by Dave Duncan
It was true that life expectancy in debtors’ prison was a matter of weeks. The binding might ignore a danger so indirect, but Durendal had sworn an oath. Sick at heart, he detached the sword breaker from his belt and handed it over.
Smiling, the Marquis passed it down to the man waiting in the doorway, receiving a roll of vellum in return. He scanned it quickly, nodded his assent, and rapped on the window to the driver. The carriage clattered into motion. Not a word had been said.
How had the turd arranged all this without his Blade knowing? Of course Durendal had spent much time fencing in the last few days, leaving his ward in the care of the Guard. There had been more letters coming and going than usual, so he should have suspected something evil was afoot. What difference would it have made? He could not oppose his ward in anything that mattered.
“You realize,” he said, his mouth dry, “that if I lose and the King asks me what happened to the breaker, I shall tell him the truth?”
The Marquis of Nutting smiled slyly. “You will lose, dear boy, and he won’t notice, because it will not be missing. We are betting on Sir Chefney, not on you. I can get odds of five to one and he will win. You must lose to get your sword breaker back.”
5
The autumn evening was fading into night when the Marquis arrived back at Nutting House, but he at once proceeded to inspect the gardens, complaining loudly to his Blade that the army of workmen had left without achieving anything during the day. Indoors, it was the same story. All those painters, artists, carpenters, and plasterers had obviously been idling since dawn, wasting his money.
My money, Durendal thought. The King’s money.
The Marquise had been dispatched a few days previously to visit her parents, so the half-completed house was empty except for the fifty-two servants. Nutting screamed for his valets, demanding a shave and fresh clothes—bathing was a danger he seldom risked. While the lackeys tended his noble carcass, Durendal prowled restlessly around the grandiose dressing room.
There was something wrong, something that should be obvious but remained maddeningly out of sight. Foul as the turd’s explanations had been, the whole truth 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 r
ealized 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.
6
It was near dawn when the Marquis returned to Nutting House and demanded his valet be weakened 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 best 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. Bolts slid. Inquisitors had ways of entering anywhere.
The statues required a surprising effort, but they toppled, one after the other, setting echoes rolling and spraying fragments of stone across the tiled floor. That would make the footing a little trickier for the opposition, while Durendal could stand on the steps. Moreover, the noise would bring fifty or so servants running, which might delay the invaders a little.
The inquisitor led in the Watch. His black robes should have made him an ominous figure, but he had a comical in-toed strut like a rooster crossing a farmyard. He hesitated when he reached the scattered debris. His men came to a halt behind him.
His fishy gaze fixed itself on Durendal. “You are under arrest.”
Durendal smiled. “Talk is cheap.”
Sounds of voices and running feet overhead meant that the back stairs would be full of servants, at least for a few moments. If the Marquis had reacted fast enough he might be down in the kitchens now, or even the cellar, which had an exit to the alley.
“Your cause is hopeless.”
“Of course.”
The glassy eyes did not change expression. “We know everything you have been up to: how you pawned your sword breaker, how you went to Werten House—”
“Was that its name?” Durendal itched with eagerness for the action to start, but delay was the game. He admired his opponent’s unwinking sharklike stare, wishing he could keep his face impassive like that. “I needs must defend my ward, you know.”
