One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  “Money? What happened to the money?”

  I began to explain about the red holdall and the warding on it. I hadn’t even mentioned the Castelo Velho by then, so the story at once became as snarled as a bramble hedge.

  “Death?” Ambrose roared. “You’re telling me that there was a death curse on some of your luggage?”

  Up to that point he had not yet admitted that Master Robins had belonged to the Dark Chamber, so I brought Gudge into my tale. He wanted to know who Gudge was. That took the stress off me for a while, because he rounded on Grand Inquisitor.

  “Is this correct? I am to believe that Lord Bannerville’s valet was another of your accursed snoops?”

  “I should prefer to make my report on this matter to Your Majesty later, in confidence.”

  “My Majesty wants it now!” Ambrose roared. “How long had you been spying on him? How many of my friends do you spy on?”

  “Never spying, sire! We do provide some training for those in close attendance on you or your intimates. First aid, for example...” Waffle and hokum.

  While that fascinating little dialogue was in progress, Montpurse went to the table, poured a glass of wine, and brought it to me. I nodded gratefully. He winked to indicate that I was doing very well.

  “So!” the king concluded. “We will discuss this later, Grand Inquisitor.” He stamped back and glared down at me. “So what happened to Inquisitor Robins?”

  “He was shot down from ambush, sire. I don’t know who arranged that. It could have been King Afonso, or the rebel Prince Luis, or even Marquisa Desidéria, because we never established whose side she was on...”

  Ambrose hauled a chair around and sat down, facing me. Montpurse later confided to me that he had never seen this happen in the council chamber before, which might be interesting, but now I had to endure the royal glare at close quarters. “So what happened to this death-trapped money bag you described?”

  “The marquisa threw it down a well, sire.”

  The king fell back in the chair, appalled. “Down a well? My gold?”

  “Yes, sir. I know it was a deep well, because I heard it fall.” That was the only lie, or near-lie, I told him. I did not mention that it was a dry well and that I had heard a thud, not a splash. The fat woman did not catch the omission, because I had spoken no actual falsehood.

  The king stared at me for a long moment and I wondered if he was going to send me straight back to Fitain to retrieve his money. But what he said—in a very different tone of voice—was, “You haven’t had any healing enchantment either, have you, Spender? Since you were injured?”

  “No, sire.” Did he think I was hallucinating?

  He rose up in majesty. “Commander, see that Sir Spender is properly cared for. You and I have to leave for Nythia tomorrow, but I want you to put one of your most senior men in charge of this. When Lord Bannerville and his ward are recovered, have them each dictate a full report, but have Blades write it down, because I want it all kept very secret.”

  With that he headed for the door, which Montpurse opened for him. At the last moment the king turned.

  “Sir Spender, I thank you for bringing my friend back.” Then he swung his bulk around in a swirl of silk and was gone. That was the last I ever saw of King Ambrose.

  My ward and I benefitted greatly from the healing enchantments, however belated. I was able to throw away my crutches, needing only a cane. He recovered most of his wits, although he was never the man he had been—which was not a high standard to judge by, as you know.

  We dictated our reports, as instructed. While Ambrose may have trusted his Blades not to gossip around the court, he was sadly mistaken if he thought they would ever keep secrets within the Order. I had no doubt that Burl and Dragon’s deaths were soon entered into the Litany of Heroes at Ironhall. Even before I left Grandon, I was quietly handed a rapier named Fortune, an exact replica of the one I had lost, except that it had a white pebble instead of a cat’s eye gem on the pommel. Official Blade swords could not be given away without approvals sealed with the royal signet.

  When Bannerville and I had finished our reports, the king was still crushing rebels in Nythia, so my ward decided to head home to Willows Hall and await the royal summons. I had hoped that Graça might be granted a language conjuration to teach her Chivian, but none of us had any money yet, and she had to learn our language the hard way.

  She loved her new home, and was soon making the place run as smoothly as the Gran River. We settled into a happy family life, with our only problem being the enormous amount of time I had to spend attending my ward as an only Blade.

  By now Graça must have noticed how the malevolent spirits of chance never leave off tormenting me for long. Just two years after our return they sent a miracle, in that she conceived. We had never expected that, for she was about forty-three years old. She had an easy confinement and produced a fine son, perfectly healthy, although congenitally stubborn and resistant to discipline, as you must know by now. Since I didn’t know my father’s name, we agreed to name him Reyes, after Graça’s. He doesn’t pronounce it quite the way she did. She died of puerperal fever two weeks after he was born. He ran away from home when he was thirteen.

  The king never summoned Bannerville back to court, but he did send clerks of the exchequer to claim repayment of the money that had gone down Desidéria’s well, plus all the rest that Robins had spent, even the emergency funds I had wrung out of him for Burl, Dragon, and myself. Those had all gone, as had everything else we owned, for our coach had remained at Casa Marítima.

  About two years after our return, Commander Montpurse turned up at Willows Hall with a squad of five other Blades. He paid his respects to Lord Bannerville, but his real business was with me. He opened a box that one of his men produced, and showed me three swords, weapons I knew at a glance—Fire, Fortune, and the great Thunderbolt. My hand trembled as I took up Fortune and kissed her.

  “You probably haven’t heard yet that Afonso died,” Montpurse said, smiling. “But he did. Undeservedly peacefully, I understand. Rodrigo is king now, and he sent these to Ambrose, as a sort of peace offering, I suppose, as much as a tribute to the fight you three put up. You killed at least a dozen men, apparently, and wounded others. You didn’t tell us that, Sir Spender!”

  “I didn’t know. Burl and Dragon did the heavy work. I was just our ward’s mule.”

  “You’re a lousy liar, Blade. Never mind. That news must be recorded in the Litany of Heroes, and their swords must be Returned to Ironhall to hang in the Sky of Swords forever. King Ambrose, as Head of our Order, has decreed that you are to attend to this personally.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. He can still give you orders. I am going to leave four men here to guard your ward with their lives until you return. They are all to swear that oath to you. You ride for Starkmoor tomorrow, Sir Spender!”

  I did as I was told. It was a very strange mission. Old Sir Silver had gone at last, and Sir Vicious was now Grand Master. The current seniors had been mere children when I was bound, and still seemed like children to me. I wanted to weep for them, the poor dupes. I remembered none of them—except one, because he was the tallest and had bright red hair. I did not recall his name, and it wasn’t the name he later made infamous. You all know who I mean, but that is another story.

  Book Four: Time

  Chapter 1

  “Thirty years ago,” Spender said sourly, “this place was called The Queen Godleva, and it sold pretty fair ale.”

  Rhys just nodded and did not comment. He considered that the inn was probably in better shape than ex-Queen Godleva herself, since she had committed suicide after King Ambrose had divorced her for the crime of giving him a daughter but no son.

  Spender’s Army, as Sharp called them, had arrived at Brimiarde. They were tired and the hour was late, but there were things to be decided. The
Queen Godleva was now called The Spinnaker, and they had chosen it because it was reputed to be the cheapest in town. Despite that reputation its taproom was far from full, which suggested that it also sold the worst ale. There were mouldy patches on the walls, the rushes on the floor had long since been trampled to mud, and the few other men present were huddled in a far corner, arguing noisily among themselves, possibly about the foul odours drifting out of the kitchen.

  “There’s one thing we have not discussed,” Trusty said. “And that’s the curse. You said the treasure was all in a red holdall, and anyone who tries to open it dies. That’ll kind’ov take the charm off winning, won’t it?”

  “Not all of the original ten million,” Dad said. “But likely more than nine. A few thousands got spent. The rest’s all in bank scrip and some of the banks may have closed their doors in the last thirty years. None of you will remember Vicious. He was Grand Master when I Returned Burl and Dragon’s swords, but he’d been Grand Wizard and Master of Rituals before that, and I asked his opinion. He suggested that a warding like that would probably not have much power left after it had killed a man, and after so many years the power would have faded a lot anyway. Then, after humming and hawing for a while—he was a fussy little man—he suggested that, failing all else, since there were four straps holding the bag closed, you could have four men all try at the same time to open it. It couldn’t possibly be strong enough to kill all four of them.”

  That statement produced a thoughtful pause. Rhys wondered how much each of them was prepared to risk on this treasure hunt. Sharp was a gambler by nature, always dreaming of wealth. Trusty was probably motivated mostly by thoughts of adventure and brotherhood. Rhys himself was driven by loyalty to the father he had deserted so long ago, but he did wonder about Dad. Was it the money or memories of Desidéria that drove him now? Did he fully recognize that if she had been around seventeen back then, she must be close to fifty now? It was hard to image a woman of that age offering her naked body to a man she only just met.

  The silence was broken by Sharp, who slapped a hand down on the table, and then lifted it again to show four dice. “Anyone want to play Call It And Roll It?”

  When no one responded, he laughed and took his dice back.

  “For a quarter of nine million crowns I would,” Trusty said. “Betting IOUs, not cash.”

  “So where do we start tomorrow?” Rhys asked. “The royal stable?”

  “Definitely not!” Sharp’s vehemence provoking surprise.

  “We have to turn in the king’s horses,” Rhys protested.

  “Not yet.” Sharp looked around the group with a wicked grin. “That’s the last thing we do. We first have to worry about our passports.”

  “We don’t have any pass—”

  “Right. And the law says that no Chivian leaves Chivial without a passport signed by a member of the privy council.”

  Pause. Then Rhys laughed. “All right, tell us.”

  “We go to the castle and ask to see the port warden.”

  “Is he a member of—”

  “No,” Sharp said irritably. “He’s a knight of the Order, like us. A former deputy leader. I told you. Sir Goodwin.”

  “And?” The other two were leaving the questioning to Rhys.

  “And you leave the conversation to me. Be sure to bring your cups.”

  Brimiarde Castle, which dominated the mouth of the harbour, was also where the king’s horses were boarded, but Sharp insisted that the Army leave their borrowed mounts at the inn and walk. Rhys had no idea what was brewing in his companion’s devious mind, but it was a fine morning, the walk wasn’t far, and going on two feet made a pleasant change after three days on four. The streets were no narrower or filthier than Grandon’s, and the buildings were lower, letting in more light. The people seemed friendlier, nodding and smiling to strangers.

  Most of their route took them close to the docks, for the town sprawled around the shores of a great bay. The harbour was a forest of masts, with ships and boats of all sizes, from fishing smacks to galleons. Trade had boomed here mightily since his day, Dad said. All Eurania was at peace—even Baelmark was behaving itself, relatively speaking, and King Rodrigo of Fitain had turned out to be a lot more reasonable than his father.

  One ship especially impressed Rhys, a great three-master that towered over all the others like a swan amid ducklings. It boasted high two-story “castle” both fore and aft, was decorated with gilt, and flew the royal flag. He paused to ask a man unloading barrels of salted fish and was told that it was Ranulf, the king’s new warship.

  Probably few gentlemen ever arrived at the castle gate on foot, but four cat’s eye swords could always command respect, especially here, where the warden himself was known to belong to the Order. Sharp, their self-appointed spokesman, announced that Sir Spender of the King’s Blades and some companions wished to speak with Sir Goodwin. The man-at-arms raised his nose and explained that he presumed that they referred to His Excellency Baron Goodwin, but if the noble knights would care to wait a minute...

  The Army did not have to wait long, possibly just long enough for Goodwin to belt on his own Blade sword. His office was three stories up, and very splendid, commanding a fine view of the busy harbour. It had charts on the walls, model ships on its shelves. Baron Goodwin was standing behind a fine oak table to receive the visitors. Peering over Dad’s shoulder as they entered, Rhys thought he saw a sudden and curious change come over the man’s expression. It looked very much like relief—as if perhaps, their host had been told that four Blades wanted to see him, but he had been worried that they might be wearing the livery of the Royal Guard?

  Rhys barely remembered him as one of the senior officers in the Guard during the very early days of his own service. Goodwin admitted that he could not return that compliment, but he did recall Trusty and Sharp, and expressed profound respect at meeting the legendary Sir Spender. He was tall for a Blade and had added width and depth since being dubbed. He must be nearing forty, for there were silver threads in his beard, but he had prospered in his new post, and sported a fancy red-and-blue uniform with gold spangles.

  The great table in the big office held five men around it easily. Refreshments were brought—a keg of ale and a wheel of fine-smelling cheese. The ale was better than The Spinnaker’s, but still too green. The cheese was much better, being greener. Of course the meeting must first wander through a forest of platitudes, but eventually it escaped and got down to business. Goodwin inquired of Spender how he might help them; Spender passed the query to Sharp.

  “We have banded together on a sort of, um, call it a quest.” He made their expedition sound as innocent as a picnic on a beach. “We were wondering if you happened to know of any small craft that we could charter for perhaps two months, maybe three. Depends on whether the spirits of air send us fair winds, of course. Our finances are strained, but all of us, saving Sir Spender, would be willing to haul on ropes, if properly directed. Brother Rhys, here is an excellent cook.”

  That was news to Rhys. He had never in his life tried to cook anything. It might even be true, if he could have inherited the skill from his mother.

  Lord Goodwin’s face remained attentive, but less informative than the walls of his castle. “What sort of craft do you have in mind?”

  “Something large enough for the deep seas, but small enough to beach.”

  Goodwin stroked his beard for a moment, deep in thought. “I received a very odd warrant just yesterday,” he said at last, and rose to pull it from a shelf. He held it up to show the royal privy seal but did not pass it around. “This orders me, as a matter of state importance, to make absolutely certain that no men carrying cat’s eye swords depart for foreign realms without displaying valid passports.”

  That, Rhys thought, was that. Dad would be taken in and questioned again before the Inquisitors.

  But Sharp was not yet read
y to quit the field, for he held out a hand. “May I see that, please?” And when Goodwin had reluctantly handed him the warrant and he had studied it for a moment, “Yes, I thought so. This was written by Master Kromman, the king’s secretary—a former snoop and certainly no friend of Blades. He is rumoured to have custody of the privy seal these days.”

  Sharp returned the warrant. “I wouldn’t put too much stock in that, brother. Kromman is a notorious troublemaker. In any case, it can’t apply to us. We’re only intending to explore around the shores of Chivian—fishing, salt water swimming, and so on. Nothing to worry anyone else, except for fathers of beautiful daughters in coastal settlements.”

  Rhys carefully did not meet anyone else’s eye. He could not believe that Kromman was sending out warrants without at least a broad, deniable hint from the king. Ambrose, sly old devil, had obviously not forgotten the treasure lost in Fitain, and the Dark Chamber would certainly have kept its report on Dad’s interrogation, so Kromman knew the whole story.

  Spender’s Army should have gone to some less obvious port.

  Goodwin pretended to be relieved. “That’s all right then... brother. You mentioned beaching. Any chance that you’ll attempt to land on an open shore after dark?”

  “If we must, I suppose,” Sharp said vaguely.

  “Because... You remember Sir Orca?”

  “Yes.” Sharp perked up and looked to Trusty. “Five years ahead of us, about?”

  Trusty nodded. Rhys, too, could recall him. He’d been a notorious daredevil and lecher even by Royal Guard standards, frequent winner of orgy contests.

  “I asked because Orca’s an expert in night landings. He’s got a boat that might suit you, and he’s in deep trouble. That’s often true, but this is worse than usual. He faces serious charges, so his boat’s been sequestered. He’s had to let his crew go. There’s also a couple of furious fathers after him, but that’s just his monkey business as usual.”