by Dave Duncan
Ironhall--the King entered by the royal door and
went directly up to Grand Master's study.
There Grand Master waited, fussing around, vainly
trying to flick away dust with a roll of papers and
mentally reviewing his notes for the thousandth time. A
small fire burned in the grate, a decanter
of wine and crystal goblets waited on the table.
He was a spare, leathery man with a permanently
bothered expression and a cloud of white hair
reminiscent of a seeding dandelion. Foolish though
it seemed, he was presently as nervous as anyone
in the school. This was the first time he had played
host to the King. Usually the Blades' own rumor
mill ground out warnings of the King's visits, but this
time it had not.
The previous Grand Master, Sir Silver,
had ruled the Order for a third of a century; but
half a year ago the spirits of time and death had
caught up with him at last. His memory still
haunted this room--his ancient furniture, his
choice of prints on the walls, even some of his
keepsakes still cluttering the mantel of the
fieldstone fireplace. His successor had added
a tall bookcase and his own books, plus a
large leather chair, which he had ordered made
to his specifications in Blackwater as a
celebration of his promotion. Nothing else.
Long ago he had been Tab Greenfield,
unruly younger son of a minor family, which had
disposed of him by enrolling him in Ironhall--the
best thing that had ever happened to him. Five years
later he had been bound by Taisson II in the
first binding of his reign, becoming Sir Vicious,
enduring eight years of routine and futile guarding
before being dubbed a knight in the Order and so freed.
Having a longtime interest in spirituality, he had
enlisted in the Royal College of Conjurers and
had done some original work on invoking spirits of
earth and time to increase the stability of buildings.
He had even toyed with ambitions of becoming grand
wizard, but eventually the opportunity to merge his
two careers had brought him home to Ironhall as
Master of Rituals. Last Ninthmoon he had
been genuinely astonished when the Order chose him
as Grand Master and even more surprised when the King
approved the election. He was about to be tested in
his new duties for the first time.
He had a problem, a candidate who did not
fit the pattern.
The King was taking his time! Possibly he had
ridden round to West House to inspect the fire
damage. The noise of the carpenters working was
faintly audible even here, although Grand Master had
grown so used to it now that he never noticed it.
He looked around the room yet again. What might
a new Grand Master have forgotten?
Flames, his sword! Only a bound Blade
could go armed into the King's presence, and Grand
Master should be the last one to forget that. Appalled
that he had so nearly made a major blunder, he
drew Spite and stepped up on the muniment
chest to lay her on top of the bookcase, out of
sight. His baldric and scabbard he folded
away in the chest itself.
He was just closing its lid when the latch
rattled on the inconspicuous door in the corner
and in walked Hoare--a typical Blade, all
lean and spry. Until now his only distinguishing
features had been a grotesque tuft of
yellow beard and a vile juvenile humor, which his
chosen name did not deny, but now he sported the
baldric of Deputy Commander across the blue and
silver livery of the Royal Guard. Smiling,
he advanced with hand outstretched.
"Grand Master! Congratulations!"
"Deputy! Congratulations to you, also."
Hoare had a grip like a woodcutter. "My,
we are coming up in the world, aren't we?" His eyes
raked the room. "How does it feel to be chief
keeper of the zoo?"
"Very gratifying. How does it feel to step
into Durendal's shoes?"
Hoare shuddered dramatically. "I expect it
would make me very humble if I knew what the word
meant." He shot a quizzical glance at the
older man. "Odd business, that! Did he
by any chance drop any hints while he was here?
Where he was going? Why the world's greatest
swordsman needs a Blade to guard him?"
"Not a peep. I was sort of hoping you might
tell me."
They exchanged matching frowns of frustration.
Hoare shrugged. "Hasn't been a word from
anyone. Grand Inquisitor probably knows, but
who's going to ask her? The Fat Man isn't
talking. Never forget, Grand Master, that kings have
more secrets than a dead horse has maggots,
and most of them nastier. Even Leader swears he
doesn't know."
Grand Master would believe that when Montpurse
himself told him so; he got on well with the
Commander. "Leader is not with you this time?"
"Yes, he's coming. Janvier? Something
wrong?"
There was another Blade standing in the doorway,
a younger one--Janvier, a rapier man who had
been Prime very briefly and bound on the King's
last visit, together with Arkell and Snake. He
had always been quiet, acute, and self-contained,
but why was he just standing there like that, head cocked,
frowning as if listening for something?
Grand Master opened his mouth, and Hoare held
up a warning hand. He looked amused, but Hoare
always looked amused.
Sir Janvier marched unerringly across
the room and stepped up on the muniment chest.
"There's a sword up there." He sounded more
aggrieved than surprised.
Hoare grinned like a pike and waggled a
reproving finger at Grand Master. "Naughty!"
Incredible! "How does he do that?" Many
Blades had instincts for danger to their wards, but
Grand Master had never witnessed sensitivity on
that scale.
"Wait till you hear about the wood sliver under
the King's saddle! Tell Grand Master how you do
it, brother."
Young Janvier had jumped down, holding
Spite, and was admiring the unusual orange
glint of the cat's-eye stone on her pommel.
He looked up blankly. "I don't know,
Grand Master. I heard it buzzing. It's you who
should be able to tell me."
Buzzing? "There are some reports in the
archives. ... I resent the implication that my
sword is in any way a danger to His--"
"Any sword can be a danger if it falls
into the wrong hands," Hoare said. "You're
supposed to set us kiddies a good example.
Put that wood chopper somewhere safe."
Janvier headed for the corridor door, peering
at the inscription on the blade as he did so.
"Why Spite?"
"Why not!?" Grand Master snapped. Seeing
another man handling his
sword was a novel and
extremely unpleasant experience. Spite was
.his and he had not been separated from her in almost
thirty years.
At that moment the door at the bottom of the
stairwell slammed. Hoare ran across
to Janvier and shot him out of the room, Spite and
all. He had the corridor door closed again and
was standing with his back to it and his face completely
blank when the heavy tread approaching reached the
top step.
The King ducked his wide, plumed hat under the
lintel and paused to catch his breath. He stood
much taller than any Blade and was visibly
bigger than he had been on his last visit, much
too large for a man not yet forty. The current
fashions made him seem gargantuan--puffed,
slashed sleeves on a padded jerkin of
green and red hanging open to reveal a blue silk
doublet, legs bulging in striped gold and green
stockings, green boots. The tawny fringe of
beard was flecked with silver, but Ambrose IV
of the House of Ranulf showed no signs of
relaxing the granite grip with which he had ruled
Chivial for the last eight years. His
amber-colored eyes peered out suspiciously between
rolls of lard.
He acknowledged Grand Master's bow with a nod
and a grunt. As he unfastened his mud-spattered
cloak of ermine-trimmed scarlet velvet,
Montpurse materialized at his back to lift
it from the royal shoulders. Then the Commander turned
as if to hang it on a peg, but Grand Master had
been unable to think of any reason for that peg to be
there and had removed it so he could hang a
favorite watercolor in its place.
Montpurse shot him a surprised smile and
laid the garment over a chair. With flaxen hair
and baby-fair skin, he looked not a day older
than he had on the night he was bound. Spirits!
That was just after Grand Master came back
to Ironhall ... was it really almost fifteen
years ago ...?
The Commander closed the outer door and took up
his post in front of it. Without removing his hat,
the King headed for the new leather chair and settled
into it like a galleon sinking with all hands. He was
still short of breath.
"Good chance, Grand Master."
"Thank you, sire, and welcome back
to Ironhall." Vicious reached for the decanter.
"May I offer you some refreshment?"
"Ale," said the King.
Grand Master strode to the other door and peered
out. Wallop and the Brat were waiting in the
corridor as he had ordered--the Brat looking
scared to death. But Janvier and Scrimpnel were
standing there also with the patience of mountains, and
Wallop held a tray bearing a large
flagon, a drinking horn, two pies, several
large wedges of cheese, and sundry other
victuals. Wallop had been a servant at
Ironhall since it was built, within a century
or two, and he obviously knew the present
king's preferences. Granting him a sheepish
smile of thanks, Grand Master took the tray
and bore it back to the monarch. He laid it on
the table as Hoare whipped away the wine
to make room.
The King reached a fat hand for the flagon. "So
how are you settling in, Grand Master?"
"With great satisfaction, sire. I welcome
this opportunity to thank you in person for the
extreme honor you--"
"Yes. When will the repairs be completed?"
Ambrose put the flagon to his mouth and drank
without taking his shrewd, piggy gaze off Grand
Master.
"By the middle of Fifthmoon, sire, they
assure me. We shall be ... We are looking
forward to it." The school was presently packed to the
rafters, although a dozen elderly knights had
been temporarily evicted to find other
accommodation. To point that out to a touchy monarch
might be dangerous, since the overcrowding was partly
due to his delay in harvesting qualified
seniors.
"Thunderbolts in the middle of winter?" The King
wiped his beard with his sleeve and glowered
suspiciously. "You are satisfied there was no
spiritual interference? None of those batty old
pensioners experimenting with conjuration? Kids holding
midnight parties and upsetting candles?" His father
had always seen conspiracies where others did not.
Perhaps all kings did. Why else the Blades?
"Thunderstorms can strike Starkmoor at any
season, sire. Some superstitious people tried
to relate the accident to the death of my
predecessor so soon before." Did the King's
scowl mean that he was one of them? "I do not
believe in ghosts, and if I did I could never
believe Sir Silver would return from the dead
to attack the Order he served so long and well.
The storm brushed Torwell also. It roared
half the night away here. We have some very deaf
old knights among us and I don't think one of
them was asleep when we were hit."
The King grunted and reached for the drinking horn.
"So what have you for me this time? How many stalwart
young swordsmen, hmm?"
"A great many, Your Majesty. A couple of
them are outstanding. I fancy the King's Cup will be
safe from outsiders for many years to come."
"I'll have you drawn and quartered if it
isn't!" He laughed, and the famous royal charm
dismissed any threat in the words. "We don't have
Sir Durendal to rely on now."
Ah! "We don't?"
"No we don't." The King cut off that line
of conversation. "Start with Prime."
Noting that he had not been invited to sit down,
Grand Master stepped away from the fireplace in
case he forgot himself so far as to lean an elbow
on it. He folded his hands behind his back and
prepared to perform like a soprano reciting the
Ironhall creed.
"Prime is Candidate Bullwhip, my
liege. A fine--"
"Bullguts!" The King glared as he filled
the horn. Foam spilled over his hand, but he
ignored that.
"Sire?"
"Bullballs! How shall I feel if I must
address one of my guards at court when he has
a name like that? In the presence of the Isilondian
ambassador, perhaps? I know you said Bullwhip,
Grand Master! I had occasion many times
to reproach your predecessor for some of the absurd
names he allowed boys to choose and that is an
egregious example! I hope you will display
better judgment!" Scowl.
Hoare, standing safely out of sight behind the King,
stuck out his tongue.
Grand Master bowed, recalling that two days
ago he had approved the registering of a
Candidate Bloodfang who stood less than
five feet high and had freckles. "I shall inform
Master of Archives of Your Majesty's
instructions
." He wasn't going to change the
tradition, no matter what the King said. The right
to choose a new name mattered enormously to a
recruit. It was a rite of passage,
recognition that the old person was forgotten and from
now on he was who he said he was, to be whatever
he could make of himself. This was going to be a stormy
audience if Ambrose objected to a name as
innocuous as Bullwhip.
"Well, carry on!"
"Yes, sire. Bullwhip is an excellent
saber man."
Silence. The King wanted more. He took great
personal interest in his Blades, like a horse
breeder in his stable.
"Not truly outstanding with a rapier, but of course
that's speaking relatively. By any standards but the
Blades' he is superb."
The King paused in raising the drinking horn
to his mouth. "The man himself! If I'm
going to have him under my feet for the next ten years,
I want to know what to expect."
"Yes, of course--"
"I can still assign him to my Minister of
Fisheries, you know!"
"Er, certainly, sire. Bullwhip is,
hmm, solid. Popular. Not especially
imaginative, but very, um ... solid."
Hoare rolled his eyes. Grand Master
resisted a temptation to throw something at him,
preferably a sharp knife. Hearing no further
comment from the King, he plunged ahead.
"Second is Candidate Mallory,
sire." At least Ambrose could not object to that
name. "A rapier man, a very fine rapier man.
Personality ... lighthearted, jovial, well
liked. But not flippant at all, sire! Good
all-rounder, I'd say. No problems." He was
not doing well at this. In a year or two, when
he'd had more practice and knew what to expect
... He could feel sweat running down his
temples, and the King could probably see it. The
trouble was that all the candidates were good men. The
weaklings had long since been driven out. He was
expected to find fault where there wasn't any.
"Umph. And third?"
Wait for it ... "Candidate Raider."
The royal glare chilled the room. "That is
another example!"
Five nights ago, right here in this room,
Grand Master had asked advice from the
celebrated Sir Durendal, who was one of the
King's favorites and reputed to handle him
better than anyone except possibly
Montpurse. "Never let him bully you,"
Durendal had said. "If you don't know, say
so. If you do know, stand your ground. He
respects that. Give him an inch and he'll
