by Dave Duncan
“At a price.”
“They’re all volunteers! Every one of them! They know the risks. They all have a chance. In drought years, or after a big war, the waiting list grows to hundreds. All volunteers.”
No, there was no repentance. An honorable swordsman had sold his soul for immortality. He could not even see the evil.
“Are they really all volunteers? What happens on the days when the challenger wins?”
“Ah!” Everman sighed and replaced his cap on his head. “Yes. Well, on those days we engage in active recruitment—but we take one of them, one of the strangers. He just didn’t expect to go so soon, that’s all.”
“And he dies in an alley with a knife in his back instead of a sword in his hand?”
“Let’s not argue, old friend.” Everman shook his head sadly and put his hat on. “We’re not going to agree. I did warn you that the secret wouldn’t work in Chivial.”
“What do you want, then?” Durendal peered around at the horizon with sudden suspicion, wondering if he was being encircled.
“Thought you might need a little help. Looks like I was right, too. What happened to your horses? What’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Had a disagreement with my tame inquisitor. I won on points.”
Everman shrugged. “You shouldn’t consort with such lowlife. I also came to say I’m sorry about Wolfbiter. He was top drawer, wasn’t he?”
“They don’t come any higher.”
“‘All Blades are born to die.’ That’s what they told us at Ironhall, but they didn’t know about me. Wolfbiter’s what I came about. I brought you his sword to take back.”
Flames! Durendal wasn’t sure if the pain was anger or sorrow, but whatever it was, it made speaking difficult. He nodded.
Everman waited a moment, looking at him as if waiting for something. Finally he said, “They say a Blade can never rest if his sword doesn’t hang in the hall. Friend, you have my word on this—he has been returned to the elements in proper fashion. I lit the pyre myself. He was not a volunteer.”
Would they eat Herat instead? But it was welcome news. “Thank you.”
“I brought you some water and food. Two days due west, then aim for the two peaks like breasts—that’ll bring you to Koburtin. The tribes have mostly gone south at this time of year. You should be all right.”
Disconcerted by the painful lump in his throat, Durendal said, “Thank you. Look…I wish I could say I’m sorry about Herat. I never met a swordsman to match him.”
“Yes,” Everman said sadly. “He was no coward. He didn’t shout for help, and he was risking a lot more than…But he had his faults. I haven’t congratulated you on beating him. Let’s let it go at that, shall we?”
“Yes,” Durendal said. “We’d better let it go at that.”
“One other thing. I am authorized to offer you his place, if you want it. No tricks, I swear. You can join us, and welcome. Forever.”
“No thank you.”
Everman smiled. He blinked as if he had dust in his eyes. “I’m not surprised. I’m sorry, though. You don’t know what you’re turning down. Just tell me this: Is our brotherhood so much more evil than yours? You don’t think I’m worth all the lives it takes to keep me alive, but is your precious king?”
The outrageous question took Durendal’s breath away. “I risk my life voluntarily to—”
“So do our challengers.”
“Oh, that is absurd! That’s crazy! Blast you! We were friends at Ironhall. We were close as brothers. Now to see a man I trusted and admired and loved turned into…” Into what? There was a stranger behind that familiar face. Argument would not bring back the old Everman. “We did agree to let it go at that, didn’t we? You’ll make it home all right?”
The monk chuckled. “Oh, I’ll be stiff and so on, but I’ll make it. I brought you a gold bar, as a memento. Throw it away if you don’t want it. You can ride a camel?”
“Not well, but I’ll get by.”
They drank from a water skin and bade each other farewell as friends who know they can never meet again. They mounted and rode off in opposite directions.
MONTPURSE
V
1
Home proved to be very far away. Everything conspired against him—caravans, weather, and finally war. A man alone was fragile. Many times he escaped robbery only through his ability to stay awake all night. Twice he felt the approach of fever and had to bury all his valuables in a secret place and hope he would live to dig them up again. He found half Eurania up in arms. Chivial was at daggers drawn with both Isilond and Baelmark, so he was forced to return through Gevily, and even then he was fortunate not to fall into the hands of Baelish pirates. He landed at Servilham on a blustery morning in Ninthmoon 362, more than five years after he left. Converting the very last of the King’s money into a dapple mare, he set off to ride the length of the kingdom.
He found his homeland strangely changed. Ambrose was no longer the popular hero he had been. Taxes had risen sharply, trade was depressed by the war, harvests had been poor for three years in a row. Queen Sian had been beheaded for treason and replaced by Queen Haralda. Bizarre fashions now ruled the cities. Gentlemen sported ruffs, vast plumed hats, grossly puffed sleeves, slashed tabards, embroidered surcoats, fur-trimmed capes. Ladies had disappeared inside clouds of drapery, sleeves trailing to the ground, and little lost faces peering out from beneath elaborate turbans. As he neared the capital, Durendal learned that he must seek out his sovereign at the great new palace of Nocare. But reporting to the King could wait a couple of days; he had a mission more important than that.
He rode in over Starkmoor around noon, being spied first by a pair of horsemen who veered to intercept him. At first glance they knew him for a Blade, but they saluted with no sign of personal recognition.
“Candidate Bandit at your service, sir.”
“Candidate Falcon, sir.”
Judging their eager faces, flushed pink by the wind, he would have taken them for juniors, and yet they were both armed. They were so typical and he had been away so long that they seemed almost like twins to him. He noted that Falcon had an upturned nose and Bandit’s heavy eyebrows met in the middle. He berated himself for using such trivia to distinguish men with as much right to be counted individuals as he had, but he had nothing else to go on in a first encounter, out here on the blustery heath.
He did not give his name, which must have been forgotten by now. They would assume he was making a joke in very poor taste. He said only, “I come to return a sword. I cannot stay.”
They exchanged frowns, then Falcon wheeled his mount and galloped off to give warning, while Bandit escorted the visitor in. He had both the sense to realize that Durendal did not wish to converse and the poise to remain silent. When they rode through the gates, the great bell was tolling.
Durendal dismounted before the monumental main door and handed the reins to a groom he did not know. “I shall not be staying. See to her needs and bring her right back.”
He had thought that time had blunted the heartache, but he felt it all anew as he extracted Fang from his pack and strode up the steps. He mourned again for Wolfbiter; for friendship; for absolute loyalty, quick wits, unfailing endurance; the great promise that had been wasted to so little purpose. He mourned his own guilt. Never would he accept another Blade from the King. He had sworn that oath a hundred times since Samarinda, and he swore it again there, in the shadow of the Hall. Monarchs might bear such burdens, but not simple men like him.
No task took precedence over a Return. All the school had assembled under the sky of swords: masters, knights, candidates, with anonymous servants huddled in the background, hushed and solemn. His tread tapped a slow knell on the stone as he entered, holding the sword before him. No whispers of excitement greeted his appearance, for he had been five years gone. One or two of the most senior candidates might have witnessed his last visit, but they would have been mere children then. He had won no cups since
, felled no foes. Even the faces at the high table took time to light up with recognition, and some of those were a surprise to him. Many he had expected to see were absent. There was a new Grand Master, a man who had been retired from the Royal Guard just after Ambrose’s succession and whose name was Sexton or Saxon or Sixtus or something like that. The candidates seemed like babies to him, the knights like mummies. This was his fourth arrival at Ironhall, and now he knew he wanted it to be his last. He was thirty! He owned an estate, after all, Peck-something in Dimpleshire. He would not need to join that row of impotent pensioners when his arm grew slow. He had served his King well for eleven years, longer than most Blades. If she was still free, he would marry Kate and retire to be a country gentleman.
The tables and benches had been cleared away. He paced along the lines of candidates to where Grand Master stood waiting for him below the broken Nightfall. Already the second Durendal wished he had not come at all. Had he waited, the King might have given him permission to reveal some of the story, although that was not likely. As it was, the details must remain secret, and Wolfbiter’s heroism untold. Bitter the injustice! On the other hand, Ambrose might have forbidden even this small tribute.
“I bring Fang,” he said, hearing his voice echo dismally in the hush, “sword of Sir Wolfbiter, companion in our order. He died in a far land, defending his ward, whom he saved then and had saved several times before. Cherish his sword and write his name in the Litany, for none better deserves to be remembered there.”
Grand Master waited for more. Then, frowning, he stepped forward to accept the blade. He said only the required minimum: “It shall hang in its proper place forever.”
Durendal stepped back one pace and drew Harvest to salute the broken blade on the wall. Then he turned on his heel and walked out. He rode away over the moors in the eye-watering wind.
2
“By the eight, you’ve aged!” Commander Hoare boomed cheerily. “I hope I don’t look as bad as that. Good to see what’s left of you, though!” He enveloped Durendal in a bone-breaking hug.
His face had not changed very much, although he had finally discarded his much-derided pale beard and there were flecks of premature silver in his hair. The rest of him was resplendent in a redesigned Guard livery, which seemed totally impracticable but might be appropriate within the new palace’s sprawling wonders of gilt and marble. True, many parts of it were still scaffolding and ugly brick; to see gracious gardens in the current swamp and abandoned farmland required a considerable amount of imagination—but the inhabitants were all grandiose as peacocks.
“You look much the same,” Durendal retorted. “Congratulations, Leader! Is it permissible to ask what happened to your predecessor?”
“The Chancellor, you mean? Wench? Wench! Bring ale for our guest! Sit down, man, sit down!”
The visitor sank into a swansdown-padded chair and gazed all around the sumptuous office of quilted silk walls and ankle-deep carpets. Back in his day, the headquarters of the Royal Guard would have been rejected as stabling by the royal hostlers, while this looked like a potentate’s harem. Then he stared in even greater disbelief at his elaborately bedecked host, observing that his surcoat was embellished with complex heraldry of anvils and flames and swords, topped by a motto, To Be With and Serve.
“Can you fight in that ensemble?”
Hoare cleared his throat and stretched out his legs to admire his elaborate buskins. “Probably not, but when was the last time we had to fight?”
“Things have changed?”
“You could say that. The King no longer campaigns in person.” The Commander glanced a warning as a buxom maidservant bustled in with tankards and a small keg.
“Chancellor?” Durendal said. “Montpurse is chancellor? Um, good for him! What happened to Lord Centham?”
Hoare busied himself tapping the barrel until the door had closed behind the maid. “Treason. He was to be put to the Question today, actually.”
“How is His Majesty?”
“Ah! Well, very well. Truly the greatest monarch Chivial has ever seen.” The remark was accompanied by an expansive gesture with both hands, and a raising of expressive eyebrows. “We have a new queen, you know.”
“The former Lady Haralda, I understand.”
“And a real beauty! A very sweet sixteen. Just five years older than Princess Malinda. Your health, Sir Durendal, and your happy return!”
They clinked tankards.
Durendal smacked his lips. “I missed this. You really ought to try fermented goats’ milk. Nothing ever tastes bad again.”
“No wonder you’ve aged! Tell me where you’ve been all these years.”
“Not until I have reported to the King, I’m afraid. How is Montpurse enjoying his new duties?”
“Like a double dose of crotch rot. Lord Montpurse, of course. Companion of the White Star and so on.” Hoare donned an expression of cross-eyed idiocy that said nothing and hinted at a great deal. His humor bore a cynical odor it had lacked in the old days.
Yes, things had changed. All the myriad questions frothing up in the newcomer’s mind had best be postponed until he learned better how the land lay. Ambrose must be…forty-five? Yes, forty-five. He should not be losing his grip yet. And a wife of sixteen! He would still crave a male heir, of course.
“I must request an audience to report on my mission.”
“I’ll arrange that for you,” Hoare said. “I do have some powers, and access to the Secretary’s ear is one of them. An unpleasantly hairy ear, yet a very acute one. But it was the Secretary…” He fell silent, staring.
Puzzled by the look, Durendal said, “I trust you can find a corner for me to call my own?”
“Absolutely! Will a two-wench bed be adequate? You realize you’re officially dead, don’t you?”
Durendal had been about to quaff ale. He lowered his tankard. “News to me. How did that happen?”
“I do believe that it was Secretary Kromman himself who originated that report. The King issued—”
“Kromman? Ivyn Kromman, the inquisitor? He’s alive?”
His host kept an intent gaze on Durendal while taking a long drink. “Very much alive. Very close to His Majesty. Useful fellow. Relieves the Chancellor of many of his burdens.”
“Do keep talking.” Durendal caught himself transferring his ale to his left hand, which was a danger signal in a swordsman.
Hoare had noticed. “He returned from some foreign mission about a year ago. He had picked up some very valuable intelligence in Isilond—on the way back from somewhere else, rumor has it—and that brought him to His Majesty’s attention. About a month ago, he was appointed personal secretary.” Pause. “He has taken up his duties with celerity and diligence.”
“Tell me how I died. I’ve forgotten.”
“No details were revealed.”
“Would it be possible for me to have that audience before the Secretary learns that I am undead?”
“How long since you came in the gates?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Too late, then.”
Silence.
“You know Master Kromman?” Hoare asked quietly. “But of course, he arrested your— I mean the late lamented Marquis. You met him that morning?”
“I have met him since, too.” To reveal more, even to Hoare, might be very unwise.
More silence. Granted that Kromman had witnessed the rejuvenation conjuration in the monastery, had he actually managed to steal a sample of that revolting feast and use it to save his own life?
No. From what Everman had said, even a single mouthful would have bespelled him, so he would have been forced to go back to Samarinda and join the brethren or else die the following dawn. But Kromman’s cache of inquisitorial conjurements had included spiritually enhanced bandages and simples, so it was just possible that he had managed to heal himself. Just barely possible—wounded, without horse or water, stranded in the endless wastes of Altain. Even if he had possess
ed some means of calling his horse back to him, it could not have been a pleasant experience. He would be no more friendly now than he had been before.
What had he told the King?
“I believe that an audience may be more urgent than I first thought, brother.”
The Commander pushed away his tankard half full. “Give me an hour. He’s going to be inspecting the west wing. I’ll borrow livery for you—you can’t meet him looking like that. You want an escort in the meantime?”
“Flames and death, man! In the palace?”
Hoare shrugged. “No, of course not. I’m just jumping at shadows.”
“There must be a lot of them around,” Durendal said grimly.
He had an hour. He went straight to the White Sisters’ quarters and asked to see Mother Superior. Several of the sniffers came and went while his heels were allowed to cool in the corridor outside the ornate door, and he noted that they, at least, had not changed their traditional habit for any of the newfangled fashions.
The door opened again. Mother Superior was a very tall, gaunt woman with a supercilious nose and awl-sharp eyes. Her hennin almost touched the lintel, which was a good ten feet up, and she brought with her an eye-watering fragrance of lavender. She had not been Mother Superior when he left, but he remembered her. Judging by her expression, he had the spiritual attributes of a warm dung heap.
He bowed. “I am Durendal of the Royal Guard, Mother. I have been away for some time on His Majesty’s business. I have just returned.”
Her gaze traversed from his face down to his travel-scuffed boots and back again. Her pursed lips said pity!
“I wish to see one of the sisters. We were friends. Sister Kate?”
The pursed lips had become a clenched jaw. “We have no sister by that name.” She began to close the door.
