by Dave Duncan
He stamped a foot in the opening in a fencer’s appel. “She was transferred to duties in Brimiarde about five years ago, just as I—”
“There is no Sister Kate in Brimiarde,” Mother Superior announced firmly. “There is no Sister Kate in the order. If you do not instantly remove your boot, I shall lodge a complaint with the Privy Council—just see if I don’t!” She slammed the door in his face.
Homecoming was not turning out as he had expected.
3
The clink of masons’ hammers and a powerful stench of paint were reminders that the west wing was still under construction. Hoare knew where he was heading, though, and led the way to a huge emptiness that must be destined to become a reception hall. It was lit by enormous windows along one side, while plasterers labored in a high spiderweb of scaffolding covering the opposite wall and tilers crawled antlike around the floor, creating swirls of color. He set out across it, aiming for a group of men standing at the far end.
“If you think this is big, you should see—”
“Halt!” A squad of four Blades blocked their path, and the foremost had his sword drawn.
Hoare roared, “Snake!”
“Beg pardon, Leader. Standing orders, sir.” Snake was trying with a notable lack of success to conceal his amusement at this opportunity to challenge his superior. He had been a new boy when Durendal left and now wore an officer’s sash, but neither maturity nor the voluminous new livery could make him look much less like his namesake than he had before. He was still as thin as a rapier. “The Sisters are questioning your compan—” His eyes widened. “Sir Durendal! You’re back! You’re alive!”
Durendal said, “Wait!” before Hoare could say anything he would have to retract. Two White Sisters were hovering in the background, both of them mature, competent-seeming women. One looked close to nausea and the other not far from it, and the cause could only be the contents of the heavy bag he bore in his left hand. “I was intending to present this package to His Majesty. It is a conjurement, yes, but I did not expect it to be still active.”
The three junior Blades were still adjusting to the presence of the famous Sir Durendal, but Snake himself—and, more important, Hoare also—had progressed to the next step. Their faces had hardened into doubt and suspicion. A man returns from the dead, heads straight for the King, and triggers the sniffers’ alarms. Who or what was he?
“You had better leave it here, brother,” Hoare said warily.
“It is fairly valuable, and I suspect the Sisters would rather have it removed from their presence.” He looked at them to make the remark a question.
“Whatever it is, it is vile!” one of the women snapped.
“You speak truer than you can know. Well, let us send it to a safe place.” Durendal laid down the bag and fished in his pocket for the golden bones. He transferred them to the bag without—he hoped—any of the watchers seeing either them or the gold block itself. “Leader, would you have this taken to your office, please? Without anyone looking inside it? And give orders for it to be kept safe and confidential.”
Hoare seemed reassured but not totally convinced. “Of course. Fairtrue, see to that. Take it to my office; stay and guard it until I get back.”
The young man thus addressed was sandy haired and fair complexioned, with a face suggesting more affability than intelligence. Durendal had met him before, because he had been introduced to all the candidates in Ironhall on the night of Wolfbiter’s binding, and now he recognized the other two Blades also. The beefy one had been Wolfbiter’s Second, by the name of…Bull-something. Bullwhip. His eyes were bright with hope. So were the others’. All three of them would have been friends and contemporaries.
He shook his head. “Just me. He died with great honor, though. I returned his sword to the Moor on my way here.” He watched their hopes die and imagined their reactions if they heard that Wolfbiter’s killer was now within the palace. But he did not want them to get to Kromman before he did. He would explain at the inquest. He handed over the bag to the one called Fairtrue. “Careful! It’s heavy.”
Too late. Fairtrue dropped it with a thud that shook the hall, fortunately missing his feet. He picked it up again with an embarrassed laugh. “Must be solid gold!”
“We don’t need a speech, Sir Fairtrue,” Hoare snapped. “What is required in the present instance is prompt obedience to orders!”
“Yes, Leader!” Pink faced, the youngster hurried away, canted sideways by the weight of his burden.
The men all looked to the sniffers, who exchanged worried frowns. They did not seem very reassured. Flames! Durendal felt in his pockets to make sure he had not overlooked any more of the gold bones. None.
“Have you been carrying that package for some time, sir?” asked the elder.
“Three years, sister.”
“Ah. You vouch for him, Commander?”
“I vouch for him before any man in the Guard.”
She was relieved. “Then we shall assume that it is only some residual odor…taint, I mean, a residual taint of the conjurement.”
The taint was on his soul, too. As Durendal proceeded on his way, he noticed Hoare gesturing to Snake to follow and bring his men. The incident was troubling, a shadow on his loyalty when he faced a showdown with Kromman over which of them was lying. And the King was obviously busy with other matters. To force bad news on him at such a time would be utter folly.
“Perhaps we ought to leave this for now?”
Hoare cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “Second thoughts? You? You’re certain that Kromman lied to him?”
“Yes.”
“Telling fibs to His Majesty is classed as treason, and there is nothing to which Ambrose the Great assigns greater priority than treason in all its multifarious manifestations. Just watch. Wait here, all of you.”
The King was consulting a roll of drawings, standing within an entourage of about two dozen men ranging from splendidly attired nobles to artisans in dirty rags, and dominating them like a swan among cygnets. At first he scowled when Hoare appeared before him, but his reaction to the whispered explanation was instantaneous, suggesting a full-force gale hitting a scatter of dry leaves on a courtyard. A moment later there was no one within twenty feet of him except Durendal, bowing low.
As he straightened, the King said, “You are very welcome back, Sir Durendal. Your return gladdens our heart.”
“Your Majesty is most gracious. It is always an honor and pleasure to come into Your Majesty’s presence.” It was, too.
Ambrose was certainly bigger than he had been, but his height and the skill of his tailors had turned obesity into mere overwhelming mass. A lesser man must have collapsed altogether under the magnificence of his attire—fur, brocade, cloth of gold; ruff, gems, gold. Only his face gave him away: the shrunken mouth, the mountain of butter encroaching on the famous amber eyes. There was white in his fringe of beard, and the rest of it had faded to a dull brown, yet he was still an unquestioned monarch. Durendal felt small before him.
“You escaped from captivity? We shall look forward to hearing of your exploits.”
“I was never captive, sire.”
The piggy eyes shrank to pinholes. “Then how exactly came you to be separated from Inquisitor Kromman?”
“I left him for dead in the desert, sire. I tried to kill him and am sorry to learn than I failed.”
A royal foot tapped on the tiles. “You had some reason for this, I presume?”
“Because he killed my friend and Blade, Sir Wolfbiter, and very nearly killed me also.”
The King looked slowly around the great empty hall. All the spectators backed away even farther. “We are waiting, Sir Durendal.”
“My liege. We arrived at Samarinda…”
He told the story in full detail. The King gave him his complete attention—he had always been a good listener. For twenty or thirty minutes the nobles and master craftsmen stood impotently silent, Blades and White Sisters conferred in faint whis
pers, tilers and plasterers worked their hearts out in case the King should glance their way. When Durendal had finished, two red blobs of fury glowed on the royal cheekbones.
“I was informed that you and your Blade insisted on breaking into the castle despite contrary advice from Master Kromman. When you did not come out at the agreed time, he returned to the lodgings you shared. He waited two weeks and when you still failed to appear he gave you up for dead and left the city.”
A man could not say, I know you appointed him Secretary only a month ago and to put him on trial for treason so soon will be a public admission that he deceived you, but I am sworn to defend you from all foes and that man is a liar and a killer.
All he could say was, “I am prepared to repeat my story before the inquisitors, sire.”
The King thumped the roll of drawings against his thigh a few times. “Trusting of you. Secretary Kromman told me his story in the presence of Grand Inquisitor herself.”
Death and fire! A trickle of sweat ran down Durendal’s ribs. The King was warning him that the inquisitors defended their own. Mention of Mother Spider raised the stakes considerably. If the King accepted his Blade’s story, he must at least dismiss and perhaps destroy a senior minister. Would he even dare to try? The Office of General Inquiry might not cooperate in decapitating itself. To be certain that he had the truth of this affair, he would have to put someone to the Question, and that was using sledge-hammers for drumsticks. The best Durendal could hope for now was dismissal from court. It was what he wanted, wasn’t it—retirement? Honorable retirement, though.
“I have the gold I mentioned, sire. Did Master Kromman describe the gold, and, if so, how did he explain his knowledge of it?”
The shrewd little eyes grew no warmer. “He said little about gold, but I am sure he can present other explanations of how you acquired it. I want to see this gold. Where is it?”
“In a bag in the Commander’s office, sire. The sniffers took exception to it.”
“Damn the sniffers. You may have brought a profit for…”
The King had turned to look for his Blades. Hoare was grinning, having just finished saying something humorous. The other three and the two White Sisters were all shaking with suppressed laughter, unaware of the royal glare suddenly fixed upon them. It felt like a month before one of them noticed.
Hoare came hurrying over. “My liege?”
“Go and bring me Sir Durendal’s bag.”
“Sire, the White Sisters were very…Um, yes. At once, Your Majesty!” The Commander backed away, bowing. His sovereign’s fury seemed to follow him all the way to the door like tongues of fire.
“Your return is most timely, Sir Durendal,” the King muttered.
Not sure what that implied, Durendal said, “For further evidence, I must have imprinted a substantial scar on Master Kromman’s belly.”
The King left off glowering after Hoare to glower at Durendal instead. “He was wounded when brigands attacked the caravan on his way home.”
Shit! “Sire, he has obviously kept his lies as close to the truth as possible. But he did follow us into the castle, he did not wait two weeks for us to emerge, he did close the trapdoor and the gate on us, he certainly possessed an invisibility cloak, which—”
“Those were his orders.”
“Sire?”
“The cloaks are a state secret, to be denied at all times. They do not confer invisibility, only a sort of unimportance, and they are extremely difficult to use. If an assassin walked in here wearing one, you would probably see a page or another Blade, and you would pay no heed—but only if the man kept his head. If he let his own attention wander for an instant, the cloak would reveal him. Kromman could no more have loaned you his cloak than you would loan an unruly horse to a man who has never ridden. It would have been useless to you. And if he did follow you into the killers’ den, then he was taking little less risk than you were.”
The swamp grew deeper every minute.
“He did not wait two weeks! He fled right away. He lied to you.”
“A man may reasonably conceal his own cowardice.”
“He used the cloak against me, sire, which is hardly the act of an innocent. He might just argue that closing the trapdoor was a necessary precaution with dawn breaking, but never that locking the gate was.” Was this now the extent of his complaint against the King’s personal secretary?
Ambrose glared at him as if he were a cast-bronze idiot. “It was already light. He assumed that you were either dead or had found a hiding place within the castle. The next night he went back and unlocked the gate and waited until dawn. He will also claim he tried to run from you later because he did not know who was pursuing him. He has hairs growing out of his nose. Is there anything else about him you dislike?”
That thumping noise must be earth falling on his coffin lid. “If that is what Your Majesty believes, then you had better put me to—”
“No!” bellowed the King. The watchers all shivered and retreated a few more paces. “I don’t believe it,” he continued in his former tones of quiet menace. “Accept an inquisitor’s word over a Blade’s—what kind of dunce are you calling me? He tried to steal all the glory and leave you to die, but I can’t prove it without putting one of you to the Question, so I won’t. He is a bottom-feeding worm, but a prince must use the tools available to him, and very few are beyond reproach, as you are. I congratulate you on a superb accomplishment. You have lived up to your glorious reputation, Sir Durendal.”
Speechless, his Blade bowed.
The King said, “Name your reward.”
Fire! He thought of that estate he had never seen. Release? No, not that. And he had sworn to obey his liege, not to pander to his feelings. “Justice for Wolfbiter’s death, sire.”
The King swelled, his fat fists clenched, his beard bristled. “Sirrah, remember your place! Not even you can speak to me like that! Name another.”
“I want nothing else except to continue to serve Your Majesty as best I can.” To Be With and Serve—that would be Harvest’s answer if he could ask her the same question. It was the purpose for which he had been made.
Ambrose accepted the amendment with reluctance. “Very well, I will grant you that. But you will remember that justice is mine, Sir Durendal. I will have no duels or blood feuds in my court.”
Oh?
The hall stilled like a mill pool after a trout has taken a fly. Courtiers and Blades fell silent; even the busy artisans paused in their clinking and shuffling, as everyone sensed the confrontation—the mysterious newcomer glaring rebelliously at his sovereign, the King’s face growing steadily more inflamed while he waited for assent so dangerously withheld. Veins began to bulge at his temples. His foot tapped. The onlookers exchanged shocked glances, held their breaths.
Long seconds crept by as Durendal wrestled with his soul. His friend and defender had been foully betrayed; he had bungled the necessary retribution. How could he claim one speck of manhood if he did not seek out Kromman again at once and complete the job? What use would he be to himself or anyone else if he had to live with that crushing shame? It would destroy him.
But defiance now would destroy him even sooner, certainly before he could empty Kromman’s blood on the floor. Even if he were merely banished instantly from court, he would be ruined: a Blade without a purpose. What else was he good for except guarding the King?
How could he serve any king who decreed such injustice?
But he could almost hear Wolfbiter warning him not to be impulsive, arguing with cold-blooded logic that this man was the only king he had, and a good one in spite of his faults. Ambrose had more pressing concerns than the death of one of his Blades. Blades were dispensable. They accepted their powers and privileges in full understanding of the price. A monarch with a kingdom to rule, responsible for millions of lives, could not shatter the smooth running of his government by deposing Grand Inquisitor and her minions over a petty personal squabble. Sometimes even the best of k
ings must dilute justice with policy. And so on.
Oh, Wolfbiter!
He bowed his head in misery. “As Your Majesty commands.” Wolfbiter, Wolfbiter!
Ambrose continued to scowl. “We trust that any wishes we may convey in future will be granted more seemly acknowledgment, Sir Durendal?”
A last flicker of rebellion: “No command Your Majesty can ever give me will hurt more than that one.”
And a final spark of royal anger…but then a grudging nod. “You have not lost your brash insolence. A little of that can be refreshing, but don’t overdo it. And no one understands better than we do how readily a ward is inspired with countervailing loyalty to his Blade.”
“Thank you, sire.”
“Your return is timely,” the King repeated. “Commander Hoare frequently displays an inappropriate attitude to his duties. You replace him now as commander of our Guard. And I won’t have him as your deputy, either.”
Speechless, Durendal knelt to kiss fingers like thick pink sausages.
4
It was typical of Ambrose that he left Durendal the job of breaking the news to his predecessor, which he did as soon as they returned to the overembellished Guard headquarters. Hoare heard of his dismissal in his own bordello of an office.
He closed his eyes in rapture. “Oh, bless you! Bless you! Bless you!”
“You mean that?”
“I will kiss your feet if you promise not to tread on my tongue. Flames, I’ll do it anyway!”
“Get up, you idiot!”
Truly, the former commander did not seem to be faking his delight. He hurled himself into a chair and bellowed, “Wench! Wench! A bottle of sack for a celebration!”
“I shall need your help,” Durendal said unhappily.
“Anything you want, brother, but I know you—it won’t take you long to pick up the reins.” Hesitation. “Did he mention release for me?”
“Um, no. I can recommend it, of course. You don’t want to crawl off and rot on Starkmoor, do you?”
