by Dave Duncan
Four men were manhandling a boat across the sand to the retreating tide. Another two were tending some horses. So! Perhaps “Prince Luis” had been genuine after all, and was now departing. This was the Cobra’s secret entrance, and I studied it carefully. Although the ground fell away steeply from my viewpoint, most of the slope to the beach was more gentle, and obviously horses could make the climb. A group of cottages suggested that the site was populated, so possibly spare mounts were kept there for arriving visitors’ use. Out to sea stood a distinctive pillar of rock shaped like an anvil, which probably helped shelter the harbour and would make a good landmark for incoming boats. All this encouraged me to believe that Desidéria’s palace was the reality and the crumbling ruin just magical camouflage.
Having seen what I was hoping to, I retraced my steps to the castle. The postern refused to open for me, so I had to struggle through the brushwood torment, all the way back to the main gate. I was not unmindful of those ancient myths of men who were offered some fairy paradise and refused it, then changed their minds, only to find that it had disappeared forever. In my case, though, the curse did not apply just yet. Desidéria’s palace was still there. I entered unopposed and headed for the Red Tower, feeling that I had now earned my dinner.
Chapter 9
Morning brought a major surprise, a smartly dressed, haughty young clerk, barely recognizable as the formerly mousy, middle-aged Gudge. Having been given warning of this metamorphosis, Chinless was much amused by his Blades’ astonishment.
“Master Gudge suggested that my entourage was much on the thin side, and he would be willing to take the late Master Robins’s place during our royal reception. I think he looks eminently competent to do so—very handsome. Don’t you agree, Leader?”
The Blades’ instinctive distrust of the snoops rose in my throat like vomit. Which Grudge was genuine—the valet, the secretary, or neither? “Handsome is as handsome does, my lord.”
Although he was shorter than I, Gudge somehow contrived to peer down his nose at me. “And weapons are only as sharp as those that wield them, swordsman.”
We descended the great staircase to find our carriage drawn up outside, with Postilion Donato astride the nearside lead horse as before, and footmen Xande and Silvio standing around, ready to mount the rear ledge. The diminutive page, Joel, was perched on the box, grinning as always, but probably unaware that he was sitting right where Master Robins had died.
Bannerville and Gudge climbed aboard, neither happy at the prospect of another bone-shattering drive over the ungroomed roads of western Fitain. Obviously the marquisa was not going to see us off personally. Since she had not even sent Don Régulo, she might still be sulking after my refusal.
Castelo Velho stable hands were holding the three Blade horses. I mounted mine and nudged it closer to Joel.
“You are our guide to Casa Marítima?”
“Si, senhor!”
“How long does it take these days?”
He shrugged. “Not much over an hour.”
“How long did it take four hundred years ago?”
“There was no road at all, then, senhor. I remember when Afonso III ordered it built.”
Restraining an urge to cuff a certain juvenile ear, I looked over the rig and decided that everything was in order. With my ward’s permission, I then ordered Burl to lead the way, and off we went. I might have bade a longer farewell to Desidéria’s fabulous palace had I been aware I was not destined to return.
We needed the best part of Joel’s predicted hour to retrace our trek through the forest and reach the pillared gateway where Robins had died. There we turned left, westward. On our journey from Lindora that road had seemed like a sorry excuse for a goat trail, but after the forest it was a fine highway, and we were able to make better speed.
The road descended gently down to the shore, and thereafter we had frequent views of the great ocean, of waves lashing rocks or rolling up beaches. The morning was hot and still, but ominous clouds were rising to the west, suggesting that summer might be about to end at last. I recalled one of the sailors on Fair Voyage telling me that the swell outruns the storm. A cooling breeze off the sea would have been welcome.
Wherever fresh water flowed there were little fishing villages of tidy white cottages with red tile roofs, shaded by trees I could not identify, other than orange, lemon, and palms of various shapes. Joel, our guide, was unnecessary, for I spotted Casa Marítima from a mile away. A wall about twelve feet high topped with spikes and enclosing an area of many acres could be sheltering nothing less than royalty. It was not a fortress, but no peasant child was going to scramble over that barrier to steal the king’s oranges.
We had to stop and account for ourselves at the gates, of course, but we were expected and allowed through, with a second guide on the box, a man-at-arms who looked very little older than Joel—and must be centuries younger, by the boy’s tally. Casa Marítima was a small town in its own right, although the buildings were spread more widely than any genuine settlement would tolerate. There must have been a score of red-roofed white structures scattered in amongst the trees. Majestic white horses grazed among peacocks and plump geese.
As we proceeded by a winding road through the grounds, I saw that they extended to the ocean’s edge, where foamy waves lapped dazzling white sand. I had never bathed in the sea, yet I found that beach hugely tempting. Half a dozen small craft were tied up at a long pier, and a couple of larger craft were on their way in. I could understand why King Afonso preferred to spend his summers here, but it would be stormy in the winter, so he must surely be planning to return to Lindora soon.
The carriage halted outside a two-story building, larger than most, and we all dismounted. A squad of the Fitish Royal Guard, the Espadachim Real, saluted and for a moment we eyed them and they eyed us. They were so laden with plumes and gold braid that I wondered how they could possibly fight at all, and then concluded that perhaps they never did, because one approached me with a short length of thin wire—copper or soft bronze—and proceeded to fasten Fortune’s hilt to my belt, so I could not draw her. Burl and Dragon were being similarly rendered harmless. Our ward noticed but did not complain, and it was certainly a less offensive precaution than making us surrender our swords or wait outside under guard while he went in alone.
The five-man Chivian delegation was then escorted indoors. I caught a brief glimpse of statues, paintings, and colourful ceramics, before we emerged into an atrium. It was spacious, although far smaller than the great quadrangle of the marquisa’s dream palace. No blustery sea breeze could reach in there, and the trees had grown tall and emaciated, hungering for the light. A few finely dressed ladies sat around on benches, heavily outnumbered by all the resplendent gentlemen, who stood in small groups, glittering with sartorial glory and no doubt gossiping venomously. Not one of them was gauche enough to stop talking and gape, but our arrival was noticed. I foresaw that my men and I might have great difficulty staying close to our ward once his royal audience was over, because there was sure to be a rush of courtiers to meet him. None of them moved yet.
“If your lordship would be good enough to wait just here,” said a herald in a multicoloured tabard, “His Grace will receive you shortly.” So we stayed where we were. I had been taught to beware such instructions, but with the cream of Fitish society all around us, I could see no reason to be distrustful.
Then a youngster of about my age strolled over to Bannerville and bowed slightly. His clothes were simply cut, yet he wore a jewelled star and a white sash. His fingers sparkled.
“Rodrigo,” he said. “Crown Prince.” His smile was condescending, his poise haughty.
Chinless reacted at once with the appropriate amount of grovel.
“It is said,” the crown prince drawled, “that punctuality is the politeness of princes. Unfortunately, no matter how loudly it is said, my father never hears. He has been
informed of your arrival. He will receive you before any of the others.”
“Nothing in my future cannot wait upon that honour, Your Highness.”
“These are some of the famous Blades, are they?” Rodrigo ran a languid eye over us henchmen. I wondered, not for the first time, whether our Loyal and Ancient Order was of more value as a defence or just as a topic of conversation. We must make a welcome change from the weather.
“Always, Highness, like my shadow. Confidentially, at times they are a damned nuisance.”
“But valuable when needed....”
The experts continued to exchange small talk. I strove to appear neither bored nor gawky. I was, of course, being extremely vigilant, trying to watch everything that was happening. A sudden change in the social temperature told me that the king had arrived, although how I sensed it I do not know. A drop in the almost-inaudible hum of conversation, perhaps? Motion in the corner of my eye as courtiers bowed? In a few seconds I located a short, fat man who had arrived within a cordon of hangers-on like an encrustation of languid limpets. He was exchanging greetings, slowly making his way around the courtyard. I could not imagine Ambrose ever being unobtrusive like that. If Desidéria were truly Afonso’s mistress, then she must value power and wealth far above physical attraction. But she was also friends with that big, virile Prince Luis I had met only yesterday.
It was at that moment that the spirits of chance vented their spite on us again, terminating Lord Bannerville’s diplomatic career and very nearly his life. They used me as their tool.
Legends are passed around in Ironhall of Blades who react to their binding by developing a supernatural instinct for danger to their ward. Ask a visiting member of the Royal Guard and you will receive a shrug and an admission that very few Blades ever need to draw in anger, so very few are ever tested for such an ability. I do not claim that I had any such sixth sense, but vigilance is almost a Blade’s greatest virtue, and that day I proved to be too vigilant.
I noticed that some of the court butterflies behind the crown prince were edging away from us, while their attention was on something behind and above us. Suddenly boredom became freezing terror, my mind sensing a trap and frantically hunting for a way out.
King Afonso had a civil war on his hands. Unless he was leading his army in person, his whereabouts would normally be kept a state secret. Yesterday Desidéria had blatantly informed Prince Luis where his opponent was planning to be today. She could have told him without letting us hear her doing so, of course, but she did like to play games with—and on—men. And how did I know that she really was Afonso’s mistress? That was only rumour.
Afonso had put off meeting with the new Chivian ambassador for half a year. He might have had many reasons for doing so, but if he were a timid sort, it might be that he feared assassination. In my naïveté I was certain that King Ambrose would never stoop to such a crime, but the Fitish government might suspect otherwise. Why else would a supposed ambassador go around with three renowned swordsmen at his heels?
Why had the crown prince come forward to introduce himself? Correct protocol would have for the earl to be presented to the prince, not be sought out by him. One reason might be to make sure we didn’t wander around too much. Bannerville, Gudge, Dragon, Burl, and I—we were all rooted like trees, all attending Prince Rodrigo. I twisted my neck and glanced up at the gallery behind me, to see what the audience was watching.
“Prince!” I demanded. “Do you always keep crossbowmen up there?”
The four other Chivians all looked where I had.
Rodrigo smiled. “Only on Thursdays, swordsman.”
I reached down with my left hand to untwist the wire holding my sword.
“Stop that!” he snapped, “or I will give the signal to shoot.”
Gudge whipped out a knife and jumped forward to plunge it into the prince’s chest. As we had been trained to do, we Blades grabbed our ward and lifted him bodily away from where he had been standing, while shielding him with our own bodies. Crossbows cracked. Bolts clattered on the floor tiles like deadly hail, but most of them were aimed at Gudge, turning him into a human sea urchin. People screamed.
In the distance, bugles began to sound and drums beat. I did not realize it then, but the two ships I had noticed approaching the shore had run up on the beach and begun unloading several hundred armed men, led by Prince Luis. Had they arrived just a couple of minutes earlier, our tragedy might not have happened.
Chapter 10
I cannot give a precise narrative of the ensuing events. Too much happened too quickly.
I do remember our ward having hysterics like a terrified child, raucously trying to sob and laugh at the same time, completely out of his wits. He must have understood, the instant he saw his servant attack the prince, that even if his own life was not forfeit, his career and reputation were ruined. He was no warrior, trained to roll with punches or fight to bitter ends. He was so distraught that we had to drag him along with his feet barely touching the floor.
It was our good fortune that we were still close to one of only two ways out of the atrium, so we were swept up in a stampede of panicked courtiers before the crossbowmen could reload, and then they didn’t dare try a second shot at us. In moments the mob flushed us right out of the building, back the way we had come. I remember standing on the road, blinking in the sunshine and noting the inky storm clouds looming almost overhead. Trees were thrashing already.
What to do next? The decision was mine to make, and for a few moments I was paralyzed. The courtiers fled off to right and left, leaving us isolated. I had no idea where our coach had been taken, but the horses would certainly have been unharnessed and moved elsewhere. Even if we had time to find them, put the rig back together, and locate the road out, a coach would never outrun the horsemen who would certainly follow us. Our only chance must be the pier. If we could seize one of the small boats tied up there, then we might be able to make our escape. Drowning might be our best option.
First we must move out of range of the crossbowmen, who must be in hot pursuit and could be expected to emerge at any minute from the doorway we had just left.
It was then that I comprehended the bugles and drums, and saw the rebels wading through the surf and streaming up the beach.
“Prince Luis!” I said. “Head for the ships.”
I think Bannerville tried to protest, but with Burl clutching his right arm and Dragon his left, he had no choice—he went where they took him. I followed, looking back over my shoulder. How long before the crossbowmen appeared?
Then I heard a drumming of hooves, and the royal cavalry charged into sight, galloping through the woodland inland from us. The rebels were making slow time over the soft sand of the beach, and their leaders slowed even more as they recognized the trap they had stormed into.
Had we made it to down to the sea, all might have turned out better, but after the rebels’ ships had beached, their cargo of men had jumped out. Freed from their weight, both vessels refloated. The offshore wind was now carrying them seaward, and any rebels still aboard had mostly realized that they would be wiser to stay where they were.
There was about to be a massacre, and four Chivians were trapped just where the parkland met the beach, between the two opposing forces, marked to be the first victims. Where to go? How to save our ward? How to avoid being the first Blades ever to die with their swords wired to their belts?
“No!” I shouted. “The pier! That way!”
Burl, Dragon, and their burden wheeled to the right and the four us fled even faster, dodging shrubbery, heading for the boats. Someone appeared at my side and grabbed hold of my left arm. I tried to swing a punch and was stopped by a treble voice I knew
“Stop a moment, stupid! Stand still, will you?”
I looked down and found Joel in nondescript servant clothing, not Desidéria’s black-and-gold livery that he had worn ea
rlier. He held a pair of metal shears, and was struggling to cut the wire and free Fortune.
“Where did you come from?”
“Anselmo brought me, senhor.” Who was Anselmo? The kid’s answers never made sense.
Snip! I drew my sword and felt like a man again. We sprinted forward. I replaced Burl at Bannerville’s side, and Joel set to work to free Thunderbolt.
I have made it sound far simpler than it seemed at the time. You must understand that by then there were many factions milling around in the casa grounds, in among the trees, flowerbeds, and buildings: the rebel assault troops, already realizing that they had been betrayed, so that some were trying to retreat seaward while others were still heading inland; the royal cavalry lancing invaders regardless of who they were or where they were headed; royal infantry, at least some of whom were specifically after the Chivian scum—as were the crossbowmen who had now left the building in pursuit—terrified civilians running in all directions; loose horses, geese, and barking dogs; and three men in blue and green livery desperate to escape with their lives, and especially with Lord Bannerville’s life.
Either Dragon or I stumbled and let go of Chinless, who promptly fell to his knees, still howling. Burl drew the newly released Thunderbolt with a shout of joy. Joel turned to free Dragon’s Fire, while Dragon bent to help Lord Bannerville up. Then a crossbow bolt went clean through Dragon’s head, pitching him forward over our ward, jetting his lifeblood everywhere. Sudden death can be very shocking, even in a battle.
Bannerville, flattened under Dragon’s body struggled to get free of it while bleating, “What is happening? Will somebody please tell me? Who...”
A deeper voice than Joel’s shouted, “This way, senhores! To the boat!” The speaker wore Bannerville blue and green—Silvio, our footman. What was going on?
