by Dave Duncan
“I will second the horses,” Standish added. “If you don’t want him, I’ll take him, gladly.”
“You want to be a Blade?” Parsewood asked.
Vigorous nod. “Like Sir Niall! Saw him kill four men like snap!”
Bloodthirsty young monster! “He helped me with one of them,” Niall said. That had been an accident, but relate it the other way often enough and even Diolth himself would start believing it.
Parsewood chuckled and stood up. “You have set your aim very high, lad, but with those recommendations, I’ll waive the agility test. I’ll officially accept you tomorrow. Welcome to Ironhall! My lady and brothers, if we are to hold the Return ceremony tonight before lights-out, I must set wheels a-turning. I’m sure you could use a chance to wash your hands. We can have a small repast with the masters after the assembly, if that would be acceptable? And can you share your adventures with us, Brother Niall? Your example will inspire them hugely.”
“I suppose so,” Niall said with reluctance. True, the Queen should be told first, but he would reach Grandon before anyone else could.
Fizz, who had not spoken a word yet said, “No!”
Everyone else just stared and waited for an explanation.
“It doesn’t sound right for a man to stand up in public and brag about his accomplishments! Let Sir Standish do it. He knows it all. He’s been quizzing all three of us, all the way from Prail.”
Niall laughed to hide his annoyance. “One reason I love her, is that Fizz has an infinite ability to surprise people.”
As he was about to discover yet again.
The great bell tolled, summoning everyone to the hall. Of course, all the sharp young eyes had seen Niall hand a sword to Prime, and had guessed that a Return was coming. They had all donned their best, although Ironhall best was never very good. Tables and benches had been cleared away, candidates, masters, and even servants stood under the famous and ominous sky of swords, ready to honour a lost brother. By habit, not law, they had arranged themselves in order of seniority, with servants and sopranos closest to the door, seniors nearest the dais. The masters stood in a row at the back, below Nightfall, the broken sword of the first Durendal, which had hung there for nigh on four centuries. Among the masters was Fizz, who had been granted the honour of a chair, and Sir Standish, designated narrator for the evening.
When Grand Master judged that everyone was present, he stepped forward to the edge of the dais. The tower bell fell silent.
Niall had been waiting at the door—with Diolth, because he deserved some honouring also and was going to need it when he became the Brat. They began walking forward together, and the whispers began: who or what was that freak?
When they reach the front, Niall bowed to Grand Master, and made the traditional dedication. In this case he had been briefed by old Sir Lester, Master of Archives.
“I bring Spoiler, the sword of Sir Richey, who died at Candlefen, fifty years ago, defending his ward. He died, but his ward lived. His name is already written in the Litany.”
What he did not mention was that Richey had been nineteen at the time. He did add a little more history. “I found this in the hand of a Bael. He drew on me. I broke his arm and took the sword. Had I known then that it was a Blade sword, I would have dealt more harshly with him.”
An audible murmur of approval followed, although applause was forbidden at Returns. Grand Master frowned and raised a hand for silence before he formerly accepted the sword. “It will hang in its proper place forever.”
Then he dropped the solemnity and continued the program that had been agreed earlier. “Most of you remember Sir Niall, who was bou... sworn in by the Queen on her first visit here. That was less than three moons ago, and yet he has already made his mark in the history of Chivial. He is on his way to Grandon and must leave early tomorrow, so we will allow him some time tonight to say a few words.” He offered an unnecessary hand to help Niall step up on the platform, and very nearly fell off in doing so.
The cheering and clapping felt good. Niall held up his hands for silence and eventually received it.
“I’ve been north, on the Wylderland border. I found more than a sword there. I found a wife, Lady Fizzan, daughter of Neville, Marquis of Thencaster.” He was cheered. Fizz rose and bobbed a curtsey, which looked odd in her riding costume. She was wildly applauded.
“I also found a future Blade! His name at the moment is Diolth. Here he is.” He hoisted Diolth up beside him much more easily than Grand Master had hoisted him.
Puzzled muttering....
“I want to explain a few things about him. First, he is a Wyld, and Wylds do not sunburn. They are all as white as he is. So please don’t mock him or haze him because of that. He can’t help it, any more than you can help being pink. I’m not saying you can’t harass him at all. Every one of you survived being the Brat, and he will, too. He’s tough, but he can’t change his colour. Also, he doesn’t speak Chivian as well as you do yet, but he speaks it a lot better than you speak Wyldish. He knows nothing about fencing, but he knows all about horses. If any of you ever want some help on that subject, he can give it.” He paused. Any more on these lines and Diolth would be bullied more, not less.
“And lastly, a few days ago, Diolth saved my life, and that of my wife also. Never before has Ironhall accepted a candidate who is already a hero!”
Prime and Second began to clap, and the applause drifted back to the lesser ranks. The sopranos remained ominously silent.
Grand Master took over. “Tonight, Diolth is a visiting hero. Tomorrow he will take over as Brat as soon as the current Brat has chosen his new name. Go and meet your classmates, boy.”
Diolth reluctantly stepped down from the dais and headed into the throng, which might not be his least heroic act. Niall went back to stand beside Fizz. Watching how far the young Wyld went, he was relieved to see that he was diverted by some fuzzies who wanted to shake his hand. Then they kept him with them, well away from the predatory sopranos.
By then Grand Master had introduced Sir Standish, who proceeded to tell of Niall and Fizz’s adventures. He did not explain how he knew them in such detail, and nobody cared, for he turned out to be a superbly dramatic narrator. Trust Fizz to guess that! A fine ability to judge men must be one of the many talents hidden behind her flighty manners.
But the story he told was not the safe and hasty summary that Niall himself would have offered. Fizz had not merely told him everything, she had added and embellished. The nasty, sneaky fight against Panoleo’s guards and then Panoleo himself became an epic battle, a legendary feat of arms worthy of Durendal at his peak. The younger half of the audience might never sleep tonight.
Those younger listeners broke out in loud booing when the rebel archers struck down the Marquis. But when Niall began his hunt for the evil Panoleo, the hall was as quiet as it ever been in its four centuries. It had probably never been noisier than right after the monster was struck down by the hero Blade. Niall had not wanted this.
Most of the audience were still children, of course, but even masters two or three times his age were pumping his hands, thumping his shoulders, and weeping tears of joy. Of course it felt good, but inevitably it would get back to the Royal Guard.
Which was a reminder that he really ought to be straddling a horse and pounding the road to Grandon and the Queen.
“So this,” that same hero exclaimed an hour or so later, “is the Royal Suite? In all my years here, I never got a chance to poke my nosey nose around that door.”
“Nice big bed,” his wife remarked. “And a down mattress.”
“Indeed it is,” he said as dropped his cloak. “And I will tell you something.” Doublet off. “In four hundred years, there have been at least a dozen kings sleep in that bed, but almost never a woman.” Balancing on one foot, he discarded a stocking. “So, what I am about to do on that bed may be a comple
tely new experience for it.” The other stocking. “But as we have had a harrowing three days and look forward to another one tomorrow....” Breeches off! “I shall not expect a second performance tonight.”
“In that case,” she said, sliding under the sheets, “you may be surprised.”
Chapter 32
Chance is elemental
chivian proverb
Sir Niall and Lady Fizzan made an early start in the morning, riding away into the rising sun. Standish had not yet appeared, but Diolth had. He came to thank them and say farewell, apparently happy, and still within an honour guard of older boys.
As Niall had expected, Ironhall had no horses to offer that could compare with those they already had, which were well rested and ready to go, but they would never manage to reach Grandon in one day, and the coronation was only six days off. Dropping in on Malinda while she was trying on her crown to tell her she had a war on her hands would not be a popular move.
Niall made his first attempt to find fresh mounts when they reached Blackwater. He rapidly discovered the truth of Lady Agnes’s warning. Every post-horse had already gone to Grandon, and probably every privately-owned nag, mule, and donkey as well. He tried again in Flaskbury, with no better result. By then noon had come and gone. Fizz was weary and angry. He was weary and seriously worried that he might have to spend the next day or two walking.
The nearer to the capital, the heavier the traffic. All Chivial, it seemed, was heading to the capital, but among the throngs of riders and coaches there were laden wagons, many of them drawn by oxen, slower than snails. If Grandon was sucking up all the horses, it would need seven mountains of hay a week to feed them, and their owners would want fodder also. The road was often only a narrow trail through woods. It could be flanked on either side by ditches or fences, so that even single-file horses could not overtake
In New Cinderwich, their luck changed slightly. The only post-house in town was closed, with a sign on the door explaining that it had no livestock to rent except mice. But it was owned by an elderly dubbed Blade, Sir Raptor. Although he was white-haired and walked with a limp, he was still a Blade brother and a glimpse of Denial was enough to fire up his loyalty. He readily accepted Niall’s word that his need to reach the palace was urgent.
He looked at the pathetically overworked horses he had on offer and said doubtfully, “Well, a couple of days’ rest and a bucket of oats ought to fix them up. I’ve got a pair of good ones that I been saving for the missus and me to go see the big parade, but I’ll let you have them.”
But even Niall’s packhorse was in need of a break. “What about our baggage?” Fizz demanded.
“We’ll leave it here,” Niall said. “Sir Raptor has plenty of empty mangers to hold it until we can come back and collect it.”
That was readily agreed, and the two travellers set off on fresh mounts for the final few hours’ ride to Grandon. Raptor had assured them that they should reach Greymere Palace by early evening, so they would not have to drag the Queen out of bed to explain about the Wyldish rebellion. He had forgotten the epochal traffic.
The spirits of Chance could be very unkind. Niall’s horse went lame.
He checked its foot, but could find nothing wrong there. He wondered if it was playing tricks on him. He knew that horses could do that, but he was eventually persuaded that the animal was in pain, and he loved horses too much to cripple it.
He had dumped the baggage. He wondered briefly whether his mission required him to dump his wife also, and go on alone—but he did not wonder it seriously, and not aloud. He suspected he would have quite a fight on his hands if he tried to get Fizzan Fitzambrose out of her saddle on a rural highway as evening was drawing in. It would take him well past midnight to walk to Greymere Palace.
The spirits of Chance can also be very benevolent. What he needed was a miracle, and the two granite gateposts he had just passed had seemed oddly familiar. Something Stalwart had said, that second day, as they were riding to Grandon had impressed him? A place named?... Home of?... Ah!
“Let’s try our luck,” he said, and started leading his limping horse in that direction.
Fizz turned her mount and followed. “Where are we going?”
“Ivywalls,” he said.
The tree-lined driveway was longer than he expected, and he was starting to feel as lame as the accursed bag of dog food he was leading when he saw the mansion ahead. A moment later he was detected, and a universe of dogs began to bark.
He said, “Sorry, old buddy,” tucked his left foot in the stirrup, and swiftly remounted. Three hounds came racing. They did not attack, and the horses were too tired to panic, but whoever was home must know by then that they had visitors. A man came out to stand in the doorway and watch.
When the horses arrived at the steps, Niall dismounted in a flash, but the watcher hurried down the steps to help Fizz, who was obviously flagging after a very hard day’s ride. He wore the garb of a senior servant and a grave mien. Another, younger, servant came running around a corner of the house, undoubtedly to take care of the horses.
“His lordship is in residence?” Niall asked anxiously. Roland had been running the country for years for King Ambrose. Malinda had locked him up for a while, but now he was a free man and he might be vacationing almost anywhere.
“Indeed he is, Sir Blade. If you will come this way....” They started upstairs toward the massive oaken door. “By what names should I announce you?”
“I know Sir Niall, Caplin.” Lord Roland had appeared in the doorway. “But not his lovely companion.”
Niall presented Lady Fizzan to the legendary Lord Roland, still known to the Blades as Sir Durendal. Few men of around sixty could look half as good as he did, or afford to dress as well. Tall—but not as tall as Niall—clean shaven and confident, he looked good for another generation in harness. The Queen was being very foolish in not employing his skill and knowledge.
He kissed Fizz’s hand and held it for a moment as if admiring her, dusty and windblown as she was. Then, “And welcome to you also, Brother Niall. Whatever business or good fortune brings you to our door, come in and share some wine with us.”
One sip, Niall thought, and he would fall over, fast asleep. But he could not refuse the offer, even if he dallied only a minute.
Niall had met Durendal just after last Long Night, when the great man came to Ironhall to bind Quarrel. They had met again, very shortly afterwards, on that awful night at Falconsrest when Quarrel and so many others had died, but Niall was magically barred from ever talking about that, and doubtless Durendal was likewise.
The visitors were ushered into a truly great Great Hall. Ivywalls was obviously very old, but it had been updated by someone with a sure hand and eye. The huge fireplace in which whole oxen might have been roasted in days of yore had been fenced off and converted into an infants’ play pen. The wondrous staircase was carpeted, and high glazed windows replaced what must originally have been arrow slits. It was all splendid, and yet somehow held an air of some vital factor missing.
Durendal led the way to a group of chairs by those windows, looking out over tree-shaded parkland. A book with a place marker ribbon lay beside one of them. Caplin, probably the bottler, followed, waiting for orders.
Durendal said, “What is your choice, my lady? Red wine, white? Ale, light or dark? Cider? Mead?”
“My lord,” Niall protested, “I truly hate to spurn your hospitality, but it is most urgent that I deliver my news to the Queen tonight. My horse went lame, and I was hoping...”
Lord Roland was regarding him with a look that for thirty years had shrunk flunkeys’ world-shattering urgencies into unimportant fancies. “If you are imagining that you can report to her grace this evening, then I assure you that you will not. Tonight, the festivities begin with the Ambassadors’ Ball—foreign royalty, senior peerage.... It will start very soon and won’t w
ind up until after midnight. Absolutely nothing will be allowed to interrupt it.”
“Not even a war?”
Durendal did not hesitate. “Not even a war! So do please sit down and relax a while. I cannot claim to have the Royal ear anymore, but I know many who do. I am sure that I can help you obtain an audience with her grace, although perhaps not as soon as tomorrow.”
“Music to our ears,” Fizz said. “You are most kind. A dry white, please, if you have any open?”
Anyone would think she had lived at court for years.
“A light ale, please.” Niall sat down the instant she did. By death and fire, that chair felt good after two days in the saddle!
So, after all these years of service, the former chancellor had not been invited to the party? He had been sitting at home alone, reading a book. No wonder the dogs’ barking had brought him out to the door to see who had come calling.
Now he was frowning at Niall. “I heard a rumour that you were bound by Lord Hedgebury, but he is not with you. I hope that nothing?...”
Niall drew a deep breath. “I was not bound, my lord. I swore loyalty to the Queen and she put me under his orders. Four days ago, when my wife and I left Rhapsody Hall, he had gone across to Thencaster Castle to take charge there, because the Marquis, Fizz’s father, had been grievously wounded in a Wyld ambush. He also lost about half his garrison. Stalwart will try to hold the castle until Her Majesty can send reinforcements.”
Durendal sighed. “I can see why you are in a hurry.”
Then both men sprang to their feet. Two women were descending the staircase, moving slowly. One was holding the banister while the other steadied her. Now Niall knew what had been missing—the hostess, the woman who had turned an ancient pile into this stately mansion.
Durendal hurried across to meet them at the foot of the stairs. He dismissed the nurse and brought his wife over to meet the guests. Leaning heavily on his arm, Lady Kate was clearly a very sick woman. She wore an ivory-coloured gown with a high collar, and a matching bonnet that covered her hair. Her face was even paler than those, and so drawn that the skin seemed almost transparent over exquisite bone structure. She must have been a rare beauty in her youth, and her eyes were still as bright as sapphires.