The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  The sight of all those battlements was making Niall’s hair rise. “Does his grace by any chance have the right of high justice?”

  Stalwart continued to admire the scenery. “Meaning what, Neal?”

  He must know exactly what that term meant. “The right to introduce my neck to an axe or a hempen noose. A marquis is just one step down from a duke. If this one discovers that a spy has been planted in his household—a spy armed with a concealed weapon in whose use he happens to be a trained expert—he is likely to be enraged bright purple.”

  “Then you will have to admit that you are working for the Queen herself.”

  Spirits preserve me! Confess to Neville, who might believe that he had a better right to the throne than she did?

  Wart was flying again.

  Chapter 10

  Lying is cheating, cheating is theft.

  absalom scribner to his son

  The trail wound gently up the very long hill. Rhapsody had a magnificent setting, high above the river, and the building itself looked curiously familiar. Eventually Niall realized that it was a duplicate of the Furys’ Richly Downs. Its flanking trees were a century or two younger, and the drab grey local stonework was starker than Richly’s homely honey colour. No matter, Sir Stalwart had done well out of his service to his king. As the travellers neared the house, a loud whinny from Pepper startled Niall and made him look around to see what had provoked such a waste of breath. Behind him, Stalwart laughed.

  “She’s just happy to be back. She’s shouting, ‘Hey, Mom, I’m home!’”

  Then a glimpse of a dozen or so horses being herded homeward by two horsemen confirmed that Rhapsody was a stud farm. Stalwart led Niall around to the back, to a wide expanse of paddocks and stables.

  “How many head do you run, Stalwart?”

  “It varies. Usually about a couple of hundred. The Marquis runs ten times that. This is horse country! Limestone grass makes strong legs.”

  They dismounted at a gate, where a cowman in shabby leathers waited to let them in. Stalwart kissed him... er, her. He presented Neal Cleaver to, “My wife, Agnes.”

  Lady Agnes was taller than her husband, with broad shoulders and a long, rather horsey, face, but a prominent curved nose gave it character. Her smile of welcome for the visitor seemed quite genuine. Although she was not beautiful in any classical sense, she was far from ugly. Later, when he saw her dressed as a lady, Niall decided that she would best be described as striking.

  “Stalwart told me he was going south to find a hero. Judging by first impressions, Master Cleaver, he succeeded admirably. What’s your real name?”

  “Niall, my lady. How did you know it wasn’t what your husband told you?”

  “From the way he tripped over his tongue when he said it. Come in and have some refreshment.”

  The Hedgeburys had three daughters. The eldest was older than Niall and long gone into matrimony, but he recalled Stalwart saying that he had married young, while he was still a member of the Royal Guard. He met the other two, Shera and Mailan. While a Blade might have a better than average success wooing another Blade’s daughter, Niall had to remain in his Neal Cleaver persona. Under other circumstances, he might have struck a few sparks. Certainly, neither of them spurned him as the Furys’ daughter had.

  The refreshment was ample in quality as well as quantity. His luxurious guest room lacked nothing except the companionship he had enjoyed so much when sharing humbler quarters on the long trek from Grandon.

  Tomorrow he would meet his new lord, the one he might have to betray.

  He slept poorly.

  Next morning, he stood beside Stalwart on the front doorstep of Rhapsody, admiring the spectacular view of the Frail Estuary with its dusting of fishing boats like freckles, and the distant sprawl of Thencaster Castle standing guard over the north gate to Chivial. Today was to determined his life for the next year at least, his life as scribe and spy. The weather was perfect, so take that as an omen?

  “If Emerald was correct about your twin dominants,” Stalwart said, “then all you have to do is keep your Earth side up and hope your Death side doesn’t die of boredom.”

  “As long as I have something interesting to do, I am never bored.” Niall was more worried that his fencing skills would wither for lack of practice, but he had never considered himself a candidate to win the King’s cup, and he would have to be close to senile before any non-Blade could give him trouble.

  “Just remember that only very rarely does the Royal Guard have anything interesting to do. Most of them serve out their ten years without ever drawing in anger. Leader and Deputy move them around like chess pieces and all they need do after that is stand there and look pretty.”

  A heavy tread on gravel announced the approach of Pepper, bridled, saddled, and led by a young stable hand, who was obviously a Wyld, the first Niall had seen. He was bareheaded, displaying a mop of coal-black curls above a face that looked as if it had been whitewashed. His whiskers were growing in black, but there was no sign of sunburn on his cheeks. Corpse pallor had nothing on a living Wyld’s complexion.

  “Here,” Stalwart said, producing a folded paper, “is Neville’s letter offering to interview you. And there is your mare. Yours. The pair of you seem to get along very well together. Agnes and I hate to break up beautiful friendships.”

  Niall actually stuttered as he tried to express thanks and astonishment at the same time. A healthy, well-behaved horse was a princely gift. He assumed that a marquis’s private secretary would be paid more than a junior bank clerk—his previous post—although room and board would be included, but Pepper must be the equivalent of at least two years’ wages.

  Stalwart waved away his thanks and offered a hand to shake. “Good luck in your mission, son. I have every confidence that you will succeed perfectly. And if you ever have some time to spare, ride over here and you’ll always be welcome.”

  The sun was shining, birds were singing. With Denial hidden in her back scabbard, Niall rode back to the joining of the rivers, and then south, up the Ralop as far as the ford. He persuaded the reluctant Pepper to wet her fetlocks.

  From there he could continue south—stealing the horse, stealing the invisible sword, stealing all the training he had received at Ironhall. Just for a moment he weighed his father’s aphorism about honour. Then what?

  Then nothing, because he had sworn loyalty to the Queen. He turned Pepper to face north and urged her forward. The worst monster in his nightmares had been the Marquis demanding an oath of fealty. It would be very surprising if Neville did not require that from a confidential secretary, and Niall could not give it when he was already sworn to the Queen. Emerald would say that his Earth spirits would not allow it.

  Or perhaps it was his father’s voice he was hearing.

  The ride to the great gate of Thencaster Castle took much less time than he wanted it to. Two pike-carrying guards in red and black livery challenged him. He handed over the Marquis’s letter. “I am the Neal Cleaver named in this.” Liar! “His Grace wishes to see me.” Liar!

  Surprisingly, one of the pikemen could read. He saluted and said, “Welcome, Master Cleaver. Please report to that door there.”

  Assuming that this instruction was not to be taken literally, Niall went to see who or what the door was hiding, and found an office full of men and boys, all cheerful and friendly. About half of them were Wylds, their ivory faces like masks above black beards. His arrival was noted. He was assigned a page guide and assured that his baggage would be kept safe. Pepper was handed over to an efficient-seeming stableman in a spacious and impressive stable.

  There were many ramps and staircases in Thencaster Castle. Most of them were wide, well lit, and more fit for a palace than a fortress. Perhaps home here would not feel like a prison after all. He passed many male servants, but the only sword he had seen was on the master-at-arms in the
guardhouse.

  The page had black curly hair and alabaster skin, as if he never saw sunlight.

  “You need strong legs and strong lungs to live here,” Niall suggested.

  The dark eyes twinkled. “Keeps us fit, sir.” He did not look fit. By Chivian standards he had recently died of some nasty wasting disease. Yet he easily matched Niall on the endless staircases.

  “I’m told it’s the grass. More important—how’s the food?”

  Cheeky grin. “Um... Compared to what, sir?”

  They passed another stable, so there must be either a second entrance, at a higher level on the hillside, or an indoor horse road, so that important visitors need not climb so many stairs. Niall glimpsed a gallery of at least a dozen trebuchets. Even quite a small boulder hurled from that elevation would sink a Baelish dragon boat. Shots could be pre-aimed to strike the trail flanking the Frail River. No matter how huge, hairy, and horrible wild Wylds might be, they would be much more horrible after that sort of treatment.

  Eventually glazed windows, crystal-trimmed chandeliers, mosaic floors, and frescoed walls told him that he had arrived at the private apartments, a glittering palace atop the castle. What thankfully turned out to be a final staircase led up to a finely decorated reception hall, where an elegant, white-haired chancellor sat at an empty desk. The page delivered Niall and his letter and darted over to join four others much like himself, who were sitting on a bench, swinging their legs and either whispering gossip or telling naughty stories. Three of them had the same black-and-white colouring.

  His grace, the chancellor murmured confidentially, was currently engaged, but would be available shortly. Meanwhile, if Master Cleaver would be so kind as to step this way... He heaved himself upright and hobbled painfully across the hall, leaning on a cane. Not being crippled by rheumatics yet, Niall followed in his usual easy stroll.

  There were six doors opening off the hall. Five were panelled and lacquered in white with gold trim. The sixth was raw oak, studded with iron nails to resist axe blows. It bore the logo of the royal mail, a crown above a running horse. The chancellor rapped sharply with the head of his cane.

  The portal creaked open and a child peered out. Probably a child—her black hair was bobbed in childish style, her bright blue dress reached to just below her knees, and her feet were clad in sandals. Her only ornamentation was a slender silver bracelet on her left ankle. In age she was somewhere between twelve and twenty, but Niall could not even guess where.

  She said, “Oooo! Come on in, Gorgeous.”

  Niall moved her most likely age three years closer to twelve.

  Chapter 11

  You stink.

  edwan baelish fury

  “I will inform his grace of Master Cleaver’s arrival,” the old man intoned.

  “But tell him there’s no hurry,” the girl said coquettishly.

  Niall attempted what he hoped would be a respectful, non-threatening, purely platonic, smile, and advanced to meet her. But as he approached, her gleeful grin faded into an expression of fear and horror.

  “I am Neal Cleaver. I’m pleased to meet you, er... my lady?”

  She backed away, shaking her head.

  What in the world?

  Oh, Death! Stalwart had warned him that Lady Emerald was his most dangerous enemy. He had meant “people like Lady Emerald” of course, and now, only minutes into his fraudulent life as Neal Cleaver, he had run into another sensitive. She wouldn’t be nearly as skilled or knowledgeable as Emerald, because she was too young to have undergone White Sister training. But she could sense his enchanted sword just as well as young Edwan Fury had, and perhaps his Death dominance too.

  It was a good idea, Stalwart. I tried, honest I did!

  Must he now fight his way out of this enormous castle? How many innocent men’s lives would he have to take in the process?

  He heaved the massive door shut behind him. Then he looked in wonder around a spacious office, bright, well furnished, and about as large in itself as the entire premises of the Scribner and Morley bank he had known in his youth. Its supreme feature, opposite him, was a row of glazed windows offering a breath-taking view of the Frail Estuary, where the great river embraced the ocean. The other three walls were flanked by cabinets and storage chests. Along the middle of the room stood the longest, widest table he had ever seen, littered with papers and surrounded by a dozen or so stools. At its head, to his left, stood a grandiose throne-like chair, all gilded wood and padding of scarlet velvet. The girl had retreated to other end, as far from him as she could possibly be. She was practically cowering.

  Making no move toward her that she might interpret as a threat, Niall walked around the table and throne until he reached the windows themselves and could peer down at the castle, dropping away in a jumble of roofs, towers, and battlements to the river bank. At least a dozen fishing boats were at work on that fine morning. They seemed amazingly far below him, but hills always seemed higher when viewed from above. He could just make out Rhapsody, a long way away, high on the south shore.

  “This is an incredible view! Is this where I will be working, if his grace chooses to employ me?”

  Silence. He looked around. The girl had rushed back to the door. Her upper half was outside, as if she was talking to someone out there. Then she came back in, and turned to give him a guilty smile. He wondered if she’d sent for the castle guard.

  “You’re here to replace Tom Twelvish, aren’t you?” she said. “I’m awfully glad to see you, because I’ve been doing all his work since he left. Well, not really all, but I’ve been helping out Daddy as much as I can, like helping making sense of these stupid, stupid manor reports. Look, go and see what I mean.” She pointed at the highest heap on the littered table.

  If he did as she said, he would be closer to her, but with the great table between them. He did not move. “I’d better not, my lady. Not until his grace has hired me. If he does.”

  “I’m not your lady or anybody’s lady!” she said shrilly, “I’m just Fizz, or Maiden Fizz if you want to be formal. Of course he’s going to hire you if you really wrote that beautiful letter we got from Ambassador Hedgebury. Twelvish couldn’t write one half as fine as that, not a quarter as well. Not that he’s an ambassador now, but he was once, so he gets to keep the title: His Excellency, Ambassador Lord Hedgebury. You rode all the way from Grandon! How long did it take you? I keep hoping that Father will take me south with him when he goes there for the coronation in Sixthmoon. I expect he’ll take you, too, if you’re really to be his new secretary.”

  Then she burst into a loud, snigger. Was she twelve trying to seem twenty, or twenty trying to seem twelve? Was she insane, or just terrified by the evil conjurement she could sense but not see?

  The door behind her creaked and a youth peered in. Maiden Fizz cried, “Dan!” and threw her arms around him. “Dan, this man says he’s Neal Cleaver, the secretary who’s after Tom Twelvish’s job, but he’s not! He’s an imposter, a killer! He’s come to kill Daddy, I’m certain. Don’t let Daddy come in. Send for the guard.”

  The boy extracted himself from her tentacles. “Right. You stay outside here until Father arrives, so you can warn him. I’ll keep watch on the man in here and make sure he doesn’t get up to any mischief.” He eased her out the door and closed it. Then he turned to Niall with an apologetic smile.

  Daddy? Father? According to Stalwart, the Marquis of Thencaster was one year short of forty, recently widowed, father of three sons. Fizz, if that was her real name, had denied being a lady, so think three legitimate sons and one or more illegitimate daughters?

  Her half-brother, if Niall had the family straight, came in his direction, so Niall went to meet him, and they met about halfway between the door and the throne, the boy offering a handshake. “Master Cleaver? I’m truly sorry about that. Fizz has these fits sometimes, especially when she meets strangers. I�
�m Danark Fitzambrose, the Marquis’s youngest.” His clothes backed up his claim, for his hose were silk, there were pearl buttons on his red velvet doublet, silver buckles on his shoes and belt; his robe was trimmed with sable and his hat with an eagle feather. He had the amber eyes of the house of Ranulf. He wore his blond locks long and curled. Fresh-faced, he looked about sixteen. Were this Ironhall, he would be in either the fuzzy or beardless class.

  Niall had thought that things could not get worse, but the kid had a silver-hilted rapier dangling at his side. If he drew that, believing Niall to be unarmed, tragedy might follow.

  “No need to apologise, my lord. I have met sensitives before, and many of them find me revolting, or worse. I don’t truly understand, but it is something to do with my mix of dominant elements.”

  Lord Danark found that interesting. “You must explain this to Fizz. Her fits frighten and worry her.”

  At that moment the Marquis entered, holding Fizz close to his side.

  Niall bowed. When he straightened up, he found himself looking at nothing. The Marquis had gone straight past him, headed for the padded throne. There he turned, sat down, and studied Niall with cold brown eyes.

  He was a powerfully-built man of about Niall’s height, with a thick brown hair and a meticulously trimmed fringe of beard along his jaw line. He wore a form-fitting doublet of red silk above puffed breeches striped in red and black. A gold chain draped across his chest was no doubt intended to demonstrate its width, just as his white hose displaying the bulge of his calves. His short cape was trimmed with sable, his shoes bore silver buckles. He also wore a starched ruff and a velvet cap, many jewels on his hands, and a six-pointed diamond White Star. Stalwart outranked him there.

  This was the man who guarded the north door to Chivial, from Baels and Wylds alike. He would look overdressed in the Golden Jug, possibly even in Greymere Palace itself, and such splendour seemed absurd out here in the wilderness; yet Niall could not suppress the treasonous thought that Neville came much closer to the traditional idea of how a monarch should look than Malinda did.