by Dave Duncan
must be even worse. He had, in retrospect,
dismissed his wife very brusquely; she had not
wanted to visit her family, but he had insisted.
That was a reasonable precaution if he expected
to be arrested, so it could not be the missing clue. A
man facing financial ruin ought to be trimming his
construction costs and household expenses,
surely? Well, perhaps not. Courtiers were
notoriously lax in paying tradesmen and
domestics, and any hint of economy might
spook his creditors. The turd probably did
not know what economy was, anyway. He could
no longer swindle money out of the navy or sell
his sister's influence with the King. Fixing fencing
matches might be a lucrative sideline, but
he was up to something more. What was coming next? He was
demanding full evening wear, as if planning to go to a
ball or banquet. Nobody invited him to those
anymore.
What else was he up to? Why was he not more
morose? That was what was wrong! Ever since he
came home, he had been smirking. Six thousand
crowns at odds of five to one meant, um,
thirty thousand. Was that enough to save him from ruin? Or
was there some other foulness in the wind?
The Marquis ordered dinner and ate in
satisfied silence with his Blade sulking at the
other side of the table. Then, instead of calling for his
coach, he demanded a cloak and boots.
Apparently he was going out for a walk--in the
dark? This was utterly unprecedented, completely
out of character.
Durendal spoke for the first time since he gave
up the sword breaker. "Where are we going, my
lord?"
His ward smiled mysteriously. "Wait and
see."
There was moonlight, but for a gentleman to walk
the ill-reputed streets of Grandon by night was a
rashness that set his Blade's binding jangling like
bells. It was his clear duty to prevent such
folly, even by force if necessary. Against that,
Durendal was so exhilarated by the thought that his
skills might possibly be required at last
that he suppressed his wiser instincts. Thus he
found himself escorting the devious Marquis through
noisome, sinister alleys without even a lantern
between them. He quivered with joy like a racehorse
at the gate, praying for someone to leap out of the
shadows at them. Fortunately or
unfortunately, no one did. Once or twice
he thought he detected footsteps some distance behind
them and cursed himself for a nervous ninny.
The Marquis obviously heard nothing. He
knew where he was going, although he seemed to have
learned the route by rote, for he muttered to himself
at every corner. Then he began counting doors, but
when he found the one he wanted, it was clearly
defined by an octogram sign that glowed with
enchanted light. A conjuring order that hid itself in
a slum must specialize in very murky
conjurations, and supplicants who came in the
middle of the night must have very murky needs. Two
footmen in imposing livery admitted the callers
and led them to a salon whose decor of jarring reds and
purples, salacious paintings, and contorted
erotic sculptures revealed exactly what
sort of enchantment was available. Soft music
played in the distance and the air was fetid with hot,
musky odors. Shamefully, Durendal felt
his flesh responding to the sensual mood.
Other conspirators had already arrived. The
elderly man was easily recognizable as the
Earl of Eastness, former governor of Nostrimia
and the elder of Nutting's notorious uncles. The
woman was veiled, but her identity could be in no
doubt.
She sprang up in alarm. "You fool! Why
did you bring him here?" Even her voice was
unforgettable. The pale hand she pointed at
Durendal was long-fingered and graceful.
The Marquis laughed and strolled across to her.
He lifted her veil back and kissed her
cheek. "I can't shake him off. He sticks like
a birthmark. Besides, he is an ideal
accomplice. He wouldn't betray me under
torture. Would you, Sir Durendal?"
Durendal ignored the mockery and tried
to ignore the loveliest face in the kingdom as
well. "What foulness are you plotting, my lord?
You must remember that I am a servant of the
King."
"But I come first! And I stand or fall with my
accomplices here, so you can betray none of us."
Smirk, smirk, smirk!
Anyone else who provoked Durendal like this
would be dead already, although he had never drawn his
sword in anger and had believed he never would.
"I cannot betray you, so I must stop you. It is
obvious that you are planning to use conjuration against
His Majesty, and that is a capital offense."
His logic was leading him to an unbearable conclusion.
Nutting glanced briefly at his sister and his
self-confidence wavered. "Indeed? Just how do you
propose to stop me?"
Durendal, too, looked at the Countess.
She shrank back, anger turning to fear.
He said, "You are plotting to restore the whore
to royal favor. I cannot harm you, Tab
Nillway, but she is not so favored." Could he
really slay a woman in cold blood? Yes,
if his ward's safety demanded it. Perhaps
mutilation would suffice, but that might be even harder
to do and would be less certain. Disfigurement could be
cured. Death could not.
The Countess gasped and made a dive for the
door. She stopped with Harvest's razor edge
before her face like a rail. Eastness roared an
oath and reached for his sword.
"Don't be a fool, Uncle!" Nutting
snapped. "He'll filet you before any of us can
move an inch. You are too late already, lad.
You cannot possibly hope to kill a countess and not
have the crime discovered. The inquisitors will question
us, perhaps even put one of us to the Question--you, most
like, as you are not of the nobility. Our intentions will be
revealed, and intentions are enough in cases of
treason. There is nothing you can do."
A carillon of conflicting emotions clamored
in Durendal's mind. His voice came out
hoarse and shaky. "It is still a better chance than
letting you attempt an impossible crime."
"A very possible crime. Put up your sword
and I shall explain."
"No. Say what you must and be quick."
The Countess backed away from the sword, and
he let her go. Whatever was coming, he
knew that he had lost.
The Marquis, also, seemed to have realized that, for
his oily smoothness flowed back. "A candle,
only a candle. Quite harmless. It will be attuned
to my sister's body. When it burns and the King
inhales the fumes, his desire for her will
return, stronger than ever. He will reinstate her
at court; my fortunes will be restored also. I was
not lying about debtors' prison, Sir
Durendal. The King will take no harm."
Durendal shuddered. "Others may be affected
also."
"What matter? Hundreds have lusted for her in
their time. Only one counts."
"You cannot hope to bring such a conjurement within reach
of the King."
"No? You underestimate me. The Queen has
retired to Bondhill for her confinement.
Ambrose already has the place so stiff with
enchantments that no sniffer can go near it. He
visits her there regularly. We have made
arrangements."
It sounded all too horribly plausible, just
the sort of slimy trick the turd would think up.
And, no, there was nothing Durendal could do to stop
him. Treason! Where was honor now? Where were the
bright hopes of his youth? Where ...
"A dramatic scene," said a new voice.
In the doorway stood a woman dressed all in
scarlet. Only an ageless pale face was
visible within the wimple that enclosed her head, and the
irises of her eyes were red, also. Rich robes
of the same shade cascaded from her shoulders to the
rug. Her bearing left no doubt that she was in
charge of the elementary and the order that ran it.
The Marquis bowed. "It had its moments, my
lady, but I think my young friend has seen
reason."
The Prioress turned her nightmare gaze
on Durendal. "Do you think we are unaware of the
dangers? Would we undertake this venture lightly?
If you misbehave, young man, then none of you will
leave these precincts alive. We have ways of
disposing of evidence."
He hesitated even then, wondering if he could
slay that foul creature as well. The need
to keep his ward from harm restrained him, for
obviously an order that dealt in such evils would
have strong defenses. The Marquis knew he had
won, smirking already. The Countess was
recovering her anger. The old uncle had shrunk
back into unwilling despair.
Durendal sheathed his sword. Truly, he had
no choice. He must carry on as normally as he
could, being a perfect accomplice, trustworthy
to death itself. Tomorrow he would even throw the final bout
of the King's Cup in a demonstration of his shame and
failure. His binding would not let him kill himself.
He watched in sick self-hate as the
Marquis paid over the money that had come from the
sword breaker, the King's gift. The prioress
scanned the scroll with satisfaction and then led the
way into a chapel that was itself an octogram, a
tall chamber of white marble with sixteen walls
defining eight points. Each of these alcoves was
in some way--mostly very obviously and crudely--
dedicated to an element. One was empty,
representing air, with a ewer of water opposite,
a sword to portray chance, and so on. Fire's
brazier provided the only light in the big
chamber. Durendal considered much of the symbolism
questionable or just in bad taste, like the skull for death
or the huge gold heart for love. It set his
teeth to scraping, but perhaps it impressed the sort
of customers such a place attracted. Although he
could sense the presence of spirits strongly, here they
did not give him the comforting feeling of support that
he had experienced at Ironhall. Here they
unsettled him and felt wrong.
The four supplicants were joined by three more
conjurers in scarlet gowns--two men and another
woman. All eight were then placed in position
by the prioress. Durendal was ordered to stand before the
black pedestal from which the skull grinned down, so
he was at death--which felt very appropriate in his
present mood. It was the standard octogram, so
he had air on his left and earth on his right.
Nutting was at chance, his uncle at time, and the
Countess, of course, was love, opposite
Durendal.
When the conjurer chanting the role of Dispenser
began banishing unwanted elements, Nutting, his
uncle, and Durendal were required to turn their
backs. That was their only participation in the
ritual, but Durendal could make out enough of the
chanting to guess roughly what was going on behind him.
Standing in the place of death he should be less
involved in the proceedings than any of the others, and
yet--to his utter disgust--the erotic spirits roused
him to panting, sweating, trembling lust.
The only consolation he was able to wring from the night's
events was that he was not forced to watch the
obscenities being performed upon the naked body of the
most beautiful woman in Chivial.
It was near dawn when the Marquis returned
to Nutting House and demanded his valet be wakened
to put him to bed. Durendal just paced--up and down
stairs, through completed rooms and rooms still being
plastered, along corridors, past piles of
furniture in dustcovers. Even for a Blade,
it was no way to prepare for an honest fencing match
but perhaps a good way to prepare for a match he must
throw. It might be the start of madness. He
looked back with contempt on the idealism of his
youth, the time before Harvest's death had sealed his
fate. He marveled at how far he had fallen
from those dreams, how fast he had become a cheat
and a traitor.
He could still hope for the conspiracy to be
uncovered, yet he could do nothing to expose it.
He would cheer with the best of them when the headsman
raised the Marquis's head for the crowds to see,
even if his own neck was to be next on the
block. He hoped it would be. A ward's death
was always a shattering bereavement for his Blade; when
the ward died by violence, the Blade rarely
survived. Beheading definitely classed as
violence.
A clatter of hooves at sunrise roused
him from his brooding. He sprinted downstairs and
slithered to a halt at the front door just ahead
of the porter, a former sailor named Piewasher,
who had regaled him during many a long night with
improbable tales of travel, foreign ports,
foreign women, and children of various shades. Before either
of them could say a word, a stave thundered against the
panel and a voice demanded that it open in the King's
name.
Piewasher gasped with dismay, then stared
blankly at Durendal who was laughing.
So! The fox had been tracked to its lair
already. The jig was up. Now it had happened, he
had no doubts about what he must do. He spun
Piewasher around. "Go and tell the Marquis!
Quickly!"
Sailors did not question orders. The old man
scurried off across the hallway at the
be
st speed he could muster.
The Marquis's only hope of escape was the
servants' stair at the back. The chance that any
exit from the house had been left unguarded was very
slim, but Durendal's duty now was to give his
ward the longest possible start. He could die with his
sword in his hand.
He waited for the second demand, then snapped
open the spy hole cover. He saw a gaunt and
bloodless face framed by lank, mousy locks and
topped by a black biretta. That and the black
robes were the uniform of His Majesty's Office
of General Inquiry. Behind the inquisitor stood
at least a dozen men-at-arms of the Watch.
"His lordship is not at home."
"That is a lie."
The prospect of action had lifted the burden
and set all Durendal's muscles tingling. "I
did not mean it literally. It's a social
fiction. You can't possibly believe that I would
be so foolish as to try to lie to an inquisitor,
can you? No, I was merely presenting the customary
excuse the gentry use whenever they do not wish--"
"You are trying to delay us." The young man had
a harsh, unpleasant voice.
"I am attempting to further your education.
Now, it is possible that his lordship might consent
to receive visitors if he were--"
The inquisitor gestured without taking his
glassy stare off Durendal. The nearest
man-at-arms slammed the butt of his pike against
the door and bellowed again, "Open in the King's
name!"
Even a marquis did not rate more than three
warnings. Durendal shut the peephole and marched
across the hallway, detouring past the fireplace
to pick up the poker. He mourned the absence of his
sword breaker in what would be his first and final real
blood-on-the-floor fight, but the poker might
deflect those heavy pikes better. It was a
pity, too, that when her ladyship insisted on a
main staircase of pink granite, her grandiose
taste had required it to be of such width that it
required at least three men to hold it
adequately. Why hadn't she thought of that? The
defenses could be improved, though. On high
pedestals at either side loomed pretentious
creamy marble statues of mythical figures. The
Marquise had been very excited when these two
eyesores were delivered a week ago,
but she would not grudge them in a good cause.
The lock on the front door clicked open.
The chain rattled loose of its own accord.
