One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  “Now we are getting somewhere at last! Right, dear boy?”

  “It seems so, my lord.”

  He chuckled, rejoicing at being back in blue-blood luxury at last. “Tell Gudge to prepare a hot bath for me, will you? The marquisa is to receive me in an hour.”

  “Yes, my lord. About Master Robins, my lord...”

  “Ah, yes. Abominable business. You don’t suspect that the marquisa is responsible, I hope?”

  “I do not know who ordered that murder, sir, but I hope you will question her on the matter. We must be very much on our guard while we are here.”

  “Oh, quite, quite...”

  Clearly he was in no mood to discuss unpleasant subjects just then. His dear messenger boy went back indoors and found Gudge unpacking clothes in the dressing room. Footmen had already delivered most of our baggage. As I entered, so did a portly, grey-haired man in the clothes of a senior servant.

  He bowed to me with professional respect. “My name is Bruno, sir. I am assigned to be your butler while his lordship is in residence here.”

  I named myself and Gudge. “And how do we call on you if we need something?”

  He offered a silver handbell. “With this, sir. A quiet jingle and I will hear it, wherever I am.”

  “Very convenient,” I said. More conjuration! I named Burl and Dragon for him. “His lordship wants a hot bath.”

  “I will send it at once, Sir Spendero. Anything else?”

  The four of us watched him go. I placed the bell on a nearby table.

  “Gudge, tell me about this bag.” I nudged the red holdall with my toe. “Can you open it for me?”

  He stopped unpacking Bannerville’s small clothes and regarded me with pale, watery eyes. “That was Master Robins’s, may the spirits receive him.”

  “I know it was. I also know—and Robins confirmed—that you are also an agent of the Dark Chamber. Does Chinless know that yet?”

  For what seemed a long minute, Gudge just stared at me without expression, but I was notorious during my soprano year at Ironhall for being able to out-stare anyone. Finally, he lowered his gaze and said, “Not from me, Sir Spender.”

  “And can you open that bag?”

  “No, Sir Spender. Inquisitor Robins warned me never to attempt it.”

  Dragon and Burl were watching this exchange with interest, of course.

  “Without that money, my ward’s mission is almost certainly doomed to failure.”

  “I agree. But I cannot open that bag.”

  I wondered whether the Dark Chamber itself would be able to, assuming we managed to take the odious thing back to Chivial with us. If not, King Ambrose was sure to throw a stupendous royal tantrum.

  Our unpromising dialogue was terminated by the arrival of Castelo Velho flunkies bearing an oaken tub and many buckets of hot water. I went out to the guardroom with Burl and Dragon at my heels.

  “Does this mean we’re broke?” Burl asked. “What do good swordsmen earn in Fitain these days?”

  “Not quite broke. And I have no wish to earn my pottage by carrying a spear in some stupid civil war. I did bully Robins into giving me some emergency funds, which I am now going to share between the three of us. At the very worst, it will buy passage home to Chivial for whichever of us survive. Also, we must make ourselves presentable for a marquisal reception in the near future.”

  In that noble cause, we took possession of one of the buckets of water on its way in to our ward.

  Preceded by two linkboys carrying lanterns and followed by his three Blades, Lord Bannerville descended to two flights, proceeded along a corridor, went down one more staircase, and then through a wider hallway. I noted that we were consistently heading north, behind the wall that I had identified as representing the spirits of water, and the interior decor continued the same theme. We passed frescoes of seascapes and mountain lakes, and sculptures of leaping fish and whales. In the big hallway we seemed to walk on glass, while golden fish swam below us in semi-darkness.

  When we arrived at another grandiose spiral staircase like the one that led up to our quarters, I estimated that we had arrived in the striped Time Tower, the one at the northwest corner of the castle. Here the decor was starker than in the Love Tower, mostly black and white or shades of grey. The artwork favoured sculpture, either freestanding or in low relief, much less colourful than paintings or mosaic frescoes, and yet somehow the effect was just as dramatic and effective.

  One floor up, we came to a landing whose walls were decorated in a forest of black trees through which slender chinks of pale gold daylight showed. Beyond an open doorway, we could view a sizeable reception hall—I was starting to suspect that not only was Castelo Velho itself bigger inside than out, but that the same was true of its individual towers. The linkboys stepped aside and retraced their steps down the stairs, their job completed. Our ward paused to regard the spectacle. Most of the hall was only dimly visible, for all the lighting was concentrated around the throne at the far end.

  The girl sitting on it could only be the marquisa herself, Desidéria da Eternidade. Who else would sit on a throne below a wall of black tiles inlaid with a huge snake in coils of gold?

  The only other person present was Chancellor da Quern in his black and gold robes, standing alongside the throne like an ancient monument raised in memory of himself in better days. I had expected pomp and trumpets, dazzling courtiers, or at the least a doorman to proclaim the guest’s name and station. Bannerville’s hesitation showed that he was equally at a loss.

  “Will I send for your horse, my lord?” I whispered.

  That broke the tension. Bannerville chuckled softly, murmured, “Dignity, dear boy, dignity!” and began to walk. His Blades followed—Dragon on the left, Burl in the middle, and me on the right. I had not set that up, it was just the order that happened.

  I had never met anyone like Desidéria before, and I know I never will again. That first encounter made an indelible impression on me, one I can barely find words to express. The first surprise was how young she was. My eyes wanted me to think of her as a mere child, but the rest of me knew that she was much more than that. She was reputed to be the king’s mistress, and kings can claim the best. She was nearer tall than short, she was boyishly slim and yet undeniably feminine; her gaze as she watched Chinless approach was cold, reserved, and impenetrable, yet incredibly sexual. A man could not even glimpse her without sensing intense femininity.

  Above all, she emanated power. This was her palace, her castle, and I did not doubt at all that she was a supreme enchantress. Everything else might be illusion, but not that.

  Ironhall teaches the seniors court etiquette, but Burl and Dragon had also had experience in Thergy, so I had rehearsed the drill with them and asked Dragon to give the signal. He did and all three of us halted, letting Bannerville go the last few steps alone. Chancellor da Quern announced him and he bowed.

  Desidéria said, “Welcome to Castelo Velho, Your Excellency.”

  “The honour is entirely mine, don’t you know?” Chinless had his faults, but he had been trained for this sort of situation since he learned to speak. He babbled as required, and eventually even won a smile from those fascinating lips. It might be, of course, that she had just concluded that there was nothing to him, he was all show. Chancellor da Quern might as well have died and been stuffed.

  “I am informed,” Desidéria said solemnly, “that one of your retainers was most foully murdered at the border of my property?”

  Bannerville confirmed that this was so.

  “Explain exactly what happened!”

  “Well, you know... I did not see it myself. Um, Sir Spender...” He looked around for me.

  Keeping my feet where they were, I tapped my sword in salute. “Yes, my lord. Your Grace...” I reported the incident in detail, and she listened without a word or change of expression. W
hen I had finished, she looked to my ward.

  “I swear to you by all I hold dear that I knew nothing of this, my lord. I did not order it or drop any hints that might have been misinterpreted. We must give him honourable departure in whatever way your Chivian customs require.”

  “That would be appreciated.” No doubt in diplomat-speak that meant that it was the very least she could do. “Have you any idea who might have ordered this atrocity?”

  A move of her hand was so subtle that it conveyed a whole host of possible meanings. “If I had to guess, I would say probably Afonso. He does not want your king meddling in what he regards as his own affairs—as if a king’s affairs were not his people’s affairs also. He plays too many silly games.”

  “With respect, senhora, I do not consider an arrow through a man’s heart to be a silly game.”

  “Nor do I, my lord, but Afonso is crazy.” Desidéria rose, and I became aware of her clothing—gold and black, silk and satin, daring lace bodice and a flowing train. Her shoulders were bare, as were her arms above black-and-gold elbow-length gloves. The train rustled as she stepped down off the dais. She offered Bannerville fingers to kiss, and then her gaze swept over the rest of us.

  “Chivian Blades! I have heard fascinating legends about Chivian Blades. Present them, Your Excellency.” She flowed over to a very startled Dragon.

  Bannerville stammered, for Blades are formally invisible in Chivial, and to comment on them there was a gross breach of etiquette. Then he saw that to refuse her request would be worse.

  “As you wish, senhora. I have honour to present... Sir Dragon.”

  Dragon saluted with a tap to his sword hilt, but she offered her hand to be kissed. He gave her his most seductive smile before raising it to his lips. She held the pose a moment, studying him.

  “A pretty blossom, but no thorns,” she said. Her glove, I noticed, was gold on the back where he had kissed, but black on the underside. Then she moved on to Burl and repeated both the gesture and that steady appraisal. Seeing the two of them together, reminded me of fairy tales of Beauty and the Beast.

  “Staunch,” she concluded. “One must not judge an oak tree by its bark”

  So far I agreed with her judgments wholeheartedly. Then she arrived in front of me, and my ward named me. She offered her hand—and I took a quick step backward. Dragon gasped, Chinless spluttered. Desidéria raised supremely elegant eyebrows.

  “Your glove is enchanted, my lady.” I wasn’t certain that her glove was the problem. It might be her hand, or her entire body. My reaction was an appalling insult, but I just knew I dared not let her touch me.

  Chapter 5

  “A warrior and sensitive to spiritualism?” the Cobra asked.

  “A little, my lady.”

  “Yet you are yourself enchanted.”

  “The Blades’ loyalty spell, is all. It can make me react in ways I do not myself expect, senhora.”

  “Fascinating,” she murmured, and I could not tell what was going on behind those flawless features—whether she was surprised, amused, or furious that my trivial sensitivity might be disrupting some deep-laid plot.

  Meanwhile, I had to wonder whether her touch might have somehow bewitched my two Blade brothers. Both of them looked worried, as they should. They were well out of their depth, and so was I. Ironhall had not taught us about enchantment of this sort.

  Desidéria turned her attention back to Bannerville. “Come, Everard, you will sip some wine with me while we consider how I can best further your purposes.” She offered her hand for his arm, and let him lead her across to where three chairs flanked a small table bearing goblets, wine flasks, and candlesticks, all of gold. Chancellor da Quern came back to life and joined them. As they neared the table, the tiny flames on the candle wicks lengthened and grew bright. That was a clever trick, but I had to make a fast decision.

  With Robins gone, I felt I must try to take his place as Bannerville’s brain. Montpurse had implied as much, although he could not have anticipated Robins’s death. In proper Blade etiquette, I should draw up our little troop out of earshot of the nobles’ conference, although close enough to react if we saw any threatening move. Now, as my ward’s new chief advisor I ought to muscle in on their conversation. Alas, that would never work. Bannerville would just order us away and I had already created one serious scandal. For me to refuse his direct command would make a mockery of his authority as ambassador.

  “I think we just remain where we are, brothers,” I whispered. “If either of you has any better ideas, let’s hear ‘em.”

  “I say we ought to have stayed in Chivial,” Burl remarked softly.

  Dragon said, “What does magic feel like?”

  “In my case, it’s like a sort of shivery itch. The Forge used to—” Ugh! I jumped and looked around wildly, wondering where that had come from, whatever that had been.

  Desidéria had leaped to her feet. “Spendero!”

  “My lady?” I ran to her. Not hurried, ran. I sensed that something bad had happened.

  “You felt that?”

  “Yes, my lady. But I don’t know what it was.” Her face was in shadow, so I could not tell what she was thinking, but she was obviously tense.

  “Nor I. You will come with me. My lords, excuse us.” She grabbed up a candlestick and took to her heels, heading for the door. I followed, knowing that Burl and Dragon would stay with our ward.

  The young marquisa was an astonishingly accomplished sprinter and I had a hard time keeping up with her. She flew recklessly down the long stairs, her candlestick streaming flames like a bitumen-soaked torch. On the flat, I had to be careful not to tread on her train as it danced along behind her. Unlike me, she clearly knew where we should be heading, and soon it became obvious that she was taking me back to the Red Tower. The absence of other people puzzled me, but the palace was huge and staff might be restricted to their own quarter.

  Then we reached the Red Tower and she hurtled up that great staircase almost as fast as she had moved down the other. I matched her pace, although by then I was sweating and gasping for breath—me, an athlete in my prime, accustomed to at least an hour’s vigorous fencing every day. As we neared our apartment, I saw light where there should be none. The door was open, with a key still in the lock. I had locked it when we left and had that key in my pocket. I guessed then what had happened.

  Our baggage, bags and baskets, some empty, some still full, mostly lay untidily around in the first room, the Blades’ room, which held chairs but no beds. A lantern glimmered on the table, and below that lay a corpse. Hefty in build, he had been little older than me, was dressed as a low-rank servant, and had died nastily. His face was blue and swollen, he had chewed his tongue and lips, and clawed at his neck, as if fighting for breath. Beside him sat the shabby red holdall. The straps that held it closed were still firmly buckled.

  Desidéria recoiled in horror, possibly real, possibly not. “What happened?”

  We were both breathing hard after our run. “It means... your servant... looking... something to steal, my lady.”

  “Why... Is he dead?”

  “Because that bag is enchanted, of course. I was warned never to try to open it.”

  “Enchanted by whom?”

  “By Master Robins’s associates back in Grandon.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Our valuables, ma’am.”

  Desidéria was flushed, but whether from embarrassment or rage I could not tell. Her eyes blazed. She had denied planning Robins’s death, but was not denying that she had ordered this intrusion. “You knew it was deadly and you just left it lying around unattended?”

  I held up the door key and said nothing.

  She clenched her teeth, thumped her candlestick down on the table, and took up the lantern. “Move him outside.”

  “Not yet.” I drew Fortune.

>   “Insolence! Do as I say.”

  “In a moment. First I want to meet his accomplices. Bring the other light please.” I would need that if there was to be any fighting. I was guessing that the dead man was too young to have organized this break-in on his own, so he had been brought along to do the drudge work. Had his supervisor fled—or not? I threw the next door open and stepped in, holding the candlestick high in my left hand. The dressing room was tidy, and Gudge’s bed was empty. Chinless’s room likewise. I thought Desidéria seemed relieved.

  “The jackdaws have flown,” I said, and we returned to the corpse. I slid my rapier back in its loop and took hold of the thief’s ankles. “After you, my lady.” That was a deliberate insult, implying that I did not trust her alone with our possessions.

  She glared at me. “Can you remove this enchantment?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “So who else can open the bag?”

  I sighed. “No one that I know of.”

  “Then it is useless, and must be put in a safer place. Bring it.” She swept out of the room. I followed her, dragging the body, and then went back for the holdall. I knew it could be carried safely; only an attempt to open it was deadly. I locked the door and pocketed both keys.

  We went down the stairs much more slowly than we had gone up, leaving the dead man abandoned on the landing. I wondered about him. Had he a wife? Children? If he did, would Desidéria see they were cared for? Or would she just evict them as useless mouths? I realized that I had no idea how her mind worked. She was a female, blue-blooded, Fitish sorceress, so she and I were as unlike as fish and fowl.

  When we reached ground level, she did not head for the Time Tower, but crossed to an unobtrusive door, which opened on a musty-scented darkness. Beyond it, more stairs led downward. Crudely hacked out of bedrock, they were steep and narrow and lacked a handrail. With candlestick in one hand and holdall in the other, I followed the light of her lantern very cautiously, conscious of uncertain footing and roughly hewn rock walls. Desidéria was waiting for me about twelve feet down, in what seemed to be an unfinished, irregular cellar hewn out of the living rock, a manmade cave.