Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  Arkell began to breathe a little easier.

  D’Auberoche beckoned someone in the background, snapping his fingers. “With blunted swords, the first to score three hits shall win. No striking at the face or groin, upon pain of disqualification.”

  The lurking Sabreurs exchanged smiles, doubtless noting the lack of mention of masks or plastrons. Serious swordsmen usually trained without protective gear because nothing improved a man’s defense faster than bruises and fractures, even when there were skilled conjurers available to heal them. Now de Roget could thrash the insolent yokel for his insolence, but he could win nothing. He was matched against the court jester with his uncle playing lord of misrule.

  “Will Your Grace honor us by putting up the stake?” the Commandant asked.

  The vulture smiled. “Indeed, we shall offer a prize—a side of bacon from the royal estates.”

  Recognizing their cue, the courtiers exploded in mirth and applause. De Roget flamed scarlet at this further insult. His matter of honor had been reduced to the level of a bout in a rural fair.

  Typically, Oak was just standing in place. Waiting until the wind drops, was how the fisherman’s son always put it. He barely seemed aware that he had been the cause of all the commotion.

  • 7 •

  Heralds cleared a space before the throne, footmen lowered chandeliers to provide more light, and a side of bacon from the kitchens was laid in the place of honor on the steps. The two fencers stripped down to their doublets and hose. Arkell took custody of Oak’s Sorrow, taking the opportunity to move closer to his ward; the prospect of swordplay was making him uneasy. The big man twisted around to glare down at him.

  “Do you know what that young blackguard is up to?”

  “No, my lord.” It certainly was nothing ever taught in Ironhall.

  “Who’s going to win?”

  Being honest but feeling disloyal, Arkell said, “Not Oak.”

  “Certain?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Wassail growled low in his throat. “Well, at least that’s something! But His Majesty will have much to say on this!”

  Doubtless.

  The contestants seemed not ill-matched, being much the same age, and if de Roget was taller, Oak gave him nothing in shoulders. Oak might not be as fast, but he could exert incredible pressure when his blade was engaged. Both men were hefting the swords the Commandant had summoned, assessing them. They were narrow, with basket hilts to protect the hands—not as light as the rapier de Roget had been wearing, nor as massive as Oak’s Sorrow, but obviously intended to represent cut-and-thrust weapons with both edge and point.

  Fencing demonstrations in a throne room were a bizarre breach of normal protocol. The Regent had never been famed as a student of the science of self-defense. If his purpose was merely to humiliate de Roget, what in the world was Beau’s?

  The Commandant called the contestants together for a conference. They listened, nodding but looking only at each other. Then D’Auberoche made them step back five paces and Oak’s slight limp was glaringly obvious. They raised swords in salute.

  “My lords, you may begin!”

  With remarkable rashness, they both rushed forward, Oak moving in a lurching run that Arkell knew from experience to be disconcerting. They were aiming their swords in line, like rapiers. Clatter! De Roget lunged and Oak parried with Butterfly, which led into a riposte at quinte—de Roget was forced to recover; Oak advanced with an appel almost too fast to see. Clang! Clang! The swords were blurs of light under the candles. Only Beau and Grand Master could analyze swordplay at this level. Still de Roget recovered, Oak in pursuit, giving him no respite. The spectators muttered surprise. Clang! Oak was not using Ironhall style, but de Roget tried Rainbow and failed. How was Oak managing this? The Isilondian should have sent him to the graveyard already.

  Oak beat the Isilondian’s blade aside, stepped inside his guard, and grabbed his wrist to yank him forward. Reversing his sword, Oak tapped de Roget on the side of the head with the pommel. The spectators howled in outrage.

  “A hit!” He lowered his sword and released his opponent. Both turned to the Commandant.

  De Roget was spluttering, almost beyond words. “The head was off-limits!”

  “The face,” Oak said stubbornly.

  D’Auberoche rubbed his mustache thoughtfully. “I did say face. I allow the point.”

  Courtiers rumbled angrily, Sabreurs glared. The Regent smiled inscrutably on his perch above all others.

  “That’s allowed?” the Weasel muttered under his breath.

  “Dead is dead,” Arkell whispered. If Oak had been serious, de Roget would be leaking brains now. But Arkell had never seen Oak try that move before. It was almost as if he had known his opponent was going to offer the opening.

  “Ha! A good Chivian can beat any Isilondian any day.” Patriotism was winning out over a guest’s courtesy.

  For the second bout D’Auberoche let them start closer together. “You may begin…”

  This time they began more cautiously, circling. They were both holding their swords higher, more ready to cut than thrust. Two feet came down in simultaneous appels. Clang! Clang! Clang!…The Isilondian had grasped the ricasso of his sword in his left hand, making it more responsive but losing his advantage of reach. Clang! Clang! He cried out in pain, dropping his sword.

  “Monseigneur! I am truly sorry!” Oak cried. “I did not mean to hurt you.” He both looked and sounded horrified. Arkell knew he meant it, but the audience might not believe.

  Even clutching his elbow in the pose of a man with a broken collarbone, de Roget was a gentleman. “I accept that it was unintentional, Messire Oak.” He ground his teeth. “My lord marshal, I must withdraw from the match.”

  The Chivian knights in the background began a cheer, then the Regent started to clap and the court joined in halfheartedly.

  It made no sense! Arkell would have wagered the rest of his life to an hour that Oak was nowhere near de Roget’s class. Isilond had no White Sisters, but it certainly had sniffers under some other name and they would be present here, at court. So however Oak had worked his miracle, it had not been by conjuration. Had de Roget deliberately thrown the match? Had Hazard been lying about the Isilondian’s expertise? It made no sense at all.

  D’Auberoche bowed to the Regent. “If you will graciously give the Conte de Roget leave to go in search of a healing, Your Highness? I declare Messire Oak to be the winner.”

  Oak looked confused, uncertain if he should march over and claim the bacon. The Regent beckoned, and he lurched forward and knelt.

  “Your expertise amazes us all, Messire. Is every Blade so invincible?”

  Oak actually blushed, perhaps the first man to do so in that palace since it was built. “Oh, no, Your Highness. And I’m not that good, not really. Not usually. Commander Beaumont is. He has been giving me some personal coaching.” He pulled a woebegone expression. “I am sorry I hurt Lord Roget.”

  The vulture frowned, pondering, then said, “We see,” as if the view distressed him. If anyone in the room had a mind devious enough to understand the real game, it would be the Regent de Brienne. Arkell certainly did not, although now he knew where his fellow Blades had been all day.

  “We shall spare you the bacon, Chevalier,” the Duc said acidly. “You have entertained us too much for that. Chamberlain, give this stout lad a purse of gold.”

  A state dinner followed. Arkell had been warned often enough at Ironhall that most of a Blade’s working life was uttermost boredom, but no one had mentioned torture. He stood with Oak behind their ward, and their stomachs rumbled in duet. Beau would forget meals when he was doing something important.

  The Regent’s table was larger and set higher than Wassail’s, but both were heavy laden—soups and roasts, fritters and fish, pots of savory-smelling purees, pastries and breads, enough to feed the entire court. The entire court stood and watched, while the host and guest of honor sat and ate. When the vast s
pread had grown cold, it was removed and replaced by a second course, as varied and excessive as the first.

  The second course was removed and a third produced— roast piglet, a dish of lampreys, roast peacock with its tail replaced…

  Wassail gorged. The Regent ate almost nothing. Their conversation was drivel. But, oh, the food…!

  When the candles had burned low, long after midnight, Arkell found himself out in the soothing night air of the courtyard, under the stars. Amid the sparkle of lanterns, the familiar sounds and scents of horses, he watching the all-too-familiar sight of his ward’s massive hindquarters heaving up into his carriage, with Oak assisting. Lord Haywick had been loaded aboard earlier.

  “Chevalier?”

  Arkell turned to face the grandiose white mustache and even grander attire of Commandant D’Auberoche. He had not seen the legendary Sabreur so close before, had not realized how sharp were the man’s eyes, or dominating his presence.

  “My lord Commandant?”

  “Do you happen to know where Messire Beaumont is now?” The old warrior’s voice was low but carried razor-sharp authority. Beside him stood the Conte de Roget, apparently healed of his injury. His face gave away nothing, either, although his scar stood out in bolder relief than earlier. There were more Sabreurs at his back.

  “I regret that I do not, my lord.” If he was wise, Arkell thought, Beau would be riding like a madman for the border. Alas, a Blade could not desert his ward.

  The old man’s voice sank even lower. “I very much want to meet him.”

  “And I am anxious to renew our too-brief acquaintance,” de Roget added.

  “I am sure he would be honored beyond words to meet all your lordships.” One at a time, preferably, but that might not be what was intended.

  “Will you tell him, when you see him, that the Conte de Roget and I, and a couple of friends, will wait upon him tomorrow at noon?”

  Arkell’s heart fell to the mire of the cobbles. “Of course I will so do, my lords.”

  D’Auberoche smiled. He and de Roget nodded the merest hint of bows to the guttertrash Blade, and withdrew into the darkness.

  • 8 •

  Wassail did not approve of Isilondians’ sickly, bland cooking, nor their thin, insipid wines. A slab of roast boar and a horn of ale were a man’s proper fare! Nor did he approve much of his coach companion, Haywick, who snored all the way home—the boy had no head for liquor, and an envoy needed that more than almost anything. The King must be told of his incompetence.

  The Regent was impressive, though—a fine aristocrat with centuries of noble ancestors. The Silver Rose now adorning Wassail’s cloak was a great joy. He had been secretly hoping for the Silver Rose with Dewdrop, but few of the oafs in Athelgar’s court would know the difference.

  In fact, the evening would have been a perfect success had it not been for that idiot young swordsman. Thank the eight that His Highness had been so forgiving! A pox on Athelgar for inflicting those pests on Wassail. The time had come to put those jackanapes in their place.

  Back at the embassy, bleary-eyed flunkies helped him dismount and then turned their attention to unloading Haywick. Trailing his two Blades, Wassail stormed indoors intent on murder, mayhem, and high justice. He began with the doddering porter.

  “Where is Commander Beaumont?”

  He should not have shouted. The dodderer dithered in alarm.

  “Er…Who? Oh, the young man with the sword? Er, I do think he’s in the residence…yes, my lord. He said you was to go to him as soon as you returned, my lord.”

  “Go to him?” Wassail turned to the lanky Blade. “Find him and fetch him! Now! And you,” he said to the one with the limp, “will explain to me why you made such a boar’s nest of my audience this evening, disgracing me, your Order, and your King!”

  The kid never flinched. “I was following Leader’s instructions, my lord. I’m sure he will be glad to—”

  “By ‘Leader’ you mean Beaumont? I tell you now he isn’t ‘Leader’ any longer. There will be no stuck-up commanders in my guard. You will all take your orders directly from me.”

  The other one, Arkell, had queried the porter and gone racing upstairs. He now came racing back down again, four at a time. He had a strange expression on his face.

  “Leader is waiting in your bedchamber, my lord. I think you had better go to him as he requested. There is a problem…”

  Stairs were a problem, and having those nimble sword brats flitting around him like midges as he clambered up them only made it seem worse. Wheezing, Wassail trudged along the corridor to the room he had been assigned, which he did not really approve of. He’d accepted it only because it had tight casements and a good, stout lock on the door. He had double-locked that door when he left, but now it stood wide. Beaumont, beside it, greeted him with a smile and a small bow.

  “How dare you pry in my room?” Wassail roared. “Where have you been? When I attend a royal function, I expect the leader of my guard to be at my side. From now on—” He stormed past the insolently smiling flunky, into his chamber where Master Merrysock sat in a chair, bound and gagged. Seeing Wassail, he began rolling his eyes, making urgent noises behind the gag, and straining at his bonds. The dispatch chest stood open at his feet, its contents arranged in tidy piles around it.

  “I caught a spy, my lord,” Beaumont said brightly. “He was making copies of your correspondence.”

  Totally winded, Wassail sat down. The other two Blades entered and closed the door but he dared not look at them. This was disaster. His Majesty had been insistent on secrecy. And the accursed Blade had to be the one to uncover the traitor…for a moment he wondered if the Secretary could be innocent and the Blade the traitor…but that was impossible. Absolute loyalty was what Blades were all about.

  “How did he get in?” he said hoarsely.

  Beaumont held up a knife, the sort of implement every man carried at his belt to use at table. “I presume he used this, my lord. He certainly used it to open your muniment chest. The handle is a conjurement—what the inquisitors call a ‘golden key.’ ”

  “But I have such a key!” Wassail’s head was spinning. “Grand Inquisitor gave it to me at the King’s express command. I know I used it on both those locks before I left.”

  “Then Merrysock’s would appear to be stronger, my lord.” Mockery lurked under the sunny smile, of course. “It probably came from the same source. He admits that His Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry is one of his customers.”

  “He’s an inquisitor?”

  “Oh, not that bad, just a slimebucket spy. This amber rod—he rolled it over the originals to decipher them, copied out the plaintext, and then re-ciphered them again the same way. He admits that he was planning to make several copies of his copies and sell them—to the Dark Chamber, of course, but also to the Regent’s Sewer, the Fitanish Embassy, the Gevilian Consulate, and a couple of others whose allegiance he hasn’t remembered yet. I have promised him he will.”

  “Take off his gag. I want to hear his excuses.”

  “He will use a lot of language unsuited for your lordship’s ears, and may waken the entire house. That’s why I gagged him. I suggest we take him down to the cellars; there’s a good soundproof room there we can use to question him in earnest. As I explained to Master Merrysock, Blades do not approve of inquisitors, so Ironhall teaches us our own fiendish means of extracting answers.”

  Arkell rolled his eyes in the background.

  “So he’s read all my private papers? And I suppose you have, too?”

  “Oh, no, my lord. Certainly not. I did read his copies of them. They weren’t secret then, were they?” Beaumont sighed at the wickedness of the world.

  Floundering, Wassail demanded, “Why did you order Oak to throw challenges around in the palace tonight?”

  The kid’s smile brightened again. “He limps. If even a crippled Blade can beat the best of the Sabreurs, they will be less inclined to cause your lordship trouble, won�
�t they? I have only my ward’s best interests at heart. You know that.”

  Aware that he was losing this battle, Wassail heaved himself to his feet. “Well, from now on, I will decide what my interest are, do you hear? Spy-catcher or not, you are dismissed as commander, understand?”

  “No.”

  “What’ju mean, no?”

  “I mean,” Beaumont said sadly, “that every guard must have a commander. That is a Blade rule. If Sir Oak and Sir Arkell conclude that one of them can do a better job as Leader than I am doing, then they can vote me out and I will accept that. But until they do, I am commander of your guard.” He came a step closer. “Allow me to ask you this, my lord: Ironhall prepared us to handle almost every happenstance the Order has encountered in four centuries, but it never mentioned a ward who keeps secrets from his Blades. Why, my lord? Why are you not taking us into your confidence?”

  “You’ll be told everything you need to do your job!” Wassail thundered.

  “With respect, not true, my lord. Why were we not informed that your ultimate destination is Kiensk, in Skyrria, your mission to escort Princess Tasha to Chivial? By the eight! Even this worm knows!” He pointed at the bug-eyed Merrysock. “He has known for months. He has told all his employers, every one of them! And you don’t tell your Blades?”

  Wassail sat down again. He put his face in his hands.

  “Half a thousand wild leagues to Kiensk, my lord, and every petty prince and robber baron between here and there is counting the ransom money already. You say this does not concern your Blades? Furthermore,” Beaumont added sweetly, “Master Merrysock accuses that boozer Haywick of being on more payrolls than he is.”

  It was too much, too late. Dawn could not be far off. “Tomorrow we shall look into this,” Wassail mumbled.

  “As you wish, my lord. Meanwhile, what to do with this offal? We can lock him in his room, or chain him in the cellars, or we can interrogate him thoroughly right away and tip the remains in the river.”

  Wassail did not look up. “Put him in his room.”