by Dave Duncan
“I just want them out of earshot.” He walked a dozen yards and turned to lean elbows on the balustrade. “This will do.”
Ships were moving upriver on the tide, but so was the sewage. The Gran always looked much better than it smelled. Beyond it lay fine houses and in the distance, green hills. Audley and Winter stood where she had left them on the flagstones, naked targets.
“What do you want?” Granville said.
“A household of my own and our brother. Let me be his governess. There is no one you can trust more.”
“No, Sister. There is no one I can trust less.” He was big, gruff, and overbearing, but he was not threatening yet. “You can’t afford the risk either. If he died, you’d be accused of murder.”
She sighed, but held his amber gaze defiantly. “I’ll take that risk. I have no ambition except to see Amby come into his own.”
“Nor have I. Does that surprise you?” He smiled, and if there was a hint of her father’s slyness in that smile it was gone before she could be certain. “The boy is my hold on power, Malinda. Without him I am merely your humble and obedient subject. Don’t you see that? Our positions would be reversed and you’d be bullying me.”
He had charm when he bothered. How long would he be content to remain Lord Protector, or her humble and obedient? She scanned the terrace. The morning was nippy for Fourthmoon, but the complete absence of other people suggested hidden hands at work, armored hands. Audley and Winter were still sweating out their lonely torment.
“He’s not strong,” she said. “Have you heard of the inquisitors’ so-called readings?”
“Father told me last year.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Even then?”
“Even then. He said he didn’t believe, but he was worried. That was why he made the Dierda match. He really didn’t want the bother of another wife, you know; not at his age. A chambermaid and a handful of gold was more to his taste. He felt it was his duty.”
“He never confided in me like that,” she admitted.
“Man talk,” Granville said sardonically. “So we agree, you and I? We are both utterly loyal and devoted to the kid, very touching. Now let’s decide what happens when he dies.”
“If he dies,” she admonished.
“He’s sickly. Can you see Courtney as king?” Granville’s sudden laugh sounded like genuine amusement.
She returned it. “It boggles the imagination. We can agree on that, at least.”
“You may be amazed at what you can agree to, Sister.”
“Don’t threaten me, Granville. It’s undignified and you know our family; we get crabby when we’re threatened.”
“I really don’t care whether you get crabby or not. The readings give the boy a year, maybe two. When he dies no one will support Courtney, so that just leaves you and me, doesn’t it? ‘No such daughter shall succeed who is married at that time to any man not a subject of the crown of Chivial’—remember? The easiest way to get rid of you is to marry you off to some foreign lordling.”
She had been waiting for that. “And if I refuse the marriage?”
“You can be persuaded.”
They studied each other for a moment like fencers. This was the man who had promised to cleanse Wylderland with fire and blood and then done exactly that. He shifted his gaze to the swordsmen.
“That was a bold move, binding those Blades. A rash move. An illegal move. The Council will have questions to put to you about that. It will also have questions about what passed between you and the King of the Baels. And Sycamore Market. Perhaps even about the death of Secretary Kromman! You may be interrogated at length.”
“You’re threatening again. I didn’t know you were such a bully.”
“Ask the Wylds.” He smiled grimly and leaned back with both elbows on the balustrade to study her. “I’ll make you an offer, Sister.”
“It includes a husband, I presume?”
“You must have seen the Chancellor’s short list. Pick any man except Hesse, and I’ll—”
“Why not Prince Hesse?” He was the man with the coughing sickness, she recalled, although she had never been shown any list, long or short.
Her half brother smiled grimly. “We don’t want anyone who might try to put forward his wife’s claim in defiance of her father’s will, now do we? Hesse might be able to raise support. And I’ll exclude the Margrave of Lautenbach for the same reason. I’ve met him. He’s an engaging young rogue, but too much of an adventurer to trust. Pick any of the others and I promise you a dowry that’ll pop you into his bed before you can brush your hair.”
“That’s a very fair offer,” she conceded. “Very reasonable. But I do not feel ready to marry anyone yet. When the stakes are so high, I dare not trust you, my lord. My marriage contract might be a death warrant for Amby.”
“Your refusal will be a death warrant for four Blades.” The Lord Protector’s voice stayed low, but the gold eyes burned. “I have it all now, Malinda, except the title. I don’t need that myself, but I want it for my son. I’ve fought for all of it. Everything I’ve ever won I’ve fought for. I was conceived when a fourteen-year-old royal thug got a grandmother so drunk that she didn’t know what he was doing. I had to live with three older brothers who knew I came from their mother’s rape. When I was seventeen he was going to let them disown me, and I faced him down. I threatened to turn his coronation into a circus. He threatened to throw me in the Bastion, but in the end he bought me off; I won an earldom. When I came here a year ago he admitted to my face that I was the only one worthy to be his heir. He promised to legitimize me as soon as I had pacified Wylderland. I sent him the Ciarán in chains, but he went back on his word and signed up the Dierda girl instead. I won’t let anyone stand in my way now.”
She was too furious to heed the threat to herself. “If you harm one hair of that child’s head I will see you go alive to your balefire, Granville the Bastard.”
“And where will you muster support? No, Sister. Women are always vulnerable, and you’ve already been stupid. Tongues are wagging. Your household includes no proper matron companion, no ladies-in-waiting, just a bubbling stew of flighty girls and sex-crazy swordsmen. By the time the Council’s done with you, everyone will know that Princess Malinda is a strumpet who sells her maids of honor, orgies with her Blades all night long, and buries babies at midnight. No one will take your side.”
She felt her face burn up with crimson fire. “That’s a lie!” she yelled. “You’re not the only one who’s learned to stand up to browbeating. Bring on your inquisitors. I have nothing to hide.”
Granville’s anger flickered past her. She glanced around and saw that Audley and Winter were coming—reluctantly, aware that they might provoke a flight of arrows, but unable to stay away when they could see her being threatened. Somehow their slow, deliberate approach made them seem all the more menacing.
“Farewell, Sister,” the Lord Protector growled. “You had your chance. I’ll pick your bridegroom and your Blades are hostage for your consent. I’m going to deal with all the Blades—disband the Order and put them to honest work. Parliament will insist on it anyway, after what happened at Wetshore. Their day is over.” He spun on his heel and stalked away.
23
Letting an unmarried damsel bind a twenty-year-old swordsman was not merely asking for trouble, but virtually insisting on it.
LORD ROLAND, PERSONAL COMMUNICATION TO SIR QUARREL
To Dian’s astonishment, Malinda ordered a flask of spiced wine when she retired that night, although she had never indulged in solitary drinking before. Long after the palace had doused candles and closed bed curtains, she sat by the fire in her room, huddled in a sable cloak, brooding. She was obsessed by a certainty that she had missed something in that talk with Granville. Somewhere, somehow, he had trapped her, and she would not sleep until she had worked out when and how.
If she persisted in her refusal to accept a foreign marriage, she might postpone the danger to Amby, b
ut her Blades would be in greater peril than ever. She had told them so. They had answered boldly that danger was only their duty. Even so, if Granville issued a direct order, how could she refuse it, knowing that her guards would be struck down?
She drank all the wine, she stoked up the fire, and still the answer would not come.
She should have played for time. She should have asked to see that short list Granville had mentioned. There were probably some quite acceptable potential husbands on it—better than Radgar Æleding, certainly. She would not choose the same man as Granville would. In selecting a son-in-law, her father had considered the good of the country. Granville would have only Granville’s good at heart. His ideal brother-in-law would be someone like…
Oh, spirits! Like the Duke of Anciers?
She established that the pilaster could be moved from the far side of the secret door, and the pilaster was all that held it closed. Leaving it ajar, she went on down, one hand holding a lantern and the other clutching the soft fur of the cloak about her. She was shivering and drunk enough to wonder how drunk she was. Her slippers made little scuffing noises on stone. Without the marks she had left in the dust there, the spy hole would have been hard to find. She knelt beside the hatch, aware that she might regret her despicable voyeurism—suppose she saw her Blades engaged in a horrible mass orgy? What if her maids of honor were in there? It was her duty to protect them from evil influences, which definitely included Blades.
She slid the panel. The light was dimmer than before, there being few candles lit on the chandelier; the hearth was cold. Someone had made an effort to tidy up, removing the bottles and making the bed. The only person present was sitting on the couch with his head in his hands and his back to her. Those were certainly Dog’s shoulders and tangled flaxen hair. She waited. Nothing happened; he just sat, apparently staring at the floor.
Well? demanded her conscience. This is exactly what you were hoping to find—Dog, all by himself. Scared to go on?
Yes, she was scared. But she closed the hatch and went on.
At the foot of the steps, she set the lantern on the steps, removed her nightcap, shook out her hair. Even then she had to take several deep breaths before she could bring herself to try the handle. The mechanism was the same as the one in her room, but very stiff, so she needed both hands to slide the fake pilaster aside. The door swung open of its own accord.
Dog was on his feet with his sword in his hand, the great steel beam not wavering a hairsbreadth as he watched her approach. Stepping around it, she went close and touched a finger to the dampness on his cheeks. He must have been weeping for some time, for his eyes were puffed and crimson. In Ironhall he had cried out in his sleep. Now he never slept—so what happened to his dreams?
“Are you expecting someone?”
He shook his head. While fighting with the door, she had let her cloak fall open. Abel had said that if any man were to be struck by lightning, it would be Dog, so here a virgin princess comes visiting in the middle of the night wearing a nightdress that would barely make a good spiderweb. She had ball gowns that revealed more of her chest than she was showing now—but not much more, and the implications were very different.
“Were you expecting someone?”
Another faint shake.
Relieved that she was not interfering in a lovers’ quarrel, she swallowed hard and said, “I want you to do something for me. It could be quite dangerous.”
He sheathed his sword. “Tell me.” He had guessed, though. He was stubborn, not stupid.
“Granville’s going to marry me off, to get me out of the way so that as soon as Amby dies, by whatever means, he can push Courtney aside and claim the throne, and I think…I don’t know, but I’m almost certain…that he’s going to give me to the Duke of Anciers, because the Duke’s already been married three times and none of his wives lived very long.”
Dog’s gaze slid down to the lace at her throat and then back up to her face.
“You want me to kill Granville now?”
“You know I don’t.” She kissed his cheek. It felt more bristly than it looked. He did not flinch, did not respond at all. “That would kill me, silly man. When a Blade commits a crime, who’s responsible? No.”
“Then what do you want?” he growled.
“The Duke will only marry a virgin. Lots of royalty are like that—the men can do what they want, but they insist on marrying virgins. The Duke’s an extreme case. He’s had other girls, they say, and they all went the same way.”
“They’d strip you and look?” he demanded incredulously.
“Maybe. Not necessarily. Just ask me. Every country has inquisitor-type people to spot lies.” Or clever men who could trap her into telling the truth, as Granville had on the terrace. Well, it wasn’t going to be true much longer. She shivered. The room was chilly. “I want you to…not here, though. Upstairs. Come upstairs to bed, Dog. Please?”
Dog pouted. “You want a man with experience, like Abel. Or Audley. Wenches swarm around him.”
His reluctance did not surprise her; she was perversely relieved by it. “I’m sure the ladies have taught you how it’s done.”
“They don’t want me much. Ugly and stupid. Can’t laugh, can’t tell sweet lies, got no manners. Just meat, and they joke about that, too. Go ask someone else.”
She was fairly sure his face was flushed, although it was hard to tell in the gloom.
“I want you. You won’t laugh at me for being ignorant, you won’t tell tales, and you will be gentle. Must I go on my knees to you?” She tried, but he caught her elbow and raised it in a way that brought her up with it. “Burn you, man! Is it what happened to Eagle that frightens you? You must have heard about Eagle! You said you’d do anything I—”
His coarse, uneven features crumpled like a child about to cry. “Not me, Princess. Never me! I’m not worthy. I’m filth.”
“I don’t care what you did in the past,” she said. “Do you find me repugnant?”
“Repugnant? Princess…” She thought for a moment he was going to laugh, but Dog never laughed. His growl became harsher. “No, not that.” He took a step back. “Go find a decent man, woman! Not me! Ugly, vile Dog? I’m an animal!”
She took his hand. She had ungainly, clumsy hands for a woman; his were twice the size, thick and calloused from wielding that broadsword. She led him over to the stairs and he followed like a child, unresisting. The stairwell was cramped for two. When he closed the door behind them, they were very close, excitingly close.
She lifted the lantern. She remembered her wager with Piers. “Can you carry me up?”
“If you want.”
“I do want.”
“Don’t set yourself on fire.” Dog swung her up as easily as he lifted Amby. He strode swiftly up the stairs, two at a time, negotiating the corners nimbly even with the great broadsword swinging fore and aft at his thigh.
He did not seem at all winded when he set her down beside her bed and took the lantern from her to lay it on the table. He threw back the bedcovers, then lifted the fur cloak from her shoulders and spread it in their place.
“May be blood the first time,” he said.
She nodded. Her heart was going crazy. How drunk was she, really? He stepped close, put a hand behind her head, and gently pressed his lips to hers. His mouth tasted of apple. It was the kiss that Eagle had started and not been allowed to finish. It began tenderly, but it went on and on, progressing to one arm crushing her hard against him and a hand stroking her hips and flanks. It made the world spin, so she needed to cling to him. Then he stroked her breast; her nipples ached strangely and the blood frothed in her veins. Eventually he moved his lips back just far enough that he could look at her with eyes all black pupil.
“Any more and I won’t be able to stop, Princess.” He sounded even hoarser than usual. He was flushed and he could not be faking that. He was as excited as she was! He wanted her, and that was the most exciting thing yet.
“Don’
t you dare stop!”
“Take off that rag, then. Get into bed.” He released her carefully, as if aware how unsteady she felt. Turning his back, he opened the lantern to blow out the flame.
Naked, she slid shivering down on the fur and pulled the covers up to her chin. She could see him faintly in the fire’s glow, so she turned her head away, suddenly overcome with shame. No, not shame! And not regret. Just shyness. It was certainly too late for remorse. He scrambled in beside her, body warm against body, heavy and very solid, pressing her down with a kiss.
He was still gentle, soothing and stroking. He knew her body better than she did, for he roused it to reactions she had not foreseen and could not control. He seemed to approve, for he made encouraging noises and persisted until mutual caressing gave way to striving and straining, then tumult and struggle. He parted her legs and climbed on top of her. She felt him enter her, but it was gently done. He thrust in and out three times and climaxed with a whimper, as if he was in pain. He collapsed, gasping.
“I didn’t feel anything,” she said. “Isn’t the first time supposed to hurt?”
He moaned. “I felt something! Oh, did I ever feel something….”
She chuckled and kissed his ear. Great strong Dog was as limp as seaweed! She wondered if he was as happy as she was and dared not ask. Was Dog ever happy? She ought to be thoroughly ashamed of herself and instead she felt she had won a victory, blocking Granville’s best move. Why must men always be the conquerors and women the conquered? Blame the wine. Blame it on the Legend—say she had been enchanted—or say she had raped him by using his binding against him. She did not care! Why did everyone make such a fuss about the silly business?
After a while she realized she had been dozing. His eyes were just in front of hers, two faces on the pillow. Blades never slept. His mouth had tasted of apple, his sweat had a pleasantly musky scent. His arm was around her, sticky but immovable, strong enough to crush her to paste if he tried.
“Have I been asleep long?”
“I wasn’t bored.”