One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  Burl bared his teeth in a leer of agreement, which was a ghastly sight, hinting that he already had plans for the evening. I tapped lightly on the sitting room door, which had been closed against us, and walked in. Three comfortably padded chairs had been arranged around a table bearing crystal glasses and decanters. Three angry faces looked up at me.

  “I have no further need of you today, Spender,” my ward announced. “You may retire.”

  “All part of the service, my lord,” I said cheerfully. I placed myself in a corner and folded my arms, prepared to stand there for as long as might be necessary. We had arrived in Fitain and in a sense Bannerville was now on duty for the first time since my binding.

  He flushed angrily, knowing that I would not back down. “But your presence implies that I am not safe in this house. You insult our host and hostess. You insult me by refusing to obey my orders.”

  True, I did not seem to be making any friends that evening.

  “Such are never my intentions, my lord. Senhor, senhora, please let me explain. My two companions and I have dedicated our lives to defending Lord Bannerville. We have sworn an oath and submitted to an enchantment that we cannot break. If necessary, we will die for him. Thus we must obey our consciences and our training at all times. If we deem it necessary, we will even refuse his orders, because our ultimate allegiance is to King Ambrose, not to him. My presence here does not mean that I distrust you, senhor and senhora, in any way, but His Excellency’s duties will undoubtedly require him to meet with other important and powerful people in future. Some of them may feel offended as you so reasonably do, but he can always explain—truthfully!—that we Blades can never, ever, allow him to go anywhere without at least one of us in attendance. I hope this explanation will let you forgive my intrusion? Please be assured I will never repeat anything I hear or see while in attendance on my ward. Regard me as a piece of the furniture.”

  Senhora Ernesto was a blowsy, overstuffed woman, although she had probably been attractive in her youth. She reacted well to my sermon.

  “Then you are forgiven, er, Spendero was it? I would prefer that you sit in that chair, though, because the sight of you standing makes my ankles ache.”

  I bowed and obeyed, and the other three returned to their drinking and gossip.

  Chapter 7

  It must have been two hours later that I helped my ward up the stairs to his room. The anteroom had acquired a comfortable-seeming couch, which bore Sir Burl with his arm around a young woman whose hair was unpinned and bodice unlaced. She cowered away in horror as the Chivian lord staggered through, but Bannerville paid her no heed. He was leaning heavily on me, and two-thirds asleep already. Gudge was nodding on a chair in the bedchamber, so I left my ward in his care and shut the door on them.

  “This is Eneida,” Burl said shamelessly. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “Gorgeous,” I said with a bow. “Be nice to her. Where’s Dragon?”

  “He’s with Palmira. She’s toothsome too, but not as lovely as Eneida.”

  “She couldn’t possibly be. I am about to die of starvation, so please excuse me. I wish you both a good night.”

  “I have already promised Eneida the best night she has ever known,” Burl said as I departed. He was doing very well for a man of surpassing ugliness. Without doubt the Blades’ power over women was no legend, but I was determined, in my prim and prissy way, not to use it to prey upon them so blatantly.

  I hurried down to the cavernous kitchen and began hunting for food by the light of my candle. I had collected some onions, cooked beans, and half a cold chicken when another candle came flickering in through the doorway, borne by a woman much older than Eneida and at least twice her size. She appeared to be wearing a nightdress and nightcap, although that was hard to make out in the dim light.

  “So who are you, scrounging around in my kitchen?” She had a voice as deep as the bugle calls that sailors use in fog to warn other vessels of their presence.

  “My name is Spender. And yours?”

  “Graça. And I’m the only live-in left unclaimed, unless you’re interested in men. You missed the boat.”

  “Eneida and Palmira are in good hands. My men won’t hurt them.”

  “Your men?”

  “I’m their leader.”

  “By right of birth? Noble blood?”

  “My blood is as common as it comes, but I lead because I’m the best swordsman.”

  “You mean real sword, or just being vulgar?”

  “Real sword. My skill with the other is sadly in need of practice.”

  “Well, you’re still out of luck.” She scooped up the plate I was loading and carried it over to a larder I had not yet explored. “Unless all three of you will just be passing Eneida and Palmira around like wine bottles?”

  “That’s up to them. I won’t interfere in their leisure time.”

  She had disappeared, but I heard crockery being clattered and her voice carried well. “Not old enough yet?”

  I was both amused and intrigued by this interrogation. “I am old enough. That’s the problem.”

  She came marching out holding a platter loaded high and set it down noisily on the table. Mouth watering like a spring tide, I hauled a stool close and sat down. Graça headed back to the larder. Then, “Why?” she demanded from its depths.

  “Because the ambassador will be going back home to Chivial in a few months. We Blades will go with him, but Eneida and Palmira will be left holding the babies.” I bit into a crusty roll.

  Graça reappeared, carrying a wine bottle. “What sort of man worries about that?”

  “The sort of man who remembers being a fatherless boy. Or rather,” I said with sudden bitterness, “a man who had too many fathers to count. This is delicious. Many thanks.” I took a swig from the bottle, not having been offered a cup or mug.

  Graça stood across the table with massive arms folded, watching me for a while by candlelight. I became aware of her gaze and laid down the onion I had been about to try. She was probably about forty, plump but not obese, still pleasing on the eyes. Her hair hung like black drapes from under her nightcap, her nightdress swelled out over cushioned breasts, and she was wearing nothing under it. She was twice my age, but she would be a comfy hug, a hefty armful. She reminded me of Bunny in the Brimiarde brothel.

  “Fatherless child?” she said. “Then what about a widow who remembers burying her children?”

  Was she hinting that she was past bearing age, or that she would welcome another child, even out of wedlock? Either way, her invitation was clear. I had done nothing to encourage her. The Blades’ legend had done it for me.

  I grinned and handed her the wine bottle. “Then tonight must be my lucky night.”

  She took a long swig and passed it back with her first smile. “And mine?”

  “I’ll make you happy, I promise. From now until dawn, I am at your service.”

  “Now you’re bragging, young sir.”

  “Call me Spender, dear Graça. I’m not bragging at all.” I took up the plate in one hand and my candle in the other. “This can wait until I have attended to our immediate requirements. Bring the bottle and lead the way.”

  Her room was close by, because one of her duties was to make the morning bread, but that was not for many hours yet. We had plenty time for lovemaking, and my hectic first day in Fitain ended very happily.

  Chapter 8

  After the storm of that first day, came an unexpected calm. Bannerville was eager to gather up his documents, march across the Praça Real to the Palácio, and demand to see the king. Robins and Ernesto eventually convinced him that protocol would not permit anything so easy. First, although that imposing edifice was indeed the Palácio Real, King Afonso did not live there all year, any more than King Ambrose stayed permanently in Greymere. The flagpole was not currently flying the royal standa
rd, meaning that the king was not in residence. Nevertheless, that was his official address, and the new ambassador’s request for an audience must be delivered there.

  Sir Dragon must deliver it, His Excellency decreed. I heartily agreed. I looked far too young and Burl’s ogreish appearance would provoke the bureaucrats into fits of laughter. But Dragon must wear a Fitish-style livery, and for that we needed tailors. Thus the wheels began to turn, but at tortoise speed.

  Bannerville himself wanted fresh garments and insisted that nobility must take priority over mere swordsmen—he failed to see that he was thereby delaying his own progress. He also wanted to meet and mingle with all the local gentry, for which he needed an entirely new wardrobe. Robins had to explain several times that the senior merchants would be happy to fawn over him, but nobility could not acknowledge him before the king did. Burl, Dragon, and I by turns had to witness endless arguments. Montpurse had warned me of the ambassador’s shortage of wits, but I had never expected it to be so acute. I worried that King Ambrose could not perceive his longtime buddy for the vapid flatterer he truly was. Burl, when I asked his opinion, merely shrugged his great shoulders and hinted that perhaps the king could, and had posted him to Fitain just to be rid of him.

  It was four days before our new liveries were ready. We had settled on the simplest we dared, just a blue and green doublet, tight at the waist with a flaring skirt, split below the belt to display the codpiece, which wasn’t too conspicuous because the pantaloons themselves were well puffed. Below that we had full-length white silk hose and well-fashioned shoes. We also had short mantles that we rarely wore in that baking hot summer, but a pancake hat with a feather was de rigeur.

  It all looked dashing on Dragon as he strode off to the palace with the letter of introduction. He returned with an official receipt, but nothing more. Ernesto reported that King Afonso was believed to be dallying at Casa Marítima, his summer home on the coast, not far from Castelo Velho, residence of the notorious Marquisa da Eternidade, the Cobra. Allow a day there, maybe two for royal consideration and scribal inscription, and a day back, and the response should arrive in four, maybe five, days.

  But it didn’t. Paralysis set in. Day followed night followed day...

  Palácio Real was not merely the royal post box, it was also the seat of government, and a ceremony as momentous as the acceptance of an ambassador’s credentials must be conducted there, not in some seaside cottage or any shabby old hunting lodge. Could it be, Master Robins mused, that His Majesty was frightened to risk a visit to his own capital city?

  I could not have cared any less. Lindora was a wonderful place, a magical paradise compared to anywhere I had previously lived, and especially so compared to my five-year captivity in Ironhall. I explored it thoroughly and made sure that Burl and Dragon did so also, as required by Blade rules. I accompanied our ward when he visited drapers’ establishments to choose fabrics and styles, or livery stables to purchase a coach and four. He did know horseflesh, but he had nowhere to keep any, so he had to pay rent, board, and care for a rig that went nowhere. It was the king’s money.

  Another Blade rule was that we must maintain our fencing skills. Since we three were outnumbered by at least twenty thousand young men in Fitain, I decided to advertise our expertise and thereby discourage challenges or outright assault. Thus every morning, before the heat of the day, two of us would go out to the plaza and practice in public for an hour or so. This soon became a civic attraction, so that we performed before ever-increasing crowds. Hundreds of youngsters begged us for lessons, and hundreds more offered wagers. Both were always refused.

  Our hostess, gorging on gold supplied by Lord Bannerville, hired more staff, whose female members quickly found themselves helping to populate Dragon and Burl’s game forest. Senhora Ernesto—no one ever referred to her otherwise—soon discovered what was happening after dark and attempted to dismiss the women involved. I managed to convince her that this behaviour was inevitable when there were Blades in the house, and Bannerville supported me, despite his disapproval.

  On our second night there, I was well fed, but still had other needs, so I went down to Graça’s room, and saw that the door was ajar. I scratched, very softly, and a voice said, “Who’s there?”

  “Your lover.”

  Silence... then a deep voice said, “Oh, you think so? Just because I was feeling sorry for you yesterday, you assume now that I’m a loose woman, available to satisfy any horny young killer’s lechery?”

  “No. I believe your rapture last night was as genuine as mine was. Were you faking?”

  “No,” she said reluctantly.

  “Neither was I. That was the most exciting night of my life. I will never forget it. Don’t you want me?”

  “What happens if I say no?”

  “I go away, of course. Do you want me to go away?”

  There was a longer pause, and then a sigh. “I know I will weep if you do.”

  I went in and took my clothes off.

  On the third night my enthusiasm collapsed her bed. The whole house must have heard the crash. We lay in fond embrace amid the wreckage, gasping and choking with suppressed laughter, while waiting for the inevitable reaction.

  It was Dragon’s voice that came outside the door. “All right, Leader?”

  “Terrific,” I said. “Best one ever.” That set us off again. Of course I was eager to finish what I had begun, but each time I got into position, one of us would go back to having hysterics again, and the other would follow. I didn’t give up, though.

  This household scandal would have resulted in any other Ernesto servant being fired at dawn, but Graça was such a superlative cook that she was in no danger. I made sure the replacement bed was made of sterner stuff, and tested its resilience at every opportunity. About our seventh evening there, Burl tentatively asked if I would like to change partners that night. He must have thought he was doing me a kindness by offering me Eneida, who was half Graça’s age and half her size. If so, my furious reaction must have shocked him, because I threatened to cut his balls off if he laid a finger on my woman. I apologized to him the next day, and admitted I had fallen in love. I suppose he put that down to juvenile infatuation.

  Graça never spoke of her childhood, but I learned from gossip passed on by Dragon that she had been gentle born. At about fifteen she had run away with a sailor, so her family had disowned her, which would have been normal in Chivial and inevitable in Fitain. She had borne him two sons before his ship disappeared, either lost in a storm or taken by Baelish pirates. As the Baels were known to enchant all prisoners out of their wits and sell them as mindless slaves, the difference was immaterial. I never learned how her sons died, but in Fitain, as in Chivial, hunger and sickness winnow children of the poor. Nor did she ever explain how or where she learned her culinary skills, but she must have been a beauty in her youth, and I could make theories about that. Some nights she wept in our embraces, but much more often she found ecstasy there, as I did.

  Summer in Lindora is very hot and dry. Harvest time approached, and still the palace ignored Lord Bannerville’s presence. Sinister rumours told of fighting in the north between the king’s forces and supporters of his cousin, Prince Luis. There were riots in Lindora itself, at which time we locked up House Ernesto like a fortress, but we were not molested. A mob trying to storm the Isilondian embassy, was driven off by Fitish troops, leaving a dozen corpses in the plaza.

  I worried at times that sheer frustration would drive my ward out of what few wits he had. He dreamed of dallying with the Fitish nobility—banquets, balls, and hunting parties—and utterly despised the grumbling merchants and their whiny wives, who were all that the Ernestos could supply by way of company. He wrote at least three times to King Ambrose, begging to be recalled. I never saw the replies, but obviously his request was refused.

  He had come to trust me implicitly, even more than Master Robins,
and I found this worrisome. He had even stopped calling me “Um Leader”. Now I was usually his “dear boy”, which was worse. Burl and Dragon took it up until I threatened to put them on twenty-four-hour ward attendance.

  Half a year passed in this leisurely fashion. Bannerville had expected to be home in Chivial by then, but he still had not spoken one word to King Afonso or any of his officials. Master Robins was equally baffled. The traders and merchants’ guilds were unable to help, not being on speaking terms with the government either. Bannerville’s threats that he would send messages to Prince Luis drove Robins frantic, for the prince had been officially outlawed and declared a traitor.

  But nothing lasts forever.

  One fine fall morning Burl and I were out in the plaza, demonstrating the use of two-handed swords. Since those favour sheer physical strength as much as agility, he was very close to being my equal, even with dummy weapons. He would have slaughtered me with real ones. Fortunately, this style of fighting held little appeal to the fencing buffs, so our audience was much smaller than usual. We had paused to catch our breath and take a drink and were about to resume, when a troop of ten lancers went galloping by and reined in at the Ernestos’ door.

  I cried, “Hold!” and raised a hand to stop Burl before he could give me another crack on the ribs.

  Two riders dismounted. One held both horses and the other—who was armed with a sabre, not a lance—marched up to our door and hammered on it. In his free hand he held an official-looking scroll, with dangling seal. The other eight men gathered around in a protective cordon. All ten wore livery in black and gold, which were, of course, the colours of the flagitious Marquisa Desidéria. I didn’t know this at the time, but our audience did, and the result was an instant riot.

  Our quiet time was over.

  Book Three: Chance

  Chapter 1

  I would not have thought that there were any useful missiles lying around the plaza, but I quickly learned that there were. Shoes, plants, flowerpots, bottles, handfuls of horse dung, fragments of benches freshly ripped apart, and even fish from an ornamental pool—all converged in a hailstorm on the detested intruders, amid cries of, “Snake! Bitch! Traitor! Whore! She-wolf!” and so on. Men who wore swords drew them, and the crowd that had a moment before been watching our display now rushed forward to slaughter the lancers. Burl and I stood alone, watching the madness in appalled silence.