by Dave Duncan
“Let the Guard out. Disarm them, though.”
“We’re doing that, my lord,” Hereward said.
Choking and blinded men were staggering from the lodge, being expertly overpowered and stripped of swords and daggers before they could recover enough to object. The stone shell was an inferno, white fire showing through every window, half the roof gone. Harvest was in there somewhere.
A cheer greeted a band of Blades struggling out of the lodge with a bulky package that was presumably the King. That seemed to be the end of it. Anyone left inside would be dead now, for the floor beams were collapsing. The shed, too, was ablaze, but someone had released the horses.
“My lord?” Quarrel whispered. “Did I do right?” The snow was clinging to his eyebrows and hair.
“Yes, yes! You’re a champion! You saved the day! You made idiots of the Guard. Magnificent! You go on the Litany of Heroes tomorrow.”
“Got something for you…” Quarrel groped at his soiled robe.
“It can wait,” Durendal said, still cradling his Blade’s head.
Evidently it couldn’t, so he reached where the powerless hand fumbled, and in the pocket found a loose collection of cold…? Cold links! He hauled out the lord chancellor’s chain of office, glittering like a fiery snake.
“Your gold chain,” Quarrel mumbled. “Yours.”
Not ever again, but that did not matter. “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.” Durendal looked to one lanky youth and groped mentally for his name. “Willow, we must get a healer for him. Run down to the village and…” But a healer could do very little without a conjuration, and the octogram was under the blaze. He shuddered as he realized that his terrible act had probably killed Quarrel. “No, we’ll have to take him to Stairtown.”
The Queen’s men exchanged worried glances.
Hereward said, “And the King, my lord? The companions want their swords back.”
“No! No! Don’t return them yet.” The emergency was far from over. There might still be time for the Guard to rush the King to another octogram, although shouts from the trail meant a hundred witnesses were on their way. He could not imagine what sort of confusion was about to result, what sort of charges and countercharges would fly. More necks than his would be laid on the block over this night’s events, but the fewer the better.
“Look, Prime, I think you should all disappear now. Take the Guards’ swords with you, but go. You did what you set out to do—you and your army. I’m proud of you all. And I’m especially proud of…Quarrel? Quarrel!”
Willow knelt in the snow and felt for a pulse. He did not find one. “I’m not surprised, my lord. It was only his binding that kept him going. I think the rest of him died hours ago.”
No, it was not a surprise, but it hurt. Oh, how it hurt! In cold dismay, Durendal laid the body flat. He closed the empty eyes and folded the hands over the chest. There were too many things to do now to spare time for mourning. Far too many things. He had already believed Quarrel dead, so why did it hurt so much more the second time? If only he could have had a son like…
An animal scream howled through the night and was instantly joined by others. He lurched to his feet as the Blades began to rampage.
The hero of the hour was Candidate Crystal, who had been left with Bloodhand to guard the confiscated swords. When he saw the inanimate baggage that was the King being hustled out, he had the wit to gather up the weapons and hurl them through a window into the burning lodge.
Compared to some former massacres, such as the Blade Riot after the death of Goisbert IV, the resulting battle was a brief and minor affair. Less than a dozen of the Royal Guard were still active, and they were all unarmed. Even so, the fifteen Ironhall seniors on hand were boys against madmen, reluctant to use steel on unarmed opponents. Three of them went down before Hereward and Durendal rallied the rest and convinced them that this was a life-and-death matter.
Lord Roland was the obvious target, of course. The berserkers swarmed at him like starving weasels, intent on tearing him to pieces, and he could do nothing except hide behind his youthful defenders. Eventually he gained a sword from one of the wounded, but by that time most of the Blades had been disabled and had collapsed into pathetic, weeping impotence. The last one to fall was Bowman, stabbed through the thigh. The brief horror was over. The Queen’s men had prevented catastrophe. For that, at least, they could claim credit at their trial.
Feeling drained and deathly weary, Durendal went over to look at the King in the fading firelight. The courtiers had all fled into the night, but now they started creeping back like ants to a picnic, and most of them came to where he stood, to gaze like him in silent disbelief at the remains of the man who had ruled Chivial for so long. He seemed peaceful and very old, although probably not so impossibly old that anyone would suspect enchantment. The body bore no signs of burns or injuries, so either the smoke had killed him or his heart had given out as he was being rescued. Perhaps Ambrose, who had never feared anything, had died of fright. There were to be no last farewells, no harsh words of recrimination. The King is dead. I did this, Durendal thought. I killed my king. Whatever happened now, life would never be the same.
Snow was drifting around the corpse already. The storm was rapidly becoming a blizzard. Why was nobody taking charge? He had no authority. He just wanted to go away and weep, but someone must restore order. He recognized the fussy healer who had treated him in the lodge.
“You! Gather a work party and take His Majesty’s body down to the village.”
The little man jumped as if he had been asleep. “Oh, of course, my lord. Here! You…and you…”
Feeling that all his bones had been turned to lead, Durendal plodded back to the swordsmen. The Queen’s men were busy helping the Blades, wrapping on makeshift bandages, offering what comfort they could.
There was someone missing.
“Willow? Where is the Chancellor Kromman—does anyone know?”
“Oh!” said Willow, looking all around. “He was in the carriage, my lord. Quarrel recognized it and we stopped it. His guards got hurt, but they’ll live. We left them at a farmhouse and brought him—tied up, my lord.”
The coach was a heap of wreckage, so Kromman was very likely dead already. He would have to wait.
A kingless court was a headless animal. Still everyone else was waiting for leadership. Durendal drew a deep breath and bellowed over the hubbub. “The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”
The Ironhall candidates shouted approval. “Long live Queen Malinda!” Courtiers took up the cry.
Dragon was sitting in the snow, recovering from a blow to the head. His face was sooty and bloodied, his doublet scorched; he had lost much of his great beard, but sanity was back in his eyes again.
“Are you ready for duty, Leader?”
He nodded grimly. “But I don’t take orders from you.”
“I’m not trying to give orders, only advice. It may be weeks before the Queen can get here. There is no Parliament, for it dies with the sovereign and a new one must be summoned. There is no chancellor, for even if Kromman is still alive, he cannot live past dawn. I was officially dismissed, and your duty now is probably to see me locked up in the Bastion. Just at the moment, Leader, you are the government of Chivial.”
The Queen’s men reacted with snarls of disapproval. Hereward raised his scimitar, looking almost furious enough to use it. A youthful voice shouted, “Paragon!”
“Put that damned scythe away before you hurt somebody!” Durendal bellowed. “Thank you! Commander Dragon is in charge. All I can do is advise.”
Courtiers were crowding in, eager to meddle and participate in historical events. Soon there might be far too many leaders. But Dragon wiped a sleeve over his forehead and clambered to his feet with some help from Hereward.
“I’d appreciate your advice, my lord. We must arrange for the body to be conveyed back to Grandon.”
He was still confused. Dragon was not the man for this. Durendal explained patiently, “No,
Commander. Normally the first priority would be to escort the King’s heir to Greymere so that she could prevent a massacre when the rest of the Blades hear the news. As that isn’t possible, I suggest you head for Grandon with as many men as you can spare and disarm them one at a time. When old King Everard died they did that. Catch each man in turn in a net and have a dozen others around him shouting, ‘Long live the Queen!’ until he comes out of shock and joins in.”
Dragon scowled. “It’s my privilege to take the King’s signet to Her Majesty and inform her of her accession!”
What better way for a courtier to gain advancement from a new monarch? The messenger who delivered such tidings could expect an earldom at the very least. But give Dragon the benefit of the doubt—his binding must be burning like a rash, driving him to find his new ward.
“You going to walk to the Fire Lands?” Bowman limped forward out of the flying snow, leaning heavily on Spinnaker’s shoulder. “No ships sail in Firstmoon.” Here was competence, even if he was misinformed on that last point.
“Yes, it is your right,” Durendal told Dragon. “And Baels can sail in any weather. There’s one of their ships standing by in Lomouth for just this purpose. The captain’s name is Ealdabeard. The harbor master will direct you to him.”
“Oh?” Bowman asked with quiet menace. “And how do you know all this, Lord Roland?”
“Because I arranged it with the Baelish ambassador months ago, of course. We knew something like this might happen. Ealdabeard will get you to Baelmark if anyone can, Leader. In fact, if you leave right now you may just be able to catch the tide.”
Fortunately Dragon did not ask how Durendal could possibly know how long the ride would take him in this weather or when the tides ran in Lomouth. He merely said, “Take charge here, Deputy,” and disappeared into the snowstorm.
Durendal turned hopefully to Bowman.
“Got advice for me, too, have you?” the Blade inquired sarcastically.
“If you want it.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“First, seal this valley behind you so nobody gets out for at least three days. The snow will help. When you get to Grandon, find the Lord Chamberlain or the Earl Marshall. The King’s will is in Chancery, in the top drawer of the crown chest.” Neither Ambrose nor Kromman should have seen any reason to meddle with it in the last few days. “It provides for a council of regency until the new queen can arrive to take the oath. Here—” He held out the gilded chain that Quarrel had died for. “Give them this.”
Bowman took it as if he were afraid it might bite him. It certainly did its wearers little good in the long run. Apparently he was going to do as Durendal had suggested.
“Meanwhile,” Durendal said, “half your men are disabled. I suggest you put these admirable youngsters under your orders for the time being.”
The Deputy Commander glowered at the self-styled Queen’s men. They grinned cockily back at him.
“Even if they have written an epic chapter in the annals of Ironhall,” Durendal added, “they are probably in no hurry to go home and face Grand Master.”
Cockiness became apprehension, and grins worried glances.
“Good idea,” Bowman said. “You’re all conscripted. You can start by giving us your swords.”
It was over. Now a man could break out in a sweat and shiver. Durendal wandered off into the darkness to be alone.
The trouble had barely begun. And there were still loose ends. What of young Lyon, who had been only the first man to save his life this night? Where had he run off to? Where was poor Scofflaw? Had anyone rescued him? Even if he had escaped the fire, he would die when the sun came up. The rippling circles of tragedy would continue to spread. But none of that was his concern now.
Kromman. What about Kromman?
9
The carriage was a heap of twisted wreckage lying on its side. Three horses had escaped or been rescued, but the fourth had been put out of its agony by someone who had apparently not thought to look inside or had not done so carefully. When Durendal clambered up and peered down through the shattered door, his lantern at first showed only a jumble of fallen benches. Then he identified two bare legs protruding underneath, tied together at the ankles. Climbing down without putting his weight on the debris was no easy task in the uncertain glow of the lantern. Balancing awkwardly, he began to lift away the remains and throw them out through the roof.
Soon Kromman’s glassy eyes stared back at him. The face was a skull, plastered with dried blood and wisps of white hair. It might have been dead for years. “So you won!” it said.
Durendal almost dropped the bench he was holding. “I don’t feel as if I won. I’ll cut those ropes and get you out of here.” He cleared away the last of the wreckage.
“But there is no octogram, is there?” The familiar croak had shrunk to a sound like rats gnawing rafters. “The lodge was burning.”
“No, no octogram. The King is dead.”
“The reading was correct, then. I knew you would kill him one day.”
“I think you killed him.” Durendal drew his borrowed sword. “You gave him that filthy conjuration. The man I met today was not the king I served all my life.”
“Hairsplitting. You seek to justify your treason.”
“Perhaps.” He cut the ropes binding the spindly ankles, horrified at how cold the flesh was to his touch.
“You are wasting your time,” Kromman whispered. “How long till sunrise?”
“About an hour.”
“Hardly worth the effort, then, is it? My back is broken. I am in very little pain.”
Durendal moved the lantern closer. Kromman’s clothes were caked with blood. It was incredible that this frail and brittle old man had not died an hour ago, even if only from the cold.
Baffled, Durendal said, “I have to go and get help. You take a lot of killing, Inquisitor, but I daren’t try to move you.”
The bloodstained mouth twisted in a grimace. “If my pride allowed me, I would ask you to use that sword. Would it give you a lot of pleasure to kill me now?”
Durendal sighed wearily. “None at all. I grew too old for vengeance. You had nothing to fear from me.”
“Only the death of my king.”
He was abhorrent and contemptible, but he was dying. He could be pitied for that. There was certainly nothing to gloat about.
“I grant you that some of your motives were honorable.”
“My, is that the best you can do? Well, if we are making up, then I ask you, out of common kindness, to put me out of my misery. I beg you. I implore you, Sir Durendal. You would do as much for a dog.” The corpse eyes gleamed with mockery. Even now he was playing his spiteful games.
“You want me to feel guilty, whether I agree or not, don’t you? Well, I don’t feel guilty about you, Kromman. I don’t hate you, I just despise you, because all you ever wanted was power over other people—and when you had it, you used it only to hurt. I don’t think you were ever really human. You certainly aren’t human now. I’ll go and fetch some help.”
There was no reply. Leaving the lantern, Durendal climbed out of the wreckage and trudged back up to the lodge. He sent a healer and two stretcher bearers, but the old man was dead when they got there.
When the sun came up, turning the blizzard white instead of black, Durendal was standing in a makeshift morgue in the village. The King lay in improvised state in another room. This one held the rest of the night’s grisly toll: Scofflaw, Kromman, four Blades, three Ironhall candidates, one footman who had been caught in the rampage—and Quarrel.
They gazed in silence upon the hero.
“He died saving his ward,” Durendal said. “Take his sword, Prime. Her name is Reason. See she is put in her proper place and honored forever.”
“That’s your job, my lord.”
“I have other commitments.”
He was a regicide. He would be taken back to Grandon to pay the penalty for high treason. In himself he was unimporta
nt, but he feared that the entire seniors’ class of Ironhall might die with him, and that would be a tragedy.
10
The Lord Chamberlain was Durendal’s son-in-law. The High Admiral was his neighbor at Ivywalls. Three other members of the Regency Council were former Blades, and two more had been his protégés in Chancery. The Council’s first act was to summon him to Greymere and order him to resume running the government. He moved back into his old rooms as if nothing had happened. The country remained peaceful, mourning Ambrose with more nostalgia than love, plus no small apprehension for what might follow him. His body was brought to Grandon to lie in state and was then returned to the elements with all due pomp and respect.
The Baelish ship had sailed from Lomouth while the storm still raged, much to the astonishment of local mariners. Commander Dragon’s introduction to ocean travel must have been a memorable experience, but would a middle-aged woman venture the return voyage at that season, or would she send a regent? Or would she, Durendal wondered in private, ignore the summons and throw Chivial into chaos and civil war?
Three weeks to the day after Kromman had brought him his dismissal, a meeting of the Council was interrupted by news that a flotilla of Baelish ships had been sighted on the Gran. According to its minutes, the Council then voted to adjourn. In fact its members stampeded out the door and up the stairs to the south gallery, which commanded a good view of the river. The Baels had wasted no time. No one had expected a reply for at least another ten days, but there they were—sleek, beautiful, and sinister in the winter sunshine; three long vessels being rowed against both wind and tide into the heart of the capital. Although Durendal could make out no details at that distance, the Admiral asserted that they were indeed dragon ships. The absence of dragon prows or red war sails, he said, was a sign that they came in peace. The largest of them was flying an elaborate banner that might be a royal standard.
Lord Roland retired to his quarters and settled down to read a book. It was less than two hours before a squad of men-at-arms arrived at his door with a warrant for his arrest. It must have been almost the first document issued in the new reign, but somehow he did not feel especially flattered.
