Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  Tasha glared at him. “So you think Igor sent my brother to Chivial to obtain a Blade by hook or by crook, threatening the lives of Yelena and her children? You dare accuse me of betraying my husband by stealing his signet, forging his writing, committing treason and grand larceny, and spirits know what other crimes?”

  “Oh, no!” Beau exclaimed. “I do not think that at all. I would never believe such terrible things of Your Majesty.”

  Tasha gaped again, and this time Isabelle discovered her own mouth hanging open too.

  The Queen’s gaze wandered desperately around the high bookcases that enclosed their nook. “Then I do not understand your reasons for coming here.”

  “I came to warn you that the slanders you describe are going around already and may be believed by people who do not know Your Grace as well as I have the honor of knowing you.”

  “But the accusations in your letter?” Tasha shouted. “The writing on the warrant, the post-dating?”

  Beau shrugged. “His Majesty must have made out the warrant before your brother sailed, allowing extra time for the roundabout trip through Brimiarde, the possibility of headwinds, and so on. He wrote with a very bad quill, obviously, and perhaps in the grip of strong emotion. He was faced with the sort of intolerable royal decision that baseborn like me can hardly imagine. Three dozen of his subjects were held hostage by an imperial maniac and the absolute minimum Igor would accept for their return was a Blade. Gossip has it that he demanded six and Ambassador Hakluyt bargained him down to one, but from there the Czar refused to budge. Your royal husband was faced with giving away one to recover three dozen. A nightmare choice! I do not presume to judge my sovereign lord.”

  “I am gratified to hear that!”

  “But others will. Alas, capricious elementals of chance have exposed the royal secret. The whole country will now learn what has been done to young Swithin, and may decide—rightly or wrongly—that it was a fearful injustice.”

  Tasha nodded mutely.

  “What would you have had me do?” Athelgar roared, emerging from behind a bookcase. Fittingly, today he wore red and gold, the colors of flame and fury. “You do not judge me, you say. But when the Czar demanded that I turn you over to him for interrogation, what should I have done?”

  Beau rose and bowed. “Complied, sire.”

  “Because the Wassail disaster was your fault, you mean?” The King acknowledged Isabelle’s wobbly curtsey by waving her back to the bench. He paced over to the window.

  Beau turned to him. “No, Your Majesty. Because I knew the situation and might have been able to do something. Not being bound, I would have had more freedom of action than Swithin has now.”

  “And what would your terms have been?”

  “A pension for my wife in the event I did not return. Your Majesty’s favor if I did.”

  Isabelle was biting her lip until it hurt. She had promised to trust him.

  Athelgar spun around, with the light at his back. “Keep talking.”

  “And now,” Beau said, “I am the only person who might convince Swithin of his peril. He knows me. He would trust me, I think. I beg you to let me go after him. If I can catch him in time, I can warn him. He will count his own fate as nothing beside his duty to Your Majesty, but he will see the danger to his ward, just as I did when Lord Wassail was in the same position. Give me ten minutes with Swithin and I can convince him to keep the Prince out of the Czar’s clutches.”

  Tasha gasped and pushed a knuckle in her mouth.

  The King glared. “For a stable hand you meddle in weighty matters, Cookson. Suppose you are correct. Suppose we did agree to assign a bound Blade to one of Czar Igor’s subjects, you now instruct us that we should renege on our royal word?”

  There were rats in that larder, and Beau hesitated before replying. “I venture to advise Your Majesty that he has carried out his part of the bargain. Because the warrant was made out in a false name, I assume that Swithin was not fully informed when he agreed to serve Your Majesty by being bound. Your Grace will forgive my frankness, but many will say that Swithin was tricked.”

  But Swithin would naturally trust Grand Master, so it had been Grand Master the King had intended to deceive. In doing so, he had inadvertently roused Grand Master’s wrath against the Queen. If he confessed to the deception now in order to clear Tasha, Grand Master would resign and the Order would turn against the King. Potential scandal would become political crisis.

  Beau continued, “Is it not just human decency to warn him now, so that he can weigh his actions? And provide a way out if he wishes to take it? Czar Igor, having demanded a Blade, can hardly object if the Blade performs his assigned function, which is to protect his ward.”

  Such questions should not be asked of a monarch, and Athelgar did not answer them. “The Queen’s brother is long gone over the seas by now. How could you possibly catch him in time?”

  “Good chance and ill even out in the end, they say, sire.” Beau’s smile showed that he was back on safer ground, with an answer ready. “Your Majesty does have a ship that could make the journey much faster than that lumbering Thergian carrack. You even have a crew to sail it, although some of them are presently in the Bastion.”

  “Blood and fire!” the King roared, as if tormented beyond endurance. “Sig!”

  “You were right,” announced another man, strolling out from behind another bookcase. “Such insolence truly is intolerable. Good chance to you, Beau.”

  Beau bowed. “And to you, Your Highness.”

  The newcomer was a big man in his late twenties, just starting to turn muscle into blubber. His hair and beard were a blazing red, his eyes green as grass, and his pudgy face wore a wide and amiable leer. Despite that and his exquisitely fashioned clothes, he was quite obviously a Baelish barbarian.

  As Isabelle began to rise, the newcomer gestured for her to remain, flashing a lecherous smile. “Mistress Cookson, I’m a pirate and you are the most appealing piece of loot I have seen in a long time. I was told Beau owned the fastest sword, the sharpest wits, and the most gorgeous wife in Eurania. I’m not sure about the sword yet.” He smirked across at the King. “Ath, the boy is sailing circles around you and always will. Why don’t you just give up and let him have what he wants?”

  • 4 •

  Even as a child, Ath had been cold as an eel. The years had done nothing to warm him. For him to fly into a rage like this was historical.

  Sigfrith, in contrast, regarded life as something to be wooed, not raped. Having observed his parents’ endless worries and his two brothers’ grinding ambition, he had concluded very early that kingship was simply not worth the candle. Lesser men got pretty girls too, and had lots more time to enjoy them.

  Part of Ath’s problem was that both his parents had been monarchs in their own right, and both were still alive to carp at him from the sidelines. Other rulers need not put up with the detailed nagging nonsense the Old Man wrote regularly to his errant firstborn. Having ruled Baelmark much longer than any other man ever had, Ex-King Radgar had decreed that Athelgar would inherit Chivial, Fyrbeorn would follow him as Lord of the Fire Lands, and Sig would do as he was told. Some of that had happened. Ath had graciously accepted the Chivian throne and very nearly lost it.

  Second-born, second-rate Fyrbeorn had not managed even that much. Baelmark’s kingship had to be won by merit, of which the first requirement was fighting ability. True, the lad swung a mean ax, but when they handed out brawn and brains, Fyrbeorn had put both hands in the same bucket. A shiplord’s power grew from his own werod, but Fyrbeorn’s shipmates had greeted news of his candidacy by asking to be excused because they had to attend a funeral that day—his. Thus fame had passed Fyrbeorn by and on Radgar’s abdication, the crown had gone to a lesser royal family, the Nyrpings.

  When the Old Man then cast a mean dynastic eye on son number three, Sigfrith had weighed anchor and vanished in pursuit of wine, women, and girls. Foolishly, a man got nostalgic sometimes and went ho
me to check on the old folks in their dotage. The result, last time, had been an epochal, roaring row, in which the former king had openly accused his youngest of cowardice and lack of manhood, after having sneakily filled him brimfull of Hatburna mead. Sig had awakened the next day with a blurred recollection of swearing to put the crown of the Fire Lands on that part of him that presently held the thundering headache. At his age! Radgar would never let him forget it, either.

  That was why he had dropped in on Ath a month or so ago, to see how Big Brother was making out in the ruling business and mend a few fences. Also borrow some seed capital. They had got along surprisingly well after so many years apart, once Sig had conceded that his own youthful high spirits on his last visit might have been a contributing factor to the unrest preceding the Thencaster Rebellion— while privately establishing that ladies of the Chivian court were still as intrigued by the untamed male Bael as they had been back in those days. Then a trivial disturbance in a beer shop had opened all the old wounds again and brought Sig’s ambitions crashing down in dust.

  Athelgar had gone storming off to Avonglade, leaving Sig to stew in his own juices on the flames of his crew’s fury. Now Ath had returned, the brothers had been trying to negotiate a peace settlement when Tasha had waddled in spluttering that she was being blackmailed and had Dimitri truly been assigned a Blade? Although the Queen was not much smarter than Fyrbeorn, Ath was so infatuated with her at the moment that he had swallowed her story without chewing. On hearing the name of the criminals involved he had exploded in a tantrum so reminiscent of the Old Man in his berserker moods that Sig had come along to witness the entrapment and retribution. He had been standing next to Commander Vicious, the two of them peering through adjoining squints at the alleged extortion in progress.

  The Beaumont boy was a classic, an absolute joy. Anyone who could knot up Ath’s bowels the way he could was worth a werod’s wergild.

  The final twist had turned Ath almost purple. “You two are acquainted? You are involved in this villainy?”

  “Innocent as a virgin’s tears,” Sig said. “For once. Beau and I met briefly last week. He was serving beer in…in a tavern I was frequenting, and we had just begun discussing the possibility of fencing lessons when we were, er, interrupted.”

  “I had to go and help put out the fire,” Beau explained helpfully.

  “Gossips’ Corner!” the King roared. “It’s a plot! You dreamed this up to get your ruffians out of jail.”

  “I did not, brother,” Sig protested, “but it’s a good idea. What exactly do you need, lad?”

  “Fast passage to Treiden, Your Highness,” the pig-sticker said politely, “time there for Swithin to arrive so I can explain his problem, which won’t take ten minutes. Then passage home—for myself and possibly two others, if Swithin makes the decision I think he will.”

  Beautiful! “Easy enough if I get my boys back. How about it, Ath? Seal that pardon we were discussing and I can be gone tomorrow. You scratch my ears and I’ll scratch yours.” Sig awarded his brother a family smile, the sort of silent communication only blood-relatives understand. It said, And if you want this churl dropped overboard, just ask nicely.

  The King ground teeth for a moment. Then he glared again at Beaumont. “You think this would satisfy Grand Master?”

  The boy evaded the trap easily. “Sire, Ironhall taught me never to try second guessing Lord Roland! But the Blades boast that they are born to die, so they cannot object to a candidate being given a dangerous assignment. Whether Swithin proceeds or withdraws his ward, as long as he acts in full knowledge of the situation, I cannot see how Grand Master or anyone else can protest.”

  Sig saw that Tasha had finally caught up with proceedings and realized that Athelgar had been deceiving her also, or at least had kept secrets from her. Her cheeks were dangerously flushed. “Darling, I think Beaumont’s offer is both generous and extremely courageous. Dimitri should be warned, too. I doubt if he has fully realized the peril he may be in.”

  Sigfrith nodded to convey brother-in-lawful agreement. He doubted Dimitri could point south at noon.

  The Queen sailed on. “Isabelle, you will be welcome to join my household until Beau returns so you won’t be lonely. You and I can talk about motherhood!” She shot the King a smile with the impact of a battleaxe between the eyes.

  Isabelle said, “That’s exceedingly generous of you, Your Grace.”

  Realizing that he was cornered, Ath simmered down to a growl. “Very well. Your wife will be looked after until you return, Cookson. Sig, I will release your thanes, and you’ll see that Cookson is transported where he needs to go.”

  His blood-relative smile meant, And tie an anchor on his ankle.

  • 5 •

  Ath was still Bael enough to be aware of tides, which was why Sig found himself shivering in a pre-dawn drizzle at the docks. He had spent the night in bed, several beds, saying his farewells, so he was wrung dry and lethally hung over. Fortunately, Bosun Plegmund had done his usual sterling job of readying Eadigthridda for sea. The last water barrels were just being manhandled aboard, so she lacked only one passenger and fifteen crewmen. Sig’s head throbbed to a killer beat.

  “Good chance, ealda!” Beaumont came out of the gloom with his smile glowing like a lantern. He wore a sword. Another man walked at his side and they were both bent under sizable bundles.

  Sig grunted. “Who’s he?” He peered closer and saw nothing smarter than clams. “I mean what’s that?”

  “Sir Arkell of the Blades. He was unlucky on the Skyrria junket. He answers to ‘Lackwit.’ ”

  Beaumont’s sizzling good humor made Sig feel as grumpy as a Bael with a sore head, which he was. “I don’t recall agreeing to take more than one passenger—outward bound, I mean.”

  “My pardon, ealda, I should have mentioned him yesterday. He needs a lot of attention and I could hardly dump him on Tasha, could I? But I promise we will find him very useful.”

  “We? Useful for what?”

  Before the Chivian could explain, sounds of marching feet and clanking metal proclaimed the arrival of the missing Baels. In chains! Curse Athelgar! Sig stared in horror as the last traces of his political fortunes washed away in the cold rain.

  Chain gang and escort clattered to a halt. The Yeoman officer saluted like a sapling whipped by the wind. “His Majesty assured me that you would have a mallet and chisel aboard ship, Your Highness, so it would be all right to load the prisoners as is.”

  Sig was very tempted to pick the sprig up and toss him off the dock, then loose the werod with orders to give no quarter. A good massacre would serve Ath right, but that creepy fish might have foreseen the move and prepared a countermove—archers on the rooftops, perhaps.

  “No, it is not all right. Free them immediately.” Ignoring a second salute, Sig jumped down from dock to deck. Curse Athelgar! Burn him to eternity!

  The passengers had slipped aboard already, both of them. Beau did not wait to be challenged. “Pardon my ignorance, Your Highness, but are passengers allowed to wear swords on a Baelish vessel?”

  “Don’t recall a precedent, sonny. Any passengers I’ve ever carried were bound for the slave market.”

  “Then I’ll be tactful and remove mine.”

  “What’s all that junk?”

  “Personal kit, ealda…and a few little conjurations a friend of mine ran up for me. We may find them useful.”

  That was the second time he had deliberately dangled a we, but Sig left it for later examination. “Stay over there, out of the way, you and your jellyfish friend.” He spun on his heel and headed forward to begin his inspection.

  Eadigthridda was larger than most longships, with thirty-two oars a side, and although she was still just an open boat with a single mast, her slender length let her outrun anything on the sea’s face. Having handpicked seventy of the biggest, lustiest, most truculent young thanes in Baelmark as his werod, Sig had intended to begin his kingship campaign by polishing up his re
putation as a raider. He’d lucked on a couple of easy merchant ships as appetizers and had asked Ath to advise him of some coastal cities in Eurania worthy of pillaging—to mutual advantage, of course, since Ath’s nominees would undoubtedly turn out to be commercial rivals of Chivian ports.

  Knowing from his pre-Thencaster visits that bringing Baels into a foreign city was dangerous, Sig had given strict orders about shore leave, but rules to thanes were like fence-posts to dogs. On that fateful night in Gossips’ Corner, one of the hands had decided to liberate a pretty girl from her grubby landlubber companion. Some spectators had unwisely objected. Three other Eadigthridda parties had been close enough to hear the riot and come running; in moments the tavern had been professionally sacked. At that stage, with the score standing at two Baels and eight Chivians dead or wounded, matters had been serious but not beyond redemption. Then someone had decided that the furniture, having been rendered into kindling, might as well be lit, which it had been, but just as the City Watch arrived, backed up by a troop of Yeoman lancers. The final tally had been around forty men and five horses.

  The sky was paler and the rain heavier when Eadigthridda slid smoothly out into the current, fifty oars swinging as one. Farewell, Grandon, may the spirits curse you! Plegmund held the steering oar in one hand and beat stroke with the other. Sig stood beside him and brooded on disaster.

  This might be not merely his last departure from Chivial but the last time he shipped out from anywhere. A shiplord was expected to collect plunder without taking losses. If he did lose men, it had better be a whole mountain of plunder, especially if he hoped to stoke political ambitions with it. Sig had lost five men killed and two maimed in a bar brawl. Fifteen others had spent a week in a dungeon and been brought back in chains. He would be the laughingstock of Baelmark and no self-respecting thane would ship out with Atheling Sigfrith ever again. He might even have to keep Beaumont company on his record-breaking dive.