by Dave Duncan
There she turned to look at him. “Tell me about yourself. Tell me all about yourself!”
He told her.
“And who did send those monsters?”
“I was hoping you could tell me, Sister. The shadowmen multiplied, turning their victims into horrors like themselves. But who or what started it? Where did it come from, and where did it go to after it killed the first Yeoman?”
She walked over to a stone bench almost hidden in the foliage, sat down, and started brushing leaves and twigs off her robe. She had left room beside her, which he took as an invitation. He had understood that women did not normally choose such secluded places for meetings with men they did not know. Sister Gertrude seemed quite oblivious to such concerns. She also looked capable of breaking his arm if he misbehaved.
“I don’t know,” she said, pouting. “And I cannot find out what the Mothers or the College are thinking.”
“I was told that one of the Yeomen was slain with his own halberd and his dagger killed another. I was also told that you detected conjuration on one of the sentries as you were leaving.”
“I have done nothing but answer questions about that since it happened,” she said grimly, staring at the pool. “It was a fluke that I happened to pass very close to him and happened to be sensitive to that particular combination of elements. Mother Celandine misinterpreted it, but that’s not why she’s…”
“She’s what? Don’t stop there!”
Trudy pouted. “Prostrate with guilt, poor old bat. No, where she went wrong was inside Quamast. I wanted to inspect something suspicious, and she wouldn’t let me, because the reverend ancients had let it pass earlier in the day.” She shrugged. “Of course she may have been less than usually sensitive to whatever I detected, but she should have given me the benefit of the doubt. That’s what the Sisters are trying to cover up, Master Bellman—incompetence! What followed was a monstrous, horrible crime.”
Did she mean the danger might still be there? Ringwood must hear this.
“Vile,” Bellman said. “I cannot even think of a motive.”
“But you have a theory! Tell me.”
Surprised by her insight and a little amused at her vehemence, he said, “It is bizarre. I keep wondering if the attack was a fake to enlist His Majesty’s sympathy for the apparent victim. If so, it succeeded, because Grand Duke Rubin now has two Blades.”
“Have you met this Grand Duke?”
“A few times. Briefly.”
“Describe him. What sort of person is he?”
“Middle aged, not plump, exactly, but he has a sedentary look to him. Not quite debauched…well used? But he’s also courteous and patient. Ringwood’s very happy with him. A bad-tempered, unreasonable ward can make a Blade’s entire life a hell.”
“Except what?” she demanded, looking around.
“Except nothing.”
“No, you meant to say more. What?”
She might look like a buxom farm girl, but she had the mind of an inquisitor.
“Blades never gossip about their ward’s affairs, even to their friends. But Ringwood asked me to find the witnesses—you or Mother Celandine, and also Sergeant Bates. The Blades of the Guard have told him all they can, but it’s reasonable that he should want to talk to the other people who know something about his mortal enemies, for that is what they are, whoever did this.”
“And?” she said.
“You will not repeat what I say?”
“I promise.”
Bellman had already decided that Trudy would start a riot long before she would ever stoop to lying. “He also hinted that he wanted me to see what I could learn about the Grand Duke’s background.”
“You’re joking! You mean Rubin is keeping secrets from his Blades?”
“Seems so. That makes no sense at all. They’ve had plenty of time to speak in private. Even the Guard doesn’t seem to know how or why he lost his throne, or what he plans to do about it. Nothing. It’s unusual for the Guard not to know what’s going on.” He felt disloyal saying that, although the Order was nothing to him now.
“The Sisters don’t seem to, either, which is even stranger. We usually have sources the Blades don’t. And Baron von Fader?”
“You are taking more information that you are giving, Sister. Let’s hear your opinion of the Duke.”
She flashed a smile. It was gone in an instant, for this was not a happy discussion, but it had made her look like an apple-cheeked child. “Fair enough! He wears a seeming.”
“Spit!” Bellman said. “Fire and death! You mean he isn’t what he seems to be? But surely he would not be allowed near the King if he has been conjured?”
“I gathered he is not enchanted personally, it is something he wears.”
“Even more, then. He should have been made to take it off.” What had the Guard been thinking of?
“He may remove it when he is granted a private audience. In other words, Mother Superior and Commander Florian may know the truth.”
“But they don’t talk?”
“Correct. We were told it was a translating device, but it isn’t. I don’t know what it does exactly, but I think it probably changes his appearance.”
“So do I!” Bellman’s suspicions were confirmed.
“Why?” Sister Gertrude twisted her hair into a pile and slid her hat on top of it. “No, not now. I must go.” She surged to her feet. “Are you staying at Quamast House, Master Bellman?”
“Yes.” He stood up. He didn’t want her to go. “I wish you’d just call me Bellman. I’ve gotten used to that name.”
“Call me Trudy, then. I’ll see you at midnight. I’m back on duty there. They took me off it, but I really want to have a close look at that medicine chest, so I told them it’s like a horse.”
“The medicine chest is like a horse?”
“Naw!” She grinned mischievously, displaying a fine set of teeth with one missing. She pointed to the gap. “See? You have to get right back in the saddle after being thrown.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m an expert at putting a horse over ninety percent of a hedge.”
“My speciality is three-quarters of a ditch. Did they argue?” This story of incompetence—or even treachery?—in the Fellowship was worrying. Although the Guard rarely had good words to say about the Dark Chamber or the Yeomen, Bellman had never heard them speak ill of the White Sisters. He liked puzzles, but there were too many clues missing in this one.
“I can be loud when I want to be.”
Very likely. Sister Gertrude’s starched superiors must find her quite a handful and would not tolerate her unless she had real ability to back up her freewheeling ways. Hiding in bushes!
“The Duke is supping with the King,” he said, “but they’ll probably be back by then or soon after. I know Ringwood will want to talk with you.”
“I’ll bare my soul.” With a grin and a slap on his shoulder as if he were a horse, she strode off along the path, swinging her arms.
Bellman headed the other way. Now he had to go back to Quamast and tell a pair of Blades that their ward was a fraud. That was not the safest procedure imaginable.
Yeomen were thick around Quamast House. They insisted on seeing his pass and then called for a Blade to vouch for him. Out came Sir Clovis, one of the senior members of the guard, wearing a gold sash, no less, which meant at least ten men. He regarded Bellman suspiciously.
“What’s above the royal door?”
“Grand Master’s bedroom.”
Only then did he smile. “Pass, friend.” He was showing off for the Yeomen. He knew Bellman perfectly well; they had fenced dozens of times.
The big hall held at least two dice games and several arguments. Even the King was not guarded so ostentatiously. Ringwood stood at the top of the stairs, so he must have been looking out the windows. He beckoned impatiently. Bellman ran up.
“Well?”
“It’s not good news,” Bellman said cautiously. Although Ringwood had been ahead of him in the s
chool, he had always been too young for friendship, a boy to Bellman’s youth, a youth when Bellman reached manhood. Recent changes had brought them closer together, and responsibility had already aged him. It had also made him dangerous.
He grinned. “I can see that. Go on, I won’t kill you.”
“Your ward wears a conjurement, a seeming. He is not what he seems.”
Ringwood’s eyes narrowed. He thought for a moment. “Do you know who he is or what he is?”
“No, but I think he’s much younger than he pretends. I got suspicious the other night when he ran up the stair to the royal suite. It was the small hours of the morning and he’d had a grueling couple of days. The real Grand Duke is fifty years old! Men of that age don’t behave like that. And he put his hands down to his thighs before he did it.”
“Any more?”
“Yes. Next morning I snooped a little. After you all came down, I asked the Blades watching the stair if anyone had gone up, anyone at all. They said no. The Baron wears a full beard. Ranter was stubbly, but he’s fair and doesn’t bother to shave every day. Nor do you. Your ward looked fine. Did he shave in cold water, when all he had to do was pull a bell rope and ask for hot? If he’s a fraud, then who is he? He can’t be the next Grand Duke, he’s an infant.” Bellman realized how weak it all sounded. “None of it’s proof, but it worried me. Then I learned about the seeming from Sister Gertrude.”
The Blade brightened. “I must speak with her!”
“She’s forbidden to speak with you. Fortunately she was so charmed by my profile that she promised to come here at midnight. Sergeant Bates is being kept under wraps, unavailable.”
“You’ve done very, very well. Follow me!” Ringwood headed to one of the doors, knocked, and went in.
The knock might have been intended to avoid startling Ranter, who was standing by the window, being fussed over by an elderly man with pins in his mouth. The Grand Duke sat patiently on a stool. The Baron was perched on the edge of the bed, half-enveloped in the feather mattress, barrel legs dangling, flaccid face working in anger.
Bellman bowed to the Duke.
“He passed,” Ringwood said. “Brilliantly. He worked it out and even discovered how you do it.”
“Silence, fool!” the Baron shouted, pointing at the tailor.
The Duke ignored him, as he often did. “Congratulations, Master Bellman. You must give me lessons in where I went wrong.”
“I…I had not realized I was being tested!” Bellman said coldly.
“Testing was not the original purpose. Sir Ringwood and I had a chat this morning. I asked him what you were doing for him and he confessed. We agreed this might be a fair judge of your abilities. Tailor, measure this man, also.”
The tailor dropped a length of tape and took the pins out of his mouth to say, “I am most grateful to Your Royal Highness.”
“Sire!” the Baron growled. “I have asked you what use is a blind swordsman, but you do not tell me. Your finances are already strained.”
Rubin snapped out a sharp retort in a foreign tongue, then smiled again at Bellman. “But I am presuming you still want to enter my service. I promise you that King Athelgar is aware of what you discovered today and knew it when he so generously deeded me Blades.”
Ringwood was grinning. Ranter was not, but Ranter often scowled like that. Ringwood knew the truth, whatever it was, and he thought it was something to laugh at.
“In that case,” Bellman said, much relieved, “I am indeed eager to serve Your Royal Highness.”
• 6 •
Later, after Bellman had sworn to be true and been appointed the Grand Duke’s equerry, a suitably vague title, he met the two servants who had accompanied their master into exile. Manfred was coachman and hostler. Harald served as secretary, valet, or footman as required, and sometimes manat-arms before Ringwood and Ranter joined the team. Ringwood referred to them as Indoors and Outdoors, and made jokes about how miscast they seemed. They looked like a woodcutter and a clerk, but Harald Indoors was the amiable young giant, even beefier and blonder than Ranter. Manfred Outdoors was older and smaller, with a bookish stoop and a face like dried clay, cracked in worried wrinkles. Neither understood Chivian, so conversation was limited to smiles and handshakes.
At sunset Duke, Baron, and Blades went off to the royal supper and the guard was changed. The new Blade contingent was led by Sir Cedric, who had now won the King’s Cup for fencing three years in a row and seemed to be the only Chivian capable of holding off challengers from Isilond. He had probably asked for this assignment just so he could check on Bellman. However fine his intentions, the world’s best swordsman was a little too aware of his abilities, and Bellman was tired of being a medical curiosity.
“Go and get your sword, lad.”
“I have abandoned swordsmanship and taken up embroidery.”
“Then go and get your bodkin.”
Seeing he could not escape the ordeal, Bellman fetched his sword and proceeded to let Cedric show him again how very bad he was as they danced back and forth in the big hall—Cedric forth and Bellman back. The moon was up to keep away shadowmen and the guest the Blades had come to guard was absent, so all the rest of the squad used the big staircase as a grandstand and watched in disgust and worry. They did not enjoy being reminded how easily their own skills might be destroyed.
“You’re no worse,” Cedric declared at last. “But you’re certainly no better. Let’s try it over there where there’s less light.”
Bellman said, “No! This is ridiculous. It would be suicide for me to wear this. Somebody see that it goes back to Ironhall.”
He was answered with a chorus of protest.
“Nonsense!” Ansel’s voice prevailed. “Bluff it, man, bluff it! You look like a swordsman. You move like a swordsman. Your stance, your wrist…The moment you draw, your opponent is going to change his mind and back down. Even if he doesn’t, you are still a better-than-average fencer. Stay away from Blades and Sabreurs and you should have no trouble.”
Bellman looked longingly at the superb weapon he held. “What do I name her? Crutch? White Cane?”
“Bravado!” Ansel shouted.
Everyone joined in the laughter and Bellman let himself be talked into hanging Bravado on his belt. He was only humoring his friends, after all. Soon he would be gone from their world and likely would never see any of them again.
Midnight sent Cedric’s squad home and brought in others and a new flood of painful commiserations. The sash was around Sir Valiant, who evidently believed in Sister Gertrude’s theory about getting back on the horse that threw you. He was faring better than Sergeant Bates of the Yeomen, but then Valiant had taken part in the battle and required a healing after it; that made a difference.
The newcomers had not even brought out their dice before a platoon of Yeomen delivered Trudy herself, who came marching in like a drill instructor. The resemblance did not end with her walk. Her dark-eyed appraisal made every man there wonder if his hose were wrinkled or his codpiece laces untied.
She spotted Bellman at once and flashed him a triumphant wink. He soon saw that her friendship with Bernard was widely known, for the ribaldry was subdued and a couple of remarks that went too far resulted in the speakers being savagely elbowed. But Trudy herself seemed determined to avoid sympathy or maudlin regrets, for she flirted with four men in rapid succession and cracked a couple of off-color jokes that made Bellman blink. He had not known young ladies behaved like that. He suspected from the Blades’ delight that few did. Obviously Trudy was bluffing, for any man in her life other than Bernard would have been mentioned right away. Had she been warned that flirting with bound Blades was wrestling lightning? Most of them regarded their enhanced power over women as the best part of their wages. It was not the part they saved for their old age, either.
Watched by admiring eyes, she made a circuit of the hall, ending at the base of the great staircase, where Bellman was playing watchdog, determined to challenge anyone w
ho tried to go up. He did not suspect Blades of stealing, but he knew some of them were nosey. She grinned at him, showing her missing tooth.
“His Grace is not back yet.” That was not a question.
“What makes you think so?” Bellman countered.
“I could sense him if he were. But there is something upstairs that I need to inspect.” That was her duty.
“I shall be happy to escort you, Sister.” As the group of Blades surged forward, he added, “She must not be crowded, Sir Valiant.”
“The rest of you stay here.”
“Race you!” Trudy said. She gathered up the front of her robe and sprinted.
Bellman and Valiant let her win, but would have had trouble doing otherwise. She marched confidently around the balcony to the door she wanted.
“In here.”
Valiant looked to Bellman.
“The Baron’s room,” Bellman said.
Valiant was unhappy. “Sister Gertrude’s testimony should be adequate excuse to search it.”
Bellman chuckled. “You expect me to fight you over it?” He had no desire to see his friends or himself turned into killer corpses. His duties for the Grand Duke did not include sheltering a murderer, if that was what the Baron was.
“Extraterritoriality!” Valiant looked even more miserable. “A visiting head of state? This building may legally be Krupinese territory at the moment. There has been nothing official from the Council, but I was warned to be careful.”
Bellman weighed loyalties—to his new employer, his king, his friends…“His Majesty has not awarded the Grand Duke royal honors so far. His Highness did not instruct me to claim immunity from the laws of Chivial. I might draw the line at letting you search his own room, but the fact that he has accepted you as guards means that he expects you to perform your duties. If I get fired for this, I will be sorry, but I’m doing what I see as right.”
“Thanks. Master Bellman,” Valiant said formally, “the Royal Guard has reason to believe that there are illicit conjurements on these premises and will now exercise its right to inspect them.”
