by Dave Duncan
Suddenly Sudden jammed between two neck vertebrae. The falling body jerked Swithin forward, threatening to pull him down into the melee below. He had a momentary horror of the rapier’s point being broken off, or the hilt being dragged from his hand, but fortunately the corpse was held up by the heap that now covered the steps and he was merely jerked to his knees. Rapiers rarely caught like that; it was more a saber trick. He sensed Beau leaping close to cover him as he worked Sudden free.
When he stood up, the defenders were throwing down their weapons. He had survived his first fight.
• 7 •
Gasping and sweating and still fizzing from the struggle, the two Blades could now spare a moment to look properly at each other. Simultaneously they yelled in glee and leaped into an embrace. Beaumont seemed smaller than he used to be; Swithin lifted him off his feet and spun him around. He was going to live! His ward was out of danger—or so he hoped.
“Congratulations,” Beau said, when released. “You’ve really mastered that distribution of balance problem.”
“What dist…” Swithin vaguely recalled a fencing lesson years ago, before Beau was bound. “Thanks. Winning the Cup was terrific. The whole school went mad. And what in the royal crap-house are you doing here?”
“Feeding mosquitoes in the delta for the last week, waiting for you. Grand Master sent me.”
“Kind of him!”
“And the King, although he didn’t quite understand the program. That fat joker is the King’s brother, by the way. Atheling Sigfrith.”
“I am honored.”
“Here comes Eadigthridda.” Beau pointed.
A square red sail was approaching, already close enough to show the dragon-head bow post and the white bite of foam below it. The pilot boat had been cast off and was drifting away.
“What does that mean?”
“Eadigthridda? Roughly, Third Time Lucky!” Beau chuckled. “I expect Sig chose it to annoy his brothers. That’s typical of Sig.”
“Is my ward—” Swithin glanced around at Dimitri, who was still lying on the deck, curled around his wounded belly—“now up for ransom?”
“Not if everything goes according to plan.”
“You’ll take us back to Chivial?”
“That’s one option. You’ve realized that the Czar is a real threat to both you and your ward?”
“Yes,” Swithin said bitterly. “And I couldn’t see any way out.” (He was going to live! Live, live, live!)
Beau dragging a blood-stained arm across his forehead. “There are several, but most of them don’t bear thinking about.”
Prince Dimitri was clearly in shock, barely able to stand. He had been assaulted by his own Blade so he could be kidnapped by King Athelgar’s brother—a dissolute, womanizing barbarian he had left behind, as he thought, in Grandon—aided by a baseborn swordsman he had last seen two years ago at his sister’s wedding. Such things should not happen to a prince who was brother-in-law to both a Czar and a King.
The sailors and passengers were being herded below, carrying their wounded. Many Baels were still swinging axes, but now they were attacking rigging. Two ran up the bloodstained steps to the quarterdeck, where one drove off the wounded helmsman and the other began demolishing the rudder head. Atheling Sigfrith was next to arrive—a nightmare figure, naked except for boots, a helmet, and much carroty body hair. His battleaxe was bloody. He looked chilled, as well he might, but too stubborn to admit it.
“Can’t linger,” he proclaimed. “You all right, Temkin?”
The Prince moaned. “Not much.”
“Well, I need some information, and I need it soon. We’re about to run aground.”
Dimitri yelped. Swithin, too, had failed to realize that breakers were thundering on a beach less than a bowshot away. Beyond it, wind rippled grass of a startlingly bright green on rolling dunes. A Bael on main deck was being stitched up by a shipmate, and his language was louder and more violent than the surf.
“Alf’s hurt,” Beau said. “Doesn’t sound as if his vocabulary was wounded much. No other casualties?”
“Course not,” the Bael snarled. “From that Gevilian trash? Now you keep your jaw shut, Beaumont, just for once. Prince, we rescued you as a favor to this insolent, weaselsized swordsman.”
“Ransom!” Dimitri squealed. “I’ll pay ransom!”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m planning to let you go free, but you have to cooperate. Tell me what you know about Czaritsyn.”
“What? Oh, it’s the Czar’s dacha. A hunting lodge, a retreat.”
“Ever been there?”
“No. No one has…nobody knows where it…I mean, it’s somewhere north of Kiensk, but that’s all. I was told I was going…” Dimitri’s voice tailed off uncertainly.
Another enormous Bael bellowed from the waist, “Prisoners secure, ealda!”
“Prepare to abandon ship!” Sigfrith roared back. “Keep talking, Dimitri. This hulk’s going to be smashed to driftwood in about ten minutes. If you want to leave with us, you’ve got to pay your fare. Now—Czaritsyn?”
“What do you want to know? I was told there would be streltsy waiting in Treiden to conduct me there,” the Prince babbled. “And Sir Swithin, of course. The Czar will, er, was to, meet us at Czaritsyn.”
Sigfrith grunted and peered inquiringly at Beau.
Who pursed lips doubtfully. “It’s possible, I suppose.”
“No!” Swithin said. “My ward is no stalking horse. He’d never pull it off. You want this Czaritsyn place, you find it for yourselves.”
“You got nothing to bargain with, either, swordsman,” the Bael said.
“Don’t bet too much on that, pirate.” Swithin’s dander was still up from the fight and rapier against ax would be no contest. Killing his king’s brother might not be an astute move, though.
The Bael laughed contemptuously and resumed his interrogation. “How many men does Igor keep there? What are the defenses?”
“I dunno!” Dimitri bleated. “How could I know?”
“What does he do there?”
The Bael wrecking the tiller had completed his work and departed. The carrack was a hulk, drifting ashore broadside on, rolling nauseatingly. Rising sounds of terror and mayhem below showed that the prisoners had realized their peril. Even as Eadigthridda slid expertly alongside and grappled, Baels began leaping down to the longship.
“Do?” Dimitri wailed. “Who knows? There’s crazy rumors of torture and bizarre witchcraft and fearful orgies. And dogs. He keeps most of his dogs there, huge monsters he feeds on human flesh.”
“That’s all?” Sigfrith was glowering dangerously, mostly at Beau.
“What…” At last a ray of light—“Treasure!” Dimitri yelped. “He keeps his treasure at Czaritsyn! Chests of jewels, bars of gold!”
“But you’re just quoting rumor? You haven’t seen any of this?”
“Er, no. But they’re very reliable rumors.”
The prisoners were hacking at the companionway door with axes. Birgit shuddered, making everyone stagger. Her keel had struck bottom.
“Anything two people tell me must be true,” Sigfrith decided. “Time to go.” He led the way at a run, nimble for his bulk. Dimitri hobbled after him on his sore foot. Beau and Swithin brought up the rear. Again the ship struck, harder this time. Timbers creaked. The longship’s shallower draft was keeping her safe for the moment.
Swithin saw a chance for a confidential word. “You bought our freedom with the Czar’s treasure?”
“I bought something.” Beau’s old familiar grin twinkled like silver at him. “If I can’t deliver the chests of jewels, you may be in ransom country after all. And if any more Baelish blood is shed, I will have to learn how to breathe water.”
They ran down to the main deck. Birgit struck again. Four enormous Baels were holding the two vessels together with grappling hooks, but even they would not be able to keep that up very long.
“How can you possibly find the place if no
body knows where it is?” Swithin demanded. He was starting to wonder how much better his situation was than it had been half an hour ago.
“Trust me,” Beau said.
Yelling, “Wait, wait!” Dimitri managed to catch Sigfrith just as he was about to go over the side, grabbing him by his fiery beard, since the rest of him offered no fair purchase. “You can’t abandon all these people! They’ll drown. I have servants down there—retainers whose families have worked for mine for generations. My guards—”
The Bael punched his hand away, but grinned as he did so. “Maybe there’s more to you than I thought. Don’t mourn your guards, Prince.” A door burst open with a crash and the companionway began vomiting a screaming mob. “And don’t worry about the others, either.” He vanished.
Bleating, Dimitri followed, half thrown by his Blade. Swithin jumped after him, landing hard on the longship’s gratings; Beau went with him, just escaping the furious Gevilians. The two ships rolled apart.
“You really needn’t worry about them,” Beau said calmly. “She’ll run aground, but she’ll need a few days to break up. They’ll get ashore at low water.”
“And then they’ll freeze or starve?”
Beau shrugged. “I’m only the strategist. Baels make their own tactics. It’s not far to the lighthouse.”
“And what will they find there? A dozen dead pilots?”
“I did talk Sig out of that. They won’t find any usable boats is what matters. We need some time to get ready. But Treiden will discover the situation fairly soon—and send word to Kiensk.”
• 8 •
“Villain!” she said. “Who’s a big villain? Got you!” Clutching him close, she pressed her lips against his neck and blew a loud slobber noise. He yelped with glee.
Sophie spent an hour or two every morning with Boris and let nothing interfere with this ritual. He could walk very well now, almost run, so catching him had become a serious challenge for a woman in long skirts down on her knees on a shaggy bearskin.
“ ’Gain!” said the Czarevich.
“Go then! Momma catch you.”
Boris screamed and hurled himself back in her arms. She glanced around, into the fangs of a giant hound, and almost screamed herself.
“Down, Leonid!” shouted the Czar. “Anfrei, down!”
By the time he was fully into the room, Sophie was in the far corner, clutching her son tight. The dogs had crouched as commanded. Anfrei and Leonid were not as huge as Vasili, but still two of the largest monsters in the pack.
“So how is my dear boy today?” the Czar demanded, shuffling closer. He had aged greatly since Fedor death’s— beard white, eyes sunk in caves. He walked with a stoop, leaning heavily on a staff, and he always wore a sword, which he rarely had before.
Three men followed him into the Czarina’s chamber— Chief Boyar Skuratov, Marshal of the Army Sanin, and sinister Voevode Stenka. Clearly government business was involved. Igor sometimes took a fancy to include Sophie in such matters now, which frightened her because his favorite method of disposing of aides he tired of was to accuse them of leaking secrets, a capital charge which could never be disproved.
“The dogs startled him, sire,” she said. “Give him a moment, please.” In fact, Boris was as terrified of his father as he was of the hounds and would scream hysterically whenever the Czar tried to hold him. She hoped Igor would not insist on doing so before witnesses.
He grunted angrily and settled on a chest. “Bad news. Or maybe good news.” He made a gruesome attempt at a smile. “Tell my wife what Unkovskii told us, Chief Boyar.”
The old man ahem-ed and mumbled in nervous inaudibility.
“The noble astrologer proclaimed,” Prince Sanin said, “that a time of justice approaches, a reckoning that will see terrible crimes terribly punished.” He smirked at Stenka. Those two hated each other so much that it was incredible they both continued to breathe.
The streltsi sneered back. “He also said that defenders shall attack and attackers defend—an obvious warning against trusting the army.”
Igor cut off the quarrel by ignoring it. “Terrible crimes!” he repeated, nodding and drooling. He caressed the hilt of his sword. “Like the murder of my son. Your brother is dead, wife. Or kidnapped.”
“No! Dimitri?” Sophie sat down without permission. “Stars defend us! What happened?” Dear, harmless, well-meaning Dimitri! She rocked Boris, whose sobs were fading to sniffles.
“Baels!” The Czar bared his teeth. “They boarded his ship off the mouth of the Dvono. Took him away, ran the ship aground. Half the crew murdered or drowned. Treason!” he muttered. “Betrayal. Who knew when he was due home, Chief Boyar?”
“Er…Probably many, many people, sire,” Skuratov bleated. “And if the secret was betrayed then it must have happened in Chivial. Or Gevily. Yes, probably in Gevily. If Baels saw—”
“But why just the Prince? There were others worth ransoming, treasure worth stealing, slaves for the plucking. And they took his Blade, too!” The Czar’s eyes shifted restlessly, glittering brighter than the yellow jewel on the pommel of his sword. “Explain that! How do Baels kidnap a man who has a Blade?”
Mention of Blades startled Sophie. “Dimitri had a Blade, sire?”
“A gift from your brother-in-law.”
That sounded unlikely, somehow, but she dared not show doubt.
Stenka spoke up. “I smell treason, sire.” That was the surest way to catch the Czar’s attention.
“Yes? Yes? Go on!”
“Obviously Prince Dimitri is in league with the Baels. Otherwise his Blade would have defended him. He conspired at his own pretended abduction!”
Igor nodded eagerly. “And why?”
“Because he wanted to escape from the scrutiny of those persons in his train who were truly loyal to Your Majesty.”
He meant his own streltsy spies, of course. Sophie could think of nothing in the world less likely than Dimitri conspiring with anybody, but she knew better than to start objecting when the Czar was on a traitor hunt.
“And now what is he doing?” Igor demanded, slobbering like a hungry hound.
Again Stenka had an answer ready. How long had he needed to invent this rubbish? “Is he not Your Majesty’s heir, second only to the Czarevich?” Who was currently snuffling in his mother’s ear. “I suspect your nephew has been up to no good while abroad, sire. Very likely raising an army to attempt a coup. His troops are doubtless disembarking at Treiden even now.”
Sanin snorted. Anything the Voevode favored, the Marshal scorned, and vice versa. Their hatred might be rooted in traditional rivalry between regular army and irregulars, but much of it was purely personal. The streltsi was even younger than the Prince and more beautiful—at least in his own eyes. Sophie neither knew nor cared if they were rivals for Igor’s affections, but they certainly behaved as if they were.
“Or the messenger bringing the ransom note has been delayed by a tavern wench. There is absolutely no evidence to support such tarradiddle, sir.”
“What of the Blade?” Igor demanded, scowling.
Sanin shrugged. “The Blade would have made the best of a bad situation. A hostage is worth more alive than dead; his Blade can do more good by accompanying him into captivity than being axed by a shipload of Baels.”
“Blades!” Igor muttered, fondling the sword again. He was obsessed by Blades. “He will return, the witches say. Do you hear me, wife? The witches say that this is the very blade that killed Fedor and the Blade who wielded it will return to claim it!”
Sophie had heard this nonsense a hundred times. “Then Your Majesty must take great care, for Blades are dangerous.”
But so lovable! In the dark loneliness of night, she thought she would give anything to hold Beau in her arms again just once, to taste his kisses again, to show him her son. She knew Beau had escaped the massacre, because Tasha had written that he and another Blade had escorted her safely to Chivial. The other was almost certainly Oak, because Arke
ll’s sword had been found in the yard at Mezersk. Despite Igor’s mad dreams, neither Blade would ever be crazy enough to return to Skyrria. Reunion could never be.
Stenka sneered. “His Highness is forgetting that the alleged abduction happened two weeks ago. However lusty his tavern wench, why did we not hear the news from the town voevode of Treiden before today?”
“Tell us why!” Igor demanded.
“Because Treiden is also in the plot, sire. Traitors have betrayed your city to the invaders.”
From anyone else that suggestion would be moonbeam jam, but coming from Stenka it was pure horror. Igor’s vengeance for Fedor’s death had included the complete destruction of Morkuta, Dvonograd, and half a dozen nearby villages. Not one cat or dog had survived, and most victims had died very horribly. It was in that campaign that Stenka had emerged as Viazemski’s successor, earning the Czar’s favor by devising ever more fiendish atrocities. Now his lupine face glowed with excitement at the prospect of butchering Treiden also.
Sanin obviously thought as Sophie did, for his expression reflected her nausea. “Sire, that is manure. But if you do have doubts about what is happening in the Delta, then by all means send me and my lancers to investigate.”
“To assist whom?” Stenka snapped triumphantly. “The stars warn us that the defenders are to become attackers! Which side are you planning to attack?”
Sanin noticed the Czar’s expression and lost color.
“Indeed, yes,” Igor mumbled. “It is time to give the boys an outing, Voevode!” He heaved himself to his feet. “We shall go and visit Treiden. The defenders shall indeed attack!”
Sophie and Sanin shouted, “Your Majesty!” simultaneously, which was an error, suggesting collusion. Hunched, and leaning on his staff, the Czar eyed them both darkly, while Stenka leered in the background.
“Sire!” Sophie said, “I beg you not to put yourself in danger!”
“Indeed, sire,” the Marshal agreed. “Your life is too precious to risk.”
“Oh, so now you agree that there is danger?”
