by Dave Duncan
Happily wearing his sword again, he went down to the Guard Office, where he found Bandit listening with a tolerant smile to a dozen bragging juniors. This party was more sober than the riot going on in his own quarters, but no less exuberant.
“The King wants you.”
“Me, Leader? Me? He doesn’t know me from a long-eared owl. Why?” Bandit was little changed from the fresh-faced kid Durendal had met on the moors the day he returned Fang to Ironhall, but he was as solid as Grandon Bastion and personable to a fault. He would handle the King as deftly as he wielded a rapier.
“I have no idea. He specifically asked for you, though.”
The thick line of eyebrow bent in a frown. “There’s been a mistake! He must be confusing me with one of last night’s heroes. I did hardly anything.”
“Tell him so to his face.”
Bandit straightened his doublet and hurried off. His excessively puzzled expression was a small ray of pleasure on a very gloomy day. Durendal glanced around the company and was satisfied that none of them had guessed.
“Again I tell you that I am proud of all you,” he said, “and so is His Majesty. He sends his thanks and his congratulations.”
He would have done if he had thought of it.
Nor did Durendal’s face give away anything when he returned to the party that was rapidly turning his quarters into a rook’s nest—not even to Kate, who could usually read his features through an oak door, and who at last sight had been wearing the gold chain he was seeking but was not wearing it now. He summoned her with a glance. Frowning, she came squirming through the merrymakers to reach him. He backed out to the corridor. At close quarters she sensed the absence of his binding and lit up with a smile like a fanfare of bugles.
They hugged.
“At last you’re mine!” she said. “And I am Baroness Kate?”
“And Countess Kate after the next dubbing.”
“Oh?”
“He made me chancellor.”
Her smile wavered. She tried to hide her feelings behind coquetry, which she was never good at. “I shall need a whole new wardrobe!”
“If that’s all it takes to compensate you, then I’m a far luckier man than I deserve.” He kissed her, wondering what he had ever done to deserve such a woman. “Can you forgive me?”
Someone roared his name, the old name he had been so proud to bear.
Her smile was back—a little thinner, but very fond. “Forgive? I am bursting with pride. You wouldn’t be the man I love if you’d refused him. Can I wear the chain sometimes?”
“Only in bed.”
“That sounds a little bizarre.”
“Wait and see—we’ll both wear it.”
Even his bedroom was packed with revelers, so he could not shed his Guard livery yet. He gave the party a few more minutes, then slipped away again and plodded off in search of his predecessor, whom he found alone in his office, setting heaps of papers in rows on the desk. For once—perhaps because he was stooped or because the room was dim—his flaxen hair made him seem old. He looked up with a smile and lifted the chain from his shoulders.
“You knew!” Durendal said with relief. “You might have given me a hint!”
The ex-chancellor shook his head. “I guessed, that’s all.”
“You put him up to this!”
“I swear I did not. We never discussed it. You are the obvious choice. There just isn’t anyone else he would consider for a moment. Here.” He set the chain around Durendal’s neck. “Suits you. Congratulations.”
“Condolences are more in order.”
“Oh, you’ll be a great chancellor, but I admit that there is a sense of relief.” He sighed contentedly. “I’ve had seven years of it—he’s drained me.” He was showing no bitterness, no regret. He had always had grace. “I was terrified he’d appoint some birdbrain aristocrat. Oh, by the way, that chain is gilded copper, not gold. Make sure the receipt you give Chancery for it says so, just in case someone accuses you of embezzlement one day.”
“You’re joking!”
Montpurse chuckled. “Some of our predecessors fell into even sleazier traps than that. Now, I’ve sorted these by urgency. Start at this end.” He waved his successor to his own chair and took another. “Let’s see. What isn’t in here? What’s too secret to be written down? Well, as one ex-Blade to another, let me warn you about Princess Malinda.”
Durendal wondered how soon he could resign. Would half an hour be too short a term? “You are telling me that the King’s children are my concern now?”
“Everything is your concern now,” Montpurse said cheerfully. “She’s sixteen and has her daddy’s temper only more so. The sooner you can get her judiciously married off, the better.”
Amen to that! Durendal had already had some clashes with Princess Malinda, but if Montpurse had not heard about those, then he need not be troubled with the information now. He was a free man.
“And there’s the war,” the free man said. “There’s only one way to stop that, of course.”
Durendal realized that he knew very little about the Baelish War. The council never discussed it. “Which is?”
Montpurse gave him a long stare. “You don’t know that story?” He spoke more softly than before. “No hints, even?”
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Ambrose started it. The whole bloody Baelmark disaster is all his fault. I’m astonished it hasn’t leaked out by now.” He smiled, a smile much like his old smiles. “Well, Lord Chancellor, in this case what you don’t know won’t hurt you. Keep as far away from that whole Fire Lands business as you can. Perhaps, but only perhaps, it will end when Ambrose is ready to make a groveling apology to King Radgar. He knows that, but I’ve never had the courage to suggest it. Good luck there.”
“I am not qualified for this! You have tact and—”
“But you have courage, friend, which matters more. That’s what he needs—someone to tell him the truth when he’s wrong and save him from himself. You’re the man.” Montpurse leaned back with a smile. “Anything I can do to make the transition easier, of course, just ask. I’ll be glad to help all I can. But there is one more thing I must warn you about.”
Durendal fingered the accursed chain. “All right, tell me the worst.”
The buttermilk eyes were guarded. “We’ve been friends a long time.”
“Flames, yes! Ever since that night I gave you your sword and you came and thanked me—you realize how long ago that was? And when I was a green Blade, just come to court…. I disgraced myself and everyone else fencing with the King. You could have slaughtered me and you didn’t. And what you did for me when the Marquis—What’s wrong? Why even mention it?”
There was sorrow in Montpurse’s smile—and amusement, of course, and appeal, perhaps. “Because Parliament will have my head.”
“No!”
“Or the King will. Be quiet and listen. Princes are not easy to serve. They in turn serve their realms, and realms are without mercy. One of the first things you will have to do is—”
“I’ll stuff this damned chain down his throat first!”
“No you won’t. I did the same to Centham. Will you button up your lip a minute? Ambrose has made a mistake, several mistakes, but kings can’t make mistakes. They all have to be my fault. A chancellor’s job is to bear brunts.”
“Kromman—”
“Kromman wins this round. He’s too insignificant to blame.” The ice-blue eyes seemed to darken for a moment. “Never take your eyes off that one, friend! Remember that Ambrose loves to yoke the ox and the ass together and play them off against each other. But you can handle Kromman. Parliament is another matter.”
“I won’t be a party—”
“You’ll do what the King needs. I tell you that it is your duty, that I bear no malice, that I did the same thing myself. May chance preserve you when your day comes, brother!”
Durendal felt ill. “Fire and death, man! If that�
�s what’s in the wind, then we’ve got to get you out of the country, and fast!”
Montpurse shook his head resignedly. “No. I swore long ago to give my life for him, and this may be the way I have to do it. It will give him a fresh start, and you also. Parliament will simmer down once it has tasted blood. Now I’m going to go home and tell my family the good news. The bad news will come when it comes.” He rose and offered a hand. His palm was dry, his grip firm, his gaze steady. “You’ll see they don’t suffer too much, won’t you?”
11
Many a fencing bout was decided by the first appel. Some instinct told Durendal that he would never meet the King’s standards as first minister unless he began with a decisive move. He had everything to learn about fighting in this new arena, he had huge amounts of backlog to absorb, and suddenly the days were a third shorter than they had been—he must waste the nights in sleeping. Nevertheless, he had attended every meeting of the Privy Council for more than five years. He knew the King, he knew the issues, and he felt very confident when he presented himself for his first formal audience as chancellor.
He had to wait more than an hour for it to begin, because the river had frozen over. His Majesty was off roistering at a court skating party, complete with an orchestra and marquees set up on the ice. Ale was being mulled, chestnuts roasted, and whole oxen turned on spits. The former commander wondered how many of the Guard could attend their royal ward on skates, but that was one worry he had been spared, in return for the many hundreds he had acquired. Eventually darkness ended the joyous occasion, sending the King back to the palace and the council chamber.
Durendal was relieved to see that the Blade on duty by the door was Bandit himself—who had guessed that Durendal was responsible for his promotion and had almost forgiven him already. Bandit would not tattle if his predecessor made an unholy fool of himself in the next hour.
However, finding Kromman about to follow him into the council room also, Durendal said, “Out!” and shut the door in the Secretary’s face.
Ambrose was already slumped in his chair of state like a heap of meal sacks. He straightened, glowering, as Durendal bowed to him.
“What did that mean, Lord Chancellor?”
“With respect, Your Majesty, I crave the right to make my confidential reports to you alone.”
“Or?”
“No ‘or,’ sire. I merely ask that I make my confidential reports to you alone.” He met the resulting anger squarely. He could resign now, although it would hurt horribly.
The King drummed fingers on the arm of his chair. “We shall reserve judgment. For now, you may proceed. What are you doing about my marriage?”
Even having watched the fencing at innumerable council meetings, it still felt strange to be a player. The question was designed to throw him off balance, but Ambrose was not being deliberately unkind to his tyro chancellor. It was just his style. He treated everyone that way.
“Nothing, sire.” The real question was whether the fat old man really wanted the fuss and bother of a fourth wife at all, but he probably did not know the answer himself. “Since no ships can sail for at least a month, I wish to make a humble suggestion that Your Majesty use the breathing space to consider appointing a new emissary—a fresh start to go with your new ministry.”
The King grunted, which was usually a good sign. “Who?”
“Have you thought of the Lord Warden of Ports, sire?”
“Why?” There was sudden threat in both the question and its escorting glare. The King might consider the warden the greatest bore in Chivial, but the man was an aristocrat and a sort of relative; and no upstart gladiator was going to make fun of him.
“Sire, as a member of your family, he would carry weight with the Gevilian royal house. He is also an accomplished negotiator.” And Ambrose would love to send him overseas, far from the royal ear.
“Talks like a pigeon, you mean.” The King grunted again, meaning he wanted time to think about it. “You have to go before Parliament tomorrow. What are you planning?”
This was the day’s business, why Durendal had come.
“I ask Your Majesty’s permission to tender this brief bill for its approval.” Durendal extracted a sheet of paper from his case and offered it. He had spent half the night with two attorneys on that one page: A Bill to Wreak Justice upon Those Responsible for the Late Outrages at His Royal Majesty’s Palace of Greymere and Divers Other Persons Transgressing by Conjuration Against the King’s Peace and Public Decency.
Ambrose would not admit that he needed glasses. He heaved himself out of his chair and stomped over to the window. He read the offending document at arms’ length, then returned it with a shrug of contempt. He began to pace.
“Chicken drippings. Sparrow feathers. You can’t identify the culprits, can you?”
“The inquisitors say that’s a job for the Conjurers, sire, and the College says it is up to the Dark Chamber. They may be able to narrow it down to a dozen suspects between them, that is all. Even then, they’re only going by—”
“Don’t blather. If you mean no! then say no! Save the pig swill for Parliament. Talk all you want there—although never, ever, tell an actual lie, not even to some lowly, smelly fishmonger.”
The King continued to pace, warming to his task. No one knew more about directing parliaments without letting them know they were being directed than Ambrose IV, who had been at it for nineteen years and was now starting to train the fourth chancellor of his reign. “The second thing to remember is that everything has its price. Parliament is a great beast that gives milk only when fed. If it wants redress, it must vote taxes. If we want revenue, we must make concessions.”
Durendal wondered what Bandit was making of this, his first insight into the innermost kitchen of the state.
The King turned at the window and stood with the cold winter light at his back. “Tomorrow, they’ll start with a lot of huffing and puffing about the Night of Dogs, with loyal addresses to me, demands for the culprits’ heads—the sort of drivel you just showed me. Then they’ll get down to business, and the first thing you will tell them is that you have had Montpurse arrested.”
So soon! Montpurse had warned him, but must it be his first act? “Sire! But—”
“I have not finished, Chancellor.” Give him his due, the King did not look as if he was enjoying this. “I just told you, everything is done by trade. We need revenue. We give them Montpurse. If we don’t, they’ll pass an Act of Attainder against him. Then he’ll be even worse off and we’ll have gained nothing—understand? And you’re the new boy. We must make you popular, the Champion of Parliament. If you can just hang on to that for the first couple of sessions, you may achieve something.”
“Sire, my loyalty—”
“Is to me. The better Parliament likes you, the better you can serve me. You’ve gone over the books, I hope?”
“I have had them explained to me.”
“That’s what I meant. The Exchequer is bankrupt. We shall have to give enormous redress to win any additional revenue—your predecessor’s head will be only the start.” The King scowled and resumed pacing. “Our Great Matter will be defeated now. They’ll claim it puts the stability of the realm at risk. You have a hard campaign in front of you, sirrah! I hope I have chosen a fighter to lead my troops?”
So here it came, the lunge he was counting on. He might doom his career as chancellor with this one suggestion. Or he might win a glorious victory and even manage to save Montpurse. “Your Majesty’s counsel will be invaluable to me. I have so much to learn…. But may I presume to ask…to offer a proposition, which is probably out of the question because of some legal snag I don’t appreciate, but which in Your Majesty’s greater experience may—”
“You’re blathering again.” The King planted his fat fists on his even fatter hips and eyed his new pupil warily. “What would you do?”
“That bill I showed you—it would authorize you to close down any elementary which offends aga
inst public decency. If it is approved, I shall advise Your Majesty to prorogue Parliament.” That would save Montpurse.
“What?” The King’s jaw dropped onto a layer of chins. “Go on, man, go on!”
“Well, why just tax them if Parliament will let you shut them down? You could confiscate their lands entirely. Begging your pardon, sire, but who needs taxes?”
The King stumped over to his chair of state and lowered his bulk onto it. Durendal waited to be told that he was an ignorant blockhead with congenital insanity. If the solution was so simple, surely Kromman or Montpurse or the King would have seen it long ago? Ambrose was going to laugh him to scorn and in a few months—just long enough that he would not have to admit he had made an error of judgment—he would find himself a new chancellor, one who did not advocate absurdities.
Yes, the King did begin to laugh, but he laughed until his belly heaved and tears streamed down his roly-poly cheeks into his beard. When he managed to catch his breath, he wheezed, “And I accused you of not being a fighter! You’re proposing outright war! Stamp them out!”
This sounded promising. “They started the war, sire. Of course, there will be considerable danger when they realize what we are up to.” The Guard would have a thousand fits—Bandit already looked as if he had just been kicked in the duodenum.
But Durendal had guessed his king would not shrink from the prospect of danger and the supposition was correct. The royal fist thumped on the chair. “Blast them all! If we have to call on the Destroyer General, we’ll do it! How will you proceed? Who’ll bell this cat?”
“The inquisitors will want to, of course, and so will the College. I’d prefer to set up an independent Court of Conjury. Investigate, convict, disband, expropriate, and move on to the next. Obviously, some of the orders are beneficial—license them and let them continue. I don’t for a moment suppose you can reclaim the entire one fifth that Secretary Kromman mentioned, and you may glut the real estate market, but I doubt that your treasury will run dry for a year or two.”
