The Ethical Swordsman

by Dave Duncan

  Niall nodded. “And if all else fails—”

  “There are horses in Ironhall,” she agreed.

  Niall spread more honey on his still-warm bread. Not that Ironhall nags were first class, but en-route from Prail to Grandon, he must pass very close to Ironhall. He had a duty to Return that orphaned sword, and he knew he could not make the entire trip from Prail to Grandon without overnighting at least once. He certainly couldn’t expect Fizz to attempt such an ordeal.

  “Wonderful! When you see your noble husband, Ma’am, tell him he is a true sage, and I regret any ill words spoken last night just as much as he does, because I was at fault far more than he.” Agnes must know, as he did, that her husband might well be going to his death.

  She said, “Nonsense! If you are very lucky, you might even find the Queen at Ironhall. No doubt the Blades will be on display on the big day, and there will be more seniors ready to be harvested by now, won’t there?”

  Mouth full again, he nodded, although Agnes’s attention was still directed on the outside world.

  “By the way, I haven’t congratulated you on your marriage. Neville has been very reluctant to find Fizzan a husband. Spirits! She must be seventeen now?”

  Niall didn’t answer because Fizz’s answer varied every time he asked her. She certainly behaved like an adult sometimes.

  Agnes rambled on. “I don’t know why Neville’s been so possessive. I suspect he just didn’t want to admit to siring a child out of wedlock. Or admit having had an affair with a Wyldish girl, maybe. Fizz is a sensitive, you know. She ought to be a White Sister. I’m surprised that she can overlook your Death dominant, but I know she’s unpredictable.”

  “I think that’s what I love about her. She can be as tough as a she-bear or tender as gossamer. Cunning like a fox or mad as a hare in springtime.”

  “Blame her elements. Fizz is a Chance-Air person, as fickle and flighty as a leaf in the wind.”

  “You’re a sensitive, too, my lady?”

  “Just slightly.” Agnes smiled, showing horsey teeth. “Not like Fizz or a White Sister.”

  That explained where Fizz had learned at least a little elemental lore: Emerald had taught Stalwart, who had taught Agnes, who had taught Fizz.

  “Ah!” Agnes’s voice rose! “There it is, and it’s the Sunrise. We were hoping he’d get that one. The captain’s name is Modney. The tide’s already on the ebb, so we’ll have to be quick loading.” Leaving the window, she headed for the door, still talking. “We packed five days’ provisions, which should be more than enough for the passengers. The sailors will have brought their own. Mailan has money for more if you get becalmed and run out. She’ll rely on you to keep the crew in line. Some of those rough sailor types can be difficult where women are concerned, especially if they smell money.” Lady Agnes vanished out the door.

  “Me?” Niall exclaimed. “How big a crew?” he called after her, but he heard no answer.

  If the weather cooperated, sea travel might save a day or even two, and wasn’t going to cost him anything. Going by road, his sword would let him claim the best horse in any post house, but he would have to pay for Fizz, and he could not just abandon Diolth, after promising to look after him. There would be meals to buy, too.

  Which was a devastating reminder that he had no money. He had never even learned what the Marquis intended to pay Secretary Cleaver, let alone collected any of it for his moons of service.

  He took the marriage certificate across to the writing table in the corner and signed his name as bridegroom. Stalwart had added his seal, and there was a candle already lit for him to do the same. A Blade’s seal, of course was the name engraved on his sword, which printed out backward on the paper.

  Not having done this before, he found it tricky. He put more wax on the Hedgeburys’ carpet than on the paper. He had just finished when Fizz floated in, wearing a sombre gown as black as her hair and a scarlet bonnet shaped like a wheel of cheese. He kissed her, having to crouch under the hat to do so. He presented her with the certificate.

  “What do you think of this?” She replied, and rotated.

  Marriage, Sir Niall was rapidly discovering, complicated life immensely. He thought she looked like a child dressed up as Grandma.

  “I think you can wear anything at all and get away with it.” He still hadn’t seen her wearing nothing at all, which was one of his priority ambitions.

  “Mailan’s got at least a dozen gowns she says I can have, in all sorts of colours!” Fizz beamed like a deprived child suddenly endowed with enormous wealth.

  Niall was silenced by visions of himself leading a train of packhorses into Greymere Palace. He pulled back into reality. “Fizz, I have no money. But you do, I know.”

  She stiffened, and her eyes narrowed to slits. “A few crowns maybe.”

  “A hundred crowns. You took them out of your father’s hoard. He thought Tom Twelvish had stolen them, but you knew that Twelvish was never coming back, didn’t you, Fizz?”

  “It’s mine! Even a farmer’s daughter gets a bigger dowry than that.”

  “A rich farmer’s daughter, perhaps. We’re going to need money to get from Prail to Grandon. When I’m bound and accepted into the Royal Guard, my pay will support us both, but I need your help to get us there.”

  At that moment Lady Agnes put her head in. “The baggage wagon is about to leave. Have you anything to go?”

  Niall made a frantic rush upstairs, stuffed their meagre possessions higgledy-piggledy into their pack, raced back down with it, and hurled into the wagon just as it began to move.

  Fizz was sulking because she couldn’t take all the best dozen or so gowns with her. The worst part of her Chance-Air personality was that she sometimes acted as young as she looked, and Niall was not a child molester. He led her back into the supper room, closed the door, and kissed her lustfully.

  Then— “If we get a cabin to ourselves, darling, I am going to make love to you over and over until you beg me to stop.”

  The sultry look in her eyes told him that he had discovered the secret remedy.

  “You will tire before I do, braggart.”

  They rode down to the jetty in the second wagon with four mothers, three babies, and seven infants. The babies screamed the whole way. Niall began to suspect that the voyage was going to be just as bad as he feared.

  Chapter 31

  Ironhall is always there, deep inside you.

  lord hedgebury

  No. The voyage was much worse than he had feared. Everyone other than Fizz and a few sailors was smitten by sea sickness, even Niall himself. Had he been properly bound by the impalement conjuration, the magic would have made him immune to such petty ailments. In practice, sea sickness did not feel petty.

  Before sunset on the first day, one of the women went into labour, and her screams terrified the children. Wind, waves, creaking wood and ropes made all ships noisy, but Sunrise sounded like a torture chamber in the busy season. Fizz helped deliver a healthy little boy with powerful lungs.

  On the second morning, Master Modney announced that he expected to reach Prail on the next tide, which he thought would run just before noon. He said they had made very good time from the Frail. It just felt like years.

  Prail was a larger place than Niall had expected, with an impressive spread of docks. Mailan, Stalwart’s daughter, had brought letters to several former Blades in town. Captain Modney advised Niall to apply to the Three Bells Posting Inn, which was owned by Sir Standish, another ex-Blade. When Niall agreed, one of the hands was sent running to carry word of a Blade in urgent need of transportation. Fizz grudgingly produced some of her stolen “dowry” money to pay for the horses they would hire, but it was not needed.

  Standish himself came, driving up in an open carriage with an amused sailor in the back. A cheerful and engaging man who had not lost his trim and athletic Blade
physique to middle age, he ran up the gangplank and greeted Niall as a brother on the evidence of his cat’s eye sword, kissed Fizz’s hand, and raised an inquiring eyebrow at the pallid Diolth.

  “I wish I could take the time to tell you the whole story, brother,” Niall said, “but I must make all haste to wherever the Queen is, for my news is both dire and urgent. I will stop by Ironhall on the way, because I have an orphaned sword to Return, and Diolth, here, has expressed an ambition to become a Blade. I will speak in his favour, because he certainly saved our lives a couple of days ago.”

  Former Blade Standish was also a shrewd bargainer with a gleam in his eye. “Your sword grants you the pick of my stable, brother. Of course, I would extend that favour to your spouse, and in the circumstances to your worthy young protégé also. I am overdue for a visit to the old jail myself, so why don’t I come along for the ride? In return, you can regale me with your adventures on the way.”

  Niall laughingly agreed to this arrangement, making silent reservations as to how much of the story he must redact. “We can reach there before dark?”

  “Easily, at this time of year. In time for free bed and board, too. Let’s go.”

  Niall said a quick farewell to Mailan Hedgebury while Fizz gathered their luggage. The carriage bore them to the Three Bells in a few minutes. Standish shouted for the best five horses to be saddled while he dashed inside to tell his wife where he was going. Diolth saw a chance to be useful, and joined the inn’s men in fastening girths. He even objected to one horse’s gait and traced the problem to an ill-fitting shoe. A replacement mount was found.

  Niall was amused, and made sure that Standish learned of the incident. “It never hurts to have a spare string to your bow, lad. If Grand Master doesn’t want you, I’m sure Sir Standish will hire you. Won’t you, brother?”

  “I can’t believe Grand Master will give me the chance,” Standish said confidently.

  The weather was perfect, the coastal plains near Prail were fertile. Fizz and Diolth were impressed by the richness of the countryside, chattering excitedly in Wyldish. The travellers rode in pairs, with the packhorse on its tether following behind.

  At first the two Blades went in front, while Niall related an edited version of his career so far. He did not explain why he had been sent to Thencaster, who his ward was, or how a Blade had been able to travel so far away from the person he was bound to defend day and night. Standish must have detected the omissions, but he did not comment on them. He did congratulate Niall on marrying a marquis’s daughter, but even Niall himself was starting to find his tale unbelievable. After he had narrated the ambush, the flight into the caves, the arrival of Panoleo, Diolth’s guidance to the Ciarán’s sleeping quarters, the slaughter of the guards, followed by the Ciarán’s death, and the escape up the shaft, there was a brief silence.

  “When you report to Her Majesty, there will be inquisitors present to vouch for your veracity, you realize?”

  “Yes. Every word of my story is true, so I have nothing to fear.”

  “You’re a Blade, so you have plenty to fear. The snoops lie about us whenever they think they can get away with it. Never cross an Inquisitor, brother!”

  Such as Inquisitor Brindle? Niall could reasonably hope that he was still in Goat’s Gizzard, lording over his captive enchanters.

  At Torwell they turned onto the Ironhall road, gradually climbing into the bleakness of Starkmoor. In early summer it was at its friendliest, with swathes of purple heather brightening its craggy tors.

  The riders had changed places by then, so that Niall rode alongside Diolth. They spoke about the Order, the years of training, the years of service to follow, and the benefits. Not the least of those was the legendary attraction to women, and Diolth was obviously old enough to be intrigued by that.

  “There are disadvantages also,” Niall warned him. “I had to kill four men, and three of them did not deserve it. Their deaths will haunt my dreams for ever. They might easily have killed me. So think carefully before you choose. You have already impressed Sir Standish. He has promised me that he will hire you if you so choose.”

  “So he said, but I wanna be a Blade like you!” Alas, Diolth was in his teens, when the future is a treasure chest, ready to be looted.

  “You have to begin by being the Brat. You lose your present name and all your history. Any crimes you have committed are pardoned, but then everyone else—but mostly the most junior class, the sopranos—try to drive you to tears. You have to prove that you are tough enough to take the hazing. I know you are as tough as a hoof, Friend Diolth, but you have to prove it to them.”

  The wind was blowing by then, up there on the moorland, so Niall wasn’t certain what his young companion muttered in response. It might have been some Wyldish expression, or it might have been an old Chivian expletive, “Phuquem!” It certainly did not sound defeatist.

  Soon after that they came in sight of Ironhall itself, a toy castle blushing pink in the sunset. By then Niall’s companion was Fizz, and she was not impressed.

  “That is the famous Ironhall? That poky little pile? Why, we could lose that in a corner of the dining hall, back in Thencaster. How many people live there?”

  “Counting candidates, masters, servants and some ancient retired Blades, I suppose about two hundred. And you had better not say things like that when we’re there, or you won’t get any supper.”

  The day was drawing close to twilight when they rode through the gate into the courtyard. A few zealots were still fencing, but most had called it a day and gone indoors. The sight of visitors—and especially a female visitor—provoked instant reaction. The clatter of foils ceased, and voices began shouting, “Prime! Prime....” Faces appeared at windows, doorways began spitting out boys of all sizes.

  A crowd gathered all around to stare, but traditionally Prime had the honour of greeting visitors, and after a few moments the mob parted to let a boy through. Boy, not young man or near-man. Niall had dismounted and helped Fizz down. He gaped in amazement at this grinning child who flaunted a sword at his hip.

  “Sir Niall! Welcome back, sir.”

  “Striker! How long have you been Prime?”

  Striker had been in the beardless class back in Thirdmoon. Malinda must have returned and harvested all the excess seniors to parade at her coronation.

  Not so. Striker was at the short end of permissible Blade physiques, and boyishly fair, with freckles, but he sensed disparagement in Niall’s question, and stiffened.

  “Ever since Price Athelgar left—sir.”

  Death and Fire! So now that odious strip of Baelish filth had his own Prince’s Guard? Had he dared confess his Thencaster misconduct to his mother, so that she had seen his need for protection? No one could hurt him now. On the bright side, his Blades would not allow him to go around randomly raping young girls; that was dangerous behaviour, so they would block him.

  “Congratulations! I always suspected that you would be Prime someday,” Niall said, a blatant falsehood. “I wish I came in happier circumstances, but I am here to Return a sword.” He went to the packhorse to retrieve it. “You must know Sir Standish, and this is my wife, Lady Fizzan.”

  He produced Spoiler and handed her to Prime. “She’s old and well used, as you can see. I expect Master of Archives can tell us who her Blade was.”

  Striker took the sword with appropriate reverence. He snapped orders to some of the bystanders to see that the guests’ horses and baggage were properly treated, then offered to lead the visitors themselves to meet Grand Master.

  “What is that horrible thing?” Fizz demanded, pointing north, to the far end of the yard.

  “What thing?”

  “That thing like a monster-size molehill.”

  “That’s the Forge, where the swords are made.” And where candidates were magically bound to their ward.

  “I hate it.”r />
  “You won’t need to go near it, love,” Niall said comfortingly, putting an arm around her under the envious gaze of the senior candidates.

  Parsewood had been watching from his tower window, so he had wine and ale waiting for them. He alone knew of Niall’s unorthodox mission, and must be both eager to hear the outcome and surprised that it had ended so soon. He formally kissed Fizz’s hand, greeted the men, and looked askance at the ghostly pale boy with them. He sent Prime off with Spoiler in search of Master of Archives.

  When everyone else was seated and provided with refreshment, he came straight to the point. “You have been busy since you left here, Brother Niall.”

  “Indeed I have, Grand Master. And my work is not over, because I must ride post haste to Grandon to warn Her Majesty that the Wylds have risen again. The Marquis, now my father-in-law, was caught in an ambush, lost half his fighting men, and himself was grievously wounded. The situation was bad three days ago. How bad it is now, I do not know. Lord Hedgebury has gone to Thencaster to take charge.”

  Parsewood’s blink of surprise hinted that Sir Stalwart would not have been his first choice for that appointment. He would not have been Niall’s either, but he could not do worse than either Neville or Kranith.

  “You bear dread tidings! This is terrible, so early in her grace’s reign. The Wylds have elected a new Ciarán, obviously?”

  “They did. I killed him, but they may elect another.”

  Grand Master took a swallow of wine with that information. He looked inquiringly at Diolth, who was sitting still and small, struggling with the language. His eyes were busy, though.

  “You will have to test his agility, Grand Master,” Niall said. “But I can vouch for his courage and his skill with horses. He saved our lives, mine and my wife’s.”