by Dave Duncan
“Again!” roared the King, and the button of Durendal’s foil flicked him again in exactly the same place.
The royal chest was turning red, as if all the hair might start smoking soon. “By the dark, I’ll not quit till I have laid steel on this whelp! On guard again, sirrah!” That was a threat. This was no friendly test of swordsmanship, it was rank intimidation.
“It is spirituality, Your Majesty!” shouted one of the onlookers. “He is too fresh from the Forge for any man to beat him.”
Ambrose ignored that ingenious invention. He took eight hits before he admitted defeat and hauled off his mask. Inflamed and incandescently furious, he glared around the room as if searching for the least trace of a smile. The King was a stumblebum swordsman, and the Royal Guard were a gang of sycophants.
Durendal saluted and removed his own mask. “Permission to withdraw, Your—”
“No! Put that on again, boy! Montpurse, let us see how you can fare against this superman.”
Sending Durendal a look that should have melted his bones, the Commander began to strip. Of course there could only be one ending to the coming match—he would have to lose almost as dramatically as his King had lost. Anything else would be a public admission that he was a liar and a today.
The new Blade could win at fencing, but he had lost a lot of powerful friends on his first night at court.
11
The next day it was the Marquis’s turn again. He called in the tailors. His wife assisted the discussion with the air of a child given a new doll to dress. Durendal stood patiently while they draped swatches over him, trying to match his hair and eyes. When bidden, he went off and returned in various absurd apparels. And when the final decision on cut and color had been made, he said, “No.”
“What do you mean no?” Nutting snapped.
“I will not wear that, my lord.”
“You are under oath to serve me!”
“Yes, my lord. I have also been enchanted to serve you. But you do not buy a bulldog and harness it to a plow. You set it on bulls. My purpose is not to look pretty but to defend you, and I cannot fight in those garments.”
“Bah! You will never be required to fight. You know that.”
“Yes, my lord. Sadly, I do know that. But the conjurement does not, and it will not let me swaddle myself in a gabardine mattress cover.”
“Insolence!” snapped the Marquise. “Don’t let him talk back to you like that, dearest.”
“I will follow you naked, my lord, before I wear that tabard.” Seeing that defiance was going to be stalemate, Durendal added, “May I presume to advise?”
“What?” Nutting growled.
“Something more like the livery of the Royal Guard. It is serviceable and appealing.”
The turd considered the suggestion, tugging his little beard. “You know, that idea has merit! My colors are blue and gold. Dearest, why don’t we specify exactly the same design but with gold instead of silver?”
The Marquise clapped her hands. “Why, he will look beautiful in that, my dear!”
Fire and death! Durendal had been talking about the cut, not the heraldry. The Royal Guard would have a hundred apoplectic fits.
Montpurse was furious enough already, as Hoare reported that evening—but Durendal knew that from the tongue-lashing he had received the previous night, after the King’s departure. He thought he would carry the scars to his grave.
But the Commander was not a vindictive man, Hoare said. His offer of help still stood, which was why Hoare had appeared at the Nutting suite after midnight in the company of a beautiful child named Kitty. He departed quite soon, but she remained.
Durendal discovered that she was not a child, and she was beautiful in ways and places he had hitherto only imagined.
Later in that first memorable week, things began to improve. Even the black glares that greeted the appearance of the Marquis’s Blade in his new livery came to a sudden end. The Guard’s acceptance of the upstart was promoted by the King himself.
It happened at the Birthday Reception. Blades at official functions, like the frescoes on the ceilings, were invariably present and universally ignored. Thus Durendal stood by the wall on the far side of the hall and watched as the Nuttings waited in line to pay their respects to the monarch. The other Blades present, both royal and private, had gathered in small clumps; but he was alone and likely to remain so.
The Queen was not there. Rumor whispered that she was with child again. The Countess was in evidence, but she could not stand at the King’s side on such an occasion. He was attended on the dais only by Commander Montpurse, Lord Chancellor Bluefield, the forbidding Grand Inquisitor, and an imposing matron in white robes and hennin, who must surely be Mother Superior of the Companionship of White Sisters.
There were other sniffers present, of course. About the end of the first dull hour, Durendal observed the Sister who had accosted him on his first day at court, standing by herself not far from him. He eased unobtrusively in her direction; but before he reached her, she looked around, frowning. He strolled the rest of the way quite openly and bowed to her, bidding her good morrow.
Her response was barely civil. “What do you want?” She eyed the golden squirrel over his heart with distaste, which meant they had at least one thing in common.
“I came for reassurance that I no longer reek of the Forge quite so strongly, Sister.”
“We resent being referred to as sniffers, young man. Your question is both vulgar and insulting.”
It was she who had begun the talk of sniffing by accusing him of having a bad smell.
“I beg pardon, then. I give offense through ignorance, being but a new-forged Blade, fresh from the coals. How does one detect a conjurement?”
“The sensation is indescribable. At the moment I feel as if I am required to sing a very difficult song and you are standing beside me humming another one loudly in the wrong key. Does that make matters clearer?”
Somewhat. He tried one more smile, probably a rather desperate one. “And what will you do if you detect the handiwork of an evil conjurer, Sister?”
“Call on the King’s Blades, of course.” She tossed her head so sharply that no secular power should have been able to keep her tall hat from falling off, but it didn’t. She stalked away.
A quick glance around the hall told him that Blades and White Sisters nowhere stood together, so he had learned something new by offending someone else. He went back to watching his ward’s progress, a process duller than breeding oak trees.
When, at long last, it was the turn of the Marquise to curtsey and the Marquis to kiss the royal hand, he prepared to move with a sense of relief, although he knew that he was merely about to exchange this ordeal for another, even longer one in the banquet hall. Then the King looked up. The bright amber eyes scanned the room and fixed on Durendal as if they were measuring him for a coffin—one that came up to his shoulders might be adequate.
The King beckoned.
Blood and steel! Was this the end? Exile to some hyperborean desert? Durendal hastened across miles of oak floor, conscious that heralds and pages were heading to block him and stopping as they intercepted gestures telling them there had been a change of plan. He arrived at the dais unchallenged and contorted himself in a full court bow.
“I have a question, Sir Durendal!”
The Nuttings turned back to see what was going on.
“My liege?”
The King pouted dangerously. “After our little fencing match the other evening…did you by any chance have a further exchange with Commander Montpurse?”
Flames and death!
If Montpurse had a weakness, it was that his babyish complexion could color very easily, and now it colored very much. The King ought to be able to feel the heat of it on the back of his neck.
“Yes, sire,” Durendal said. “We did try a few more passes.”
For about an hour, with both rapiers and sabers, with and without shields or parrying dagge
rs.
“And who won that time?”
“He did, Your Majesty.” Not by very much, though.
“Indeed? Isn’t that very peculiar, considering that you had given him such a drubbing earlier? He fared no better against you than I did.”
“Um, well, these things can happen, sire.”
“Can they?” The King turned to look at the Commander. Then back at Durendal. Very slowly, the royal beard twisted around a grin. Abruptly Ambrose IV burst into enormous bellows of laughter, startling the whole court. He slapped his great thighs in mirth; tears ran down his cheeks. He thumped Montpurse’s shoulder, and Montpurse blistered Durendal with another of his bone-melting glares.
Still unable to find words, the King waved dismissal. Durendal bowed lower than an Alkozzi and beat a hasty departure, more or less dragging the startled Marquis with him. And then, of course, he had to explain, which meant admitting that he had delegated his responsibility, shamed the King, antagonized the Guard, and launched a scandal, for now the story must come out. The Marquise became almost hysterical and insisted that her husband dismiss his errant servant. She refused to believe that he could not be dismissed.
The worst part of being a Blade, Durendal decided, was that he could not simply disappear down a rabbit hole when necessary. Perhaps other Blades, lacking his genius for causing trouble, never felt the need.
The reception ended at last and the court sat down to eat the King’s health at a twelve-course banquet. Blades stood around the walls again, but this time Durendal attached himself to a group of them. They were civil to him, no more. They made little jokes about men who wore gold uniforms, although they were careful not to make them about squirrels or upstart pimps who invented such uniforms, because that sort of talk might trigger Durendal’s still-tender binding. They came and went, visiting a buffet in the next room. Since none of them offered to spell him and he was determined not to ask for relief, he did not expect to eat at all.
Montpurse drifted into the group, acknowledging the problem Blade with a curt nod.
About two minutes after that, a diminutive page appeared in front of Durendal, bowed, handed him a box of polished rosewood bearing the royal arms, and departed.
“You have your lunch delivered?” Montpurse stepped closer to see. The others gathered around.
“I don’t know anything about this!”
“Then you’ll have to open it, won’t you?”
Anything but that! But he had no choice. He opened it. On the red velvet lining lay a sword breaker of antique Jindalian design—a dagger with deep notches along one side. Its hilt and quillons were inlaid with gold, malachite, and what appeared to be real lapis lazuli. At a guess, it was worth a duke’s castle and change. The card bore a brief message:
For him who broke the King’s sword,
A.
“Flames and death!” Durendal slammed the lid before anyone could steal the contents. He hugged the treasure to his chest in both arms and stared at his companions with a sense of panic.
Montpurse’s pale eyes were twinkling. “Been robbing the crown jewels, have you?”
“No! No, no! I don’t understand. What do I do?”
“You wear it, you flaming idiot. If the King is watching, as I expect he is, then you bow now.”
He was, his grin visible right across the hall. Durendal bowed.
“Right. Then—here, let me help.” Montpurse hung the marvel on Durendal’s belt over his right thigh and said, “Oh, that’s very nice! I’m jealous. What do you think, lads?”
12
A few days after that, an excited Byless turned up at court, bound to Lord Chancellor Bluefield, who already had two Blades. Then Gotherton was reported to be in Grandon, assigned to Grand Wizard of the Royal College of Conjurers, who had three and ought to have less need of them than anyone in the kingdom.
Although the Guard had numerous well-informed but ill-defined sources, there were some secrets it could not penetrate. When word came that Candidate Everman had been bound to a certain Jaque Polydin, gentleman, no amount of prying could discover anything at all about him, except that Blade and ward together had vanished off the face of the earth the following day. Even Montpurse claimed to have been kept in ignorance. Men whispered longingly about high adventure and secret agents traveling in foreign lands.
Durendal wanted to scream with frustration and wring his ward’s neck. His self-control prevented the first and his binding the second.
It became official: The Queen was with child. The King showered wealth on every elementary order that could provide her with appropriate charms, amulets, and enchantments.
Over the next couple of months, Durendal adapted to his strange double life in court. By day he was bored to insanity, following the Marquis from party to ball to reception to salon to dinner, and almost to bed. All suggestions that his lordship should take up riding or hawking or fencing or anything at all interesting fell on deaf ears. Besides, such pastimes would all incur a slight element of danger, and thus the binding conjurement impeded Durendal’s efforts to promote them. He tended to stutter and develop a headache.
Boredom was not the worst of it, though. Nutting’s official duties for the navy occupied about ten minutes a week, when he signed the documents that his staff prepared and brought to him. Unofficially he ran a thriving business of his own. Much of it was dealt with through clandestine correspondence—letters he burned as soon as he had read them—but some of it required face-to-face negotiations. During those meetings with various savory or unsavory persons, he would order his Blade to stand at the far end of the room, so he could not eavesdrop. The details did not matter. Durendal was soon able to work out that his lordship was taking kickbacks on contracts, accepting bribes to overlook defects in the supplies delivered for the unfortunate sailors, and selling access to the King himself by passing petitions on to his sister. It was all nauseating, but there was nothing Durendal could do about it. He could never endanger his ward in any way at all.
By night he flew free. One of the Guard would relieve him as the palace went to sleep, so he could join the others in their revels. Two horns of ale was his limit, but one satisfied him. His body absolutely demanded exercise, so he fenced. When there was moonlight he went riding in mad chases over the fields or joined bacchanalian swimming parties in the river. He indulged in quick romances, having no trouble finding willing partners.
He learned how to beat Montpurse with sabers, if not with a rapier.
He wore the royal sword breaker everywhere except in bed.
The King never indulged in fencing now, and for that the Guard was duly grateful to Durendal.
He saw the King frequently. Even if they just passed in a hallway, when the King had acknowledged the Marquis, he would always greet his Blade by name. It would be very easy to fall victim to that famous charm—and what it would be to be bound to such a man!
Alas, fickle chance had decreed otherwise. However great his swordsmanship, he knew he was stuck with the job of guarding the obnoxious Marquis for the rest of his days. Never would he serve the king he revered, never ride to war at his side or save his life in lethal ambush, never battle monsters, unmask traitors, rise to high office, travel on secret missions in far dominions—never be anything at all except a useless ornament around the court.
Even the greatest of swordsmen can be a lousy prophet.
NUTTING
II
1
“Very well!” Kromman spluttered. “You may leave. You will remain at your residence until you are summoned.” He was scarlet with fury.
“Let go your sword, Sir Quarrel,” Roland said, edging between the two men.
But Quarrel was a very newly bound Blade, and the new chancellor very obviously a danger to his ward. For a moment it seemed as if that order would not be enough. Then the white-faced boy made an effort and released the hilt he was holding.
“As you wish, my lord.” He glared hatred at Kromman.
With
a silent sigh of relief, Roland headed for the door. Quarrel arrived there before he did and opened it to peer out, as a well-trained bodyguard should.
Roland whispered, “Mask!” It was an old Ironhall warning, a reminder that in real contests a man’s face was not hidden from his opponent’s view.
“My lord.” The boy’s mouth smiled as he swung the door wide. The angry glitter in his eyes remained, but none of the watchers would be close enough to notice that. Few of them would even be astute enough to realize that the new Blade’s face might not be as uncommunicative as his ward’s notoriously was. It was the principle that mattered, for serenity would deceive no one tonight. The King’s Secretary had arrived posthaste from court and gone into the Chancellor’s office; if Lord Roland then emerged without the chain of office he had worn for twenty years, was the conclusion so hard to draw?
Half a dozen men-at-arms were standing in a bored and puzzled huddle. Obviously Kromman had not told them what he had expected them to do, for they sprang to attention at the sight of the former chancellor and made no effort to block his departure. Six? Even Quarrel might have had trouble with six—but of course Roland would have been there to help him. He was gratified that Kromman had thought six might be necessary to arrest a man of his years.
The first ordeal would be just to stroll across this wide antechamber, crowded with men and women waiting to see him, some of whom had been there for days. Now none of them had reason to see him and most would prefer not to be seen anywhere near him, lest his fall from favor prove to be infectious, as it so often did.
He watched the news flash through the room ahead of him—the startled gasps, the exchanged glances, the calculating looks. Who was smiling, who frowning? It did not matter! He had no friends now, only enemies.
“They say,” Quarrel remarked, “that the Earl of Aldane is already clear favorite to win the King’s Cup this year.”
