by Dave Duncan
Chapter 3
“You want me to hunt him down, Leader?” Dragon shouted, but we were well past the killer by then.
“No. You’ll never find him, and there may be a dozen of them in there.” He must know that a swordsman against archers was a hopeless match, and I was almost certain that the arrow had come from high in a tree. “Scout ahead!”
Dragon nodded and spurred forward to overtake the carriage, which was no easy task, for branches and thorns reached in greedily on both sides, and the footing was beset with rocks, roots, and tangle. Despite my orders to go like the wind, Donato was managing little more than a gentle breeze. There was no pursuit from the gateway, but now I expected none. Had there been horses hidden in the undergrowth, ours would have scented them and whinnied. That did not mean that there no more archers there, ready to block our escape if we managed to turn the carriage around.
As I rode, I cursed myself for not foreseeing the danger. Yesterday Ambassador Bannerville had received a message from the Marquisa, and last night I had told his stable staff to prepare for an early morning departure. Any or all of our three spies could have reported the news to their paymasters. Perhaps all three of them had, but which faction had organized the assassination?
The carriage must come by this route, it must slow down to pass through that gateway, and the forest provided perfect cover for a whole regiment of bowmen. Master Robins had paid the price for my incompetence, but had he been the intended target, or had my ward just been extremely lucky this time? Only a skilled archer could have made that first shot, and a skilled archer could have gotten away another arrow while Bannerville had his stupid head hanging out the window. Or could he? I struggled to remember the exact direction from which the attack had come, which depended on the angle of the coach at that instant. I decided, without much confidence, that Bannerville had looked out on the wrong side—wrong from the bushwhacker’s point of view, but the right one from his own.
But why Robins? Why not me, or Burl? The answer to that was fairly obvious and not at all flattering. I was just one of three sword bangers. Bannerville was the figurehead of the Chivian mission, but Robins had been the brains. The assassin, or assassins, must have known that, and had seized the opportunity presented. Had I been thinking properly, I would have insisted that the inquisitor travel inside. Ironically, had my ward been up on the box instead, he would likely have been spared. Killing an ambassador would provoke an international scandal or even a war. In diplomatic terms, a dead secretary was just a nuisance, too trivial to raise a fuss over, and yet in a practical sense, his loss effectively condemned Bannerville’s mission to futility.
Meanwhile, Donato reined in the team at the edge of a gully, about one yard deep and four wide. Only a trickle of greenish water still flowed at the bottom, but the sides were steep, and would require care. I shouted for him to wait. The forest was dark, steamy, and alive with flies and mosquitoes.
Gudge’s head appeared at the window. “His Lordship wishes to know what is going on. Why the haste? It is very rough in here.”
Lord Bannerville must have a fair idea of the answer, as he was staying out of sight. I considered this a commendable display of original thinking on his part. I rode over to explain what had happened.
Staying inside, he listened with horror.
“That is simply appalling news, Sir Spender.”
“Yes, sir. This crime has deprived you of a very able aide, and I admit I am uncertain what to recommend that we do next. Fortunately, no one has pursued us. Sir Dragon has ridden ahead to see if there is any further hazard. I suggest that we wait here until he returns.” There might even be one gang lying in wait for us up front and another moving in to block the gate, but we would need hours to turn the carriage on that trail, if we ever could. I had no idea what we might do if continuing on seemed to be too dangerous. “Master Robins’s body is still on the box, gruesomely nailed in place by the arrow that killed him. With your permission, while we wait for Sir Dragon’s return, I would like to free the corpse and secure it in a more seemly position.”
Permission received, I mustered the footmen to make themselves useful, and they managed to release the body, lay it flat on the roof, and tie it in place as part of the baggage. I examined the arrow, but it held no identifying marks. I noticed that the shabby red holdall was close by Robins’s left hand. My ward’s safety must be my first concern, but the second was what to do about his mission if we could not access the treasure in that bag.
A horse whinnied, and Dragon came into sight around the farthest visible bend. Even a single horse had trouble crossing the gully. He rode up to the carriage window, so he could address both me and our ward at the same time. Everyone else was listening, of course. He had a very worried look on his face.
“The road is clear, Leader. I went far enough to see the castle itself. But are you certain this is our destination? The place looks like a ruin. It’s deserted.”
I drew Fortune. “I am certain that we were supposed to come here, but I now wonder who made that decision.” I turned in the saddle to look down at Postilion Donato, who had dismounted to examine the terrain. I pointed my rapier at him. “Who told you to bring us here, wretch? Lie to me and I’ll poke your eyes out.”
His sudden pallor was quite convincing—he had not expected to be accused of treachery. Robins had branded him as a spy for Desidéria, but a recent hireling, not a sworn loyal-to-the-death liegeman, just a petty knave, taking some money on the side.
“You did!” he squealed. “You said to come to Castelo Velho, and I did. This is the right way, senhor.”
Castelo Velho meant Old Castle, but how many old castles would there be around the Lisi peninsula? Yet if Donato had merely blundered into the wrong place, then why had Robins been murdered? In a civilized land like Fitain, trespassers should be issued fair warning before the slaughter begins. Everyone was waiting for me to make a decision. I had never felt more bewildered in my life.
Then the footman-government-spy Silvio spoke up. “He tells the truth, senhor. This is the way to the castle which is the home of Marquisa Desidéria.” Whose side was he on?
“How do you know?”
“A few years back I was employed by a noble lord who came to visit her, and we came in this way.”
I slid Fortune back in her loop and looked to Dragon. “Where is the nearest space wide enough for us to turn the carriage without having to unharness the horses?”
“Nowhere along the trail, Leader. There is a clearing in front of the castle, though.”
Now I could face my ward. “My lord, I propose that we go ahead and look at this old castle.”
Bannerville agreed, because even he could see that we had no alternative. Any Blade who puts his ward in that situation is grossly incompetent.
I told Burl to cover our rear. Dragon and I crossed to the far side of the gully and watched Donato work the carriage across. It was no easy task, and a couple of times I thought it was about to tip over or break an axle. In winter and spring that trickle of water would be a rushing stream, so there must be some other, easier, road into the castle. Our invitation had not mentioned one.
I said, “You can forget that punishment I laid on you yesterday. It is cancelled.”
Dragon thanked me with a sneer. “Tired of being sadistic?”
“I was being lenient, not sadistic. No, I sent you into danger just now. I should have gone myself.”
“Leaving Chinless in charge? You couldn’t go.”
“Maybe. But I am resigning as leader. You and Burl can decide between you who wears the sash from now on.”
“You mean you got us into this mess and now you expect one of us to get you out of it?”
“You have an elegant turn of phrase,” I said, bitterly aware that I deserved every acid syllable.
Dragon laughed. “You’ve been doing fine, kid. You’ve got wi
ts and the nerve to use them. I won’t accept the sash. I’m totally certain that Burl won’t. If anyone can get us out of this shit hole and safely home to Willows Hall, it’s you. Soldier on, Leader, we’re right behind you all the way.”
“Now who’s being sadistic?”
We shared a smile. Dragon could not realize how bad things really were. He didn’t know about the death trap guarding our money.
As soon as the carriage was safely across, we continued our path through the forest. I became more and more convinced that this was not the best road in. It looked as if no one had come along it in a dozen years, but eventually it swung around to the west and I saw daylight ahead. We emerged from the forest as if from a tunnel, but the clearing Dragon had mentioned was so narrow that we were right under the walls of Castelo Velho—the old castle, the very old castle. It certainly deserved his description of it as a ruin, a gloomy, mouldering corpse of what must once have been an imposing stronghold. All we could see of it was ivy-coated masonry, pierced with arrow loops, and topped in places by battlements. A crumbling tower stood at either end. Perhaps there was a newer residence inside the old curtain wall?
The clearing itself was barely worth the name, being overgrown with tall thistles and thorns and weeds, but yet no trees. The ground around a castle is always kept open so that enemies cannot creep up on it, but why had the forest not moved in completely? We had approached from the east and I had no need to give Donato directions, for the trail continued straight toward an archway in the centre of the eastern wall. Dragon and I led the way until we were forced to halt at what had once been a moat, but was now only a weed-infested trench. In places heaps of stone in it showed where turrets had fallen.
The drawbridge’s chains had rusted away and its timbers were heavily weathered, but they looked sound enough to try. Having told Donato to wait until Dragon and I had made sure it was safe, I urged my gelding forward. He snorted doubtfully, testing each step before making another. As he carried me across, I was almost hoping that it would collapse beneath me so that I would die under my horse in the rocky bottom of the dry moat. When that did not happen, I beckoned to Dragon to follow, and together we proceeded along a tunnel toward daylight. The thump of our horses’ hooves on the flagstones echoed all around us. I shivered when I realized that this had once been a murder space, where invaders could be trapped between two portcullises and then slaughtered through loopholes in the ceiling.
We emerged into an open bailey, and the illusion of ancient ruins popped like a bubble. Castelo Velho was a huge park—far larger than I had expected, twice or three times the size of Ironhall or even the Praça Real in Lindora. It was glorious. Most of the huge quadrangle was occupied by a close-cut lawn, decorated with fountains, flowerbeds, decorative palm trees, and statuary. Glazed windows looked down from walls tiled in vibrant colour, as if the entire edifice was an enormous jewel. The great towers marking the corners were not the weathered relics we had seen from the outside, but smooth and proud. Castelo Velho was not only larger inside than it was when seen from the outside, it was also centuries younger.
In one far corner a band was playing to an audience of a dozen or so men and women, while small children romped in a shallow pool nearby.
Dragon said, “Fire and death! It’s a fogging palace.”
“How does it compare with Greymere?”
He glanced at me in surprise, then recalled that I never been to Grandon. “Like Greymere is a cowshed.”
I took a more careful look at the towers—one at each corner, their tops shining in the light of the setting sun, all built of stone that might have been cut and polished that morning. Two towers were circular, one built of black stone like the two pillars at the gate, and another of red. A third was square, horizontally striped in white and black, while the fourth seemed to be an irregular polygon, made of some variegated stone.
The walls connecting them were three or four storeys high, tiled in giant frescoes, picturing birds and animals. A second look told me that they were not mere castle curtain walls, but buildings in their own right, for rows of windows were hidden within the frescoes. I recalled my shiver as I was riding in, and realized that I could still feel a faint background of conjuration menace. Then the whole spectacular panorama of colours and imagery suddenly made sense.
“It’s an octogram!”
Dragon glanced at me as if I had announced that I could fly. “Not from where I’m sitting, it isn’t.”
“Not in shape, but I’m sensitive to spirituality, and this place is full of it. Imagine you’re back in the Forge at Ironhall, standing at air point. Now look at these towers. They represent the virtual elements—black for death, black and white for time’s days and nights, red for love, and that variegated stone must represent chance. Now go round in the same way, looking at the great frescoes on the walls. The one behind us shows white clouds on blue for air, then come red and yellow for fire, fish and waves for water, and finally hills and animals for earth—the manifest elements! It’s a gigantic octogram in everything but shape.”
Dragon laughed rather shrilly. “So instead of jewels and art inside a palace in a park, you’ve got a park inside art inside the palace. Leader, this can’t be real! We’re being bewitched.”
I saw my own amaze and shock reflected in his eyes. “Master Robins did warn us that Marquisa Desidéria is rumoured to be a witch.” I spoke with all the good cheer I could manage. “But, spirits! She has fantastic taste.”
He nodded. “Which makes me even happier that I am not wearing the sash, Leader.”
I said, “Don’t gloat!”
Chapter 4
I waved for the carriage to cross the drawbridge. Meanwhile two pike-bearing men-at-arms in gold-and-black livery had emerged from a nearby doorway. They glanced between us, undecided, then one of them guessed correctly and saluted the younger one with the red sash.
“We bring the Chivian Ambassador, Lord Bannerville,” I said.
“His Excellency is expected.” He pointed along the road that encircled the lawn. “The Red Tower, if you please.”
We led our procession southward along a paved road that wound in graceful bends along the edge of the parkland, skirting fountains, massed flowering shrubs, and statuary, until we came to the polygonal tower, which I attributed to the elements of chance. Close inspection showed it to be built of an infinite variety of stones: white, black, red, green, brown, and speckled.
Then our way swung westward and continued on under a wall decorated with a great conflagration, ravaging both forest and houses, rendered in tiles of yellow, orange, and red. It was at once gruesome and glorious.
“I wonder if the model is still available,” Dragon mused.
“What?” Turning my attention the other way, I saw that we were just passing a life-size female nude, carved in jade, standing on a white marble plinth. I should have remembered that my companion cared for only one sort of beauty.
And so we came to the southwestern tower, the red one. By the time we arrived at the doorway, men were emerging to greet us. A stable hand took my horse’s cheek strap and held my stirrup as I dismounted. A tall man in gold-and-black finery bowed to me. He also wore a dignified white beard and an air of all-encompassing infallibility.
I saluted. “Sir Spender of the Royal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades and Sir Dragon of the same. We are in the service of His Excellency, Everard Lord Bannerville of Willows Hall, ambassador designate.”
“Don Régulo da Quern, having the honour of being the marquisa’s chancellor.”
“My lord, I regret to inform you that a member of his lordship’s staff was murdered on our way here. His body is on the carriage. Will you please have it removed and treated with proper respect until his lordship decides how to proceed?”
Don Régulo looked appropriately shocked and turned to instruct a minion. A crowd of them now bustled around us like fl
ies.
“Dragon,” I murmured in Chivian, “will you please supervise the baggage unloading, and especially keep your eye on the shabby old red holdall that Robins brought, but without letting your interest in it show?”
Dragon raised elegant eyebrows and went back to the coach. I introduced the chancellor to his lordship and followed as they mounted the steps to the door. The red stone of the tower was granite, looking as fresh and shiny as if it had been cut that morning. Burl joined me and we followed their lordships in and up an imposing spiral staircase inside. On the way I tried to persuade Burl to take the sash. He solemnly assured me that, although he was very stupid, he was not insane.
The interior of the Red Tower was overwhelming. Everywhere I looked there was colour, in art and in decor—ceramics, tiling, gilding, cornices, pilasters, bronze candelabras taller than myself, floors of veined marble, granite pillars, gold balustrades, frescoes of scantily clad lovers frolicking on meadows or snuggling in flowery bowers... I was dazzled.
Nor could I find anything to complain of in the guest quarters, which comprised three rooms in sequence. We Blades would claim the first, the next could serve as both the dressing room and Gudge’s quarters, while our ward would sleep in the farthest, which was also the safest. By the time Burl and I arrived there, Chancellor Don Régulo was leaving, and we exchanged polite nods. Leaving Burl to make a detailed inspection of the rooms, I went out to join our ward, who was standing on a balcony.
He was admiring a spectacular view of the sunset and a ruggedly impressive coast—reddish cliffs, towering sea stacks, and snowy ranks of white surf marching steadily in to die on the rocks. The land fell away steeply only a few yards from the castle wall, so there was no moat on this side. Far out on the sea, white sails glinted, keeping well off what I guessed was a dangerous shore. In a cove not far to the north of us, just past the striped tower, a couple of boats were drawn up on the sand. That, I guessed, was another way in to Castelo Velho.
