by Dave Duncan
The King and his guests were seated. Everyone else could sit down also.
“I do believe,” Hazard said cheerfully, “that you have the ugliest ward who ever put a sword through a heart.”
“How would you like another through yours?”
“Still a little tender, are you?” Hazard had been a year ahead of Arkell at Ironhall. He was a decent enough yokel, but the place had seemed strangely quiet after he left. Hazard chattered continuously. In any row of Blades, he would usually be found at the end, as now, which was why Arkell had eased in next to him for once. If there was any useful gossip around, Hazard would repeat it—endlessly.
But there was no denying that Wassail was an incredible eyesore, with a bloated, puffed face, all inflamed and veined. One of the lippy juniors at Ironhall had whispered to Arkell that his future ward had a head like a cow’s stomach full of blood and a body like the rest of the cow. Not being bound then, Arkell had found that funny.
He still did, actually, but wouldn’t admit it. The old man had outfitted his Blades handsomely and so far was paying them well. Despite his age, he rode like a troop of hussars; he ate and drank like their horses. It took four men to carry him up to bed every night. Perpetually bad-tempered, he approved of nothing done in the last four centuries and never let a kind word pass his lips.
Except when he was near the King. Then he fawned, smarmed, toadied, and truckled. “Your Majesty’s presence will lift all hearts.” Yuck. “How fortunate is Chivial to have a true philosopher ruling it.” Double yuck. At royal functions he stayed almost sober.
Cheering began again as Beau and Cedric came out side by side, clad in bright-hued plastrons. They bowed to the royal box. The two umpires helped them don their masks.
“When did you say you were leaving?” Hazard asked in passing.
“I didn’t.” Arkell still knew nothing about his ward’s mission and had been hoping Hazard did.
“Good, they’re going to start with sabers,” Hazard said, laboring the obvious. “Poor Cedric! He really thought he had the cup on his mantel when Beau wasn’t bound last week, didn’t he? Um…What odds’re you offering on your Leader?”
That was a lunge.
Arkell parried. “I spend my money on women.”
“You’re a Blade, they pay you.”
“Really?”
“Sometimes. You realize that this is the first time the Pirate’s Son has ever come to watch a cup match? Long overdue. First time for your ward, too, isn’t it? I expect they’re both bored stiff, but a ward can hardly ignore it when his man’s in the finals, can he? Beau’s a miracle, isn’t he, I mean he just mows ’em like hay. Old-timers are comparing him to Durendal in his prime. This bout’ll be a pushover, just like it was at Ironhall last week, won’t it? You missed the best match of the meet—almost everyone did, actually, and no one’s discussing it because it could have been a world-shattering disaster. Even Cedric ought to thank the spirits that Beau was around because otherwise he’d have gone down in history as the first man to let a…” and so on.
The contestants circled slowly, mostly keeping their distance. In sabers, first hit won. Once in a while there would be a sudden appel, a flashing cut or feint, a block, and the players would leap apart again. Spectators duly oohed and aahed. Engrossed in watching the match, Arkell had almost missed something significant. “Brother, what are you talking about?”
“Isilondian Sabreur, de Roget. Big man, florid, white scar under his right eye. Expect he’s over there in the contestants’ bleachers. He offered Cedric a friendly match and made a dung heap of him.”
“What?” Arkell howled. “Not Cedric!” The King of Isilond’s Household Sabreurs were the Blade’s closest imitators, but Blades told Sabreur jokes among themselves: How many Sabreurs does it take to beat a Blade? Answer: Nobody knows. “A Sabreur beat Cedric?”
“I’m telling you! If it had been up to Cedric, a non-Blade would have been winning here now, and for the first time ever. He’s doing well, though, isn’t he? Holding Beau off longer than I expected.”
“I didn’t hear about this. How far did whatsisname get?”
“He didn’t.” Hazard’s leer promised a good tale. “They don’t want stumblebums cluttering up the field, so every first-timer has to pass a qualifying round, and this de Roget was unlucky enough to be paired with Beau. Humiliating as it must have been for the national champion of Isilond to fail to—”
Arkell hooted. “Who makes these rules? The Guard?”
“No, no! The Lord Chamberlain’s office. They— Yieaaa!”
A flag waved, Cedric admitted the touch, the crowd roared. Beau had won the saber contest.
Hazard sighed. “Beautiful!” He began counting on his fingers, totting up winnings.
Arkell was still considering the Isilondian’s convenient misfortune. “Who determined the lineup?”
“They drew lots. You’re not suggesting the draw was faked, I hope?”
Not likely! This had Blades written all over it.
The rapier round had begun.
“Best of five in rapiers,” Hazard said unnecessarily. “Lot of money says Beau’ll take him in three straight hits.”
There was less circling this time, and the longer weapons kept the fencers farther apart. Cedric feinted, Beau recovered. Beau feinted, Cedric recovered, and they were back where they started. And again. Then steel clattered and flashed, lunge, parry, riposte…Beau signaled the touch, the umpires waved the flag, spectators applauded tepidly.
“Did you see that!” Hazard cried. “Beau’s off his form today.” He scanned the crowd. “Look at this mob! Almost no one came to see the quarterfinals and semis! Just because the King’s here! I like your livery, brother. I hear your ward bought the store for his Blades. Lots of good winter clothing, was there?”
“Why should we need that?”
They exchanged baffled glances.
“I also heard that your ward had taken you over to Sycamore Elementary to be conjured in some foreign tongue…?”
“Did you?” Arkell was not going to reveal secrets and that secret was no help, anyway. Instead of a run-of-the-mill conjurement to make them fluent in some foreign language, Wassail had forked out for a full “gift of tongues” that would let them pick up any language in a few hours. Athelgar always tied his purse strings with a double knot; if he had approved that expense, then the expedition was expected to visit several countries.
Guard scuttlebutt had confirmed Grand Master’s hunch about a royal bride to be collected. The Thencaster Affair had taught Athelgar that his bachelorhood was a valuable political weapon, and he had wielded it so well and so long that now Parliament was screaming for an heir. At last, the Guard said, he had made his choice and was dispatching his most trusted henchman to finalize the marriage treaty and escort the fortunate bride to her future home.
But even Hazard did not know who she was. “Vicious must know because he attends Privy Council meetings, but Vicious hasn’t spoken a complete sentence since he was twelve. We’ve gone over every possible candidate in Eurania. Discarding ten highly-improbables, who are over forty or have harelips, leaves seventeen maybes. Athelgar likes them young, remember.” Another flag. Hazard’s wail suggested sudden pain in the money pouch. “Two-nothing!? What is the matter with Beaumont today?”
Not a thing. Beau could have embroidered lazy-daisy stitch all over Cedric by this time, but he had deliberately thrown the first two points so he must now win the next three or lose the match. This would add some zest for the crowd and save Cedric from total humiliation. Arkell had not learned that by analyzing the fencing—these two were far too fast for him. He just knew Beau.
“So you honestly don’t know where you’re headed?” Hazard complained.
“No. And I don’t care.” Adventure in foreign lands beat hanging around Grandon all the time. “May be better for Beau if it isn’t Isilond, though.”
• 2 •
Lord Haywick’s scream of agony was
audible from the windy attics down to the half-underground kitchens. It died away into curses, interspersed with sobs.
Waiting in the corridor outside, Master William Merrysock was thus advised that Paulet, his lordship’s valet, had just thrown open the bed curtains and allowed the fine morning sun to enter. Merrysock stalked into the bedchamber. A litter of glasses, bottles, and garments, plus a lingering fog of wine fumes, explained why Lord Haywick’s nervous system was still delicate. The threats grew more lurid, but at least there was no one else in the Ambassador’s bed this time.
“Good morning, Your Excellency,” Merrysock said, soberly if a little louder than necessary. “I do regret the need to disturb your well-earned rest, but the hour is close to noon, and certain developments require Your Excellency’s personal attention.”
His lordship groaned. Paulet offered him a goblet of wine.
Merrysock continued over to the window to peer out at the bustling streets of Laville—he preferred not to look his employer in the eye when the eye looked as bad as it must look this morning. Idiot Haywick was the Chivian Ambassador, and Merrysock First Secretary—meaning Merrysock did the work and Haywick got the honor.
And the bills. The Haywick family had escaped the Vengeance only because the previous earl had been clever enough to die before becoming too deeply implicated in the Thencaster Plot and the present one had been too stupid to be trusted. His loyalty had been cast in doubt, though, and recently King Athelgar had appointed the ninny Ambassador to Isilond—a great honor, but a very expensive service if the King chose to make it so. Haywick was being bled dry. He skimped by ignoring his debts, including Merrysock’s salary.
Fortunately, there were remedies. A First Secretary was not without resources.
“What sort of developments?” came a dying whisper from the bedclothes.
“Lord Wassail and his train will be here before sundown.”
“…?”
Merrysock sighed. “Your lordship will recall that the Regent granted your request for a safe-conduct for Lord Wassail as Chivian Ambassador-at-Large, accompanied by a train of one hundred.”
The next moan sounded like, “…for?”
Having set out his lordship’s shaving kit, Paulet was making some effort to clean up the room and lay out clothes. His leisurely pace suggested he was memorizing the conversation. Merrysock had good evidence that Paulet was in the pay of both the Gevilians and the Isilondian secret police, known as the Sewer.
“His Majesty did not inform us of Lord Wassail’s purpose, Your Excellency, just that he is not expected to stay long in Isilond.”
Others might speculate, but Merrysock had no doubt that Athelgar’s most trusted crony had been dispatched to collect a royal bride. Not an Isilondian nymph, though. The infant King had no close female relatives, and his uncle the Regent was certainly not going to let any of the great ducal houses promote a daughter, because that would give Chivial an excuse to meddle in Isilondian politics for the next hundred years. So the eyes of Eurania would be watching to see in what direction Lord Wassail departed from Laville. Merrysock had been able to work it out from Grandon’s queries about roads, border crossings, and so on.
“Your Excellency will have to ride out to meet him, of course.”
Haywick wailed. “Ride?”
“Arrangements for his escort to bivouac outside the city walls have been made, as was stipulated in the safe-conduct. A small reception has been organized for this evening. The extra staff required by Your Excellency for the next few weeks has been hired. An audience will be held at the palace, no doubt…Banquets will be hosted by you on three or four successive nights. The library has been converted to a cabinet where His Lordship may privily receive callers.” Certain other parties would certainly pay well for their names. “And so on.”
The Ambassador choked. “Cost…?”
“It is possible,” Merrysock said with relish, “that Lord Wassail will make a fiscal contribution.” He let his tone indicate that the sun might turn green, too. Haywick would bleed and bleed. Best of all, he would have to bleed cold cash, because not a victualer in town would give him credit any more.
At that moment an outburst of brass and drums announced that the band had arrived and begun rehearsing unfamiliar Chivian music. His Excellency uttered a heartrending moan.
• 3 •
Off to the northwest, the procession wending through the farmlands of Isilond was led by polychrome heralds, who carried banners and blew silver trumpets when passing habitations or other excuses. Most of these show-off lovelies were locals hired for the occasion, but their leader was Pursuivant Dinwiddie, Lord Wassail’s personal herald.
Behind them marched a squad of men-at-arms with pikes, followed by a creaking, cockling, cumbersome carriage, half a dozen mounted and highly polished knights—mostly for show—eight creaking ox carts of baggage, and a troop of longbowmen on foot. Many of the men had brought their families; camp followers had added themselves. Add in squires, custrels, body servants, the hounds and their handlers, the hawks and theirs, and the total was near a hundred souls and as many animals. The oxen set the funereal pace under a blistering sun.
An attack of what he claimed was gout had forced old sourpuss Lord Walrus to travel by coach, which kept him conveniently safe and out of the way. Oak sat on the box, keeping an eye on the coachman and the scenery, while Arkell rode behind, his back firmly turned on the knights’ clanking armor and long fir lances. Beaumont moved up and down the line as he fancied, scouting the road and flirting with the local women.
“Laville,” Oak muttered to himself, tasting the word. There was a powerful air of unreality about all this. The winds of chance were blowing.
Two weeks ago he’d been plain Candidate Oak, clad in patched Ironhall castoffs, riding on Starkmoor with his friends. One week ago Sir Oak had been watching the finals of the King’s Cup in the royal presence. That sign of royal favor had even persuaded the Guard—which regarded the cup as its private property—to forgive Beau for winning, while hinting he had better never do it again.
Then had come a voyage on a real ship to Isilond. In the tavern last night Oak had spoken Isilondian to Isilondian girls and understood their replies. Of course it had been quite obvious what both sides wanted, and there had been satisfaction all round. He’d become quite good at that already.
Oak was the son of a fisherman. When the winds of chance had wrecked the fleet and left his village bereft of both men and boats, he’d been too young to earn his bread in a village full of orphans just like him. The local apothecary had gathered up a dozen and taken them to Ironhall, begging that at least some be granted refuge. Grand Master had accepted only one—although he had given the rest money when they left.
The winds of chance had almost wrecked Oak again, last year, when he fell on rocks with his horse on top of him. He’d really expected to lose that leg, and been quite certain that his fencing days were over. In the end it had all worked out for the best. Things usually did if you let them.
Like his name. The sword of an earlier Sir Oak had been Returned while he was still the nameless Brat, and the juniors had decided that “Oak” suited him. He’d agreed rather than argue, and been Oak ever since. Now Sir Oak. He had named his long sword, though—Sorrow, he called her. She was deathly beautiful, but he hoped he would never have to draw her in anger.
He was considering growing a beard, a great black bristly monster of a beard. The fiercer he could look, the less chance that he’d ever actually have to hurt anyone.
Behind the coach, Arkell was equally content, riding along in his stylish red and brown livery. One of the heralds had been impudent enough to disapprove of that color combination, and Arkell had enjoyed pointing out that his ward’s family had been using it for centuries before there had been any upstart heraldic colleges around to complain.
Riding a fairly decent horse on a day like this, with Reason at his thigh and a whole world to explore, life veered very close to perfecti
on. He was heading for the greatest city in Eurania, many times larger than Grandon, just as Isilond was a much larger land than Chivial.
Beaumont came jingling into view, sunlight flashing on his teeth and Just Desert’s basket hilt. He wheeled his horse in alongside.
Confident that the knights could not hear him over the racket of their horses and squeaking armor, Arkell said, “Why didn’t you warn me last night?”
“Warn you of what?”
“Warn me that the redhead was a fake.”
Beau looked pained. “A gentleman never gossips about a lady.”
The girl in question had been about as far from true ladyship as Arkell could imagine, but he had forgiven her little deception when she started demonstrating novelties he had never even read about in a book, let alone experienced in his two weeks of frenzied debauchery. He wondered if she’d introduced Beau to them earlier, but he knew that asking would be a waste of time. He yawned contentedly. “Tell me, brother, would you have stayed at Ironhall if you’d really understood what we were missing? I wouldn’t. All those years to make up!”
“About three months in your case.”
“You should talk. You can’t even raise a shadow on your lip.” They shared smirks of happiness. “You happen to know why houses here have tiles instead of honest thatch? And why can’t Chivial grow vines like these? It’s not much farther north.”
“I’ll ask the peasants. Any other questions?”
“A million. Why are the cattle brown? Why do Isilondian men wear berets? Are the girls in Laville really as frantic as they say?”
“You can find that out for yourself tonight.” Beau’s eyes twinkled.
“True. There’s a university in Laville. It’s famous, all over Eurania. Any chance we’ll be staying long enough for me to attend some classes? I’ll take all the night watches, gladly.” The second best part of being a bound Blade was not having to waste time sleeping.
His leader raised a mocking eyebrow. “Isilondian law isn’t the same as Chivian.”
