Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  That was not the tune the bird had whistled back at Ironhall. Was the Weasel trying to weasel out and blame his Blades? Startled, Oak looked to the others and found no help. Were they seriously expecting an opinion from him? He saw himself as the rearguard in the chase scenes, never the strategist.

  “You can reasonably plead ill health, my lord, so why not stay in Dvonograd and ask that the princess be brought to you there?”

  Without opening his eyes, the Walrus growled, “No!” He rattled, then started to cough, screwing up his face in agony at every spasm and making Oak writhe in sympathy.

  “The trouble with that notion, brother,” Beau explained, “is that the Czar has probably dispatched a substantial force to escort us. Remembering Boyar Basmanov’s stories, if Igor had sent you on such a mission, how would you feel about returning empty-handed?”

  “Suicidal.”

  “Exactly. If we set foot in Skyrria we will go on to Kiensk, like it or not.”

  Wassail choked and gasped into silence, his face streaming sweat.

  If Beau really wanted Oak’s opinion, that meant that he and Arkell disagreed. As Leader he could overrule the other two, but Beau would not want to do that. Arkell was a finder-of-problems; obviously he was the one wanting to play safe and turn back. To let Beau make the choice, Oak must vote to continue.

  “I think we should go on, Leader.”

  “Why?” Beau snapped, sounding like Grand Master in a strategy class.

  Um. Well, the most obvious reason was that this journey was killing their ward. To head home now would finish him. He would never make it back to Radomcla, whereas the elementary in the town over there could restore him; the next section of the journey was to be by boat down the Dvono, which should be restful enough. Old Walrus would be deeply offended if Oak said all that, though.

  “Matter of honor, Leader. Our duty.”

  Beau just sighed and rode on in silence.

  Suddenly everything flipped as if someone had cracked Oak on the head with a beam. Beau had not been joking. He agreed with Arkell. They really did want a good excuse to turn back and run, but their ward needed enchantment in Dvonograd and could not stand the journey back to Radomcla. Somewhere in the last few days, without realizing it, the Blades had passed a point of no return.

  “Unless my old eyes deceive me,” Beau said, “a sizable contingent is fording the river. Coming to intercept us.”

  • 4 •

  Arkell estimated that the Skyrrians were about two hundred strong, so the two sides were roughly equal in fighting strength. They approached each other circumspectly over the swampy flood plain of the Dvono, like dogs sniffing the air for the scent of treachery. Why so big an honor guard? Did the Czar’s guests really need this much protection, or was he just wary of any foreign force near his borders?

  They seemed a ragtag mix of archers, lancers, and swordsmen riding in no sort of order. Already Arkell could make out swarthy little men on shaggy ponies, red-haired giants like Baels riding high chargers. Some wore helmets and cuirasses or even antique chain-mail shirts, others not much at all in the summer glare. They followed two standards, but with the wind at his back he could not discern the emblems.

  The leaders cried halt just out of bowshot. Pursuivant Dinwiddie and the Isilondian heralds rode forward to parley with their Skyrrian counterparts.

  “If you trust yourself to that mob, Chivians, you are crazy!” shouted Basmanov, riding toward Wassail’s litter.

  Arkell intercepted. He distrusted the Skyrrian turncoat. “Why so?”

  “That is the demon Viazemski himself!” Basmanov’s pocked face was twisted in anger, or fear. He was an ungainly, humorless man with a highly unpleasant odor.

  “You have remarkable eyesight.”

  “I know his banner. When he cuts your throats, remember my warning!” The exile spurred his horse savagely and rode away to the rear. Charming fellow!

  The colloquy went surprisingly fast. Cantering back to report to Lord Wassail, Pursuivant began shouting the moment he was within earshot.

  “Joyous, tidings, Your Excellency! Their leader is Prince Dimitri Temkin, the Czar’s nephew!”

  To a herald, that was clear proof of royal favor and honorable intentions. Arkell wondered how a mad Czar defined honor.

  “Who else?” Wassail demanded.

  Pursuivant reined in, flushed and blinking through dust-coated glasses. “General Viazemski, aide-de-camp to His Highness. They would have speech with you and His Grace of Vaanen.”

  “You didn’t forget us, I hope?” said Oak.

  Offended, Dinwiddie tried to look down his nose, a posture that merely emphasized his lack of chin. “Of course not. The Prince will bring three guards also. Your Excellency, there was a Master Hakluyt present. They introduced him as Chivian ambassador, but I assured them that His Majesty has not yet accredited an ambassador to Skyrria. That is correct, is it not?” he queried nervously. Poor Pursuivant would not sleep for months if he had unwittingly insulted an ambassador.

  “He’s just a consul,” Wassail growled. “Hubert Hakluyt of Brimiarde, a merchant authorized to speak for the others. What’s he doing here?”

  “They brought him along to interpret. His services were not required, of course.”

  “Did he not carry some dispatches between the two courts last year, my lord?” Arkell asked. He handled all Wassail’s correspondence now, and had seen the name. “The Skyrrians may be flattering both him and themselves by granting him diplomatic rank.”

  “Well, now he can go back to peddling fish,” Wassail said. “Pursuivant, see if His Grace of Vaanen is ready to meet with the Prince.”

  A few minutes later, riding out with the leaders, Arkell was furious to note that the Blades’ counterparts on the Skyrrian team were archers—short, ugly men on even uglier ponies, armed with deadly recurved bows. He made a note to dismember Pursuivant at the earliest possible opportunity, if Beau did not do so first.

  The Skyrrians were led by a lardy young man with a streaming sandy beard. In himself he was not impressive, and his clothes were fine but not exceptional—linen breeches, an embroidered shirt, and a three-quarter-length coat of silk with silver buttons. What made Arkell whistle was the glitter of jewels on him, everywhere from his red leather boots to his fur-trimmed cap; his sword and horse trappings alone were worth a fortune. This was Dimitri, Athelgar’s brother-in-law-to-be.

  At his side rode a soldier in black cuirass and helmet. He had lost his left arm at the elbow and his beard was streaked with gray, but he still looked a man to be reckoned with. This must be the notorious Viazemski, whom Basmanov described as more dangerous than a bedroll full of vipers. More than half the Skyrrian contingent wore streltsy black and the wolf-head emblem; the others must be the Prince’s retainers. The unarmed, scraggy man whose trimmed beard marked him as a foreigner would be Master Hakluyt, and he should be a useful source of information.

  The delegations met in no man’s land. They exchanged elaborate, wordy courtesies and began correcting certain misapprehensions, starting by excluding Hakluyt from the discussion.

  Fortunately, nobody asked Arkell’s opinion of Prince Dimitri, who soon showed himself both ignorant and stupid—he was amazed that foreigners could be enchanted to understand Skyrrian, thereby confirming Basmanov’s opinion of national conjuring standards; he was also confused about the relationship between Chivial and Isilond—although King Athelgar would never win medals in geography either. He did agree that his sister was the Czar’s niece, not cousin as she had been represented. Yes, his other sister was Czarina. Lord Wassail did not say that Chivians disapproved of such matches, but he scowled mightily and forgot to fawn at the Prince for several minutes.

  Viazemski was harder to judge. He sat impassively, studying the Isilondian troop, seemingly ignoring the delegates’ talk around him. His reins were tied to his stump, leaving his sword hand free, yet he had his horse under perfect control.

  “I was told a week!” Wass
ail roared, snapping Arkell’s attention back to the palaver. The Weasel was sick and in pain, trying to negotiate from a litter, staring up at faces against the sky. His diplomatic manners had slipped under the strain.

  Voevode Viazemski dropped his pose of inattention and sent the Prince warning glances.

  “Your Excellency’s sources may have been misinformed,” Dimitri retorted stiffly. “From here to Kiensk will take at least a month.”

  “Sir Arkell?”

  As geographer for the expedition, Arkell had rummaged through all the libraries in Laville for information on Skyrria. Since then he had cross-examined every traveler they’d met on the road who claimed to know anything relevant, including some Narthanian soldiers who’d marched almost to the gates of Kiensk in the last war. He probably knew as much about western Skyrria as anyone could who had never been there, but he could hardly argue its geography with a member of the royal family, no matter how furious his ward was.

  He turned to the merchant sulking in the background. “How long would you estimate, Master Hakluyt?” He spoke in Chivian.

  The consul glanced nervously at the streltsi and replied in Skyrrian. “Speed depends on who is traveling, Sir Blade. A courier hastening to report the glad news of your arrival to His Majesty will undoubtedly cover the ground faster than a large party such as His Excellency’s.”

  “Such a courier,” Lord Wassail growled, “might mention our urgent need to return to Dvonograd before winter sets in.”

  The Prince grew flustered. “I was not planning to—”

  “This is a vast land,” Viazemski said harshly, demonstrating who was really in charge here. “Forage and shelter are grave concerns for large parties. Expect to reach the capital no sooner than the end of Eighthmoon.”

  Dimitri rallied. “You can be no more impatient to reach Kiensk than I am, Excellency. I have a daughter there I have never seen. I have endured two months here, waiting for you, and Dvonograd is nobody’s favorite place. We can leave,” he added with a wary glance at his one-armed companion, “first thing tomorrow, if the stars are favorable.”

  “That can be arranged,” the Voevode conceded.

  Skyrrian messengers galloped back to the town to summon porters and more wagons, but separating the Chivians from the Isilondians was a complex task that seemed likely to take up most of the day. Wordy farewells turned almost tearful. In two months their baggage had become hopelessly mixed. An Isilondian courier was ready to leave, so Arkell had to close Wassail’s latest report. As he was kneeling on the pebbly grass, trying to write legibly on the lid of the dispatch box despite the romping wind’s playful interference, it occurred to him that Lord Wassail would never have arrived at Dvonograd at all without Beau’s masterstroke in enlisting the Sabreurs’ aid. Was it possible for a Blade to be too good for his ward’s well-being? About a dozen men came shuffling over to ask if he would write letters home for them.

  He had just finished the last hasty scrawl when Beau himself arrived, beaming cheerfully atop a wall-eyed, spavined nag.

  “Time to go, brother! The nefarious Viazemski reports that the town elementary is ready to perform a healing. We’ll head down to the ford and leave minions to bring the baggage.”

  “Find me someone to take charge of this accursed box!” Arkell eyed the dog-food horse. “What happened to Triplets?”

  “He has been reunited with his previous owner. With every indication of approval, I point out—ungrateful brute!”

  “You sold him back, you mean? I trust you profited?”

  “I collected a handsome ransom,” Beau conceded smugly.

  As the litter and its escort moved off, who should reappear but Master Hakluyt on his palfrey, easing himself into the Ambassador’s party and obviously heading for the litter. He looked around in alarm as two swordsmen closed in on him.

  One of them brandished a smile that would have disarmed a shipload of Baels. “Consul, I am Beaumont, my friend is Sir Arkell, and the Blade up ahead is Sir Oak.”

  The consul scowled. “I need to speak with His Excellency.”

  “That can be arranged. May I ask your business?”

  Obviously Hakluyt dearly wanted to say, “No.” Discretion prevailed. “I intend to petition him for redress.”

  Beau’s sigh conveyed immense sympathy. “Believe me, this is not the best day to try it, master. What is your grievance?”

  “I had barely reached Kiensk this summer before I was dispatched here, to Dvonograd, to interpret for the Ambassador. Buried alive!”

  “We do not need interpreters.”

  “I explained that, but the Czar had decreed otherwise.”

  “I am sorry we have inconvenienced you.”

  “So am I!” The scrawny merchant was almost shouting. “I have lost a whole season’s trading. If my ship has sailed without me, I may have to overwinter in Kiensk, which is a fate to dread. The King should compensate me for my losses!”

  “I do counsel patience,” Beau said soothingly. “As the Skyrrians would say, the stars are unfavorable for financial dealings today. You are well acquainted with Skyrria?”

  “This is my eighth summer here,” the merchant conceded sullenly. “If I am not to be allowed to speak with the Ambassador—”

  “Are you married, master?”

  Arkell wondered what that had to do with anything.

  So, clearly, did Hakluyt. “Yes. Why?”

  “Your dear wife is at home, minding all your fair children in Brimiarde?”

  “Yes.”

  “How would she like to be Lady Hakluyt?”

  The trader’s sudden flush was answer enough. If the present Mistress Hakluyt was at all typical, she would have an attack of the vapors at the prospect of being catapulted to the social summit of her poky provincial town. “That is…? His Majesty has…?”

  “His Majesty will naturally reward those who assist in arranging his marriage. That is traditional. His Excellency has brought letters patent conferring knighthood in the Order of Ranulf on you, in recognition of your services to the Crown.”

  Arkell wrestled down a grin. Wassail’s dispatch box did contain several such documents, signed, sealed, and awaiting names—honors cost the King nothing—but the Walrus would have apoplexy at the idea of knighting a mere merchant. On the other hand, he never argued with Beau now.

  “This is indeed an honor.”

  “It merely needs his signature. I have a few questions about local customs that may concern His Excellency’s safety.”

  The trader’s face, weathered and furrowed like tree bark, twisted into a surprisingly convincing smile as he saw the deal being offered. “How may I assist, Sir Beaumont?”

  “I expected to see border guards around here.”

  “The Border Patrol has gone underground,” the merchant said with a sneer, “because Viazemski and his streltsy are better bullies than even they are. I am sure they will be back. They are known as the White Hats for some reason. Their headgear is usually a muddy gray color.”

  Beau nodded. “And this conjuration. Is it safe?”

  “I would not risk it for myself, but the Voevode arranged it, did you see? The witches will never risk angering the streltsy.”

  “So it won’t do harm. Will it heal our ward’s maladies?” Arkell demanded. “Is their conjuration any good?”

  “It differs from what we know in Chivial, certainly.” Hakluyt spoke like Oak, with the soft vowels of Lomouth and the West. “They are skilled at curses and some of their transformations are incredible. The Czar is rumored to employ a stable of skilled enchanters and to dabble in very nasty witchcraft experiments at Czaritsyn. But the tales of what he does or does not do at Czaritsyn—”

  “Witches?” Beau said. “Witchcraft? Why ‘witches’?”

  “Skyrrians distrust and fear enchantment. They tolerate it for healing—as a last resort—but they blame all unexpected misfortune on malicious witchcraft. No one ever dies of natural causes, only from witchcraft.”

&nb
sp; “We were told they are superstitious. They believe in astrology?”

  “I fear so.” Hakluyt shook his head. “All of them, even the nobility, who should know better. Nothing will be done on a day the stars have named unfavorable.”

  “But chance is elemental!” Arkell protested. “Stars are fire and air; they cannot influence other elements.”

  “You and I know this, Sir Arkell, but the Skyrrians do not. May I ask, noble sirs, how things are back home in Chivial?” A trader expected tit for tat.

  Beau’s smile flashed in acknowledgment. “We have had very little news in the last three months, and none of consequence. We left in Fourthmoon. When did you sail?”

  “In Thirdmoon. From Brimiarde.”

  “Arriving in Skyrria?” Arkell demanded.

  “Third week of Fifthmoon. That is fast passage.”

  Arkell said, “Why another month from here to Kiensk? When the explorer Delamare came through here a hundred years ago, he needed only three days to sail down the Dvono to Morkuta. From there three more on a horse saw him to Kiensk.”

  “The river is low just now. When was this man here?”

  “Eighthmoon, like now.”

  The trader eyed him thoughtfully. “You are well informed, Sir Arkell.”

  “That is my business.” Did the man think Blades were only trained killers?

  “Well, much has changed in a hundred years. The recent wars devastated western Skyrria. A lot of it is just desert. The Czar…” Hakluyt frowned at their smiles. “I said something humorous, Sir Beaumont?”

  “A private joke, master. Pray forgive us and continue. Your information is extremely valuable to us and our ward.”