by Dave Duncan
Nod.
“But now, dammit, he’s made the idiot Ambassador to Fitain, and that’s not the same thing at all. Fitain matters! It’s vital and its politics are a snake pit. Chancellor Bluefield is tearing his hair, but the king is the king and he’s adamant that his childhood chum will be the new ambassador.”
Montpurse would never stoop to soft-soaping me, so things must be even worse than I had feared. That made me feel no better, of course, but I nodded eagerly.
“Bannerville hasn’t got a brain in his head,” Montpurse said grimly, frowning at the courtyard behind my back as if time were running out. “Burl is a really nice guy and a great fighter, but he’s no tactician and certainly no strategist. Dragon cares only about what’s happening between his legs—he’s far from the first Blade to fall into that trap. I persuaded the king that Bannerville ought to have a third Blade, because of the dangers. I promised to choose the best possible fencer in the next harvest of candidates, which you are not, although you’re probably third best. But then I turned around and swore to Chancellor Bluefield that I’d pick the smartest, toughest pup in the litter. And without a doubt, that’s you.
“So I’m the one you have to blame, Spender. I am throwing you into the lions’ den in the hope that you will find a way to keep your ward from treading on the lions’ tails. Grand Master thinks you can do it and after watching how well you took the bad news, so do I. I have seen candidates breakdown and weep when they heard they were to be private Blades. You managed to look excited. You won’t be in the Royal Guard, but you’ll be serving your king in a way that none of the others in your group will or could.”
Speeches like that explained why Montpurse was Commander of the Royal Guard.
“Thank you, Commander. You’ve doubled my load, but you’ve made it feel worth carrying. I’ll do my best, sir.” I almost felt that I believed that.
Again Montpurse offered a handshake. “One last thing. Your ward’s valet will accompany you, name of Gudge.”
Why bother to mention a personal servant? “He’s a snoop?”
Montpurse smiled and nodded as if that lucky guess confirmed his weird belief in my wits. “Of course. A Master Robins will also be joining you. He’s supposed to be a political secretary, but I’d give any odds that he’s another one from the Dark Chamber. The king will know about Robins being a snoop, although he probably wouldn’t admit it. Gudge would have been appointed by Grand Inquisitor to spy on the king’s friend, but without the king’s knowledge of course. Never forget that snoops have a knack of knowing when people are telling lies, and may have a lot of other odd talents they prefer not to mention. Oh, damn! They’re waiting for you, you’d better run.”
I sprinted across to the low dome at the north end of the yard which marked the Forge, where both Blades and their swords were wrought. Master Armourer was standing at the door like an oak tree, with seven swords at his feet. He was very nearly as big as the king, and his massive bare arms—much admired by the sopranos and beansprouts—were all speckled with old burn marks. He held a slate and a chalk.
“And Spender,” he muttered. “Name?”
“Fortune.”
“Good one.”
“Thanks.” Five years earlier, when I was admitted, I had picked my new name from the approved list because I thought that lurid inventions like Bullwhip or Bonebreaker sounded stupid, and it made more sense for a swordsman to have an unobtrusive, self-effacing sort of name. Now I got to name my sword, and whatever I chose would be known only to me and my closest friends. I was pleased that Master Armourer approved of it, and its double meaning: any Blade wanted good fortune, and a spender needed more fortune than most people. One day, hopefully a long time in the future, Fortune would join the thousands of others hanging in the great hall’s sky of swords.
I ducked through the low doorway, trotted down the eight shallow steps into the Forge, and at once began to shiver. After centuries of conjuration, the Forge was saturated with spirituality. I found the weirdness thrilling, but some people were so sensitive to it that they could not even approach the building. No doubt my reaction to it that day was magnified by the knowledge that this must be the last time. Either I would stride out proudly as a bound Blade, or my lifeless body would be carried out, wrapped in a shroud.
Down there in the shadows that morning, I thought I could almost distinguish the individual elements: Fire elementals streaming from the eight forges around the walls, Water spirits dancing above the eight quenching troughs, Earth enduring in the bedrock of the floor, and Death lurking in both the eight anvils on which the cat’s eye swords were forged and also in that great coffin-sized metal block in the centre, upon which boys were transformed into Blades. Tonight the binding chant would summon Air, and Love, and Time—and hopefully banish Chance, Death’s handmaiden.
What followed was very much what you three had to go through, years later, but not quite, because this was still in the rule of old Sir Silver, who had been Grand Master for years uncounted, and had never once changed the rite by smallest jot from what had been decreed by the original Durendal, centuries ago. Silver’s successor, Sir Vicious, had once been the king’s Grand Wizard, and was an outstanding conjurer. I know that he modernized the ritual in some ways.
Pale in the gloom, seven faces gathered around the octogram watched my arrival. The ritual then required a full day of fasting and meditation, and the sun was high already. The king and Lord Bannerville were apparently delayed, possibly by some nutritious substances and a keg of ale, but of course kings could fast faster than other men. I chose an empty patch of floor between Random and Glanvil and sat down.
“Sorry to hear of your bad break, Spender,” Scrimpnel said loudly from the far side of the crypt.
“No. It sounds really exciting. Truly! Can’t say more.”
“Well done,” Random whispered.
Over in the hall, they would be eating dinner. I wasn’t hungry, and I had plenty to meditate about. In my case meditating felt indistinguishable from brooding.
Along toward evening, Master of Rituals arrived with a pile of towels and reminded everyone of the rules for the bathing ceremony—start with fire, then death, chance, and finally love. The water felt cold as ice, and for some reason the trough at death point was the coldest of all.
The king and his friend arrived as the most junior of us were still shivering into their clothes. Everyone scrambled to their feet, of course. Ambrose went around the circle, greeting each candidate by name to show that he could, and cracking unfunny jokes, every one of which made Bannerville guffaw.
Then the odd man out...
“Candidate Spender! I am trusting you to guard my dearest friend! I rely on you to keep him safe in Fitain. It may be dangerous!”
“If harm comes near him, sire, it will be over my dead body.”
“Bravely said! Commander Montpurse was very reluctant to part with you, but I insisted. ‘I want the very best man you’ve got!’ I told him. Grand Master agreed you were the best. You’ll love Fitain. Palm trees, sunshine, the finest wines, the most beautiful girls. Right, Everard? Dark-eyed sultry beauties?”
“I’m looking forward to them, too, sire,” Bannerville agreed, “but I don’t expect I’ll be able to keep up with young Spenser here.”
If the king noticed the slip, he didn’t say so. Probably everyone else had heard it, though.
The king’s bathing was the fastest of all, four explosions of water drenching half the Forge. Everyone had politely averted their eyes, but the first plunge soaked a few candidates who had stayed too close.
Near midnight, the rest of the Ironhall population trooped in to witness the binding, sopranos whispering excitedly, fuzzies and the remaining seniors grim-faced as they pondered their own ordeals yet to come.
Master of Rituals saw everyone to his correct place: Random at death point, with Glanvil on his right at earth,
me on his left at air, and the king opposite him at love. Grand Master chanted Arbiter’s role at time, Master of Archives was Dispenser at water, and Master of Rituals Invoker at fire. That left only chance point, which was traditionally taken by the Brat, who in this case could be relied on to play his tiny part correctly, although by definition chance was never predictable. Two swords lay at his feet.
The conjuration began, solos and choruses. Voices rolled and echoed in the crypt, making my itching grow until I wanted to claw my skin off, but I clenched my fists and resisted. I had witnessed more than a dozen bindings, but I had never fallen off a horse or been bruised badly enough at fencing to need a healing, so I had never been inside the octogram before.
When the invocations ended, Grand Master stepped forward and dropped a few coins on the great slab of iron in the centre. He inspected the result, and seemed satisfied that no bizarre imbalance of elements had resulted. As he gathered the coins up, the Brat came forward and laid the first sword in their place.
Random’s face was flushed with excitement, his eyes gleaming in the light of the fires. I helped him remove his shirt. Glanvil marked on his chest the narrow gap above the eleventh rib, marking the road to his heart. Random stepped forward, lifted his sword, and sprang up on the anvil to salute the king and swear the oath to defend him against all foes. My gloom deepened. My oath would not be quite the same. I must confirm the exact words with Master of Rituals.
Now came the dread moment of binding. Random knelt to the king, offering his sword, then backed away to the anvil and sat down. Glanvil and I gripped his arms to steady him. The king stepped forward, bellowed, “Serve or die!” and thrust the sword right through Random, who arched in a spasm of agony, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Then the king pulled out the sword, and it was over. Random smiled down at the wound, which had stopped bleeding already, and stood up to accept the sword back from his new ward. The audience roared and applauded.
Next came Glanvil, of course, taking his place at death point. No need to reform the octogram, although Invoker had to chant again. This time I marked the target—which was tricky, because Glanvil’s chest was so hairy that the charcoal barely showed. We had teased him for months that I would need to use red paint. Random and I held the subject’s arms, and a second binding was completed without incident.
The king then left the octogram, as did his two new Blades, who crowded in to stand as close to him as they dared—bark on a tree, as Montpurse had said. Now the octogram must be reformed, which was enchanters’ jargon for starting all over again. Master Armourer laid a sword at the Brat’s feet—a rapier of course, I saw. Standing now at death point, I was more concerned about Lord Chinless, directly across from me at love point. The highborn ninny had managed to bind Dragon and Burl a few years ago. Montpurse had not mentioned how many times he had gotten it wrong, though, like that nincompoop I had watched kill Candidate Harvest four years ago. How many corpses had they dragged away before the dolt did it right?
The chanting began, and I realized that I had forgotten to rehearse the words of my oath with Master of Rituals. I ran it through in my mind and decided that I knew it. I was startled when Jarvis began to fumble with my shirt. Then Godfrey was scratching my chest with a piece of charcoal. The Brat was laying the rapier on the anvil...
Oh, yes, a beauty! I grabbed it and examined it lovingly for a moment, my own personal sword that had been crafted for me and my style of fighting. She was full length, but incredibly light, with a triangular blade and a short ricasso on which her name was inscribed in tiny letters, then a simple guard and hilt, topped by the cat’s eye cabochon—a small one because there was so little weight to counterbalance.
Then I saw that everyone was waiting on me. I leapt up on the anvil and raised Fortune in salute to Chinless. If I was going to die now, at least I would be slain by a most gorgeous sword.
“Lord Bannerville, upon my soul, I, Candidate Spender of the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, do irrevocably swear in the presence of these my brethren that I will evermore defend you against all foes, setting my own life as nothing to shield you from peril, reserving only my fealty to our lord the king. To bind me to this oath, I bid you plunge this my sword into my heart that I may die if I swear falsely or, being true, may live by the power of the spirits here assembled to serve you until in time I die again.”
I jumped down, took three long steps, and knelt to proffer the sword, then backed away until my calves met the anvil. Sit... Godfrey and Jarvis gripping my arms... Chinless aiming at my chest...
“Serve or—”
Oh, screaming shit, that hurt!
Then it was done. The wound Fortune had made was so tiny that it barely showed. A single drop of blood had run down my belly. I accepted my shirt from Jarvis, my sword from my ward, and it was all over. I suppose the school was cheering as usual—I didn’t notice. With Fortune hung through the loop on my belt, I followed Lord Bannerville out of the octogram and moved into his proper place beside my ward.
“Beautifully done, thank you, my lord.”
“That isn’t much of a sword they gave you.”
I looked up in disapproval. Fortune was gorgeous! Not even my ward could be allowed to insult her. “My lord, if Sir Burl came at me with that hulking great hand-and-a half meat chopper of his, I would drop him at my feet. I assure you that I am much more deadly than he is, or Sir Dragon. If you don’t believe me, ask Grand Master.”
His Lordship sniffed. “I did.”
Pause for silent question.
“He said the same.”
Great Baels of Fire! I had never imagined Grand Master telling lies like that.
Chapter 3
I stood behind my ward at dinner, endlessly elbowing the king’s new Blades, who were equally anxious to crowd in behind him, and salivating until servants brought me a plateful to eat standing. I spent the night on a chair outside the second-best guest room. Nights are long if you cannot sleep and all your dreams have died.
Montpurse had slandered Bannerville in one respect—the man was an excellent rider. He could not have been the king’s friend otherwise, and all Blades were equally skilled, because they might have to keep up with the royal whirlwind someday. Chinless and his guards could have ridden to Brimiarde in one day easily, had he not slept in until almost noon, long after the king had left, and had he not then wanted to visit an old friend whose baronial mansion was roughly on the way.
During the journey, I rode at his side—so possessed by the binding that I would have drawn my sword on anyone who tried to come between us. My ward barely spoke a word to me, although he chattered enough to Dragon whenever the trail was wide enough for three horses abreast. When they reached their destination, I was never more than two steps away. Bannerville was obviously annoyed by my persistence, but he must have been through this ordeal before, with Burl and Dragon.
Those two were happy enough to skip the banquet and eat in the kitchen, where they could chat up a couple of servant girls with promises of a special treat later. I again stood behind Bannerville’s chair, ignoring the hostess’s scowl. I spent a second night on a chair outside Chinless’s chamber.
It was there that we were joined by Gudge, Lord Bannerville’s body servant, a colourless, scrawny man of around forty, with a stoop and a shuffling walk. He was so unobtrusive that he was practically invisible, which supported Montpurse’s warning that he was probably an inquisitor. The next morning, he turned out to be a skilled rider, a curious talent in a man of humble station.
Brimiarde was the largest city I had ever seen, although Burl and Devon assured me that Grandon was much bigger. It was, they admitted, the largest port in Chivian. His lordship’s party checked in at the Queen Godleva, who had, according to the daubed signboard outside, a marked squint and mud-coloured hair. There I made my first move.
“My lord, I do not approve of this room.”
Bannerville frowned angrily. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It opens directly off the corridor. If you sleep here, sir, either one of us will have to sit in full view outside, which is very bad practice, or sit inside, on the other bed.”
“That’s absurd! Sir Burl?”
Dragon was downstairs, overseeing the baggage.
Burl said tactfully. “Strictly speaking, my lord, he is correct, and a newly bound Blade does have to go by the book. Why not have him see what else is available?”
Five minutes later, we set up our ward in a smaller chamber, without a view of the sea, but reached through a larger room that would serve as a guardroom. I ordered the beds there to be removed and replaced by chairs and a table. Authority felt dangerously enjoyable.
Downstairs in the tap room, we ate a surprisingly good dinner.
“Dragon,” Bannerville said. “Take Sir, um, Spender to find a tailor and get him some proper livery. I am going upstairs to lie down for a while.” He obviously had his eye on one of the servant girls to lie with.
Burl glanced at Dragon for approval, and followed our ward and his companion upstairs to stand guard. Less than two days after my binding, I could not possibly desert my post. I beckoned the innkeeper over and asked if he knew of a good tailor nearby who would come and measure a client. The man swore he knew the best tailor in town and would send a boy for him at once.
“Probably his brother,” Dragon opined as soon as the man was out of earshot. I laughed, which I rarely found an opportunity to do with Dragon, but when the tailor arrived, he looked old enough to be the innkeeper’s grandfather. He pursed his lips at Dragon’s snug blue doublet above green tights extending all the way down to half boots.
“The same colours, please,” I said, “but much less bombast in the sleeves; jerkin and doublet unpadded; keep the slashing to a minimum; the mantle flowing and lighter so it can be discarded quickly if necessary; hose with draw strings below the knee; white stockings, black shoes, and no codpiece visible.”
