One Velvet Glove: A Tale of The King's Blades

by Dave Duncan

  “The sopranos went very easy on you while you were the Brat,” Sharp added.

  “It didn’t feel easy. What would they have been like if they’d known I was a Blade’s son?”

  Trusty laughed. “I can’t even imagine it.” He emptied one tankard and reached for his second.

  Sharp said, “Wait a moment! Your father was bound to Lord Whatsit? You were brought up in an earl’s palace?”

  Rhys nodded. “That was something else I didn’t want to mention at Ironhall.”

  “Spirits, yes! And you’ve kept the secret all these years?”

  “Sir Silver got it out of me. As soon as a new Brat arrived and I was properly accepted, I offered my last coin to a carter to carry a letter for me. My feet hardly touched the ground before I found myself in Grand Master’s study explaining how come I could read and write and why I was writing letters, and to a Blade hero at that. I thought he was going to wring my neck for lying to him earlier, but he didn’t. I learned years later he wrote to Dad, enclosing my note and asking what Dad wanted him to do with me. Dad wrote back, telling him to make a man of me, because he couldn’t spare me the time I deserved. Silver never told anyone my secret, so far as I know. I don’t think even the king knew until today, when I had to tell Dauntless. Of course I wrote to Dad again as soon as I was bound and left Ironhall. He wrote back that he was very proud to have a son in the Royal Guard. We’ve written back and forth ever since.”

  “All very interesting,” Sharp said with a sneer, “but what does that have to do with what just happened? Does a Blade get special treatment just because he happens to be a Blade’s son?”

  “I received a letter this morning,” Rhys said. “Dad’s ward is dying. You know what that could do to him.”

  Even Sharp could not belittle this excuse. He muttered, “Oh, shit!” half under his breath.

  Trusty said, “Flames! You need some company? I’ll be glad to come along and do what I can to help, brother.”

  “I’d be grateful,” Rhys admitted. When a Blade’s ward died, he often went insane, frequently homicidally so. Everyone knew that, so Dad would be both a danger to the public and in danger himself. He might have to be tied up and guarded for weeks, or even years.

  Sharp said, “How far is it?”—which was typical of him. Trusty had volunteered without asking, but Sharp counted costs and calculated odds. When they weren’t wenching or fencing, Blades spent much of their time playing dice. Many of the Guard refused to play against Sharp. Trusty was trusty, but Sharp... While no one had ever proved anything, he was suspected of being a little too sharp.

  “In this weather? About half a day’s ride.”

  “You’re on!” Sharp raised his tankard in salute. “All for one.”

  Chapter 2

  Retired Blades—known as knights, because their titles were now legal and no longer just courtesy—received no pension or bonus, but they did retain their cat’s eye swords, and those gave them the right to borrow the king’s horses. Very soon after dawn the next morning, Rhys rode out the gate of Greymere Palace, he hoped for the last time. He also hoped that he would never again have reason to struggle though the mob in the narrow, crowded, fetid alleyways of Grandon. Trusty led the way, because he was more imposing to start with, and a good enough horseman to risk riding a three-year-old stallion that was quite capable of using its teeth to clear a path through the tumult of pedestrians, carts, donkeys, hawkers, and wagons.

  For a capital city, Grandon packed its inhabitants into a very small area, and the travellers soon passed through the north gate and let their mounts show their worth on the open highway. The rains of Fourthmoon had ended. Sunshine was bright and hot again, the air silken, the roads were dry. It was a great day for a ride, and a great day to begin the rest of their lives. Free at last!

  Land was wealth, of course, and wealth was not something Blades in the Royal Guard accumulated. Rhys had a few crowns saved, and he owned two gold cups, each supposedly worth a hundred crowns. Lord Bannerville had been wealthy, and no doubt he would leave Dad a fair bequest for his thirty years of service, but a man couldn’t sponge off his father. Despite last night’s flippant talk, finding employment must be a priority.

  “How far to this fancy castle?” Sharp shouted back to Rhys, who had accepted the hindmost place because he knew Sharp never would. Trusty’s stallion was now a furlong ahead, possibly being a little harder to control than Trusty had anticipated. Or perhaps Trusty was just enjoying his own liberty, including freedom from having to ride in tight order around the king.

  “Five or six leagues, but it’s no castle. Willows Hall at Squires Willow, near Ambor. We’ll be there by noon, easy.”

  When Dad’s letter had arrived the previous morning, Rhys had not counted on having company on his journey, although he was glad of it. If his father did react badly to his ward’s death, then three Blades would have a much better chance of restraining him than would one man alone. It would be a gruesome irony if the long-awaited family reunion resulted in an insane act of infanticide.

  So near, yet so far. For eight years, Rhys had lived agonizingly close to Dad, and yet neither had been able to leave his ward for long enough to visit the other. And now they must meet in dire circumstances. Blades’ reaction to their wards’ death was well known and the villagers would have had time to prepare—time to call in the best archer in the district, perhaps. It was not impossible that Rhys would arrive at Squires Willow to find his father already slain, skewered through the heart by an ash shaft trimmed with goose feathers.

  On the other hand, his lordship had been ailing for many years, and Dad ought to have become reconciled to the inevitable; in which case he should be able to resist the curse.

  The other traffic dwindled, until the three knights could ride abreast, arguing amiably over trivia. The sun grew hotter. The country became more rolling, and more forested with beeches and oaks. Soon Rhys recognized a vague familiarity—nothing specific that he could put a name to, just a rightness of shape and colour and texture. Eventually Ambor came into view. He turned off on a side road heading west and saw a stream he knew, with a ford that was no problem in high summer but could be tricky in winter. Squires Willow was just over the next rise...

  No! Where was the hamlet, the huddle of cottages where the crofters and ploughmen lived? Had lived. There was nothing there now, only pasture with sheep. No children laughing as the horsemen trotted by, no dogs barking. The ploughed fields had gone, their ancient strips still faintly evident in the texture of the grass. Where the orchard, where the mill? Squires Willow had vanished.

  To his huge relief, Willow Hall itself was still standing—no castle or palace, just a glorified overgrown two-story manor house with white plaster walls and oaken timbers turning black with age. The king had donated the estate to his longtime friend, Everard Bannerville, when promoting him from baron to earl. It had always been a modest seat for a nobleman of his rank—twenty or so rooms, high-gabled tile roofs, glazed windows, but it had been a fair and gracious building, and handy to the capital. Now it had a desolate air. The great elm trees were missing. Some outbuildings had disappeared and others had collapsed. A single paddock held two grazing horses. Only two?

  “He’s gone!” Sharp said, pointing off to the left. In a field there, a crew of workmen were unloading lumber from a wagon and arranging it in a carefully crafted pile that could only be intended as a funeral pyre.

  As one, the knights spurred their horses and galloped the last thirty or forty yards to the main door. Rhys leaped from the saddle just as an elderly man came limping out, leaning on a cane. He paused at the top of the steps. The newcomers wore civilian clothes now, but the old man’s eyes were sharp enough to notice the cat’s eye pommels on their swords.

  He grimaced. “Aha! Just as I thought. I knew the old bastard wouldn’t want his precious Blades shamed by a massacre. Well, I’ve only killed a doz
en so far, but you’d better tie me up now, before I get to the rest of them.”

  Rhys halted at the foot of the steps, appalled. He had not expected this, even after thirteen years. His father would soon turn fifty, an age at which a farmhand might have become a hobbling ruin, but which should not be old for a Blade. Alas, few Blades went through what this one had. The former flaxen hair had thinned and turned to white. He had shrunk.

  Hiding his shock as well as he could, Rhys said, “Spirits be with you, Sir Spender.”

  “Rhys? Rhys!”

  The old man dropped his cane, lurched forward, and lost his footing. Rhys jumped up the steps and caught him just in time. They hugged, mumbling greetings, thumping each other’s backs, before Rhys more or less carried his father back up to the top platform, where it was safe to stand. A boy had come running from somewhere to take the horses.

  Although Rhys was shorter than the average Blade, he was taller than his father now. He blinked a dampness from his eyes and cleared his throat. “Dad, please welcome Sir Trusty—and Sir Sharp. The king did not send us. They freely offered to come with me, to help me with the knots on that bondage you mentioned.”

  The visitors whipped out their swords to honour the hero with a formal salute, Trusty a fraction ahead of Sharp. Greetings were exchanged.

  “His lordship has gone, then?” Rhys said.

  The scrawny old man nodded, blinking tears. “Sunset last night. It was a blessing, brothers. He suffered much over the winter. Come in, all of you. You must be thirsty after your ride.”

  Limping on his cane, Spender led the way inside, shouting for ale to be brought for his guests. Rhys waved the other two ahead of him. The interior was dark after the sunshine, and had a musty, unused smell. The entrance way seemed oddly bare, but when he joined the others in what once had been the great hall, he was dismayed to see that it was an empty, echoing barn. The enormous table and sideboards had gone, leaving a mismatched group of chairs and stools as the only furnishings. Drapes, tapestries, and pictures likewise—all missing. Sharp had his lip set in a fixed sneer: this was an earl’s palace?

  Whatever was wrong could wait. No disaster could shadow the reunion of father and son after so long, and the horrors of possible insanity had fled. Rhys accepted his horn of ale and perched on a stool to grin at his father. He had been worrying needlessly. Bannerville had been a long time a-dying, and had perished of natural causes, thus affording his Blade time to adjust to the coming release. In this case there had not been, and would not be, any massacre. His father must have been worried, though. He could not have been sure until the moment arrived.

  “You did not change your name when you enrolled in Ironhall?” Sharp said, making it more an accusation than a question.

  “I changed it back,” Rhys said, still smiling at Dad and wishing his traveling companions would fade away and leave the two of them free to shed the pretence and become all maudlin and sentimental. “Remember, I knew all about Ironhall before I got there. I wasn’t utterly green, like other applicants. I gave a false name to Grand Master when he interviewed me, and then changed the lie to my real name when I was accepted. Why?”

  “A new name is traditional.”

  “But I hadn’t done anything to disgrace my old one. Both ‘Dragon’ and ‘Burl’ were already back in use by then, or I might have chosen one of those. Besides, there’s a Rhys listed in the Litany of Heroes—slain by Baels while defending King Ambrose at Candlefen, back when he was still crown prince. When I was bound, I named my sword after Dragon. You could hardly name a sword Burl!” Rhys put aside thoughts of reminiscences until later. “Father, what has been going on here? This hall is a ruin and Squires Willow has disappeared altogether. Where are all the servants?”

  “All gone years ago. He couldn’t afford servants.”

  “Downie too?” Rhys’s mother had died two weeks after his birth. Downie had been his wet nurse and mother surrogate, right up until he ran away to Ironhall. He had been looking forward to being reunited with Downie just as much as with Dad.

  “I told you. She found a husband in Ambor. They moved north to Wayeshire years ago.”

  Years come and years go. Rhys looked around the echoing void that had once been a noble hall. “But Bannerville was rich! What happened?”

  Spender smiled wolfishly. He had lost most of his teeth, as well as most of his hair, which helped explain why he looked so old. “You could say that the estate was looted.”

  “Not by the Baels, though? They never raided this far inland.”

  “No, not Baels.” Spender took a drink. He clearly did not want to discuss the matter in front of the two strangers, so Rhys changed the subject.

  “That reminds me, sir—King Ambrose told me to tell you that he remembers you. He sends his regards.”

  “I don’t want them,” Spender said. “You can take them right back to Grandon and stuff them up the royal ass.”

  Sharp raised his drinking horn and said, “Hear, hear!” Trusty just raised his eyebrows.

  Rhys said, “When is Bannerville’s funeral to be?”

  “Soon as the coroner gets here.” His father shrugged. “When I heard the hooves, I thought it was him. I sent word over to Ambor this morning. The sheriff’s deputy will probably come, also, and the notary to read the will. Bailiffs, perhaps. It should be a damnably jolly party. We can all dance on the old man’s grave. The funeral feast may be a trifle scant, though.”

  “Family? Friends? Neighbours? Tenants? Servants?”

  “No family. Enemies of the king don’t have friends, lad, and their neighbours build invisible fences. The tenants went with the land, and we’re down to one man and a boy.”

  This bitterly caustic old man was not the father Rhys recalled or had expected. The others were staring.

  “Why do you call him an enemy of the king? I thought Bannerville and Ambrose had been friends since childhood.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sharp’s sharp ears caused him to jump up and stride over to a window. He wiped a dusty pane with his sleeve and peered. “Company’s on its way. About a score of them, I’d say.”

  Rhys rose also. “Father, is there going to be trouble?”

  The old man drained his drinking horn, then muttered, “Could be.”

  “I’m happy to be home, Dad, and I’ll do all I can to help, but it won’t be fair to involve my friends. Brothers, I am truly grateful for your kindness in coming here with me, but we should let you go now.”

  Trusty rose also, and went to Spender’s other side, giving him the appearance of a guarded monarch. “Blades don’t desert their heroes. I’ll stick around, if you don’t mind.”

  All eyes went to Sharp, still at the window. He came wandering back, smiling thinly. “My horse is tired.”

  Trusty’s support was hugely welcome but no real surprise. Sharp’s was. If both of them meant what they said, then whatever trouble Spender foresaw, it was unlikely to get past the swords of three Blades.

  “Thank you, brothers,” Rhys said. “But I think, Dad, you owe them a quick explanation of this ‘enemy of the king’ expression you used a moment ago. We’re not bound to guard Fat Man any longer, but we are still knights of the Loyal and Ancient Order. I won’t involve them in treason.”

  The old man looked at each of them in turn. “Yes. Rhys is my flesh and blood, but you two are being foolhardy. This could get you into serious trouble—not with the king himself, but with the law. Listen...

  “Thirty-two years ago, when King Ambrose sent Lord Bannerville off to be ambassador to Fitain, he furnished him with a fortune in gold, so heavy that two strong men could barely lift it. It was specified as ‘expenses’. In diplomatic terms, that means bribes. In the catastrophe, Burl and Dragon died. His lordship and I were wounded. We escaped by a hair’s-breadth, but the treasure was lost.

  “‘So?’
you may ask. So King Ambrose was angry. King Ambrose had sent a fool to do a man’s job, and refused to replace him, however many times Bannerville wrote, begging to be recalled. Kings never admit mistakes, so Ambrose made Bannerville pay it all back. This estate was looted by the king.”

  Rhys glanced at his Blade brothers to see if they were as appalled as he was, and they were.

  “Bannerville was no burgher,” Spender continued. “He had no head for money. His only assets were Willows Hall and some lands he had inherited from his father, but those were near the coast and had been badly mauled by Baelish raids. So he sold those for a pittance and borrowed the rest, with Willows as surety. He managed to repay the king, but of course he considered that nobility must maintain its station, so he kept his army of servants, his horses and hounds and falcons. Most years his revenues didn’t cover the interest payments, so he borrowed more to pay those. His fortune sank like an anvil. I was sworn to guard him against all perils, but I didn’t know what was happening until he began selling off his stud herd, then furniture... Not that a crippled sword jockey could have helped him anyway. His wife died of a broken heart. Now the ravens have come home to get what’s left, and there’s nothing left.”

  The hall echoed to the sound of many hooves as the cavalcade came thundering up the driveway.

  “Just what do they expect to do?” Rhys asked, looking around the echoing emptiness of the hall, and remembering its glory during his childhood.

  “Claim the house, I s’pect,” his father mumbled. “And whatever odds and ends they can find.”

  “Evict you? Seize your personal goods? You must have some things of your own.”

  “Not much. Bannerville stopped paying me years ago. He did promise to leave me something, but spirits know what, and the creditors will undoubtedly try to include it in his estate.”