by Dave Duncan
Ah, the disgraced minister still had one friend! Even royal disfavor could not alienate a Blade from his ward. “Too early to tell, my lad! Don’t lay any bets yet. Is he another of the Steepness school?”
“I believe so. Steepnessians are fast, I understand.”
“Lightning with diarrhea.” The onlookers were watching, listening, but now none came crowding forward to clutch Lord Roland’s sleeve.
“What do they use—air and fire?”
“Plus a hefty dose of time, I imagine. That’s what’s dangerous. The subjects rarely live to see forty. The present duke, his father, was one of theirs, although he is still hale, last I heard. I fought against him once, when he was the earl.” The great lout had never forgiven him for that day.
“Oh, I have heard tell of that bout, my lord! It is one of the legends of Ironhall.” Quarrel babbled more appropriate nonsense, his youthful face displaying pure innocence. He was doing splendidly, and his ward must tell him so as soon as they were alone. They would first go around by his personal quarters and collect a few keepsakes. After that, the gauntlet would continue down the great staircase…on and on, until he could clamber into the coach, leave Greymere Palace forever, head home to Ivywalls. There he would await the King’s pleasure. The King’s displeasure would be a more apt description.
What was he going to do about his Blade, though? The ex-chancellor’s troubles suddenly seemed very minor as he contemplated Quarrel’s. He had brought disaster upon the boy only three days after his binding. If the King tried to arrest him, Quarrel would resist to the death. No matter how hopeless the defiance, he would have no choice.
A Blade whose ward was accused of plotting against the King—Lord Roland knew that dilemma from personal experience.
2
Sunlight shone on the brilliant array of watchers massed in the stands like flowers in boxes. The wind snapped bright-colored pennants and flapped the brilliant awnings; it ruffled striped marquees. The court was assembled in a great display of tabards and blaring trumpets, heraldic banners and fair ladies in sumptuous gowns.
Clank, clank went the armor as Durendal plodded over the muddy grass. The broadsword in his hands already weighed as much as an anvil and would soon feel like an overweight horse. He could swing it convincingly if he did not have to keep up the effort for long. In a few minutes, a much larger man than he was going to start smashing at him with an even larger sword, and the two of them would chop away brutally until one of them went down. Encounters in full armor involved very little skill, only strength and endurance—and quite often serious injury. He was not looking forward to the contest, but he had only himself to blame for this predicament. He had made a mistake that morning and must now pay the price.
Curse Ambrose and his stupid broadswords!
Although the King no longer fenced, he had not lost his interest in fencing. Each year he sponsored a great tournament modeled after the jousting of olden days before advances in conjuration made armored knights an absurdity and trial by combat unnecessary. Each year he donated a gold cup worth a hundred crowns, enough to attract contestants from all over Chivial. The first King’s Cup had been won by Montpurse and the second by Durendal himself, so he was now defending his title. He had reached the semifinals without trouble. This morning Montpurse had lost to Chefney, another Blade, so tomorrow the finals would pit Chefney against either Durendal or Aldane, that mountain of metal now thumping forward to meet him.
The Duke of Gaylea was a smallish man but rich enough to have had his son’s growth enhanced. He must have paid well, because at sixteen his little boy now stood a full head taller than any Blade and was muscled like a bull. He looked more fearsome stripped than he did in plate armor. Ironically, this young giant had developed ambitions to be a fencer, which was absurd for one of his size; but wealth could always find a way. The Steepness school specialized in quick results for aristocrats unwilling to waste years in secular learning; it substituted spiritual speed for skill. As a fencer, the Earl of Aldane was technically crude and unbelievably fast for his size—for any size.
Durendal had lost to him that morning at rapiers, which he should not have done. He had then won at sabers; and perhaps that success counted as a second mistake, for under the King’s elaborate rules it forced a deciding match with two-handed broadswords. Few contests had gone so far, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. At broadswords, when strength was vital and skill unimportant, Aldane had an almost insuperable advantage.
Right foot forward, left foot forward, right foot forward…every move was a conscious effort. Armor was ridiculous stuff. The padding stank as if someone had lived in it day and night since the Fatherland Wars. It was already growing unpleasantly hot. His right knee squeaked. When he lowered his visor, he would peer out at the world through a slit, which turned fighting into a mindless brawl with no art whatsoever. Unlike the rapier and saber matches, this bout would be decided by a single round, when one contestant could not or would not fight longer. Contrary to popular belief, it was possible for a man who fell down in plate armor to get up again without help, but not if someone else was beating on him with a six-foot sword.
One of the red-and-gold umpires gestured for Durendal to come no closer. He stopped and clanked around to face the royal box, noticing at once that the Queen was there now. She was reported to be expecting another child, although Princess Malinda was still a few days short of her second birthday. The Countess was rarely seen at court anymore. Gossip had it that she would soon be banished completely.
A trumpet stilled the crowd, sounding unpleasantly muffled inside Durendal’s padded helmet. The umpires bowed to the King. The contestants raised their swords in salute, which seemed no small concession, considering what they weighed. He turned himself to face his opponent, seeing again the kid’s confident smirk from inside the cave of steel encasing his head. The bigger they are the harder they fall.
The harder they hit, too. Durendal’s shoulder still throbbed from this morning’s saber bout, where a padded plastron had not completely absorbed the Earl’s vicious blow. The broadswords were blunt, but his armor would crumple like parchment when Muscle Brat started beating on it. Because a Blade could not guard his ward if he were injured, Durendal’s spiritual binding might compel him to escape the dilemma by losing the match. He must gamble everything on a very quick win.
This was not a fair fight.
“My lords, prepare!” cried the senior umpire. Aldane raised a gauntlet the size of a bucket and closed his visor.
Durendal did nothing.
“Prepare, my lord!”
“I’ll fight like this. It’s hot in here.” Fighting with an open visor was rank insanity, but it was also a bluff. Aldane would be sorely puzzled, wondering what exotic technique his Ironhall opponent knew that he did not.
The umpire hesitated, glanced at his colleagues and even across at the King’s box, and then shrugged.
“May the spirits preserve the better man. Do battle!”
The umpires scuttled out of the way. The contestants lumbered forward over the grass. Durendal aimed his sword like a lance and tipped himself forward into a near run. Aldane copied him at once, for if they collided he would contribute twice Durendal’s weight and knock him down like a skittle. Soon he was sprinting in full armor, an awesome display of strength. He raised his blade, aiming at that temptingly open visor.
Of course, he could not see very well. He must have been sorely puzzled when his opponent disappeared.
Durendal dropped to hands and knees in front of him. That act alone was reckless, for armor was no place to try gymnastics and he might injure himself before taking a single blow. As a tactic, it was insane. If he failed to trip the Earl, he would be at his mercy. If both of them were knocked prone, he would have gained no advantage. Its only merit was that no one had ever done that before.
Aldane pitched headlong over him, striking the ground like a falling smithy. Fortunately his weight neither toppled Duren
dal nor came down on top of him—it just tried to push the Earl into his own helmet. The bout was reduced to a question of which man could regain his feet first and start hammering the other into scrap metal. As Aldane was at least momentarily stunned, Durendal had no difficulty in clanking himself erect and setting a foot on the kid’s back. He put the point of his sword at a suitable gap in the armor.
“Yield, miscreant!” he declaimed.
The umpires went into a hurried consultation. The crowd’s jeering was a constant roar, like a mountain torrent.
Aldane began screaming, “Foul!” and tried to rise. Durendal poked him in the kidneys with a dull edge—a fairly dull edge. After that the noble earl just lay and beat mailed fists on the turf, still yelling muffled protests.
The umpires waved a flag to declare a victory. The crowd became even noisier.
3
The contestants clattered side by side toward the royal box with their helmets tucked under their arms. Aldane was demonstrating a virtuoso command of indecent language.
“Did they teach you those words at Steepness?” Durendal inquired sweetly.
The kid glared down at him with the beginnings of two lush black eyes. His nose had not stopped bleeding yet, and his purse would bleed even harder to pay for all the expensive healing he would need. “Did they teach you to cheat at Ironhall?”
“Look, you’ve got another twenty years ahead of you. Making the semifinals at your age is a wonderful feat.”
“Losing the match doesn’t matter, you oaf! It’s the flaming money!”
Not being a gambling man, Durendal had forgotten that side of the tournament. “What odds?”
“I was taking thirty to one at lunchtime,” the Earl admitted.
It was very hard to sound sincere. “That’s a shame.”
“There are hundreds of losers out there. You’ll be lucky to leave the palace alive, you blackguard peasant!”
Not so funny.
The King was not amused either. When the contestants came to halt in front of the royal box, he leaned back in his chair of state and glared at Durendal. At the King’s side, the diminutive Duke of Gaylea was an alarming gray color. How much had he wagered on his baby boy? Indeed, most of the nobles present seemed to have bet on the favorite, but Blades in the background were grinning like pike.
The Marquis was there, being guarded by Hoare. He was smiling, which was something he did only in public now. He had been seated three rows behind the King, almost in among the baronets, and likely would not have been admitted at all had his Blade not been fighting, because the entire Mornicade family was seriously out of favor at the moment. He had been dismissed from his naval office; his uncles and cousins had all lost their sinecures and privileges.
“You disapprove of broadswords?” the King inquired menacingly of Durendal.
Tricky! “I do prefer rapiers, Your Majesty.”
“My liege!” Aldane bleated. “I protest the decision!”
The royal glare was turned on him. “We did not address you.”
The Earl made unpleasant noises, as if gargling blood.
The King looked back at Durendal. “And what is it you prefer about rapiers?”
“Um. I suppose it is the greater element of skill, sire.”
“I see. Well, we saw no evidence that brawn triumphed over brains in this instance.” The amber eyes had begun to twinkle.
“Your Majesty flatters me.”
“You won a duel without striking a blow! You have created another legend. It seems to be a habit of yours. Congratulations.”
Relieved, Durendal managed a small bow without falling over.
“And as for you, my lord, I applaud your remarkable showing in our tournament. You and your honored father will dine with us tonight, of course.”
Aldane stepped forward to the barricade. The King rose and hung a ribboned semifinalist’s star around the giant’s neck, even he having to stand on tiptoe to do so. Everyone else was upright also, of course, applauding politely.
The Marquis had not been invited to dine. When the royal party had left, he came down to the barricade and beamed at his Blade, undoubtedly for Hoare’s benefit. He had grown plump in the two and a half years Durendal had known him. He was seldom sober.
“Well done, my man! How soon can you get out of that bear trap?”
Displaying his habitual cryptic smile, Hoare said, “I will be happy to attend his lordship until you are ready, Sir Durendal.”
“About ten minutes, my lord.”
“Hurry, then. I have business to attend to. Meet me at the coach yard.”
As Durendal trudged off to the marquee, the crowd began booing again.
4
Nutting was waiting beside his carriage with the footmen and driver already in place. What business could be so urgent? His only occupation these days was supervising the decoration and furnishing of the grandiose mansion he had built, and his wife invariably overruled his decisions. He drank excessively and wandered the halls at night.
Durendal nodded his thanks to Hoare, who rolled his eyes sympathetically, bowed to the Marquis, and strode off. Nutting scrambled aboard. The carriage began to move as Durendal followed him in.
“That was very well done!”
“Thank you, my lord. I should not have lost to him this morning, though.”
“Yes, but you will be pleased to hear that I had faith in you. It has been a most lucrative afternoon for me.”
It might prove less profitable if an angry crowd was waiting outside the palace gates. As it happened, the few spectators there confined themselves to booing. The Marquis did not seem to notice, and the carriage rumbled unmolested into the cramped and dirty streets of Grandon.
After several minutes of idyllic silence, he said, “Unfortunately, the odds will be less favorable on tomorrow’s match. You are the favorite, at four or five to one.”
“I do not deserve so much. Sir Chefney is a brilliant fencer.”
“Um, yes.” The Marquis chewed his lip for a moment. “I hate to mention a subject as sordid as money, Sir Durendal…”
The title was meaningless, but he had never used it before. Durendal felt a sharp stab of worry. What was coming? He had absolutely no money of his own. He was given his board and his clothes but never wages. He sponged his recreations off the Royal Guard—horses and ale. The only purpose for which he would have liked to have some cash was to give presents to women, but pride forbade him to ask for it. They had to be satisfied with the legend, which fortunately they always seemed to be. “My lord?”
The coach rattled over cobbles, making slow progress through the crowded streets. It seemed to be heading for a very seamy part of the city.
“Nutting House has cost considerably more than I anticipated, you see.”
“If I win the cup tomorrow, then of course it belongs to your lordship, as my patron.” As he had taken last year’s, the skinflint.
“Yes, but…” The Marquis’s eyes wandered shiftily, not meeting his Blade’s. “I’m afraid a hundred crowns is a drop in the gutter. My winnings today are in the thousands and I have staked them all on the finals.”
Death and flames! “Am I to infer, my lord, that you are counting on winning tomorrow? I am by no means certain that I can beat Sir Chefney. He trounced Commander Montpurse very convincingly.”
“I was pleased to see—What I am suggesting, Sir Durendal, is that you should lay a bet of your own.”
“I have nothing to wager, my lord.”
Nutting pointed at the sword breaker on his thigh.
“No!” Seeing his ward flinch in alarm, he drew a deep breath. “I mean, I cannot in honor hazard losing a gift from the sovereign, my lord! He would most certainly notice its absence.”
“Bah! He will never know. You don’t wear it to fence. You need only part with it until the match is over. I have a friend willing to advance six thousand crowns against it.”
“It’s worth ten times that!”
“O
nly as an outright sale, boy. This is a merely a short-term loan.”
“And if I fail to win the match, what then?”
The Marquis sniffed plaintively. “Your task is to defend me, yes?”
“Of course. But only—”
“Does debtors’ prison rank as a specified peril? If I cannot raise certain amounts within days, Sir Durendal, then that is where I will be. I presume you must accompany me.”
“You poxed pig’s bastard.” Durendal did not raise his voice—shouting was unnecessary when stating facts. “You mean your harlot sister can’t wring any more money out of the King?”
Nutting’s eyes glittered for a moment, then his air of dejection returned. “As you say. And no one will pay my debts, so we shall rot in jail for the rest of our lives. Men die quickly in Drain Street, Blade. Will you defend me against the coughing sickness?”
“By the eight, I am a healthier man than you are! When you die, I can walk free—free of you and free of the worst duty ever laid upon an honorable swordsman.”
“As you please. We have arrived. Is that your final decision?”
The carriage had stopped in an alley, gloomy and stinking and so narrow that men could barely have squeezed by. As if the visitors had been expected, a door opened in the wall alongside, revealing a fat, bald man, who smiled to show black and broken teeth.
Durendal discovered that he was trembling violently. Never had the binding been so at odds with his personal inclinations. He wanted to strangle this human toad beside him and stamp his corpse into mud.
“The King gave it to me!”
“And you shall have it back.”
“Don’t you trust me?” His voice cracked. “Do you fear I won’t try my best? I swear, my lord, that I will fight tomorrow as if your life depended on it. I don’t need talk of debtors’ prison to keep me honest!”
“But it is true. My life is at stake—indirectly, I admit, but very surely. I merely ask to borrow that thing on your belt for a day. Is that so much to ask of a man bound to defend me against all foes? Decide. Shall I signal the coachman to proceed?”
