by Dave Duncan
“What of the sailors and traders?”
“Walking skeletons, Your Excellency, walking skeletons.”
I caught Robins’s eye. The merchant’s own skeleton was well padded.
Bannerville was skilled enough at meaningless conversation, and the babble went on until the wine was poured again. But then he came rather abruptly to the point, asking what he should do next to promote his mission.
Ernesto coughed delicately. “There is the matter of the dock fees, which I just disbursed on your behalf.”
First things first, but Bannerville took offence at this blatant mention of money. Aristocrats were notorious for not paying their bills. “Speak to my secretary when we have obtained some of whatever the local currency is.”
“Of course, my lord. First you require a residence. You are most welcome to come and reside with me, Excellency. I have ample room for all of you, having had to dismiss so many servants and workers, alas!”
Bannerville looked down his lordly nose. “I was thinking more of hospitality from some noble gentleman who favours our cause.”
Ernesto appeared distressed. “It is very hard to tell which cause any nobleman genuinely espouses, my lord. So many who profess to be true to King Afonso are secretly in the pay of King Francois, or supporters of Prince Luis.”
His lordship disliked hearing aristocracy so stigmatized. “In my experience gentlemen will normally be more open with their peers, whatever they may tell the commonality.”
Seen only by me, Robins rolled his eyes.
Ernesto probably did not enjoy being classed with the commonality, but he hid his feelings better. “My house has long served as the Chivian consulate; it can be the Chivian embassy while you are here.”
This conversation was bizarre, I decided, because they were at cross-purposes. Bannerville regarded a commoner’s home as beneath his dignity. He had just enough sense not to say so, but not enough to realize that Ernesto was hoping to charge a big fat rent.
“I do not wish to impose on you, senhor.”
“It would be an honour, my lord. How many in your party?”
“Five only, so far. Myself, Master Robins, and my three Blades. They don’t need beds, though, because they never sleep.” The bargaining was starting. “Oh, and my valet, of course.”
“Ah, yes. The famous Chivian Blades!” Ernesto now chose to recognize my presence, eying me up and down and up again, until I felt like a stuffed unicorn on display. “They may not need beds for sleeping, my lord, but their reputation suggests that they would rapidly put every woman of my household into a parturient condition.”
Bannerville laughed. “What say you to that charge, Sir Spender?”
Keep your ward from treading on the lions’ tails, Montpurse had said. “Such would never be our desire, sir. Those rumours are started by the Blades themselves. You belittle the virility of your own countrymen, senhor. We are no more lascivious than any other male retainers.”
“But very grandly dressed,” Ernesto said sourly. “You must expect to receive challenges, boy. Fitish noblemen fancy themselves as the best fencers in Eurania.”
My querying glance to my ward brought a nod to continue.
“We are merely humble servants of our king, senhor, charged by him to protect his ambassador. In Chivial we are not permitted to duel with anyone, and gentlemen do not consider us worthy opponents anyway. I believe my father was a soldier, because my mother was a camp whore. Of course my ward might permit a demonstration match with buttoned foils, but that would be entirely his decision.”
In fact, it wouldn’t. I would veto anything I thought might lead to trouble.
“You choose strange servants, my lord. Bastard whoresons?”
Lord Bannerville naturally took this personally. “It is true that Sir Spender is the youngest of my three guards, but he is also one of the finest swordsmen in the whole of Chivial. Whatever the challenge, you can safely put your money on him, senhor. That is what you were wondering?”
Fire and death! Chinless the witless.
Ernesto folded his cheeks into another dead-eyed sharkish smile. “In Fitain it would be unseemly for gentlemen to gamble on such a match.”
I held my breath in case my “diplomat” ward now told Ernesto that he was only a merchant, not a gentleman, but that did not happen. I let out a long sigh of relief.
“As it would in Chivial.” Bannerville was twisting the truth to the breaking point there, but the present contest was not being fought with swords. “Perhaps you can now discuss with Secretary Robins how our move ashore can be organized. Then we will inspect the quarters you have offered and decide.”
Bannerville rose, nodded coldly, and went into his cabin. His parting glance summoned his senior Blade to follow. I did so, closing the door behind me.
His Excellency was white with fury. “You handled that buttery scoundrel excellently well, Leader.”
In my opinion, I had failed, and Bannerville had completely botched his first action in Fitain, antagonizing the man who should have been his principal helper, but all I could say was, “Thank you, my lord.”
“You and your men,” Bannerville continued, “have my leave to defend yourselves against any unprovoked assault—provided, of course, that there are witnesses to testify that it was unprovoked.”
We didn’t need his leave, for any man has the right of self-defence. “And if there are no witnesses?”
“In that case you’d better not kill them, dear boy.” For the first time since we met, Bannerville gave his chief Blade a truly genuine smile, one I was expected to return.
“I thank you for that clarification, my lord,” I said. “We always aim to please.”
Chapter 6
Master Robins went ashore with Senhor Ernesto, and I sent Burl along with them, assuming that Robins would find somewhere to change some of the letters of credit into cash. I trusted that Burl’s grim aspect would be protection enough, without any need for swordsmanship. There was nothing more to do then but lean on the rail with Dragon, bring him up to date on the recent conference, and watch the bustle on the docks.
“Look there!” Dragon said, pointing to a pair of swordsman strutting along the dock. “Guards! I like their livery.”
He meant that he would look good in it, and he was undoubtedly right, but the style was so ornate that any man wearing it in Chivial would be laughed off the streets. Burl would appear grotesque in such grandeur, and I knew I would feel absurdly overdressed.
“You look good in anything, friend,” I said, “but surely those bombastic codpieces must frighten the girls away?”
“I am told,” Dragon said haughtily, “that men who have problems thereabouts carry a couple of spare handkerchiefs around in them to enhance their profiles.”
“Then I’ll remember not to use that as target if we ever engage in any swordplay. But I certainly won’t try to fence with one of those hats on. The feather would tickle my nose and make me sneeze.”
“Can you get us dolled up like that, Leader?” He made it a challenge.
“I’ll suggest it to Chinless; he likes to put on a show.” Especially when he could do so with the king’s money, of course. Bannerville was just then lounging in a patch of shadow near the fo’c’sle, sipping a drink and no doubt enjoying the calm after so many weeks of rolling and pitching. I strolled along to him and pointed out the sword-bearing popinjays.
“Excellent! Yes, as soon as possible. Blue and green, of course, but a few touches of those reds and purples, or gold, maybe...”
“Thank you, my lord.” I turned to go.
“Um, Leader... We brought a draft of a letter addressed to King Afonso, announcing my arrival and requesting an audience to present my credentials. I’d like to read it over. It’ll be in Master Robins’s baggage somewhere. Fetch it, will you?”
“No, my lord.”
Glare. “What did you say?”
“I won’t touch Master Robins’s baggage. He’s an inquisitor, and I won’t even try to guess what enchantments he’ll have set on it. I’m not even sure my binding would let me risk touching it.”
“Inquisitor?” The ambassador looked as blank as fresh snow. “He’s only my secretary. Why do you think—”
“Because he can fence very nearly as well as a Blade and ride as well as I can, and I was the best horseman in the seniors’ class. He’s a snoop, my lord. He’ll be very helpful to you in your mission, I’m sure, but he’ll also be reporting on you to the Dark Chamber.”
Leaving Chinless with his chin hanging, I went back to my observation of Fitish dock life.
“We have approval to dress up, but lack the funds at present,” I told Dragon.
The only reply was a nod, and silence. Then I realized that my companion was waiting for orders. I was leader—so? So nothing. Dragon had five years on me, including foreign experience with Bannerville in Thergy. He must know what should happen next, but he wasn’t going to prompt. I hastily reviewed Blade regulations, and scored at once. One of the prime rules was to know your surroundings, and especially to identify escape routes in case of trouble.
“This place is a warren. Why don’t you take some shore time? Scout the area for us.”
Dragon looked doubtful. “What about Chinless?”
“I won’t let him go ashore until either you or Burl returns.”
“Right answer,” Dragon murmured, and stalked away, heading for the gangplank. He must have learned his manners by studying his ward.
I had a few minutes’ more peace before life suddenly grew hectic. Robins returned to report that Senhor Ernesto’s residence would make excellent temporary quarters. Burl agreed, testifying that it looked as secure as anywhere we would be likely to find on short notice. Robins had already converted some scrip into cash, so Captain Silber could be paid off and we were solvent—I promptly asked for the Blades’ pocket money and brazenly suggested that a danger bonus might be appropriate while in foreign parts. Chinless agreed readily, because it was the king’s money, not his. He told me to organize our move to the consulate. I counted our baggage and hired half a dozen of the crew to be our porters, and another six as escorts, armed with stout staves.
Dragon returned just before we set out, which added more security, but in fact I needn’t have worried about the dockworkers and other locals we passed on our migration. It seemed that everyone, down to the urchin pickpockets and the gap-toothed fishwives, knew who we were, and hailed us with cries of, “Viva o Chivianese!” They wanted their foreign trade back. Some even threw flowers at us. Ambassador Bannerville should have pranced along at our head, preening and acknowledging the crowds with haughty grace. In fact, he was furious because I had not provided a horse for him and did not try to hide his pique.
Happy as I was at this welcome, I could not relax for an instant. The streets were narrow and winding, a smelly, crowded maze, carpeted with ordure. Some of the buildings were five or six stories high. I was less than three months hatched from Ironhall, and hated the thought of dragging my carcass back to Greymere Palace to explain to dear King Ambrose that I had let someone drop a roof tile on his best friend’s head.
My ward’s disposition improved dramatically when we turned a corner and entered the Praça Real—the Royal Square—which was grand and spacious, and almost deserted by comparison with the slums we had just left. Bannerville beamed at the sight of fountains, statues, and nobility swanning about in carriages. The king’s palace formed the whole of the far side of it, while the other three were occupied by noble houses, one of which was Senhor Ernesto’s. Chinless’s delight was made complete when the Chivian flag was unfurled at a window to celebrate his arrival.
“And just look, Leader,” he proclaimed, “there is the Isilondian embassy. Ours is three doors closer to the palace!”
Oh joy. The Isilondian Embassy was about four times as big, but whatever made him happy was fine by me.
Senhor and Senhora Ernesto were at the door to welcome us. I told Dragon to stay within arm’s length of our ward and Burl that I wanted a tour of the house. He had already inspected most of it, of course, but I insisted on seeing all of it, even the servants’ quarters in the attics and the wine supply in the cellar.
Casa Ernesto was a noble building—not up to the baronial hall I had glimpsed on the journey from Ironhall to Brimiarde, but far superior to anything else I had ever seen. The locks on the doors were sturdy enough, the ground floor windows were stoutly barred, and the roof seemed quite secure. I was even happy with the room designated for our ward, which had an antechamber meant to be a dressing room, but ideal for his bodyguard.
Alas, the household had fallen far from its previous glory. Half the servant beds were stripped to their boards, several of the bedrooms for family or guests had been emptied completely, and marks on walls showed where pictures had been removed. Everything seemed threadbare and careworn. The Second Baelish War had lasted for thirteen years, and the years since had failed to restore trade.
I found Master Robins setting up an office. Blades normally referred to Inquisitors’ quarters as chambers of horrors, but his seemed pleasant enough, at least so far, with a fair view of the Praça Real. I sent Burl off to hunt down some supper and then relieve Dragon. I closed the door with me inside.
“Prepare to be astonished,” I said. “I have no complaints!”
He flashed his innocent little smile. “Dumbfounding news!”
“Except one. I want to know where you plan to keep the money.”
“What money?”
“All the money.”
Robins pursed his fleshy lips. “I believe there is a clear division of labor here, Leader. Your duty is to keep the ambassador alive. Money falls within my jurisdiction.”
“I am aware of my primary responsibility, Inquisitor, and if possible I will extend it to keeping you alive also. If forced to make a choice, however, I will certainly decide in my ward’s favour—regretfully, of course. Inquisitor Gudge would rank even lower in my list of priorities.”
He did not bother to insult my intelligence by denying that Gudge also belonged to the Dark Chamber. “I fully understand, Sir Spender, but I still intend to retain personal control of His Excellency’s finances.”
I strolled over to the window to admire the quality of the glass. “Sir Burl informed me that you and he needed to traverse some extremely insalubrious environs on the way to and from the banker you visited this morning. He described obvious cutthroats loitering at corners. I imagine that this may turn out to be true of many of the treks you will have to make in the process of converting all those letters of credit into ready money.” I turned to face him and tried to look menacing.
Robins detected my threat, but pretended not to. “Meaning?”
“Meaning that I will have to provide you with two guards on all future trips,” I said cheerfully.
Inquisitors are trained to conceal their feelings, but I suspected that he was suppressing a snarl. “And then you will be unable to guarantee which of us will be carrying the cash when we return?”
“I will guarantee that it won’t be you.”
He laughed, back to being everybody’s favourite uncle in his homely brown robe and skull cap. “You remind me very much of Commander Montpurse, you know? The same ripe-barley hair, eyes of periwinkle blue. You look as innocent as a babe in arms, yet you fence like a whirlwind and your mind is a pit full of vipers. He chose you well.”
“I love to hear you talking in this vein, Master Robins, and hope to enjoy much more of it, but only after we finish discussing money.”
He walked over to a shabby leather holdall lying discarded in a corner. It had once been red, but now was faded and scuffed almost to grey. He knelt to open the straps. “I keep everything pre
cious in this, Leader. Anyone other than myself who tries to open it will be stricken with a severe apoplectic fit, probably fatal.”
This was what I had warned Bannerville of, but more drastic than I had expected. “And now you will tell me today’s password—which will not be tomorrow’s password?”
He shook his head, smiling as if I were being much too obvious. “There is no password. This satchel and I were conjured together inside an octogram, by an extremely potent enchantment. Only I can open this satchel, Sir Spender. Not even Gudge, who is indeed an inquisitor, as you so perceptively deduced. However, I will concede that you have a good point about emergency funding. You do not fit the average Blade mould, as it was taught to me in my youth.”
“Your instructors may have been biased.”
With the bag open, Robins reached inside and pulled out a small linen bag and a roll of papers. “One hundred cruzados!” He hurled the bag at my face, so I could demonstrate my reflexes by snatching it out of the air before it blacked my eye. Then he rose, went to his writing table, and separated out some sheets from the roll.
“Here are four bearer certificates in the amount of five hundred cruzados apiece, drawn on the some of the most respected banking houses in Lindora. That should be ample for any eventuality. Even one would be enough to get all the rest of you home to Chivial in the event of my demise.”
“‘Bearer’ meaning payable without question to whoever has the paper clutched in his sweaty hand?”
“Exactly.”
I said, “Thank you. It is a pleasure to be treated as a rational being once in a while.”
“I did say you were exceptional.”
Night had fallen. I trotted downstairs and found our host and hostess conducting Lord Bannerville into a small sitting room for a private chat and nightcap. Burl was following.
“I’ll see him to bed,” I whispered. “You and Dragon take turns all night, and I’ll relieve you at dawn, all right?”
