Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands

by Dave Duncan

  has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"

  Another silence ...

  Wasp wanted to look at Raider and see if

  he could offer any hints, even just a nod or a

  head shake, but Raider had been removed from

  view. Whatever was Raider planning? He had

  nothing: no money, no home, no relatives.

  All he had ever said about his family was that both his

  parents had died in a fire. That was something

  they shared, because so had Wasp's. A peasant's

  smock and nothing else. He did have his

  Ironhall training. Any nobleman needing a

  household guard or a fencing instructor would

  jump at a chance to hire an Ironhall man.

  So why let King Ambrose drive a nail through

  your heart and serve him body and soul for ten years

  or more? Looked at in that light, Raider had

  made a very logical decision. Ungrateful,

  larcenous, and rapacious, perhaps, but he could leave

  at any time. Those had been the terms offered.

  Wasp's hesitation was becoming obvious. The

  King was glaring. Grand Master was glaring.

  "Wasp!" Raider shouted from somewhere in the

  background. "Don't be a fool! Don't do

  it!"

  Why not? They could go together.

  "No, Grand Master. I am afraid I

  cannot."

  Blades did not approve of upstart sword

  brats who insulted their liege lord. Hoare

  cracked no jokes now, and Montpurse's

  fair face was dark with anger. They removed

  ex-Candidate Wasp from the royal presence,

  jostled him along to the guardroom, and pushed him

  into a corner with his face to the stonework. He was

  told to stay there and say nothing. He was aware that

  Raider had been similarly placed in the

  opposite corner, because Raider tried to speak and

  then cried out when someone struck him. After that there was

  silence.

  King Ambrose was not an absolute despot.

  Unlike monarchs of less enlightened lands, he

  must observe the law and truckle to Parliament

  to some extent. But if he chose to throw two friendless

  Ironhall orphans into the rankest dungeon in

  Grandon Bastion and leave them there to die of old

  age, who would call him to account?

  As time dragged by, one thing became more and more

  certain--Raider had not acted on the spur of the

  moment. More than anyone else Wasp knew, he

  always kept his head and thought things through. Having

  decided to refuse binding, he would have counted on

  at least a few hours' grace to make his

  escape, because the King's visits were normally known

  in advance. He had not intended to provoke a

  confrontation. But he had, and then

  dumb-kid Wasp had jumped in and turned it

  into a conspiracy. They had insulted their king.

  Enraged their king.

  Guards came and went, for this was the Blades'

  own room at Ironhall. Words were spoken--not

  many, but enough to inform Wasp that a dozen astonished

  seniors had been summoned to the Flea Room and

  eleven had agreed enthusiastically that they were ready

  to serve. The King was now dining in the hall.

  Bullwhip and Mallory had been sworn

  to silence. If refusals were treated as state

  secrets, they might not be so rare after all.

  Perhaps they buried the bodies on the moor.

  Long after sunset the miscreants were fetched

  to Grand Master's study, which Wasp had not seen

  since his far-off days as the Brat. The King

  stood in front of the fireplace, showing no

  evidence that dinner had improved his mood. Behind

  him logs crackled cheerfully on the hearth and

  candle flames danced atop silver candlesticks

  on the mantel.

  The prisoners were stood by the window, facing the

  King but on the far side of the book-littered table.

  Janvier was already guarding the outer door, and when

  everyone else had departed, Montpurse took

  up position before the inner one. That was all, just

  five of them, no Grand Master, no witnesses.

  Would the Guard commit murder on the King's

  orders?

  Wasp had not had a chance to exchange as much as

  a wink with Raider since this catastrophe began.

  Raider must have reasons, or at least some

  plans, so when the King finished his glowering and started

  asking questions Wasp would have to take his cue from him.

  The King cheated--he began with Wasp. "When

  is your birthweek?"

  "First quarter of Fourthmoon, Your

  Majesty." His voice sounded very small, even

  to him.

  "What year?"

  There was going to be a problem here. "Um,

  340, sire."

  The King had very tiny eyes, and at that news they

  seemed to shrink even smaller. "You aren't even

  seventeen yet! How old were you when you were

  admitted?"

  Gulp. "Eleven, Your Majesty."

  "And how old did you say you were?"

  Wasp whispered, "Thirteen ...

  sire."

  "So you gained admittance under false

  pretenses! For five years you have eaten my

  food, slept under my roof, worn my clothes,

  taken lessons from my instructors, and now you

  think you and your friend can just walk away without paying a

  copper mite?"

  There was no answer to that. Wasp hung his head.

  "Look at me, thief!" roared the King.

  Wasp raised his chin. As he had come

  to Ironhall, so was he leaving. He was back

  to being the Brat again. Raider had not kept all the

  torment from him then, and Raider could do nothing at

  all for him now. No one could shield him from a

  bullying monarch with a phalanx of enthralled

  swordsmen eager to satisfy his whims.

  "What's your real name?"

  Something rattled its chain, wanting out. "I

  don't remember!"

  Raider cleared his throat in quiet warning.

  King Ambrose raised a fist. "Well,

  boy, you had better start remembering, because

  I'll get the truth out of you by whatever means it

  takes. I can have inquisitors here before dawn, and

  you can't lie to them. I can have you put to the Question. I

  can have you tortured. Or I can do it the easy

  way. Commander Montpurse, if I ask for

  three or four volunteers to interrogate this

  suspect, what sort of response will I

  get?"

  "Enthusiastic, sire. Blades don't like

  ingrates and renegades."

  "Some men never recover their health after that sort

  of experience--you understand, boy?"

  "Yes, sire."

  "Then what's your name and where did you come from?"

  Even then the resentment straining at its chain

  made him delay a moment before he answered, just

  to watch the King's anger mount. "W. My father was

  Kemp of Haybridge by Norcaster."

  "And what happened to him?"

  Not fair! Everyone knew that admittance

  to Ironhall was a fresh start, that a man would

  never be as
ked for his old name or details of his

  old life. The slate was wiped clean. Even the

  law said that, the charter. But the King was the King.

  "The Baels got him," Wasp muttered. His

  father, his mother, his brothers, and a few older

  relatives. It had been the last raid of the war

  --in fact the war had been officially

  ended and all Chivial celebrating with dancing and

  bonfires, but one Baelish ship had either not yet

  heard the news or had chosen not to listen. The King

  was waiting for details. "The squire rallied

  everyone into the big house, but the Baels burned

  it." Wasp had been out in the hills, gathering the

  cows for the evening milking. He had seen the glow of the

  fire in the dusk. ... The raiders had come for the

  cattle and looked for the herd boy. He had hidden

  in a badger's sett, wriggling in feet first,

  terrified the badger might start chewing his toes but

  more terrified of the two-legged monsters hunting him

  above ground. In the morning they had gone, but there

  had been nothing of Haybridge left, nothing at

  all. ... "I had nowhere to go, no one to turn

  to. I walked here. I lied to Grand Master because

  I didn't want to starve to death out on the

  moor."

  The King's fat lips moved in and out as he

  considered this answer. "And tonight? Why did you

  refuse to be bound?"

  Now Wasp could look up at Raider for

  help. But Raider was ignoring him, staring

  glumly at the King.

  "My friend needs me."

  "Why?"

  "I ... I'm a better swordsman than

  he is."

  "And why does he need a swordsman?"

  "Er ... I don't know."

  The questions flashed like rapiers. The answers

  grew more and more pathetic until Wasp was reduced

  to repeating, "He saved my life!" over and over

  and the King shook his head in exasperation. "Grand

  Master certainly nailed you in the gold. You're

  an idiot child, Will of Haybridge! A

  brainless, headstrong, immature brat!"

  Wasp's anger had all gone. He just hoped

  he wasn't going to weep. Anything but that!

  "Yes, sire."

  "You've thrown away everything and you don't even

  know what you chose instead. What's your name,

  Bael?"

  The switch came without warning, but Raider

  smiled as if he had expected it. He glanced

  over the audience--Montpurse, Janvier,

  Wasp--and shrugged.

  "You guessed who I am, Uncle."

  Wasp jerked out of his misery and took a hard

  look at that familiar bony face with its

  invisible eyebrows and lashes, brilliant green

  eyes. Same man as always. Uncle? Had

  Raider simply gone insane? Had the King? Was

  that what all this was about--craziness? Raider had

  always denied being a Bael. How could he be the

  King's nephew if he was really one of those

  monsters? Aha! Wait a moment! Wasp

  recalled a dim memory of Master of

  Protocol mentioning some obscure and disgraceful

  connection. ...

  The King scowled. "Why did you refuse

  binding?"

  "Because binding would kill me. I am already

  enchanted."

  Montpurse's sword flashed into his hand.

  Raider eyed him warily. "The conjuration cannot

  harm anyone else. If His Majesty wishes,

  I can demonstrate its effects."

  "Sir Janvier?" growled the King.

  Janvier seemed more puzzled than worried.

  "He does feel like a threat to you, sire, but

  only vaguely. ..."

  Ambrose dismissed this diagnosis with a

  snort. "Show us."

  "Yes, sire," Raider said calmly.

  "Commander, I must remove my doublet."

  Montpurse took a step closer, still

  clutching Talon, and Janvier drew his sword

  also. They watched like cats as the prisoner

  stripped off his jerkin and then his doublet. Moving

  deliberately, he rolled up his right shirt

  sleeve, exposing an arm like any ordinary arm--

  somewhat slender for a swordsman's perhaps, but a quite

  respectable pale-skinned and boyishly hairless

  forearm. "Now, Commander, if you would fetch me one

  of those candles?"

  The King himself grabbed a candlestick from the

  mantel and stood it on the table. Raider drew

  a deep breath, set his teeth, and put his arm in

  the flame.

  The King muttered an oath, but otherwise

  everyone just stared in disbelief. Obviously it

  hurt. Sweat streamed down Raider's face and

  his lips curled back in a rictus of pain. His

  arm trembled with the effort of will needed to hold it

  steady, but there was no visible change where the flesh

  should be blistering, turning black, smoking.

  "That will do!" said the King sharply.

  Raider snatched his hand away and wiped his

  forehead. He held out his arm to confirm that

  there was no mark on the skin. Now that the ordeal was

  over, he was trying not to smile at the King's

  obvious shock. Montpurse, resting a finger

  over the candle, winced and drew it back

  instantly. Raider rolled down his sleeve.

  King Ambrose scoffed, but he had been

  shaken. "A clever parlor trick! What does

  it prove? Are all Baels immune to fire?"

  Again Raider did not deny the insult. "No,

  sire. But a massive enchantment like mine will

  deflect any other conjuration, or at least

  distort the balance of the elements in it. I'm sure

  that's why Master of Rituals could not stop my

  growth. If you thrust the sword through my heart I

  will die. Besides, how would the sniffers at court

  react to me?" He smiled ruefully at

  Wasp. "I also showed you that my companion's

  loyalty is misplaced. Yes, I carried him

  out of West House, but I was in no danger. When

  my clothes burned, it hurt but did me no

  harm. I should not have claimed to be a hero when I

  wasn't, friend. I am sorry."

  Ridiculous! "You didn't claim anything,"

  Wasp protested. "What would have happened if

  you'd been half a minute later? What if

  we'd been still inside when the roof came down?

  I'd have died under tons of blazing timbers.

  What would you have done?"

  "I'd probably have used a lot of bad

  language."

  "Silence!" roared the King. "Any more insolence

  and I will have the Guard lay the rod on your

  backs, both of you. You can do tricks with a candle,

  boy, but you still have to convince me you're the lost

  atheling."

  Raider raised his brows in impudent

  surprise. "Gea! Ic wille mine

  oe`edelu gecy`edan, poet ic eom miceles

  cynnes. ..." * The King's glare made

  even his cocksureness falter at that point. "I

  will tell you of my noble kin, Uncle, for it is

  true that you have granted me hospitality for the last

  five years and a guest's duties--"

  * Yea! I wish my nobil
ity made

  known, that I am from great kinfolk. ...

  "An uninvited guest! A freeloader, a

  thief!"

  "Ah! Well, that depends."

  Wasp wondered what the two Blades were

  making of this. He did not dare look.

  He did not dare look anywhere except at a

  king who seemed very close to explosion. Never had

  he felt admiration for anyone more than he felt

  for Raider now. In an impossibly unfair

  contest he had brushed aside the King's attack

  and drawn ahead on points. Not that it could ever be

  a fair match, for the King could break it off at

  any point and summon the inquisitors. His

  talk of a beating was no bluff, either.

  "Depends on what?"

  "On what orders Sir Geste had and who

  issued them."

  The royal eyes narrowed. "Geste? Who's

  he?"

  "A former Blade, Your Grace. He was the

  one who brought me to Ironhall."

  "Don't recall any Geste in the Order.

  Do you, Commander?"

  "No, sire," Montpurse said. "Shall I

  send for Master of Archives?"

  "Perhaps later, when we have finally extracted the

  explanation we are still waiting for."

  Raider bowed. "Gladly I will give it,

  sire. But my friend and I have been kept on our

  feet for about three hours now. I very much need

  to relieve myself. A drink and a bite of food

  would be a generous gesture."

  The King scowled at Montpurse. "Send for

  some water and a piss pot." As the Commander was

  passing the word to someone outside the door, the King

  sank into the big leather chair. He pointed at the

  oaken settle opposite. "Sit there and

  explain how you got here."

  The command did not specifically include

  Wasp, but there was room for two on the bench and no

  one objected when he squeezed in beside Raider.

  "How I Got Here?" Raider said

  thoughtfully. "I suppose the greatest blame should

  be laid on Gerard of Waygarth. A nice enough

  young man, I understand, yet sadly misguided.

  He was of no real importance in himself, but back

  in 337, during your father's--"

  "Never mind him! You need not go that far back."

  Wasp felt peeved. Why would the King not let

  Raider tell the whole story? What could have

  happened twenty years ago that he still wanted

  kept secret?

  AELED

  II

  The story Raider wanted to tell would have

  gone something like this. ...

  Ambleport was a town of about a thousand souls on

  the southwest coast of Chivial. It thrived on