by Dave Duncan
his rapier, ignoring Victor and Bullwhip. The
third man was Durendal, who was in a class
by himself and always had been--right from his beansprout
year, according to the legends. Wasp had seen him fence
only once and then he had made even
Wolfbiter look like a crippled turtle. He
was tall for a Blade, although not as tall as
Radgar--dark-haired, bony, aquiline
features with heavy eyebrows, dark eyes of
startling brilliance.
Flames! Wasp did not want to leave his
wife a widow, his children orphans. Things had been
going so well. ... He made a courtly bow.
"Sir Durendal! I am honored. I did
not know a man of your eminence stooped
to executions."
"That is not why we came, Sir Wasp."
Durendal's voice was deep and melodious.
"I am sorry if our precautions lead you
to believe otherwise." He removed his dagger--
an ornate and valuable-looking sword breaker
half an arm long--from the vicinity of Hans's
gullet and slid it back in its sheath on his right
thigh. Then he stepped well clear of Hans.
"Would you be so kind as to explain to your scribe that
we intend him no harm? He ought to be sent home
to change, but I prefer to keep him here until
we have cleared up any misunderstandings."
Wasp hoped his own face was not displaying
anything like the expression of sick terror that he
could see on Hans's. "They mean you no harm,"
he said in Thergian. "I know them." Then he
caught a whiff of what had upset Durendal.
"Don't sit on the furniture, will you?"
"I apologize for our unorthodox entry,
Sir Wasp." Durendal negotiated
as he fenced--graceful and deadly. "Desperate
situations require desperate remedies." He
offered a hand. "We have met before, but I confess
I do not recall you, brother."
Of course not. He would have noticed the tall
redhead standing beside him that night, but Wasp had never
been memorable like Radgar. "When you came
to Ironhall to bind Wolfbiter. I remember
you, Sir Durendal." He had first seen
Durendal a few years earlier, when he
returned to Ironhall for a second binding, but
they had not met then.
The visitor withdrew his ignored hand with no
sign of annoyance. "If you would be so kind as
to spare me a few minutes I hope we can do
business together. Even if we do not, I swear that
we mean you no harm."
"Then I swear not to throw you all out on your
ears," Wasp said curtly. "Pray follow
me."
Being the finest swordsman of his time,
Durendal had succeeded Montpurse as Commander
of the Royal Guard, although he must have been dubbed
knight by now--Wasp did not keep up with the
affairs of the Order to which he had so briefly
belonged. The man had a reputation for honor, but
the effort it took Wasp to turn his back on the
intruders told him that he did not trust the
protestations of friendship. Their respective nations
had been at each other's throats for eleven
years now, and nobody remained untouched by the
steady piling up of hatred. Whatever the
Blades' purpose in coming, it was not to reminisce
about old times on Starkmoor.
He led the way into his office, which was large and
bright, offering an unexpected view of the Grand
Canal. The furnishings displayed the sort of
pleasing simplicity that comes only at incredible
cost--a half dozen chairs grouped around a
solid oak table, an escritoire, a cabinet
for refreshments, a few candelabra, some oil
paintings. The intruders had been sniffing in there
already, for on the table lay a folded and sealed
parchment he had not seen before. He walked around to the
far side as Durendal closed the door. The
henchmen having remained outside to guard Hans,
the two of them faced off across the table.
The visitor gestured to the letter.
"Tell me," Wasp said angrily.
Those brilliant dark eyes were
missing nothing, studying him as intently as if
swords had been drawn already. "A royal
pardon for all events related to the death of Sir
Janvier, companion in the Order. It applies
to both you and your ward, although I doubt he will be
interested."
"What makes you think I am?" In theory,
Wasp could overcome this visitor with a surprise
attack, lock the door, and escape out the
window. With only one arm it would be tricky, but it
might be done. Against any man except
Durendal he might even try it.
"It is not meant as a bribe, Sir
Wasp."
"It looks like it."
"Then appearances are deceptive. I insisted
on that pardon as an expression of good faith,
nothing more. I am satisfied that you acted that night
in the best interests of your ward as you saw them. I
also insisted that your name be entered in the rolls of the
Order--you were never expelled, because you had never
been recorded. As of now you are a companion in
good standing. Obviously your binding is no longer
operative." He tried a smile. "I am
most curious to know by what means--"
"I fail to see where this is leading," Wasp
said angrily. He had noticed that repeated word
insisted, and knew he was intended to notice it.
"My allegiance lies with Baelmark. I am
no longer bound to King Radgar, true, but I
serve him loyally and always will. I could add that King
Ambrose himself ordered me to do so, but I have no
intention of testing that argument in a Chivian
treason trial. Kindly state your business,
Sir Durendal."
"To end the war."
Flames! Wasp took a deep breath.
"I have no authority to negotiate."
"I do. I want you and me to settle it here and
now, across this table, as brothers in the Order who
should trust each other to speak without deceit. You have
the ear of King Radgar and I am Lord Chancellor
of Chivial."
Oof! Wasp should have known that and had not.
Montpurse was gone, of course, after many years
as Ambrose's first minister. The replacement
appointed last Firstmoon or thereabouts had been a
Lord Someone, a name that had meant nothing to him.
Now his ignorance had put him one point down in
the match--a match in which he had nothing
to win and his life to lose. If Durendal couldn't
wring out a treaty, he might yet settle for
settling old scores instead.
"I beg your lordship's pardon. May I
ask if the government of Thergy is aware of your
presence here in Drachveld?" Wasp saw no
reaction in those obsidian eyes--he had never
met a man so unreadable--but he suspected that
he had just evened the score. Durendal must be under
enormous pressure to conclude the meeting
speedily and return to his ship.
"It is not. This is a very brief and very
private visit. May we sit down?"
"I prefer to stand. State your terms, my lord.
Why should Baelmark end the war?"
"Because it is ridiculous, uncivilized.
Baelmark is not big enough to invade and conquer
Chivial, but you have command of the seas and can prevent us
building and training a fleet to use against you. The
result is bloody stalemate. It causes
suffering and waste and tragedy. Must it drag on
forever to so little purpose?"
That was all very true. Even in Baelmark
everyone was sick of the war, but Chivial was hurting
much worse, as Durendal's presence here
proved. Radgar had learned his craft well.
Wasp shrugged. "Chivial is doing the
bleeding, not us. Did you know we now use gold
bricks for ballast? They conserve cargo
space."
If the Chancellor saw the humor in that
remark, he contained his amusement admirably.
"Your "Maritime Actuary" scheme is highly
ingenious. I could hardly believe it when it was
explained to me. Who invented that?"
"One of His Majesty's witan," Wasp said
modestly. The very best part was that piracy had
become almost bloodless and yet the noose around
Chivial had never been tighter. "I do believe
King Radgar earns more from duties on Chivian
foreign trade than King Ambrose does."
"I am certain of it," Durendal said
coldly. "What are his terms? What might he
be persuaded to accept, do you think, brother?"
That presumed brotherhood was really beginning
to rankle. Wasp took a turn to the window and
back. "This would be the fourth set of
negotiations."
"And you were one of the Baelish commissioners each
time." Durendal had done his homework.
"I swore I would never get involved again."
"I have wide authority to settle the matter.
You are conversant with the problems. My sources
insist that you are the King's friend and most trusted
advisor."
Why the sudden rush? Was the new guard dog just
trying to show his royal master he could bark louder
than his predecessor, or was there a new scent
on the wind?
"Every time," Wasp said, "the talks broke
down over the same point--King Ambrose must
make public acknowledgment that he ordered the
murder of King Aeled and must apologize for it as
a barbarous act unbecoming a civilized
monarch."
Durendal displayed an excellent set of
teeth. "I have discussed this at length with His
Majesty, and so did Lord Montpurse when he
was chancellor--"
"Ah, yes!" Now Wasp recalled that
Montpurse's head had dropped in a bucket
just after the new chancellor took office. "What
exactly was the case against Montpurse--
brother?"
He had found a chink in the armor. Something
terrible burned up in the midnight eyes and a
warning pallor outlined the strong cheekbones.
Wasp had drawn blood--and might be about to die
of it. Durendal took hold of a chair back with
both hands, knuckles blanching as if he were
trying to break it.
"That is a very long story, Sir Wasp," he
said hoarsely. "Let us deal with the war first."
"As your lordship wishes. We can reminisce
about old friends later."
"The fact is that even the greatest of men may have
a weak point. I honestly believe that King
Ambrose is a great man, but he has
failings, too. Thirty years ago, as Crown
Prince, he was grievously humiliated in his
cousin's house at Candlefen Park. He has
admitted to me that he talked his father into starting the
First Baelish War over that affair. That war
dragged on for years and was finally settled the day
King Aeled died."
"Was murdered."
"Was allegedly murdered. The evidence has
been disputed and the accused, Sir Yorick, is
long dead. It was Ambrose who sent him
to Baelmark, and Ambrose is the only
man living who knows exactly what instructions
he gave his former bodyguard. His version--and he
is thoroughly convinced of this in his own mind, I am
certain--is that he expressly forbade Yorick
to take revenge for the Blades who fell at
Candlefen." The Lord Chancellor studied his
audience in search of a reaction and then shrugged.
"Whether that is what an independent witness would have
heard, I have no idea, but kings' instructions can
be very deniable, Sir Wasp. Their memories are
often very supple, too. We all tend
to remember things as we want to remember them; this
is a universal human weakness and in my
experience the great are as prone to it as the humble.
For better or worse, this is what my master now
believes--he is convinced that he not only did not
order the murder, he expressly forbade it."
Wasp also leaned straight-armed on a chair
back, staring across at his visitor. "In that
case he chose a bad emissary. He should have
foreseen the danger."
Durendal raised his heavy black brows.
"He might be willing to admit that much. I cannot
promise but--"
"It would not suffice. Your king's memories
may be supple, my king's are totally rigid.
His father was murdered. The deathbed testimony of
three men confirmed the sequence of events. The war
goes on until Ambrose issues a confession
and apology--not a mealymouthed diplomatic
weaseling, but an explicit admission of guilt
and appeal for mercy. Radgar swore blood
feud. To accept anything less than
Ambrose's head would be an enormous concession
for him to make."
For a long minute they stared at each other
defiantly, like duelists planning their next
moves. This moment had been foreseen, of course.
Without some new stroke in mind, Durendal would
never risk a clandestine dash into a foreign
country. The Thergian government would blow all the
tiles off its roof if it discovered him here,
chief minister of a foreign power threatening the consul
of another with drawn swords. How long before the
day's crop of merchants arrived to buy
safe-conducts? How long could Bullwhip and
Victor hold them at bay when they did?
Durendal did not have long to try out his new
gambit.
Here it came.
"I understand," the Chancellor said, staring very hard
at Wasp, "that Queen Culfre recently
died."
Implications swarmed like bees. Words flashed
out in thrust, parry, riposte--
"Could you deliver that?"
"He suggested it himself."
"Would she agree?"
"She will do her duty."
"Indemnities
also."
"Of course."
"That is still not an apology!"
Durendal smiled. He glanced down at the
chairs and then cocked an eyebrow at his
reluctant host. The man had incredible style.
Wasp said, "Please do be seated, my lord,"
and pulled out a chair for himself. Needing time to think
he spoke of Culfre, a safe topic
requiring no thought. "Her life was very tragic.
She almost died losing a baby a few months after
their marriage and her health never recovered. More
children were out of the question. But she never complained, was never
bitter, even as she suffered. Her death was a
release. Radgar has not slept alone these ten
years, but he has always been discreet. He showed
her great kindness and respect, and he never
flaunted his mistresses. He refused to put
her away, as kings are wont to do with wives who
cannot bear heirs." As King Ambrose had done
with his first wife.
"The Princess will be reassured to hear this
testimonial."
Not so fast! "I repeat, a princess is
still not a confession and apology."
"But as good as." Durendal leaned back and
stretched his legs. "You understand, Sir Wasp, that
everyone in Chivial has been taught since
birth that Baels are ogres, lower than beasts.
They live in caves and eat children. King Aeled
is officially described as a pirate chief.
I believed much of this nonsense myself until a
few months ago, when the war became my business
and I started asking questions. Few Chivians ever
return from Baelmark, but there have been
embassies, both ours and other countries', so
I was able to find people who had been there. I was
astounded to learn that the average Bael lives in
much better conditions than the average Chivian,
that the nobility has more ... Well, you already know
all this. Chivial does not know it. The
rest of Eurania is not much better informed.
Ambrose is aware of the truth, of course, and
has been for years. were my royal master to sign
a treaty with yours and seal it by giving his own
daughter in marriage, this would be a recognition of
equality. Perhaps it is not the explicit
apology Radgar seeks, but it would be a very great
concession. He and his house would be elevated
to truly royal status in the eyes of the world, and
Baelmark would no longer be dismissed as a
brigands' nest."
Wasp smiled for the first time. "You are
eloquent, brother, but Radgar has never been
much impressed by fine words." Was it possible?
