by Dave Duncan
another forbidden outcome. Sir Dog's desire
to visit his childhood cannot be satisfied by any
means known to modern spiritualism."
"And did you explain that to him in words he could
understand, or did you amuse yourself by confusing him with
technical jargon and overblown vocabulary?"
Jongleur hung his head. "I did not understand
that he was acting on Your Majesty's behalf."
"Well you do now. You will go and find him at
once and explain the problem in detail, until
he is completely satisfied. Do you understand?
Furthermore, since my request was directed
to Grand Wizard, I shall expect a written
reply from him to be delivered to my secretary,
Master Kinwinkle, before I return
to Grandon. Otherwise you may see the
inside of the Bastion." She turned her glare on
Lothaire. "And you, Master, will remember that
Sir Dog's past is none of your business.
Nor his future, either."
She stalked back into the Forge, leaving them on
their knees. The whispering there stopped abruptly
when she entered.
Now she had something else to worry about. She
should not have lost her temper! Dog was her weak
point. Enemies could strike at her through him.
She did not have time to work up a good fret over this,
though, before Audley came trotting down the steps
and presented her with a dispatch just in from Chancellor
Burningstar.
The ports of Horselea and Tharburgh had
declared for Fitzambrose. Neville himself had
been reported in Pompifarth, claiming royal
honors and issuing a summons for Parliament
to meet there, instead of in Grandon.
Members of Your Grace's Council, the
letter concluded, respectfully recommend that
Your Grace consider declaring Pompifarth to be in
a state of insurrection and in breach of the Queen's
Peace; and that Your Grace may wish to charge the
Black Riders with freeing its loyal
inhabitants from the traitors who have deflected
them from their true allegiance and to bring all
contumacious subjects under the royal mercy; but
the Council will of course loyally wait upon Your
Grace's instructions. The Council, in
short, was not going to start a civil war without the
Queen's command but was protecting itself in case things
got worse before she returned.
The Queen was in no mood to start a war,
civil or uncivil, but as she rammed swords
through fourteen young hearts that night, she found herself
wishing that one of them belonged to Neville
Fitzambrose. That one, she would cheerfully chop
in slices.
She still had to preside over the general
assembly before she could leave Ironhall and
race back to the capital. Knights and some
private Blades had been flocking in ever
since she arrived; and on the morning after the binding
the Loyal and Ancient Order of the Queen's
Blades assembled for the first time since 361, when
Sir Saxon had been elected Grand Master.
Master of Archives, that professional
pedant, muttered that there was no record of a
general meeting of the Queen's Blades, not ever.
Now there was, for the Head of the Order, seated below
the broken sword of Durendal, was Queen
Malinda the First, bejeweled and wearing a crown.
More than six hundred men had gathered in the
hall. The entire Royal Guard was present,
still in the old blue liveries, alas, because the
Queen could not afford to outfit them with new.
Snake and his Old Blades were there in force, as
were knights so ancient that they could remember
Ambrose II and would insist on doing so if
given the slightest encouragement. Every private
Blade in the land had begged and bullied his ward
to attend, and many had consented. These non-Blades
were shunted off to a safe, quiet corner to dispose
of a butt of fine wine from the royal cellar, but
no other strangers were present.
The ceremony was brief and matter-of-fact,
yet many an eye blinked tears. Grand Master
read out a blood-chilling list of additions to the
Litany, including a "Sir Wolfbiter,
slain in a far country" and ending with Sir Abel.
But the main business of the meeting concerned the three
Blades who had been crippled at Wetshore:
Sir Bellamy had lost a leg, Sir
Glanvil the use of an arm, and Sir Dorret
had been both blinded and horribly mutilated
by a kick from a horse. For half a year they had
lived in torment, driven by their bindings to defend
their ward and balked by physical inability.
The conjuration to release them could hardly have been
simpler, yet only the sovereign could perform it,
and Amby had not been capable. Each in turn
knelt before the Queen with bared shoulders, and she
dubbed him knight, touching his flesh with the sword that
had bound him. Right after that, as Snake cheerfully
remarked, they could go off and get roaring drunk for the
first time in their lives.
Commander Audley floated in bliss, ever at
the Queen's side, being Leader before the entire
Order, the youngest ever recorded. No other man
had ever gone from Prime to Leader in just half a
year, either. Much drollery was being lobbed around just
behind his ears, on the lines of
"do-you-suppose-his-fencing-will-improve-when-his
comballs-drop," but he could pretend not to hear that.
He was not allowed to hear the praise, of which there was
considerably more; the Guard had developed an
affectionate respect for its mascot
commander. He had made no mistakes, and that was a
talent swordsmen valued highly.
Malinda, for her part, could breathe more easily.
As long as she had the power to release Blades,
she was sovereign. They recognized her, their
bindings recognized her, and no one could deny her.
That situation might change very rapidly, though,
and her intention was to leave as soon as possible.
If she went by midday she could reach Bondhill
by sunset and be home before noon tomorrow. She would
find more trouble waiting there, she had no doubt. So
she fretted through the ceremonial meal--which was
barely appetizing, because Ironhall was neither
staffed nor equipped to create banquets--and through
some very windy speeches after it. She cut her own
remarks to a barely decent brevity and departed,
knowing the knights would now indulge in a memorable
orgy of drinking at her expense. Companions were
kept sober by their bindings.
Even in Ironhall she went nowhere without an
escort, and she was dogged upstairs by fourteen young
men who could hardly endure to let her out of their
sight. She went straight to the royal chamber, a
solitary oasis of luxury in Ironhall's
; stony austerity, furnished with her father's taste for
overstuffed, overcrowded mishmash. There she found
Dian laying out her riding clothes, but she also
found Winter.
"What are you two getting up to?" she said
cheerfully, then saw that he had more on his mind than
Dian. She dropped the smile. "Spit it out!
And I don't mean your thumbnail."
"Your Grace ... I've been talking
to knights." Winter was rarely so hesitant.
Either he had not finished solving his problem or he
could not convince himself of the answer he had found.
"There are knights from all over Chivial here."
"And?"
"There's something strange going on just west of
here." He pulled his hat off and scratched his
hair. "At Lomouth, Waterby, Ashter ...
all around Westerth, southern Nythia ...
Mayshire."
She waited, knowing that interruptions would only
slow him down. Hunter and Vere were quietly
inspecting the room for hidden assassins, while the
rest of the fourteen had packed up in the doorway
and corridor behind her, reluctant to push past
their sovereign.
"Lots of knights," Winter
mumbled. "Sir Florian from Waterby mentioned
it first, then Sir Warren, who's running a
private fencing school near Buran. ...
They're good men, my lady! So then I started
asking, and hunting out others to ask, and I got
eight or nine certains and a couple of
probablies. ..."
"Tell her!" Dian snapped.
"Please do," Malinda said.
"Hiring swordsmen, Your Grace! And
men-at-arms. And even farmhands. Strong arms and
weak heads, if you know the expression. Several
hundred, at least. I think someone's building a
private army out in the west, here, Your
Grace." He stared nervously at Malinda, like
a child expecting a scolding.
She was training herself to take time to think. So she
took time to think. Her first conclusions remained
unchanged. In troubled times, men of property
naturally wanted protectors, no matter what
the law said about private armies. Half a
dozen bullyboys to guard a mill or dockyard
were of no account. A thousand or two with weapons and
veterans to train them would be something else
entirely. But who could find the money to do that? She
couldn't!
"Is it only hereabouts? Have you asked?"
Winter nodded vigorously. "There's some of it
going on all over, yes. Fitzambrose is
openly hiring in the north. Farmers everywhere are
screaming about a shortage of hands to bring in the
harvest. But, it does seem a lot just west of
here, Your Grace."
What else was bothering him? "Any idea
who's behind it?"
"Mayshire seems to be the center, Your
Grace." Winter drew a deep breath.
"Several people mentioned your cousin, Prince
Courtney." He waited anxiously to see how
Her Majesty liked hearing her heir being accused
of treason.
Until death do us part.
CHIVIAN MARRIAGE CONTRACT
The members of the Council rose when their
sovereign entered--three women and sixteen men
around a paper-littered table. She and her
Guard had spent the night at Bondhill and
been on the road again before dawn, pounding along in
a blustery wind that threw rain and sleet
by turns. At Abshurst she had told Audley
to send his best two horsemen on ahead to warn
Chancellor Burningstar to call the Council
into immediate session. She stalked in with Audley and
Winter, all three of them soaked, windswept,
and muddy.
"Please be seated, Excellency, my lords and
ladies." Malinda squelched down on her
chair at the head, facing down the length of the table
to Chancellor Burningstar.
Everyone had noted Her Majesty's evident
displeasure and was trying to appear noncommittal,
with varying degrees of success. The new Mother
Superior, especially, tended to simper or chew
her lip as conditions warranted. She was a pale
little spider of a woman; it seemed she and her
predecessor belonged to different factions of the
Sisters, because they obviously detested each other.
Today lip biting was in vogue. The Dowager
Duchess of De Mayes was doing it too. None
of them could come close to Grand Inquisitor's
graven inscrutability. Master Kinwinkle
remained standing at his writing desk.
Malinda chose to give the suspect a chance
to redeem himself. "What bad news do you have this
fine day, before I tell you mine?"
The Chancellor peered over the eyeglasses she
had recently adopted. "The members of your
Privy Council are, as always, deeply
honored to have you join their deliberations, Your
Majesty. We were considering a map Master
Kinwinkle has prepared, showing the insurgent
garrisons."
A paper was hastily passed along and spread
out before the Queen. She frowned at the red names
disfiguring the outlines of her realm like festering
pox. The north was especially bad, for
Neville's supporters were concentrated near the
Wylderland border, but there were pustules less
than a day's ride from Grandon itself. The absence
of trouble spots in the southwest now seemed
ominous.
"None of this is especially new. Can we
continue to deny that we have a revolution on our
hands?"
"Local unrest," grumbled the Duke of
Brinton. "Horse of a different
color. These towns are being held against the
Queen's Majesty by armed bands of malcontents.
The inhabitants in general are, we can be
certain, loyal subjects of the crown."
"Is that true, Grand Inquisitor?"
Malinda asked.
Lambskin spread his hands. "We have conflicting
information, Your Grace. In some case yes, in
others no."
"So you see no imminent armed rebellion
springing up?"
"Certainly not imminently, no."
He had been given his chance. He had failed.
"Setting Fitzambrose aside for a moment,
I believe the Council should hear certain information
we obtained at Ironhall. Sir Winter?"
Winter stepped forward and began to recite. He
was more confident now, having had time to prepare, and
he spouted a damning stream of names and places.
The last name, of course, was that of Prince
Courtney.
"Have the honorable members any questions to put to the
guardsman?" Malinda inquired sweetly.
Most of the honorable members were staring hard at
Grand Inquisitor. It isn't just me, she
thought. They all suspect him. They don't
think it's just age and incompetence.
The old man glanced calmly around the table,
waiting for others to speak first.
Inquisitor?" Her cheeks bore little red
rosebuds of anger.
"It is an impressive indictment," he
said. "All hearsay, of course, but still disturbing.
If I may presume, without prejudice to your
royal cousin's loyalty, Your Grace, would it
not be advisable, in these uncertain times, to summon
His Highness to court to explain what, if anything,
may lie behind these rumors?"
"What can, other than treason?"
Lambskin cracked his knuckles.
"Defense. Baelish ships have been seen
skulking in the Westuary several times in the last
few months. The locals fear a major
Baelish raid, which is something we have all dreaded
since the collapse of the treaty last spring. Before
Your Grace was born, King Aeled scored the
greatest triumph of his bloody career by seizing,
looting, and razing Lomouth. While still not what it
was, the city is now prosperous enough
to repay another rape. Since his son has never
touched it, Lomouth would not be an unlikely
target for him to choose now." He scanned the
company again, as if assessing reaction. "Your
boy may merely have stumbled on traces of many
landowners looking to their own protection. To assume
that His Highness the Duke of Mayshire is behind
all the recruiting is to jump to unwarranted
conclusions."
Butter should be so smooth. Malinda kept
tight hold of her temper. "We fully intend
to summon him before this Council. Would you care
to explain why we learned of the situation at a
drinking party, instead of from our Office of General
Inquiry?"
He shook his mummy head sadly.
"Overtaxed resources, mainly, Majesty. The
inquisitors have been concentrating on
Fitzambrose. I did withdraw five agents
from the north last week and dispatch them to the west
country to investigate why our permanent
personnel in the Prince's household had
fallen behind in their reports."
"What in flaming britches do you mean by,
"permanent personnel," eh?" the Duke
demanded, suddenly scowling. "You dare to plant
spies on a prince of the realm, the Heir
Presumptive?"
Grand Master's glassy stare avoided him,
wandering around the rest of the company instead. "Her
Majesty's Office of General Inquiry
keeps watch on anyone who might present a
threat to the Queen's Grace."
