One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  “May I borrow your sword, Sir Trusty?” She took the sabre, glanced at its name and nodded. “True indeed! It will discover the truth in the bag for us.” She drew the blade smoothly over the straps and they parted like soft cheese. She returned the sword and looked to Spender. “It is safe now.”

  He dropped on one knee and pulled the holdall open to expose many rolls of parchment. Taking one at random, he untied the ribbon, opened it, and glanced at the first sheet. “One hundred thousand cruzados. Some of these may be worthless, of course. Here, count these,” he handed that roll to Orca, who happened to be nearest, and then similar rolls to the others, keeping none for himself.

  “Five hundred thousand,” Orca said.

  Rhys nodded. “The same.”

  And Trusty, “Mine too.”

  “Mine is only three hundred fifty!” Sharp protested. Then he looked innocently around the stares of disbelief and suddenly grinned. “Sorry, just habit! Five it is.”

  “It’s not so simple,” Spender warned. “How can we know which banks are still honouring their scrip after so long, dear?”

  “Don Régulo will know. Senhors, I have kept that hoard safe for many years against Sir Spendero’s return. It also contains some very evil conjurations. Will you let my chancellor and his staff appraise the money for you?”

  That was agreed, although Sharp was clearly reluctant to release his holdings.

  Spender realized that she expected him to speak next, so he did.

  “You are all invited to dine with us now, and stay on for as long as you wish. You will be shown to quarters where you can freshen up. King Rodrigo is expected to join us.”

  “I don’t think I can believe all this,” Rhys muttered.

  “That’s quite a common sensation in Castelo Velho, Son.”

  “Back in Willows Hall, Your Grace,” Sharp said, “You assured us that your life’s ambition was a middle-aged widow and some beehives.”

  The marquês glanced at his lover, who was regarding him with astonishment. “I changed my mind,” he said.

  The king did come to dinner, promptly at noon. He was gracious and spoke excellent Chivian. There had been no casualties in the naval battle, he reported, obviously pleased at the prospect of ransoming Ranulf back to her former owner. Blades knew how to behave in the presence of royalty, and the dinner went well once their initial disbelief wore off. It was agreed that the roast boar was the finest dish, although none of the dozen others was less than delicious.

  His Majesty sat at the head of the table, with Desidéria on his right and Spender opposite her. The two lovers tended to drift away from the conversation, into dreamy spells of staring adoringly into each other’s eyes.

  After the feasting was finished, while the diners were sipping a honeyed wine and nibbling sweetmeats, King Rodrigo suddenly turned to Spender, and talked business.

  “My lord Marquês Spendero, you remember the day you and your friend chopped up the Espadachim Real for cat food?”

  Spender winced. “It was not quite as lopsided as that, sire. I was very lucky to escape.”

  “The humiliation of that day has never been forgotten. I was wondering if any of your friends here would be interested in a commission in my guard, on the understanding that he would raise the quality of the men’s swordsmanship?”

  “I cannot speak for any of them. Perhaps you could sketch the terms you might be prepared to offer?”

  The king played with his wine goblet for a moment. “He would found a new school, either in Lindora or wherever he proposes and I agree. I would deed him an estate with an annual harvest of at least fifty barrels. His appointment would be for life, assuming that he produces results.”

  Spender nodded thoughtfully, trying very hard to look serious and certainly not grin. “Many years ago, King Ambrose established an annual fencing tournament, open to all. The cup has never been won by anyone other than a Blade. My son won that competition twice, so he would be the logical candidate. Rhys?”

  Rhys did grin. “I should be honoured beyond words, Your Grace. May I have a week to draw up a detailed proposal for your consideration?”

  Before the king could speak, Desidéria said, “Since his father is now a marquês, the boy ought to hold the rank of count, at least?”

  Rodrigo rolled his eyes in a see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with expression. “Of course.”

  “And the wine harvest you mentioned? For a count, I would estimate seventy-five barrels, and of quality equal to the best Val Atramena reds.”

  The king balked. “You are supposed to be on my side, Desidéria! You are letting love bias your judgment.” There was a pause. Then he said, “Oh, very well. Seventy-five.”

  Rhys looked overjoyed. Three other Blades raised goblets in salute.

  “I want no part of the money hoard,” Spender told them. “Whatever the total comes to, I think the four of you are going to be very wealthy men. My advice would be to stay out of Chivial until King Ambrose returns to the elements, which cannot be more than a year or so, two at the most. Until then, have you any plans?”

  “Assuming His Grace accepts my allegiance in the post we were discussing,” Rhys said, “I will have no need of my quarter share. You can divide it three ways.”

  Trusty and Orca exchanged glances. Orca said, “We have discussed the possibility of buying a small ship and going into the trading business.”

  “Small, but too large to beach on dark nights?”

  “Definitely,” Trusty said. Orca sighed.

  All eyes turned to Sharp. He said, “I never want to set foot in a boat of any size ever again. But if His Grace has no objection, I was thinking of going into the import-export business in Lindora. Why don’t the three of us form a partnership? In five years we could own a fleet of half a dozen vessels.”

  Silence. Orca and Trusty studied their wine glasses.

  “Oh, spirits!” Sharp said testily. “Trusty, how many different totals can you roll with two dice?”

  “Six? No, twelve.”

  “Eleven. There’s no way to score ‘one’. Orca, what’s the most likely score?”

  “Whatever the spirits of chance decide,” the sailor said firmly.

  “But over the long haul, seven is most likely, and either six or eight next most. How many men in Ironhall know that?”

  “How the whale shit should I know?”

  “Not one,” Sharp said. “Since I left. But if you use your brains there, they all think you’re cheating.”

  Spender glanced at Desidéria, who knew exactly what he was thinking and shared his amusement. But nobody was going to spoil the jubilant mood by mentioning the cons or pros of going into business with Sir Sharp.

  “So it’s happily ever after for you, Dad?” Rhys asked.

  “I suppose it is. But I do have one regret.”

  “What’s that?” Desidéria demanded fiercely.

  “I just wish,” Marquês Spendero said in a sad tone, “that I could be there when King Ambrose hears what has happened to his lovely Ranulf.”

  Chapter 8

  The king of Chivial owned many palaces, most of them old and yet dignified, but Ambrose IV had built Nocare himself, thirty years ago, making it larger and grander than any of the others. It had aged as he had, so that now it seemed dowdy, pretentious, and sadly out-of-date.

  Durendal, Earl Roland of Waterby, long-time lord chancellor of Chivial, former Commander of the Royal Guard, five times winner of the King’s Cup, and the second most powerful man in Chivial, came striding across the cavernous reception hall flaunting both his chain of office and his sword, Harvest, to show that he was on business. He noted how few people were sitting around there, waiting for a private word with His Majesty. In the old days there had usually been scores. Now a mere dozen was a crowd. Court insiders brought their troubles to him instead, knowing that he was mo
re likely to listen than the king was.

  The black-clad cleric seated at the desk outside the door to the audience chamber was the third most powerful man in the country, Ivyn Kromman, the king’s private secretary. He had never been handsome or imposing, and nowadays few straggles of white hair hung below his box cap, and his face was so shrunken and wizened that it suggested he might be dying of some painful disease. That would be a great pity, because for half a lifetime, Durendal had been promising to kill him. Long ago and far away, Kromman had murdered a Blade, Sir Wolfbiter, and tried to kill his ward, Sir Durendal. Durendal had then tried to kill Kromman. The king had forbidden any further violence, and for years had exploited their very different talents for his own purposes, playing them off against each other. But they both knew that Ambrose could not live much longer, and as soon as he was dead, one or other of them would die also.

  Kromman watched Durendal’s approach without expression, as always. He could have no doubt that it signified trouble, for all routine matters were dealt with by king and chancellor informally, in the evenings. The two young Blades guarding the door behind him exchanged expectant glances, being well aware of the enmity between the two.

  Durendal wasted no breath on hypocritical greetings. “I must see His Majesty right away.”

  Kromman dipped his pen in the ink and consulted a list. “I can fit you in between...”

  The chancellor reached out to point at the inkwell. No explanation was necessary. Once, when he had been Commander of the Royal Guard, he had tipped an identical inkwell over Kromman’s head.

  Kromman looked up and smiled, exposing a few yellow stumps of teeth. “Is it concerning Baron Goodwin?”

  Score one to Kromman, for Goodwin was one of the worst errors Durendal had ever made. He had recommended Goodwin to the king as port warden for Brimiarde, and even for the peerage, and Goodwin was now locked in a dungeon in the Bastion, awaiting trial on numerous charges.

  Durendal smiled. “It is much more serious than that.” Smiles between him and Kromman were extremely rare, and each one was a mortal threat. It was true that there was a chance that the report he was bringing to the king might destroy his hated rival, although the turd had always slipped out of the net before.

  “His Majesty is with his tailors!”

  “I don’t care if he’s in his bathtub.” Durendal stalked over to the sacred door and banged on it, winking at the guardian Blades. They should have arrested him on the spot, of course, but their boyish faces were alight with broad grins as they relished the story they would be able to spread around the Guard at dinner. Durendal threw the door open and went in.

  Stripped down to his shirt, breeches, leg bandage, and corset, King Ambrose was surrounded by heaps of swatches, ribbons, shoes, measuring cords, and four mousy men with pins in their mouths. He glared at the intruder.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No, sire.”

  A royal growl made the sartors depart in haste. The king limped over to a chair and eased his bulk onto it without inviting his visitor to sit. “Talk!”

  “I have just spent a troubling half-hour with the Fitish ambassador, sire. Did you order Ranulf to sail to Fitain?”

  The king coloured under his white beard. “What if I did? Naval affairs have nothing to do with you, sirrah! Go and talk with the Lord Admiral.”

  “But a declaration of war will impinge on my duties.”

  “War!?”

  “Don Marcelo and I both hope it will not come to that, sire, but the Fitish navy has impounded Ranulf on the grounds that it was spying.”

  The famous amber-coloured royal eyes bulged. “That is totally absurd! Rank piracy. I gave permission for Ranulf to undergo sea trials, nothing more.”

  After serving Ambrose in one capacity or other for more than a third of a century, Durendal could still never tell when he was lying, which was not uncommon. “Nothing at all more, sire?”

  The king growled deep in his throat. “The captain’s orders were to intercept any Chivian boats off the Fitish coast, and to search them for contraband. That is all. Only Chivians were involved.” He hesitated and then added, “That Goodwin recreant of yours had allowed certain persons to leave the country without permission, on an illegal enterprise. I wanted them apprehended. That’s all.”

  “Ah!” Durendal produced and unfolded a document. “Don Marcelo gave me what he claims is a copy of the master’s sailing orders, Majesty, which were found in his cabin when Ranulf was boarded. According to the Fitish authorities, they bore your seal.”

  “Read it!”

  “Well, omitting the formal jargon, the master was specifically required to look out for a Chivian single-masted boat named Sea Devil.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Failing that, he was instructed to locate a certain ruined castle just south of the royal residence of Casa Marítima, identifiable by a sea-stack shaped like an anvil. He was to look out for anyone who might be searching for treasure buried thereabouts, a hoard that he was informed was the property of Your Illustrious Majesty. He was to inspect the ruins and their environs for evidence—”

  Ambrose thumped the arm of his seat in fury. “And you think I ordered that?”

  Perhaps he had, perhaps he hadn’t. Or just possibly Secretary Kromman had grossly exceeded his instructions—which would be much more enjoyable. This affair might even be the end of Secretary Kromman, if properly handled. Ambrose was very skilled at indicating his desires in such ways that the blame, if any, would fall on somebody else.

  “It seems that somebody did,” Durendal said, feigning regret. They both knew that he held the Great Seal of Chivial, but the royal privy seal was frequently applied by Secretary Kromman. “The master sent landing parties ashore more than once. Close-by a royal residence—that was mentioned several times.”

  After a moment, Ambrose muttered, “What do they want?”

  “One hundred million crowns.”

  His Majesty uttered a choking noise, such that Durendal eyed him for a moment to make sure he was not having a medical emergency. There was an ancient prophecy that the king would die at his hand.

  “I would call it ransom, sire, although Don Marcelo did not put it in those terms. He probably has some negotiating room, but his initial demand is for one hundred million crowns, to release the ship and the crew. Under Fitish law, King Rodrigo could hang the lot of them.”

  Silence. No doubt the royal brain was feverishly trying to work out how to explain this disaster to Parliament, how to wring such a ransom out of the burghers, how to lay the blame on someone else, and above all how to save face. The other monarchs of Eurania would cackle like seagulls when they heard the news.

  “As I see it, sire, your options are to declare war, or just abandon the crew, and replace the ship. I looked up the cost of building Ranulf, and it was closer to three hundred million than one. A war would be considerably more expensive than that, of course.”

  A man cannot reign for a lifetime without knowing when he is faced with a very nasty choice. A vein was throbbing in the royal forehead.

  “Fetch Kromman!”

  Lord Chancellor Roland, now promoted to footman, went back to the door, peered out, and said, “You!” Then he stepped well away to let the miscreant in. Kromman shut the door carefully, went over to the king, and bowed.

  “Sire?”

  “Look at that document, Kromman, and tell me how much of it you recognize.”

  Durendal handed over the paper, aware that the secretary was quite clever enough to know what answer the king’s cutely worded question required.

  One of the inquisitors’ most annoying tricks was an ability to read complicated text at a glance. Kromman flipped pages. “This is not Chivian handwriting, sire. Parts of it are word-for-word repeats of the dictation you gave me on the third day of Fifthmoon this year. Others are interpolati
ons, and certain passages have been omitted.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as your express ban on any venture ashore, sire.”

  A mythical ban just invented on the spot, no doubt. Durendal suppressed a sigh. It seemed that the weasel would survive again. No one could ever deny the quickness of his wits. But there was still hope, if the king did not explode in fury—

  “Ha!” Ambrose boomed. “So it’s nothing but a Fitish forgery—that’s typical! Nasty, oily sneaks, the whole lot of them! Have our ambassador demand to see the original orders and then we’ll see.”

  Durendal said, “He has already done so, sire. I omitted to mention that Lord Cheesley was shown both the original document and that copy. He has initialed every page of the copy, and attached his affidavit on the final page, testifying that the copy is an exact replica of the original sailing orders.”

  As always, Kromman’s expression gave away nothing, but the king’s furious flush showed that he knew he had been tricked. “You did not tell me that before!”

  “Your Grace, I would never trouble you with any such document if I did not have confidence that it was genuine.”

  The royal glare switched to Kromman, who had just read the copy. Why had he not mentioned that damning confirmation on the last page? Durendal held his breath.

  Kromman shrugged. “I ignored the affidavit because it means nothing, sire. The Fitish simply made two copies of the forgery and showed both to Lord Cheesley, claiming that one of them was the original. No doubt it was written in a more Chivian hand. The ambassador was comparing two fakes.”

  The scoundrel had escaped again. Ambrose smiled at this glib explanation and then frowned at Durendal. “It seems to have fooled more than one of my servants. So what are you going to do about this mess, Lord Chancellor?

  “With your permission, Your Grace, I could explain to Don Marcelo how your secretary extended your orders without permission, sire. Chain him up in the Bastion for a few weeks to add conviction?”