The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  Niall choked down a surge of anger. “You haven’t changed my mind. From what I have heard so far, I detest the mission. It sounds disgusting. But the Queen offered me justice for crimes against my mother and sisters, so I bit the hook. She bought me! Where’s the honour in that?”

  “Twenty years ago, Snake and Durendal gave me the same sort of mission as I’m giving you. I weighed the danger against the possible glory, but shame never entered my mind.”

  “It entered mine. And most Blades are honourable men.”

  “Bollocks they are!” Stalwart said. “Just show them a woman and they immediately start unlacing their britches.”

  At that moment a waitress brought their roast peacock, which ended the discussion. She was young and very pretty, and she smiled at Niall, making him wish he wasn’t so honourable.

  Stalwart, of course, noticed his interest. “You mustn’t proposition anyone in here, lad, but there’s a saloon across the road where you’d find willing friends. I’d be happy to advance you the price of a pot of ale, which is all you’d need. With your looks, it might only take a raised eyebrow.”

  “No!” Niall said sharply. “I mean thank you, but after all that saddle beating today, I’m quite ready to fall into bed alone.”

  What looks? He was tall, granted, and years of fencing had given him a respectable chest and shoulders, but his hair was indeterminate: fairish, reddish, or brownish, depending on the light. His eyes were plain grey, as if the spirits had forgotten to colour them in. His face was lean bone. There was nothing about him that girls would notice.

  Next morning, Stalwart sent for writing materials. He then dictated, and the supposed Neal Cleaver wrote in his finest hand, a letter to His Grace Neville, Marquis of Thencaster, explaining how, as promised, he, Hedgebury, had mentioned his grace’s need for a secretary to several honourable persons, including the highly respected Baron Whinscar... and so on. If the position were still open, and if His Grace would be so kind as to reply to him care of Greymere Palace, then he could bring the said scribe north with him before the end of the month. Bearing Stalwart’s seal, the dread letter was sent off by messenger to the Royal Mail office in Greymere Palace.

  Stalwart then took Niall shopping for clothes, and again knew exactly where he was going. The narrowness of the streets and the overhanging upper stories of the buildings kept off the worst of a drizzly rain. That cover, and the crush of the yattering crowds made Niall ache with nostalgia for the days of his childhood.

  At the haberdasher’s, Stalwart told the clerk, who was almost certainly the owner, to dress ‘the lad’ as a gentleman’s confidential secretary. He would need one formal outfit, one for riding, and two workaday, some spare shirts and underwear. The fussy little man with a tape hung around his neck and dozens of pins in his sleeve ran an appraising eye over his customer. “Blue,” he said. “To match his eyes.” Niall’s eyes were not blue, but blue was always the most expensive dye. Stalwart haggled him down to black. Secretaries could never afford blue.

  Even so, the first selection of fabrics displayed made Niall gasp. Stalwart laughed and said, “I told you ‘secretary’, not ‘catamite’.” Niall wasn’t sure what that word meant, but the haberdasher obviously was, and it shocked him.

  Still, the doublets and britches that appeared left Niall breathless. Ironhall had nothing to compare, even with the tailor’s idea of workaday. No master, not even Grand Master, ever dressed like that. Silk hose instead of wool? But this was the city, not an isolated moorland castle. Inspecting himself in a “formal” outfit in the mirror, Niall decided that good looks would be vanity, but smart was amply justified. Not ugly, certainly.

  “Very nice,” he said. “But I’m not going to be flaunting my shapely ass around Grandon. The location you mentioned is next-door to nowhere, isn’t it? I’ll get mugged for the shirt off my back.”

  Stalwart frowned. “True,” he admitted. “But you’re in Grandon at the moment, so you’ll be arriving at your new posting with a Grandon wardrobe.”

  “Every garment brand new? I squander all my wages on glad rags?”

  The frown became a scowl, because Stalwart had planned this mission and his puppet was talking back to him. And even making more sense.

  So they left the fancy tailor’s shop and found a place that sold second-hand clothes. “You will probably become lousy and flea-ridden just trying these on,” Stalwart warned.

  Feeling pleased with himself at having out-schemed the schemer, Niall laughed. “Won’t be the first time. And you’d better stand well clear of the racks, my lord. Grandon fleas are the world’s best jumpers.”

  They had trouble finding enough breeches long enough and doublets wide enough, so it was after more than an hour’s rummaging that Stalwart paid for a fat bundle of artisan-class garments at a fraction of what he had been prepared to pay. He ordered the entire collection boiled, dried, ironed, and delivered to the Golden Jug.

  The rain had grown unpleasant; they went back to the inn. Waiting there for Lord Hedgebury was a palace courier, looking very worried because the rolled rug he was delivering was apparently valuable enough to justify an escort of two Household Yeomen in their inevitable shiny glory of plumed helmets, cuirasses, and dangling sabres. His lordship showed little interest when he accepted the bundle and at once handed it to his lanky young companion. He, however, grabbed it and went off up the stairs with it about as fast as any human being ever could.

  When Stalwart joined him up in their room, he found the nondescript rug abandoned on the floor, and Niall capering wildly as he swung his gleaming new sabre around, practising cuts, thrusts, parries, and ripostes. As soon as it was safe to approach, Stalwart asked to examine it, and tactfully agreed that Denial was indeed a marvel of the sword maker’s art. Like most weapons intended for cutting, she was curved, although only slightly. The outside of the curve was an edge as sharp as a razor, while the inside—the back—was blunt for parrying, except near the end, where a short “false” edge made her two-edged and gave her a fearsome point for thrusting. She weighed at least twice as much as Sleight, but that obviously did not bother her exultant new owner and lifetime partner.

  Stalwart chuckled. “If those Yeoman beauties had known that they were being sent along to guard a Blade sword, they would have tossed it in the river.”

  “And I would have tossed them after her,” Niall said fiercely. “Feathers, spurs, ironware and all!”

  At lunch Stalwart said, “So how good are you with metal, really? Grand Master was vague.”

  “He often is these days. He doesn’t know. Nobody does, not even me.”

  “Don’t throw the dairy faeces, son.”

  Niall sighed. “Listen... when I arrived at Ironhall, I was sixteen and Sir Quincy had been coaching me for years. Two days after I was admitted and became the Brat, Master of Sabres took me out in the yard and handed me a foil, right? It’s the traditional test, so I expect you went through much the same. An audience of sopranos gathered, hoping to learn that Grand Master had found a new Durendal.

  “Master of Sabres explained which end was the handle, and a few basics. Then he tried a cut and I parried it. He praised me, and did it again. And again. Then he lunged really hard, without warning me that he was changing the game. I parried that too, then broke his collarbone with my riposte.”

  Stalwart paused with his mouth open and a duck drumstick halfway there. “Straight up? The Brat broke...?”

  “Straight as a sunbeam. Master of Rituals was summoned and rushed him off to the Forge for a healing, while almost the entire Seniors class descended on me to put me in my place, one after another. In the next hour or so they got about six touches on me, but I did nothing except parry. No lunges or cuts or ripostes. I made that my style. I have the finest defence in all Eurania, but no attack. I almost never try to connect. No, that’s not true. I do sometimes make a touch, just to show I can.”
<
br />   “Death! Why? Whatever for?”

  Niall shrugged, not knowing the answer himself. “I think I just enjoy making them mad. I had Commander Bowman foaming at the mouth last time he tried me.”

  “You can beat Bowman?”

  “Probably. He beat me one-nothing, but I gave him the one, and he knew it.”

  Their next objective was hidden away in a smelly little alley. From the outside it looked more like a private house than a store, but the inside was a swordsman’s dream of paradise. Swords were everywhere, scores of them, on the walls, in stands, on tables. From somewhere within, or possibly a back yard, came sounds of hammering.

  “Why another sword?” Niall demanded. “I’ve already got one that’s better than any of these. Anyway, a mere secretary can’t strut around sporting a sword, let alone two of them!” There were laws limiting those who could go armed. After two years as an Ironhall Senior, he had felt half naked without a sword on his belt. Stalwart wore one, of course, because he was a gentleman and looked it. He was automatically allowed an armed attendant.

  “Patience! I wouldn’t buy a guard dog and then pull its teeth.”

  Comforting comparison!

  Stalwart and the proprietor were addressing each other as “Jim” and “my lord” respectively, but Niall was not introduced. Jim had shoulders to rival Master Armourer’s. His hands were as large, and even more twisted from years of heavy labour; he wore the same sort of leather overall, spotted with burn marks. He barely glanced at the cat’s eye floating above Stalwart’s belt, but his gaze locked on Denial’s.

  “I know Sleight of old,” he said. “May I be introduced?...”

  Delighted, Niall drew his sword and proudly proffered her. Jim accepted and studied her intently: weight, and balance, curve and false edge, cat’s eye pommel, larger than most because she was a heavier than average sabre.

  “Magnificent, even for an Ironhall sword! I would give you two hundred crowns for this, Sir Blade.”

  “You see her name?”

  “‘Denial?’”

  “That’s all you get.”

  Jim accepted the rebuff with a hearty laugh. “So how may I serve you gentlemen today? Obviously neither of you needs a sword.”

  “My friend needs a scabbard,” Stalwart said. “A back scabbard.”

  Niall said, “That’ll slow my draw,” just as Jim made much the same objection. But Niall continued, “Back scabbards are ridiculous! Nobody uses a back scabbard.”

  “You will,” Stalwart said firmly. “Wood not metal, please, and lacquered black.”

  Jim was still frowning. He glanced at Denial. “You’re right-handed?”

  Niall said, “Both.”

  “Making it ambidextrous would be tricky and take me longer—never had a Blade customer yet who wasn’t in a hurry. Sinister will always give you a split-second advantage on your draw, because most men don’t expect a leftie opponent, but dexter would be easier for riding a horse.”

  “Dexter, then,” Niall said glumly. He would be mounting a lot more often than drawing.

  Jim produced a knotted cord and proceeded to measure Niall’s arms, back, and shoulders ten ways to sunrise. Then he told him to strip to his shirt and did it all again. Lord Hedgebury inspected a display of throwing knives. Niall just fumed.

  But then, after all that, Jim said. “I’ll need to keep your sword overnight, Sir Blade.”

  Niall folded his arms and said, “No.”

  Jim folded his arms, which were a lot more impressive.

  Stalwart groaned. “Now what?”

  “Denial is mine and no one is going to take her out of my sight!”

  “You are under my orders, boy.”

  “But there are some orders you are not allowed to give.”

  Stalwart grabbed him by his shirt front, towed him over to the door and out into the alley, which happened to be deserted. Since Niall was taller than he was, he then tried to haul his head down to make their eyes level. Niall resisted, so nothing happened.

  “Exactly what is eating your ass this time?”

  “Lies! The Queen lied. Grand Master lied. You lied. You’re sending me on a suicide mission.”

  “You ever call me a liar again, sonny boy, and I’ll write my name and address on your liver, understand? I wasn’t born the only son of some moneybags banker like you. Yes, I came crawling out of a ditch—but I saved my king’s life more times than you’ll ever know, so I’m one of the ranking peers of the realm, a confidant of the monarch, and you’d better not forget it! Now tell me what’s rocking your cradle this time?”

  “This back scabbard. You want me to carry Denial on my back so the Marquis won’t realize I’m armed until after I’ve run him through.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you lied to me, all of you—you and the Queen and Grand Master. You’re sending me on a suicide mission. Jim is going to take the cat’s eye out of the pommel—promising to put her back when I return, of course. But I won’t return! No binding scar, no identification on me, no cat’s eye, so they’ll just torture me for a few days and then hang me. Thencaster problem solved.”

  Stalwart’s eyes widened. “Oh, you guessed! And you say the reason for the back scabbard is so the Marquis won’t notice that you’re carrying a sword?”

  Niall said, “Um...”

  “Idiot!” Stalwart released him with a shove that bounced him off the wall. “You have obviously never seen a back scabbard. A great big hilt sticking up behind your ear and you think no one will notice? They’d all be laughing their teeth out at the boob who carries a sword that way.”

  “Then why a back scabbard?”

  “Wait and see. You’ll understand when we get to Goat’s Gizzard.”

  “Where? What’s that?”

  “That is where you will meet the nastiest people you have ever met in your life.” Stalwart swung around and stalked back into the sword shop, so that Niall had to run after him to apologize.

  Stalwart didn’t listen. He drew Sleight and handed it to him. “Give Denial to Jim and you keep this as security. Jim, get going on the scabbard, please, and we’ll hang around until you’re finished with the sabre. Come, lad, I need some exercise.”

  He brazenly led the way through the workshop quarters—where they passed Jim, already tracing Denial’s outline onto a plank of lime wood—out to a spacious back yard. There was the source of the hammering, a younger version of Jim beating an anvil to death, while an even younger and sweatier one worked the bellows. Stalwart marched past them both with a wave and a cheery word, heading for a tract of muddy grass at the rear. Beside the fence stood a rack of foils.

  He selected a buttoned rapier. “Right, Wonder Boy. Let’s see who’s been stretching the truth a little, shall we?”

  “Bad idea!” Niall was still burning hotter than the Jims’ furnace. “I’m in a foul mood. If I lose my temper, I’ll beat you into butter.”

  “But you never do, you told me. On guard!”

  “Don’t say you weren’t warned.” Niall found a blunt sabre similar to Denial and swished it a few times. Lighter than he liked, but adequate.

  They faced off.

  Clink... clink... clink... clinkclinkclink...

  Stalwart was good. Twenty years ago he must have been fantastic, but Time had stitched white hairs on his scalp and started to pad his belly. He kept up a wondrous pace for a good ten minutes, but the rapier’s button never touched Niall. Every lunge was parried.

  Clinkclinkclink....

  Niall moved his sabre to his left hand. That made no difference.

  Clinkclinkclink....

  Finally, when he was confident that the old man must either quit or drop dead, Niall barked, “Shoulder!” and tapped him there. Then, “Leg! Belly...”

  Before he could name any more targets, S
talwart threw down his rapier. For a moment they just stood and gasped for breath. The younger and youngest Jims, who had long since left off work to watch, applauded loudly.

  Niall caught his breath first, enough to laugh. Stalwart followed. And then they fell into an embrace, brother Blades.

  “Fates, lad! I once saw Durendal fence. You’ve got his style.”

  There was no higher praise than that.

  “And,” Stalwart added, “I would surely hate to meet you in a real fight.”

  Whatever else might have been planned for the day had to be postponed, because waiting for them back at the Golden Jug were two clerks from the Royal Chancellery, sent to take a deposition from Sir Niall of the Queen’s Blades, formerly known as Will Scribner of Grandon, in connection with the trusteeship of... and so on. The Queen had kept her promise, and Niall eagerly answered all their questions.

  Chapter 5

  You will meet the nastiest people you have ever met in your life.

  lord hedgebury

  Early the next morning, Stalwart paid his tally but assured the innkeeper that he wanted to hold the room and they would be back tomorrow. Their progress after that was delayed by a typical Thirdmoon downpour, brief but brutal.

  When they reached the armourers’ shop, the absurd back scabbard was ready. The harness included shoulder straps and chest straps, all of which had to be adjusted, but once that was done, Niall should be able to put it on and off quite easily. It held Denial across his back at an angle—right shoulder to left hip—so he could still sit a horse. He would have to practice drawing and sheathing, was all. Scowling at his reflection in the big mirror, he did admit that he could live with the stupid thing if he must. It just made him look so half baked! Lord Hedgebury smiled and said that no one would dare tell him that to his face.