grounds. How huge they were! Far bigger and grander than he had imagined, a parkland of trees and flowers and lawn. The palace itself was a small city of marble and glass, of red tile and tall chimney stacks. He had long dreamed of living there, guarding his king. And yet…Being older than his peers, he had mostly befriended boys ahead of him in the school, and in the last year they had all flown the nest. Those who had visited since had raved about their wonderful life in Grandon, and the girls; the King’s fine palaces, and the girls; balls and masques, and girls. But when cornered they had also admitted that their life was mostly very boring—except for the girls, of course. Ansel was a Blade, in fine blue livery, with a cat’s-eye sword. He could go almost anywhere in the land unquestioned. But what good did he do, really?

  Bellman reproached himself for belittling what he could not have. That was mean-spirited. “You should have brought a couple of horses.”

  “For an extra fee I will carry you,” Ansel said cheerily.

  “I’ll double your fee and it still won’t buy a beer.”

  “I’ll buy the beer. Where else do you need to go, so I can plan our route?”

  “I need to see the Yeomen, the White Sisters, and Griffin King of Arms.”

  “They’re all close together,” Ansel said, scowling, “but you’ll be kept waiting an hour at each, just on principle. Three hours at the Sisters’.”

  “No need for you to wait. Just show me where they are. I’ll find them again.”

  “You may get challenged. Oh, look at those roses!”

  “Gorgeous.” Bellman took his pass from his folder. “How’s that?”

  The paper identified the bearer as Jack Bellman, Esq.—legally so, since he was now on His Majesty’s service. It was signed, “Ringwood, Companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades.” That, Ansel agreed, ought to admit him to anywhere short of the royal apartments.

  “I bet the kid enjoyed doing that,” he said enviously. As the most junior man in the Guard, he would not be signing anything meaningful for years yet. “That’s the Blade barracks. Head there if you need more help.”

  At the palace headquarters of His Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry, a solitary black-robed inquisitor sat reading at a desk heaped high with papers, a window at his back. A door ajar on his right admitted faint sounds of voices from inner rooms. He looked up at Bellman with the fixated stare of a strangled fish. Young though he seemed, his pasty, bookish appearance cried out for fresh air and exercise, as if he spent his entire existence in this dim and stuffy chamber, working his way through these reams of paper. No doubt there would be new stacks waiting when he returned tomorrow.

  “Good chance!” Bellman said cheerily, thinking that few people would be pleasant to a Dark Chamber snoop. “I need to have an affidavit certified as true testimony.”

  “We don’t do that.” The inquisitor’s voice was as thin and dusty as his appearance. He went back to his papers.

  Bellman reached in his folder. “I have here a letter from Earl Roland of Waterby.”

  The inquisitor laid down his reading and took the letter. He glanced at the inscription, broke the seal, and dismissed the contents with a glance. Admittedly, most of that long text was a list of Grand Master’s titles, honors, and offices, and only one of them mattered in this case—the two letters, “P.C.,” denoting that he was a member of the Privy Council.

  The snoop held out his hand again. “The affidavit!”

  That, also, he gave the merest glance before handing it back. “You wrote this?”

  “I did.”

  “You are the person named, known formerly as Jack, son of John Eastswine of Camford, known later as Candidate Bellman of the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, currently calling himself Jack Bellman?”

  “I am.”

  “Read it to me.” It was by listening to voices that inquisitors detected falsehood. “Faster.”

  That was easier said than done, with half an eye missing and the light in his face. Apparently the snoop had memorized the entire text, because twice he corrected Bellman’s reading. When it was finished, he took back the document, dipped a quill, and began to write on it.

  “He should have stayed in bed,” he remarked without looking up.

  “What? Who?” Bellman was feeling rattled and angry at knowing he was meant to feel rattled.

  “Sheriff Glover. He suffered an apoplectic fit the day before, his second that month.” The snoop sifted sand over his writing. “He refused to be bled and the doctors did not consider him well enough to be transported to an elementary.”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “He was a keeper of the King’s peace. A report on his death came through here that year…the fourth of Eighthmoon, I think it was.” The clerk held wax and candle over the paper, pressed a seal on the puddle. He handed the affidavit back. “I added a note that the coroner attributed his death to natural causes.”

  “Thank you!” Bellman said, amazed. “That was kind of you.”

  The inquisitor did not reply. He was back reading already. His world existed only on paper.

  Bellman did not covet his job.

  The Household Yeomen’s guard room was a sunnier place and less menacing, despite the two ri
gid sentries outside it, all shiny and plumed. The man-at-arms behind the desk greeted Bellman with a cheerful, “Good chance!” and seemed well disposed toward him—until he read his pass, for it was signed by a Blade. That old rivalry soured milk faster than thunder.

  No, Sergeant Bates was not available. He had no idea when Sergeant Bates would be available. It took a lot of wheedling and all the humble charm Bellman could muster to win a reluctant agreement that the deaths of three Yeomen on duty might possibly—but certainly not necessarily and this concession was purely theoretical and without reference to the particular case that had been discussed earlier—result in their immediate superior being subject to court-martial.

  In other words, the unfortunate Bates was in a dungeon somewhere. Bellman decided he did not want to be a manat-arms, either.

  The offices of Griffin King of Arms were tiny and hidden away in a neglected corner of the palace that had not been dusted since King Ambrose built the place, more than forty years ago. It contained one bored young herald, with freckled nose, thinning sandy hair, and ink-stained fingers. He became quite excited when he realized he had a visitor who was genuinely interested in what he might have to say. Ringwood’s signature was all the authorization he needed to spill information. Out came the great dusty tomes. Their contents were not enough to prove anything, but they certainly did not dispose of Bellman’s suspicions.

  “Let me see if I have this right,” he said. “The Everard who was made first Duke of Brinton was the younger son of King Ambrose the Third? Ambrose the Third also begat Taisson the Second, who begat Ambrose the Fourth, who begat Malinda the First, who begat Athelgar the First, who so far has begotten Prince Everard?”

  “May the spirits guard His Royal Highness. And we don’t usually start numbering a name until we have two of it,” the herald murmured diffidently.

  “I stand corrected. And on the other line, Ambrose the Third begat Everard the first duke, who begat Lady Estrith, who married the Maréchal Louis de Montmarle, who begat Lady Yvette, who married Grand Duke Hans of Krupina, who begat Rubin, also Grand Duke.”

  “I believe he’s the seventeenth grand duke.”

  “Good for him. And does he have any children?”

  The herald opened a drawer and rummaged through a chaos of papers that would have horrified the inquisitor. “Yes. I have this to add…a son, Frederik, Marquis of Krupa. A courtesy title, I imagine.”

  “That’s recent news? Any idea when he was born?”

  “Four hundred and two by our reckoning. I’m not sure what month.”

  “Same age as our own beloved prince,” Bellman said, sensing his quarry drawing closer. “And the same number of generations since Ambrose the Third. Remarkably tidy! But on one line we have three men and one woman, and on the other two of each. The ladies usually marry younger. Isn’t Grand Duke Rubin a little old to have a three-year-old son? How old is he?”

  The herald was aghast at not knowing. Soon he brightened. “If you would allow me a few minutes down in the archives, Master Bellman, I would be able to answer that.”

  Bellman went with him and spent two hours standing in a cellar. He decided he didn’t want to be a herald, either.

  He certainly couldn’t be a White Sister.

  Ansel had warned him about the White Sisters, after conceding that he was biased. Most White Sisters found Blades’ bindings as attractive as warm carrion. Not all did, certainly, but Ansel had tried to date one of the unlucky ones and had scars to prove it.

  Being unbound, Bellman was hoping for a better reception when he knocked at the Fellowship’s door, which looked out on a quiet courtyard behind the Treasury wing. The woman who answered it was tall, thin, and colorless in her white draperies and steeple headdress. She recoiled ominously from him. He explained his purpose and offered his pass, which she held with her fingertips as if it were rotten.

  She returned it quickly. “Please wait.” She closed the door.

  He cooled his heels out in the courtyard, happy enough to watch courtiers and their minions stroll by. His day had been a personal success, in that he was no longer a fugitive on the run. Both his record and his conscience were clear at last, thanks to the worker-ant snoop. If he wished, he could even go home again to Camford, that bucolic backwater, where he must still have family. The prospect appalled. His mother had called him a murderer, his sisters had fainted, his father had ordered him out of the house. Besides, since then he had caught the scent of a wider, infinitely more appealing world, where the status of the hay crop was not the most gripping topic of conversation in town.

  On his other quest he had failed. Ringwood had asked him to investigate several things without actually mentioning his ward’s background, but the kid had dropped hints. He was hurt that his ward had not yet confided in him and smart enough to see that he might have been bound to an imposter. Sadly, Bellman had failed to gather any real evidence either for or against Grand Duke Rubin. His suspicions were stronger than ever, but he had nothing he could take back to justify his day.

  Eventually the door opened to reveal an older woman, taller, thinner, paler, and even more refined, under a hennin even higher. He assumed she was a Mother, although he couldn’t read the signals displayed by the lace on her headdress.

  “Mother Celandine is unavailable,” she announced and tried to close the door.

  Bellman put a boot in it and began to talk. “I am here on behalf of Sir Ringwood, newly appointed Commander of the Grand Duke’s Blades. He needs information on the attack that almost killed his ward five days ago.”

  That was incontestable, and she pouted. “The Fellowship has already cooperated fully with the Blades, the Yeomen, the Dark Chamber, Chancery, the Lord Chamberlain, and the College of Conjury. He should consult the Guard.”

  No doubt that was incontestable, too.

  “But if the shadowmen attack again,” Bellman protested, “Sir Ringwood and Sir Ranter are likely to die, Mother.”

  With poor grace, she said, “Mother Celandine has been granted leave to return to Oakendown to recuperate. In point of fact,” she conceded, “the reverend lady suffered a nervous breakdown.”

  “Very understandable. I offer my deepest sympathy. How about Sister Gertrude?”

  The Mother drew herself up so sharply that her hat almost skewered the lintel. “Sisters of her rank are not authorized to speak to outsiders.”

  Bellman continued to plead. Eventually the door was closed again.

  The wait this time was even longer. Despite his promise to Grand Master, he could not in good conscience enter the Grand Duke’s service if he suspected the man of being a fraud. Obtaining two Blades under false pretenses was at least grand larceny and would mean disaster for Ringwood and Ranter. The law did not hold Blades responsible for their ward’s actions, but that was no help, because neither did it recognize their compulsion to defend him from arrest. Spirits! If Athelgar had fallen for some confidence trickster’s spiel, then the mess was well beyond Bellman’s powers to unravel. Even to disclose it would be lese majesty.

  But if Rubin was not who he said he was and Athelgar knew the true story, then Bellman was trespassing in state affairs, a dangerous labyrinth.

  The door opened. The ancient Mother who appeared was emaciated, elongated, and so ethereal it was hard to believe she continued to exist at all. In ghostly tones she announced that Sister Gertrude would have no statement to make and Master Whatever-his-name should consult with the Blades or Grand Wizard. The door was then closed and noisily bolted.

  Baffled and furious, Bellman walked around the corner, heading back to Quamast House.

  A laurel bush said, “Hey! You!”

  The rightful owner of the voice stood up. She wore the white robes of a Sister and a hennin with almost no lace on it at all. She was probably no older than Ringwood, and completely unlike the women Bellman had just been fighting with. Her face was plump and wide, unfashionably tanned, with a nose indubitably snub, eyes dark as coal and shiny as gems
. Ethereal she was not. Sturdy, more likely. He thought of dairy maids or farm girls plucking chickens. He tried desperately not to stare at the fascinating curve of her robe over her breasts.

  She put her fists on her hips and regarded him with suspicion. “I’m Sister Gertrude. What do you want to know?”

  Many things, like where can I find you this evening…“My name is Bellman, Sister. Until yesterday I was a candidate for—”

  “You were at Ironhall. I can see a faint shimmer on you, but you’re not bound.”

  “No, and never will be. I injured my eye,” he explained quickly, seeing her frown. “But my best friend at Ironhall was a man called Bernard, who—” Her expression stopped him.

  “What about Sir Bernard?” she snapped.

  “Just what I said, Sister. He and I were close friends. The King bound him about three weeks ago. He came to Grandon, I stayed behind. I just got here. Last night, very late.”

  She gnawed her lip for a moment, although it was already a gorgeous ruby shade. Plump, soft, moist lips…“Did you hear from Bernard at all after he came to Court? Did he ever mention me?”

  Ah! “I heard not a word from him, Sister Gertrude, I swear. Blades don’t write letters much. Were you also his friend?”

  She turned her back on him. “I was,” she told a holly tree.

  “Then we have both suffered a very great loss.”

  She continued to stare into the shrubbery. He waited.

  At last she said, “What do you want?”

  “Justice for his murder.”

  “So do I.” Sister Gertrude glanced up at the windows of the building. “I mustn’t be seen talking with you. Follow me.”

  She pulled off her hat, spilling out a flood of raven-black hair, then plunged into the bushes. Bellman followed, hard put to keep up with her, even when they reached a cleared path. She barely came up to his shoulder, but she could move like a racehorse. She stopped abruptly on the edge of a pool overhung by willows. Golden fish moved between the cold underwater stones.