by Dave Duncan
“Who did Hazard recognize?”
“Think back a couple of months. Remember when the Skyrrian hostages disembarked? You must! There was a parade.” Beau tossed the brush on the bed and began dividing her hair into bundles.
She said, “I remember reminding you that you had told me over a year ago you would stay around in Gossips’ Corner just to keep track of what was being done to secure their release, so now they were safely home we could get out of this awful place.”
“And I begged you for just a little longer, because the man who brought them home…Remember?”
“Whatsisname, the Queen’s brother?”
“Prince Dimitri. He came on a state visit as part of the renewed accord. Dimitri’s chin sprouts a sandy-colored floor broom, although he did keep it trimmed to a respectable length while he was here. Remember what Durendal said about Osric?”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh, dear!”
Beau chuckled, weaving the ropes of her hair as expertly as he wielded a sword. “It is common knowledge around Grandon, and certainly in the Guard, that Igor’s original price for releasing Sir Dixon and the rest included a selection of King’s Blades he could take apart to see what made them quack. Athelgar refused. He must have been tempted to send me in a barrel, but either the Order pressured him, or he just had the sense to see that he mustn’t do that. Now along comes Grand Master himself claiming that a Blade has been stolen and Osric’s warrant was forged. He said the seal was genuine, remember? The form had to be.”
“Why?”
“Because it was printed.” Beau must find her excessively slow sometimes—he must find everyone slow, but impatience never showed in his voice. “Even the Sniders’ sleazy jobbers would balk at setting a royal warrant, and if you have an original to copy, why not use that? So, beloved, name three people who might reasonably find a chance to filch a piece of stationery from the King’s desk. Name two who would want to. Name one who might pick up his signet ring if he left it on the dressing table overnight.”
“What!? You’re saying Tasha forged that warrant?”
“Sh! Even Grand Master dared not say that aloud. It would be quite a feat for her. Tasha is visible only in pitch darkness and Dimitri does not burn much brighter. If I had to, I’d cast him as the forger and her as cat’s-paw, but don’t say even that much. Concentrate on the appalling scandal this will cause if it comes out. Spirits! Nobody in Chivial had ever heard of Czar Igor until he locked up Dixon and that rest, but that made him a national monster overnight. Now Swithin? There’s Blades in the Privy Council, Blades in the Commons, Blades in the Lords, Blades being sheriffs and wardens and spirits-know what else. They will all scream about a loyal Chivian lad betrayed into the tyrant’s torture chambers. Mobs will burn the Queen in effigy. Pass me the combs.”
“What’s in the letter?” she asked with a shiver.
“Hints, nothing treasonous. If heads must roll over this, I’d rather that yours wasn’t one of them.” He finished setting the combs in place. “I’d hate to waste all this work.”
“I will kill you with bare fingernails!”
“Doubtless. Some of the lads have promised to look after Lackwit while we’re gone. I’ll see you to the Palace gate.”
“You’ll wait there for me?”
He held out her cloak for her. “No. I have to rush around the back and visit with Grand Wizard.”
“Who?”
“Your old friend Sir Intrepid. Athelgar put him in charge of the College last year, didn’t you hear? You really do not listen enough, love.” He turned her to face him, gripping her shoulders. Devilry danced in his eyes like quicksilver. “Darling, trust me! Athelgar has not paid his debts, so I’m going to stuff pebbles up his nose and make him sneeze diamonds.”
“Spare a rock or two for the child bride.”
Beau shook his head. “Oh, Tasha’s not bad, just young and spoiled. Whatever happens, remember I’m doing this for you and our baby. I am not suicidal, and if I have to leave you for a while, I will see you are comfortable until I return. And I will return! Remember this!”
She could smell excitement on him, see it blaze in his eyes. For once this arousal was not about sex; he was foreseeing some very different sort of action. The long tormenting wait was over.
“I will remember,” she promised “I have never doubted you. I never will.”
• 2 •
She walked through the gate, past two men-at-arms who paid her no heed. They were tall and very pretty in their shiny breastplates—Household Yeomen, Beau had called them, sounding disdainful. When she reached the arch at the top of the steps she looked back, but he had gone. Trust me! he had said as they parted. Whatever I say or do, trust me.
Many people were coming and going under the bored eyes of brightly tabarded ushers. One of them floated over to her, haughty as a summer cloud.
“I have brought a letter for the Queen.”
“It will be delivered.” He reached.
Isabelle jerked it back just in time. “I must personally hand it to Her Majesty. It is written in Skyrrian, see? And very urgent.”
“Her Majesty is not receiving petitions in her present condition.”
Whatever was she thinking of, Isabelle wondered, trying to browbeat a young male? She smiled instead. The effect was immediate. Pupils dilated, nostrils flared.
“I am in the same fortunate state myself, as you can see. I feel a little…May I sit somewhere? Thank you.” She let him help her to some chairs. “You are very kind, sir. Now, if you can just explain to Her Majesty that a lady has brought her an urgent letter written in Skyrrian, I do believe Her Grace will…”
Her Grace did. Late pregnancy was very boring and any diversion welcome.
The way into the royal quarters led past several groups of Blades in royal livery. Their raptor eyes scanned the visitor, but none showed signs of recognizing her. Why should they? Even those who had been present in the Bastion that day, more than a year ago, would have been concentrating on Beau.
She was led at last to the queen’s withdrawing room, which was large and opulent and perfumed to suffocation. Only women inhabited it, one of whom was tinkling a dainty tune on the virginals.
Tasha was garbed in a cloud of lace and muslin and bright jewels, glittering like a spring shower. Matrimony had worked startling changes on her. Athelgar himself had worked the largest one, of course, for she was close to term, bulging like an overstuffed laundry bag, but she had acquired the mystic glow of impending motherhood and was certainly no longer the terrified child of Laville. She was a crowned queen triumphant, carrying the heir. The King doted on her.
She offered ringed fingers for kissing. “Isabelle? What a long time it has been! How do you fare? And your stalwart husband?”
The ladies-in-waiting paused in their needlework to inspect this unknown intruder. The music had stopped.
“He is well and will be honored to hear that Your Grace remembered him.”
Scarlet-painted lips smiled. “What is he doing these days? I have not heard a word about either of you since our time together in Laville.” That could be true—the former Sir Beaumont would not be Athelgar’s favorite subject, even for conversation. The harpy audience frowned darker at mention of times before their own. Seniority mattered in royal circles.
“He works here in Grandon, Your Grace.” Isabelle noted that she was not being invited to sit like everyone else. “He sends this letter, which I must warn you contains very serious news.”
Tasha accepted the package with an appraising stare of sapphire eyes. Despite Beau’s snideness, the Queen of Chivial was no Lackwit where her personal interests were concerned. She had proved she could be tough, but Isabelle wondered what the official penalty would be for causing the royal consort to go into premature labor.
Her Majesty broke the seal and extracted a rectangular paper bearing handwriting in the bizarre script, plus a triangular one printed in heavy black type, which Isabelle was bewildered to realize
was half of the forged warrant, cut diagonally. She had believed that to be on its way back to Ironhall by now. Had not Beau told Grand Master, Take your gold and your warrant, too? Yes, but he might have switched the documents while speaking for the sticky ears of Mistress Snider or others like her.
Tasha read. She changed color several times and there was a slight tremor in her fingers when she finished. She laid the documents in her lap. Her cheeks had lost their bloom; she was white with fury, yet she spoke with admirable calm.
“This is distressing! Ladies, bring a stool for Mistress Cookson, and perhaps you would do us the honor…” It was sweetly, gently done, but the ladies-in-waiting withdrew to wait out of earshot. How many of them were spies for the King or the Dark Chamber?
Isabelle settled on her stool and tried to look like a concerned friend.
Tasha, on her raised chair of estate, did not. “Come to think of it,” the Queen said drily, “I recall that I did hear news of your circumstances. You were scrubbing floors and your husband shoveling horse dung. Is that where he found this filth—in a stable yard?”
“No, Your Grace. He was alerted to the problem by—”
“Yes?”
On the walk from Gossips’ Corner, Beau had coached Isabelle in the sort of answers she must and must not give.
“By a man I did not recognize. He gave no name.”
“But he expects a share of the loot, I dare say!” The Queen curled her pretty lip. “So how much do they demand for their silence, the thief and that stableman of yours?”
“Beaumont wants only to serve you, Your Grace, as he served you in the past. Surely you, of all people, do not question his loyalty?”
Tasha flushed scarlet.
Isabelle saw an opening and smote hard. “And certainly not his discretion!” Whose had been the “words of endearment” that Beau had refused to report to the King?
The Queen drew several deep breaths, a luxury not available to the tightly-laced Isabelle.
“Beau says, Your Grace, that he can put the matter to rights with a minimum of danger to you. He could not approach you directly, as you must understand. He begs private audience to explain his plan to Your Grace. That is all he asks.”
“But if I refuse, the other half of that paper goes to my husband, I suppose?”
“I honestly do not know, Your Majesty.”
“So where is he, this blackmailing stableboy of yours?”
“He said he was going to the Royal College of Conjurers.”
Tasha was understandably startled. “That’s the building behind the palace?”
“I believe so.”
“Rosebud!” Tasha caroled, “ask the guardsmen to step in here, will you? Lady Patience?”
The entire pack of ladies swooped back to listen as Queen Tasha introduced her visitor to the blacksmith-sized Patience. Isabelle offered an unsteady curtsey. A drumming of boots announced the arrival of four liveried Blades who had been stationed directly outside. The one in charge was a pleasant-seeming man with twinkling eyes and a ready smile.
Tasha now showed that she had mastered the art of command. “Sir Modred, do you know a man named Beaumont, a former Blade?”
Surprise. Glance at Isabelle. Remembrance. Annoyance at having failed to recognize her sooner. “I know him, Your Grace.”
“I understand he is skulking around the College. Fetch him!”
“Is he armed?”
“Mistress Cookson?”
“No, Your Grace. He is awaiting the summons.”
Modred’s smile returned. “Then I need not send stretcher-bearers. Sir Tancred, see he is fetched, but you return here.”
One of his men headed for the door, gliding like a trout.
“You are kind,” the Queen cooed. “Patience, darling, do see if you can find some refreshment for Isabelle and entertain her for the next half hour or so. Perhaps she would enjoy viewing the new winter garden. Sir Modred, you will keep an eye on the ladies? I should not want my guest to get lost.”
She began reading the letter again. The audience was over.
• 3 •
Lady Patience dutifully regaled Isabelle with sickly pastries, a pitcher of milk, and some dispirited plants in a greenhouse, all under the supervision of three Blade jailers. When the visitor was summoned back to the royal presence, it was not to the withdrawing room. Tasha had moved to an uncomfortable-looking oaken bench in a library. This was a spacious chamber with walls of books and soft carpets on the floor, but it was cluttered with high, freestanding book-cases and massive sculptures in seemingly random array. Even an innocent kitchen maid could doubt the Queen had chosen it to pursue literary research.
There Tasha sat, incongruous in her misty lace and satin, with Beau on his knees before her and four Blades looming over him like hungry ravens waiting for battlefield casualties to stop blinking. He looked around as his wife arrived. He winked. The Queen noticed and pursed her lips in disapproval.
“You may leave us, Sir Modred. No, do not sulk! I entrusted my life to Sir Beaumont for months in much more dangerous surroundings than these. Begone!”
The Blades departed, silent on the rugs. A door was closed in the distance, but who could say from which side?
Tasha waved at an opposing bench. “Sit there, Beau, and you beside him, Isabelle. Now we can talk.” The Queen smiled.
Were Isabelle a cat, one glimpse of that smile would make her back arch until it twanged. A woman facing ruin should not be smiling at all. Tasha was much more sure of herself now.
“How are the spirits treating you, Beau?”
“No better than I deserve, alas, Your Grace. But Belle will soon give me a beautiful daughter to make it all better.”
“Or a son?”
“No, I ordered a daughter first and she never disobeys. May I say that the whole nation prays for Your Majesty’s safe delivery?”
“Thank you. Now what is all this borscht about Dimitri?”
“I came to warn Your Grace. By your leave…” Beau rose and presented her with a roll of paper. Then he resumed his seat. “That is the other half of the warrant, as you see. I should not want Your Grace to think I was attempting extortion.”
Tasha’s jaw dropped.
Beau leaned back on the couch and crossed his ankles, not a proper courtly posture. “Eight days ago, here in Grandon, your honored brother embarked on a chartered Gevilian merchantman to cheerful sounds of military bands and in plain sight of a large number of persons, including a squad of the Royal Guard. A week or so later, he was observed riding on Starkmoor. There are several ways he could have managed that—sailing around the coast to Brimiarde, or taking a small boat back up the Gran to Abshurst and proceeding from there on horseback—but somewhere near Blackwater he was recognized.”
“Wrongly!” Tasha snapped. “My brother was frantic to get home. His wife is due to be delivered of another child. He dotes on little Bebaia and grudges missing a single minute of her childhood. He was anxious to reach Treiden before winter storms begin. Why on earth would he change his plans and go cavorting around this Starkmoor place?”
Her Majesty was an astonishingly convincing liar.
Beau’s response was as smooth as if had rehearsed for weeks. “He was recognized by two Blades of the Royal Guard, who must have spent hours in Prince Dimitri’s presence this summer. He was accompanied by a young Blade, Sir Swithin, who before that day had been Prime Candidate at Ironhall and was thus equally well known to the Guard. Unfortunately, one of the Blade witnesses is a notorious tattler. He told everyone in Ironhall and will inform the rest of the world as soon as he returns to Grandon. The secret is out, Your Grace—Prince Dimitri bound a Blade before he left Chivial.”
Tasha bit her pretty lip. “And if he did? What business is that of yours?”
“Certainly it is His Majesty’s right to deed a Blade to any person he wishes,” Beau conceded. “But he should not mistake his brother-in-law’s name on the warrant.”
The Queen fl
apped the fragment at him. “Then this is a forgery.”
“That was the proposition put to me.”
She colored. “I mean that this paper has absolutely nothing to do with whoever may or may not have been seen on Starkmoor.”
“I have it on reliable authority that it does.”
Now Isabelle could appreciate Lord Roland’s cunning. As a nobody, Beau could be ignored or denied—or even disposed of, if necessary—but Grand Master was a legend, a national icon. Together they were a fiendishly dangerous team. Beau was making it clear that he was Grand Master’s proxy, but deniably so. He exerted Grand Master’s influence with the promise of not exposing it—the issue must be resolved, but face could be saved.
“So what exactly are you asking of me?” Tasha asked uncertainly.
A good question! Dimitri could never have pulled off the forgery without Tasha’s help. If she had not known of the clandestine binding until now, then who was the traitor? And surely the only thing more dangerous than trying to blackmail the King’s wife was trying to blackmail the King’s wife on the basis of faulty evidence.
Yet Beau still seemed confident. “Your Grace, consider what has been done to young Swithin! To serve his king, he submitted to lifelong slavery, and he was given away to a monster. Igor is insane. We all know that. Your brother, his wife, his children, all are hostage. Even your sister the Czarina and her baby son—everyone is hostage to his madness, and now Swithin is, too. Igor wants Blades of his own and will stop at nothing to obtain them, but his methods cannot work. Swithin will be required to produce what he cannot produce. A Blade will die under torture before betraying his ward, and conversely he will betray anything or anyone to save his ward from harm. Yet even if Igor turns them both into beef soup, he cannot get what he wants!”
