The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  “I accept the rebuke, Inquisitor. Thank you for correcting me. By the way, can you use a sword?”

  “Not by your standards, Sir Durendal.”

  “He is an expert by any others’,” Grand Inquisitor said dryly. “He has slain several men. Did you think I would choose an incompetent?”

  Two inquisitors were certainly cutting one stupid swordsman to shreds. Keeping his anger as far from his face as possible, he said, “Chalice, White, Ayrton, at the Brown Fox. Is there anything else I need worry about?”

  Grand Inquisitor produced her closest approximation yet to a genuine smile. It was an unpleasant sight. “What about languages?”

  He had not given a thought to languages. “I suppose we must hire local guides.” He saw at once that he had again displayed total incompetence for the task the King had set him.

  She shook her head, and there was a disapproving set to her mouth now. “At His Majesty’s insistence, we have arranged for you to receive a spiritual enhancement known as the gift of tongues. With that you will be able to pick up any foreign language within hours. After a day’s exposure you will speak it like a native.”

  He had never heard of that conjuration—an intriguing insight into the Dark Chamber. “Inquisitor Kromman is already so enchanted, I presume? A specialty of your office, ma’am?”

  “We employ it,” she admitted. “The conjuration itself belongs to the Silk Merchants’ Guild. They charge a fortune for its use, I may add.”

  Had the guild’s sudden new wealth enabled it to hire the services of some sniffers, including Sister Kate? She would be in Brimiarde when he arrived there. The Everman Affair spread its tentacles ever wider.

  Kromman said, “Tomorrow night, in Brimiarde.”

  “And my Blade will be enchanted as well, of course.”

  Grand Inquisitor pursed her lips. “I am afraid not. The budget will not run to two fortunes, Sir Durendal.”

  Here was a place to stand and fight. “I am afraid I must insist. Tomorrow night he will be freshly bound. It will be virtually impossible for him to leave my side. More important, the gift of tongues will make him much more useful.” He tried to look as if he were prepared to take his case to the King. He knew his pride would not let him go running for help, yet he was certain that the King would agree with him if he did.

  Perhaps that certainty was what Mother Spider smelled, for she scowled and said, “Very well. Anything else?”

  Kromman and Durendal glanced at each other and shook their heads simultaneously.

  “Until tomorrow then, Master Chalice.” Durendal rose and bowed. “A most interesting meeting, ma’am. My thanks for all your help.”

  She acknowledged the courtesy with a queenly nod. “I suggest you visit some convenient elementary and spend a little of the King’s money on a good-fortune conjuration. You will need it.”

  8

  He rode up to the royal door at Ironhall with his hat pulled down to hide his face, for it would be unfair to reveal the identity of Prime’s ward until Prime himself was told. The last few miles he had ridden by the light of the full moon, chivied by a bitter moorland wind. He had cut it fine, for the ritual must begin at midnight and with a man’s life at stake he would not dare dispense completely with meditation, as the King sometimes did. His day-long fast had left him shaky and depressed.

  The door opened before he had even dismounted. Wallop had been a servant there since long before his time, perhaps since before he was born. If Wallop recognized the cloaked visitor, he did not say so. He mumbled, “You are expected, my lord,” and led the horse away.

  Durendal went in and began to climb a dark and narrow spiral stair. This was his third visit to Ironhall, and might well be his last, but he could see that no Blade could ever wholly escape its clutches. Would Harvest ever hang in the hall, or would she rust away in some distant jungle?

  The door at the top opened into Grand Master’s private study, with lamplight and a crackling fire, comfortable chairs and shelves of books, and heavy drapes drawn over the casements to keep out the drafts. Grand Master was standing in front of the hearth, toasting himself. Old Sir Silver had died in the winter, honored and sincerely mourned. His replacement was Sir Vicious, who had been Master of Rituals in Durendal’s day and was one of the best. He had grown a little shorter and somewhat wider, but his hair was still a field of seeding dandelions and his cheerful face glowed red from the fire.

  “You?” The astonishment was almost comical. “I expected the King. My! How very…unexpected.”

  Tossing his cloak over a chair, Durendal headed for that seductive hearth. “I thought you would guess. That’s all right, isn’t it—one Blade binding another?”

  “It’s been done. Not in this century, I suspect. No, I never dreamed. Can you tell me why?”

  “’Fraid not.” He squatted beside the knight’s knees to warm his hands. The respect with which the old man was treating him was a little unnerving, for his memories of Ironhall were memories of his boyhood. He had not realized how the years had flown.

  “Well! We must break the good news to Prime right away!” Grand Master seemed almost as excited as if he were about to be bound again himself. Without waiting for consent, he went to the door and spoke to someone outside. In a moment he came back to the hearth. “I’d offer you wine if you weren’t fasting.”

  “I understand. Tell me about Wolfbiter.”

  “Oh, the best. Absolutely first class. Not quite Durendal, but he’ll be giving you a run for the King’s Cup in another couple of years.” Grand Master chuckled. “It’s time somebody else got a chance at it anyway.”

  “Tell me about the man, though.”

  “Solid steel. Mind you, the last six months have been hard on him—can’t recall any Prime having to wait that long. Make allowances for that.”

  Blast fat Ambrose for being so unthinking! Durendal rose and leaned an elbow on the mantel. Watching for a reaction, he said, “Is the boy going to be resentful that he’s not being bound to the King?”

  “Resentful? Resentful?” Grand Master chortled. “Well, no, I don’t think I expect resentment. You realize that this is your night you’ve picked?”

  “My night?”

  “We have a hard time explaining that Durendal Night isn’t named after you. No, I don’t think Wolfbiter will be resentful. Delirious, perhaps. Hysterical joy is a possibility, I suppose. Being torn limb from limb by all the other—”

  Horror! “You’re joking!”

  “Not much. You are the Blade of Blades to them. Win the cup every year, saved the King’s life, bound twice, deputy commander of the Guard, the Aldane bout—they think the sun won’t rise if you don’t pee in the morning. We postponed the Durendal Night dinner until after the binding. That thunder you can hear is all those young bellies growling.” Grand Master rubbed his hands. “And now we discover that the guest of honor will be the second Durendal himself with his new Blade at his side! No, I don’t think Prime will have any complaints.”

  Death and fire! How could a man live up to such expectations? He was not worthy of absolute loyalty. He had been feeling unhappy about becoming a ward ever since the King ordered it; this news made him feel much worse. He was going to lead his Blade on a useless trek halfway around the world, with very few prospects for a safe return.

  “Bring your cloak,” Grand Master said, producing one of his own. “We’ll await them in the flea room.”

  Durendal followed, stooping along a low-roofed corridor and down a short flight of stairs. This was the oldest part of the keep, an ants’ nest of passages. It smelled of rot. “Why do you play these tricks?”

  Grand Master stepped aside for him to enter the little room he remembered so well, where he had caught coins, where he had first met the Marquis. Candles already flickered on the table and mantel, but the air was icy and unused.

  “Dunno. Because it’s always been done, I suppose. Because the tricks were played on us, so we play them on others. You sit there. M
aybe it is childish,” he conceded.

  He settled in one chair, Durendal in the other, where he would not be readily visible. Yes, Grand Master’s glee as he prepared to spring the great surprise was juvenile. What happened to a Blade when he retired to these forsaken moors to forge more Blades? From the shimmer and glitter of court to—what? Bleak nothing and a house full of children. Were the knights and masters perhaps all a little crazy? It was not a welcome thought, but it might be one to ponder when he succeeded Montpurse as…but he was going to Samarinda, wasn’t he? He would never succeed Montpurse.

  “You had a fire last summer, I heard.”

  The older man nodded. “Lightning. Happens every hundred years or so. It was one of those freak late storms, middle of the night. We were lucky all the boys got out safely. That was only thanks to—”

  Knuckles rapped on ancient boards.

  Grand Master winked. “Enter.”

  How many times had this scene been played out? Five thousand swords in the hall…For a moment the door blocked Durendal’s view. When it closed, two boys stood at attention between him and the other chair.

  “You sent for us, Grand Master?”

  Wolfbiter was unusually short for a Blade, and slight of build—a rapier man. From that angle he certainly did not look twenty-one. His hair was black. Second was very different, fair, big-boned, and meaty. They represented the two end limits of the Blade type.

  “I did, Prime. His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”

  “More than ready, Grand Master.”

  No hesitation there!

  Grand Master smirked and gestured. “Then pray greet your assigned ward.”

  Wolfbiter spun around and completed the turn without stopping, a complete circle until he was looking at Grand Master again, and snapped, “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  Second was staring at the visitor with his mouth hanging open. It was less than four years since Durendal’s second binding. These lads would have been juniors then, so they knew his face, but Wolfbiter’s reaction had been incredibly fast—so fast that it could not have been faked, even. If he had been forewarned he would have faked better than that.

  Grand Master spluttered, totally taken aback. “Joke? What do you mean by insulting—”

  “To bind a Blade to Sir Durendal would be setting a lamb to guard a wolf! I do not understand.” The bantam cock was furious! Was this the resentment Durendal had feared?

  It was time for him to intervene. He rose. “No joke. Grand Master does not describe you as a lamb, nor even a ram. But my own first experience with binding had terrible consequences for me, and I have no wish to put you to the same ordeal. If you would prefer to wait for another ward, Prime, then this episode can be quietly forgotten, as if it never happened.”

  The kid had blushed scarlet. “No, no, no! I meant no disrespect, Sir Durendal! Quite the reverse. To be bound to you is an unbelievable honor, that’s all—one I could not have dreamed of.” He bowed with a fencer’s grace.

  Durendal offered a hand. “The honor and the burden are mine. I shall strive to be worthy of the loyalty you pledge.”

  Wolfbiter’s grip was powerful. His dark eyes gleamed bright and clear in the candlelight, and undoubtedly those quick wits were now trying to calculate why a Blade should need a Blade. His gaze kept darting toward Durendal’s right hip. Either he wanted to see the famous sword breaker, or he had glimpsed its absence under the cloak but could not be sure.

  Yes, this one would do.

  Then…“By fire! You were the Brat! You gave me my sword!”

  Intense satisfaction flashed back at him. “Yes, sir. And you came and thanked me afterward. You can’t imagine what that meant to me!”

  “Yes, I can.” Montpurse and himself. Déjà vu!

  “Second?”

  “Candidate Bullwhip, Sir Durendal,” Grand Master said.

  “My pleasure. I have heard much good of you also.”

  It was Bullwhip’s turn to blush, but he also stammered incoherently. His grip was positively crushing—a broad-sword man. Wolfbiter would be the better man for the job.

  Grand Master rose. “I expect you will all wish to start the preliminary stages of the ritual as soon as possible so we can start on the banquet.”

  Wolfbiter looked inquiringly at Durendal, who said, “The sopranos won’t starve if we keep them waiting a few more minutes. If we may stop by the gym, I’d be interested in trying a couple of passes with Prime.”

  “In this light?” Grand Master protested.

  “If the candidate has no objections.”

  “None at all, sir. My honor.” Dark eyes gleamed in triumph. “We shall be leaving before dawn, then, sir?”

  Quick!

  Word must have flashed through Ironhall like a bolt of lightning. By the time the contestants had removed their doublets—retaining their shirts against the cold—the entire school had assembled around the walls of the gym, most of them holding candles or lanterns. Durendal could hear his own name being whispered everywhere. He stipulated rapiers to let his future Blade show his best weapon. The lighting was certainly tricky, as all the myriad flames danced on the foils like a mist of stars.

  Wolfbiter was sunlight on water. He flashed from position to position, making even tricky transitions gracefully: Swan, Violet, Steeple…. He was aggressive as a bee swarm but never predictable. The foils clashed and clattered, feet tapped like a patter of raindrops. Durendal let him lead, holding him off but finding himself stretched almost to his limits. Deciding not to let the lad get too cocky, he switched to attack, seeking a touch. But Wolfbiter was never there. Incredible speed! Ah!

  “A touch, sir!” He was ready to go again, barely even puffing.

  Durendal saluted and tossed his foil to a waiting junior. “No. I daren’t risk my reputation. I know only three men other than myself who might beat you, Candidate, and I’m not sure of any of them. I do not flatter.”

  He felt ill. Who was he to own this superb young man body and soul for the rest of his life?

  9

  By the time the familiar ritual rose to its climax, Durendal had lost most of his doubts. Perhaps the singing was spinning its old seductive spell around him again, the love of men in bands that Kate had mentioned. He could rationalize that Wolfbiter had chosen this life, just as he had. If a man must serve his King indirectly, that was still service. Of course it was a shame that his first duty was to risk his skin in a distant land to no real purpose, but the King must be the judge of such matters. Kings’ whims were not as other men’s. There might be more to the foolish tale than Grand Inquisitor knew or had admitted.

  It was strange to watch the candidate jump up on the anvil and address him in the words of the oath. It was even stranger to stare at that ominous smudge of charcoal below the dark fuzz on his chest and take up a sword to try and kill him. The sword was a surprise, too. It had a slight back curve and its point of balance was far forward, so Wolfbiter was a slasher, not a point man after all. If he was so good with rapiers, how must he be with his preferred sabers?

  Now he must find the lad’s heart. Wolfbiter was seated on the anvil, pale but determined as he stared up at death, but exactly as Kate had described a Blade—strong, intense, a dagger in a box. Bullwhip and another stood ready to grasp his arms, but suddenly Durendal guessed what was going to happen. Hero worship…

  Prime slapped his hands down on his thighs, lifted his chin defiantly, and said, “Do it now!”—the Durendal way.

  “Serve or die!” In, three feet of steel through the chest, back out again. Done! Durendal saw the contortion of agony, the instant relief. Surprise, pride…All so familiar! Almost no blood at all.

  Wolfbiter did not smile even when the waves of cheering boomed back from the roof and his friends poured around to congratulate him. He just stood there, acknowledging the acclaim with quiet dignity, as if to say that it was no more than his due. He was obviously popular, which was a good sign in Ironhall, and his assign
ment to Durendal was being hailed as incredible good fortune.

  Durendal knelt to give him back his sword, for that seemed a fitting tribute to courage and years of effort. The King could not do it that way, but another Blade should. With more heartrending déjà vu he watched the boy inspect the bloodstains and then hang the sword on his belt.

  Wait for it!

  Wolfbiter was distracted by more knights coming to compliment him. Suddenly he turned from them impatiently and glanced around, seeking his ward. When he located Durendal, his eyes widened in shock. That was it, the moment of realization, the moment when the ward became the sun and the moon, the light of the world.

  Remembering the King’s words to him four years ago, Durendal said, “Ready to ride, Sir Wolfbiter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I think we can eat first.”

  “As you wish, Sir Durendal.”

  Did the kid never smile?

  During the raucous festivities that followed, he was shocked to discover that the Litany of Heroes now included his own exploit at Waterby. The roar that followed seemed to make the sky of swords shimmer and glitter more brightly and would not stop until he rose and took a bow. Very few Blades lived to hear their own names in the Litany.

  Somewhat later he found himself on his feet giving the Durendal Night speech and mouthing all the platitudes he had suffered through five times during his own youth—honor, duty, service. Yet the hundred young faces out there did not seem to recognize banality when they heard it. Perhaps it helped to have a real hero spreading the fertilizer, or perhaps fertilizer was more welcome when one was still growing. No soprano went to sleep, no senior yawned, and Grand Master swore that was this an unprecedented compliment.