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

by Dave Duncan

  “Or possessed by?” Damian queried.

  “Or possessed by,” she agreed. “It’s hard to distinguish...” Laying the glove on the table, she stroked the black side with her fingertips. Then she gasped and opened her lavender-coloured eyes wide. “Where did you get this, Sir Rhys? I’ve met its like before, although this one feels a lot more subtle. Conjurements like this are strictly banned—not that they aren’t available for a price.” Chuckling, she slid the glove on her left hand, black side down, and reached over to caress her husband’s cheek.

  Damian frowned, then flushed brick red.

  Lavender whipped her hand away and stripped off the glove. “Perhaps after dinner, darling?” She was much amused.

  He was not. He spluttered and nodded, breathing heavily.

  “Seduction?” Rhys said. Left hands were always suspect.

  “Stronger than that, I’d say,” Lavender said, turning the glove over. “Love, fire, and water are the standard formula for physical sex, but the death spirits hidden in this glove threaten violence, so it’s a rape weapon. You could sell this for a baron’s ransom, Sir Rhys.”

  Rhys recalled that the glove had reminded Dad of a marquisa called the Cobra—gold and black were her colours, he’d said. Just what had happened in Fitain thirty years ago? Better not to wonder.

  “Tell me what the right hand does.”

  She stroked the golden velvet and again raised her eyebrows in surprise. “The dominant element here is air! That’s very rare in a conjurement, because air is hard to bind. It’s summoned mostly during active conjuration—treating someone with lung disease, or trying to calm a strong wind. In the Blades’ binding ritual, it is invoked to strengthen the words of the oath. In a conjurement like this, it normally implies a message, speech. Combined with some love it would be a blessing, with death it could be a curse.”

  “So what else is bound with it?”

  Lavender repeated the fingertip stroking. “Time... a lot of time. Love... no sign of death, so it’s definitely benevolent. And water! This is an extraordinary piece of work, Sir Rhys: just four elements, three contiguous diametrically opposed to the dominant, yet it seems to be quite stable. Whoever created it was a very clever scholar.”

  “But what does it do?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a message to someone, but I suspect only that person could understand it.” She slid it back in the bag.

  “Could it be a compass,” Rhys asked, “a guide to somewhere or someone?”

  Lavender looked surprised, brought the glove out again, and slid it on her right hand. After a moment she said, “I would expect a compass enchantment to relate to the sun, and there’s no fire in this. I suppose the time element might replace it... That’s an ingenious idea, but I cannot feel any compulsion to point in any specific direction. The target could just be too far away, that’s all, or dead, if it refers to a person.”

  Fitain was very far away. Bannerville was dead.

  “But water?” she added. “Water often relates to journeys... I honestly don’t know, Rhys. It’s almost as if it’s written in a foreign language.”

  Both she and Damian were too polite to ask outright why he was there or what he was doing, but he trusted them and felt that he owed them the story. Neither of them was old enough to remember the Fitish civil war, any more than he was. Damian would know of Dad’s participation in it, of course, because at least one entry from the Litany of Heroes was read out every night at Ironhall.

  “Your neighbour, Lord Bannerville has returned to the elements.”

  “None too soon,” Damian snapped. “That mad old coot? He lost all his lands and money—gambling, so I heard. I’ve always felt sorry for Sir Spender, stuck with a batty idiot to ward.”

  “It’s not quite that simple, brother...”

  But at that moment the servants brought out water for them to wash their hands, quickly followed by dinner. The first course comprised four dishes: pheasant, mutton pie, boiled leeks with mushrooms, and pickled lamprey, all beautifully prepared and much hotter than was ever served in a palace. Ambrose often threatened to make his footmen deliver his food on horseback.

  Chapter 6

  By the time Rhys made his farewells, he felt more like falling into bed than vaulting into a saddle. Fortunately, Dad’s horse, while it had probably eaten more than he had, had not drunk of the same fluids, and it delivered him safely to Arbor. Dad had assured him that the town had changed little, but it did seem quainter and smaller than he remembered. The Bael’s Head still displayed its gruesome image of the detached top seventh of a pirate, much admired by small boys. It was an ancient building of thick stone walls cowering under an obese thatched roof. Having decided that the interior would be cooler than outdoors, Rhys handed his reins to a stableboy and ducked inside to look for his companions. He found them huddled in a dark and quiet corner of the taproom. The rest of the clientele had withdrawn to the far end to keep an eye on, and discuss, these dangerous strangers.

  This was going to be the decision point, and Rhys had been wondering all the way from Muellet Castle how it would go, and how he wanted it to go. He pulled in a stool and ordered a mug of the small ale.

  “Well?” Dad said.

  “It’s a conjurement, and still active—actually two conjurements, depending on which hand is wearing it. She said that worn on the left hand it could have certain nasty, illegal sexual uses. She wasn’t sure about the other. It’s a message to someone. Air, time, love and water, she said. When I suggested that it might be a direction finder, she could neither agree nor disagree.”

  “Not much help, then?”

  “Not much discouragement, either.”

  Trusty said, “I wish I knew why your ward left it to you, sir.”

  “So do I,” Dad said resignedly. “And I wish I knew how he got it home. We lost just about everything except the clothes on our backs, and they were in tatters by the time we returned to Chivial. Is a mystery.”

  He was so much older and more senior than the others, that he ought to be wearing the sash, but he was not now the vibrant father Rhys remembered. The death of a ward was a massive trauma for a Blade, one that only time could heal.

  Rhys was tempted to give Sharp and Trusty the velvet glove and tell them to go away and seek their fortune, so he and Dad could be alone together, but it was Dad’s inheritance, and if anyone was due some good luck in his life, it was he—the spirits of chance had never been kind to him. Moreover, the matter must be settled quickly while this faint odour of hidden treasure hung in the air, for there would be serious trouble if King Ambrose ever caught the scent. Three months ago, Parliament had refused the increased taxes he wanted, so he would see the lost fortune as his money, conveniently forgetting that he had long ago bled Lord Bannerville white to repay it. Put not your trust in princes. The matter must be decided now. Above all, Sharp must be muzzled. Trusty could be trusted.

  “Let’s get one thing clear, Dad. Lavender called the left hand glove a rape weapon. ‘One touch and you’re mine, my pretty!’ So the easiest way to cash in on this bequest of yours would be to sell it some rich old rake.”

  As he expected, his father glowered at him. “I hope you’re not serious?”

  “No, sir. But could that be why your ward left it to you—because he had nothing else of any value to leave?”

  “Never! Everard was a prude through and through. If he’d known what you just told us, he’d have burned the accursed thing. Maybe I’ll just do that.”

  Noting the disapproval on Sharp’s face, Rhys took a sip of the ale. Ugh! Not palace ale, nor Muellet Castle ale either. “Forget the glove for a moment. Is it possible that there is still a treasure to find? Could some of those millions have survived the civil war and Bannerville have known about it?”

  His father said, “It could have survived, and Bannerville knew where it ha
d been put, because I told him.”

  Smiles from everyone except Sharp, who frowned. “Then why didn’t your Everard go back to Fitain to look for it after the civil war ended?”

  Shrug. “Because he was a broken man after King Ambrose disowned him. I couldn’t leave him, so I couldn’t go in his stead. Because he would have had to find helpers he could trust not to cut his throat if he found anything. He had no money to pay their fares and upkeep. Because he was known in Fitain and he’d made enemies galore.” Another shrug.

  “Assuming we can find the fare to sail to Fitain, do we want to try it?” Rhys deliberately did not specify whether “we” implied two men or four. “Nobody’s going to cut our throats without a struggle.”

  Silence. Yesterday Dad had lost the ward he had cherished for thirty years. To go off adventuring to foreign lands was not an easy decision.

  “My sword is for hire,” Trusty said. “No gold, no pay.”

  “We certainly won’t need to employ guards,” Sharp said. “And I hope four Blades can trust one another not to start cutting throats.”

  Trust was another problem. Trusty was solid as a mountain, but Sharp? Sharp the dice champion? It was quite possible that the cash tucked away in his bundle was worth more than Rhys’s gold cups.

  “Another question,” Trusty said in his ponderous but potent way. He had shed his doublet in the heat, and now leaned back and folded his brawny arms. “Why do we want to be rich? It’s often a good way to end up dead. You, sir. What’s your ambition, now you’re your own man?”

  Dad smiled. “A cottage with a few beehives and a wife, no one exotic or erotic, just a widow who needs comfort and company in her old age, like I do.”

  “You won’t need more than one tenth of the hoard for that,” Sharp said, “I fancy a castle with retainers, horses, a game forest, and enough concubines to supply variety.”

  Trusty snorted. “That would take ten tenths and more. Me, I’d like to travel a bit and see some of the world. Brother Rhys?”

  “A loving wife and kids. Lots of kids. And a good job so I can afford to feed them, dress them, and educate them.”

  Dad said, “Finding the loving wife is the hard bit. The kids come without asking. Sounds like three of us are going to be fairly easy satisfied. I doubt we can satisfy your hopes for a castle, Brother Sharp.”

  “So what can we do?” Rhys asked, returning to practicality. “I have money, or will have as soon as I sell my cups. They’re supposed to be worth two hundred crowns. That’ll have to be done in Grandon itself. Greasy Tom’s my man, I suppose.”

  “He won’t pay you anything like a hundred golds apiece,” Trusty said. “He offered Conradin fifty for his one.”

  “I’ve got two crowns, and some small change,” Dad said. “My horse is close to dog food, poor old fellow.”

  “And the glove, sir,” Trusty said. “You own the glove. That’s what lets us even think about this. I’ve got eleven crowns.”

  All eyes went to Sharp. “About nine, I think. I would like to hear the whole story, though.”

  “It’s a long one. I could tell you on the journey,” Dad said with a hint of reproof. “The Litany of Heroes version is, um, call it ‘incomplete’. And so was the story King Ambrose heard.”

  Could tell you on the journey—if we go.

  “Your decision, sir,” Trusty said.

  Dad looked slowly around the group. “I warn you that it will be dangerous. I know where the loot was hidden, but that was thirty years ago, and I wasn’t the only one who knew, so it’s very likely it has been liberated long since. The odds are high that we’ll be going on a wild goose chase. I hope you all understand that?” He waited until he saw three nods. “The only reason I would even dream of going is that glove! It feels like an invitation, somehow, because it’s a reminder of the marquisa.” He sighed. “I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead. And she may have spent every jot of the money on sumptuous ball gowns.”

  Rhys said, “Let’s vote on it. Hands up to go to Fitain and hunt for the lost fortune, if it exists.”

  Sharp? Yea. Trusty? Yea. Rhys also...

  Dad smiled. “Three newly dubbed Blades? Stupid question, wasn’t it? Let me see that glove again, Son.”

  Rhys brought out the bag and extracted the velvet glove. It had never looked big enough to take a man’s hand, and Dad had the full-sized hands of a man who had fenced every day of his youth. Yet it slid on without protest. He pulled a face. “It still has plenty of spirituality on it.”

  Then he smiled shyly. “Maybe it is intended for me. It does feel like an invitation!” He pulled it off and raised his hand. “I’ll make it unanimous— four stony-broke Blades, Fitain-bound.”

  Smiles all round. “Too late tonight to ride to Grandon,” Rhys said, “but we’ll have to go there tomorrow to sell my cups.”

  Sharp snorted. “Don’t go near that crook, Greasy Tom. Keep them until we get to Brimiarde.”

  Rhys wondered why, but he would trust Sharp’s judgment in fiscal matters, as long as he was on the same team. “After that... What’s the best port? Brimiarde? We have more than enough to get us there, but how much will our fares to Fitain cost? And what will an elementary charge us for a Fitish language conjuration?”

  Dad chuckled, which was a welcome sign that he was starting to think about the future. “Eu ainda posso falar Fitês, so I can be interpreter. If you brawny men are prepared to haul on ropes and live on ship’s biscuit and salt cod, I think we have enough cash to reach Lindora. That’s the capital. The real trouble starts a day’s ride from there.”

  “Got a better idea,” Sharp said. “Remember Goodwin—former deputy commander? When he was dubbed, couple of years ago, Durendal found him a living at Brimiarde.”

  “Right,” Rhys said. “Port warden! I remember him as a straight sword. He could help us get passage to Fitain somehow.”

  “If we can get there,” Trusty said, “we can worry later about how we get back. At worst, we are still four of the world’s finest swordsmen. But let’s agree on the split right now. I say one third to brother Spender for the glove, one third to brother Rhys for his gold cups, and one third between Sharp and me. Right, brothers?”

  Sharp disagreed. “I say we split it four ways. We’re each risking a life.”

  Silence. If Sharp wasn’t satisfied, he could head straight back to court and spill beans all over King Ambrose’s ermine-trimmed slippers. Rhys caught his father’s eye and seemed to see his own thoughts mirrored there.

  “I think Sir Sharp is right,” Dad said. “We’re all in this together.”

  Rhys said, “I agree. One for all!”

  “And all for one,” said Trusty.

  Sharp smiled wryly. “And may the best man win.”

  Book Two: Love

  Chapter 1

  Where to begin? With my childhood? That was thirteen years of abuse, hunger, and contempt, but every boy in Ironhall had run away from something like that. My admission to Ironhall? What I remember most about that was the food, being able to eat until I could eat no more. That was the miracle. The hazing didn’t bother me. I’d had thirteen years of that and lived, and I wasn’t going to let it drive me away from all that food. Nor from having a bed of my own, either. Of course after years of discipline and training—after puberty when it happened—Ironhall began to feel more like a jail than a heaven. By then I was a man, a swordsman, and I was eager to show the world what I could do.

  Begin then, with the day I met the man I dedicated my life to—Everard, Lord Bannerville, the king’s friend. The king’s fool. My dreams all died that day.

  It was spring. The snow had melted off the tors, the bogs were thawing, hares were dancing, larks singing. I considered riding to be the second best activity available in Ironhall, after fencing, but in winter it was neither enjoyable or profitable. Now a man could go for a long ri
de without fear of dying in unexpected fogs, bogs, or blizzards. Most of the horses were has-been nags, so the best were reserved for the senior candidates, and that sunny morning the best of the best had been commandeered by Prime Candidate Random, Second Glanvil, and me, Spender. I was third in line, and thus had no title but no special duties either. The three of us had been close buddies since our soprano year, and we were all excellent riders, even by Ironhall standards.

  And where else to ride but eastward, along the Blackwater road? Rumours had been flying for a week that the king would soon be coming to harvest some Blades, and even the king could not break the strictest of all rules in Ironhall, that men must leave in the order in which they had been admitted, about five years earlier. There were thirteen in the seniors’ class now, so he would probably take eight or nine of us. After five years and more, school was over. The end was in sight, life could begin.

  “Blue sky, white clouds!” Random proclaimed with a dramatic gesture that almost frightened his horse.

  “Youth and a good mount,” said Glanvil. “What more can a man want?”

  That left the punch line for me. “Girls of course.”

  Yes, girls. But there would be lots of girls in Grandon when we got there, and Blades’ bindings made them irresistible. That was the dream, the golden prospect that would lead us to submit to a sword-thrust through the heart.

  And then, around a rocky spur not a furlong ahead of us, came the king—Ambrose IV himself, riding at the head of a cavalcade of the Royal Guard, two dozen or more.

  Prime cried, “Yikes! Whoa, my hearties. We’d best go and warn Grand Master.”

  “Mustn’t turn your back on the king,” I said. “And you’re not going to outrun Big Man. Let’s just rein in and salute him as he goes by.”