Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  Marshal Souris smiled without taking offense. “Loyalty is a rare fault. You could use a few hundred more like him. Good chance, Your Grace.” He touched his helmet in salute and rode off along the river path, followed by the one other Black Rider who had managed to escape disgrace.

  A head-high stone wall enclosed the palace grounds. At the gates, the visitors were challenged by men in Granville’s brown and gold livery, then waved through when Audley proclaimed the Princess. She reined in at the door and fell out of the saddle into Dog’s arms. He carried her up the steps. Blades in King’s livery came rushing from all directions like bluebottles, buzzing with joy that she had arrived, firing questions about the six who had defied the Lord Protector by leaving the grounds and riding north. The King lived, they clamored; he was failing, they admitted. He had been asking for her, no one else. The healers and enchanters would promise nothing. Dog carried her upstairs as he had carried her once to her deflowering.

  The bed was enormous—it could have slept horses—and the wispy flaxen hair on the pillow was attached to a doll’s head and body. Had he shrunk, or had her memory betrayed her? “Amby!” she said. “Oh, Amby, it’s me! I’m here.”

  The eyes opened. Too-bright eyes, pink fever patches, a face so wasted it seemed almost transparent. So small a smile, so small a whisper…

  “Lindy!”

  She fell on the bed beside him and gathered him in her arms.

  How long after that? One day or two? Day or night? She was never quite certain and it did not matter. That first night she lay back against heaped pillows on that great bed and barely moved from it. She almost never let go of Amby. He did not speak, except rarely to whisper her name, yet when the healers came to take him down to the octogram, he screamed in terror.

  “There is some discomfort, Your Grace,” they admitted, not meeting her eye.

  “Discomfort or pain?”

  They shuffled their feet…significant discomfort…necessary, of course, but at this stage…four times a day now…

  “Can it lead to a cure or are you merely prolonging his suffering?”

  Scuffle, mumble, fidget, mutter…It was illegal to imagine the King’s death, but eventually they admitted that some things were inevitable. Without enchantment it would have happened months ago. With it, perhaps a week now…without it…Shrug.

  No more enchantment, she decreed. The ensuing lack of argument showed that she had just made the decision nobody else had dared make. Thereupon Lady Cozen, His Majesty’s sow-faced governess, stormed in and threw a carefully rehearsed tantrum. Malinda told her to go away and complain to the Lord Protector himself, which was exactly what the nasty old crone wanted to hear. Very soon after that, her carriage rumbled along the drive and disappeared to the south.

  “You must try and eat, Amby.” She coaxed soup into him, spoonful by reluctant spoonful.

  Sometime in the night she felt sufficiently recovered to send for Sir Dominic and demand a report. She meant, “What happens when the boy dies?” but she did not need to put it in those words.

  Of course Dominic must have already cross-examined Audley and learned how she had escaped Ness Royal. A couple of times he inadvertently addressed her as “Your Majesty.”

  “They have us cooped up,” he said. “About two hundred of Lord Granville’s personal cavalry…more arriving…I worry that Marlon and the others were allowed to break through, my lady…that I have lured you into a trap….”

  “You did exactly right.”

  He drew a deep breath. “Thank you, Your Grace. There are no precedents…. We are down to one day’s victuals and they keep us at that…. Lord Roland, Sir Snake, about a dozen others are in the Bastion…no news of how they are faring….” Of course a prisoner in the Bastion might livelike a lord with his own suite of rooms and servants, or be subjected to unimaginable torments in the foulest of dungeons, or anything in between. “I fear that their efforts on your behalf were the cause of their misfortune.”

  “I think it would have happened eventually anyway. Do you know any details of those efforts?”

  “No, Your Majesty. I hoped you did.”

  They stared at each other woefully.

  “And Prince Courtney?” So many distinguished prisoners! In all its bloody history had the Bastion ever held so many?

  “The rumors are that he stands accused of murdering his mother, Your Grace, although as a prince he cannot be tried in an ordinary court. It is reported that Parliament will be asked to pass a bill of attainder against him or strip him of his titles, so that he may be convicted.”

  Malinda sighed. “Poor Courtney! I wonder if his peers will stand up for him? The Lords do not approve of the Lord Protector, you know. I wrote to the Dukes of Brinton and De Mayes before I left Ness Royal.” But she had trusted Souris to have the letters delivered, so they might have turned into smoke. “It is only four days until Parliament assembles, so…No?”

  “The writ dies if…” Dominic looked down at the child with horror in his eyes. “I mean, each new monarch must issue a new writ.”

  “Of course,” she said. Amby’s first parliament would never meet. There would be no rescue there.

  Dian and Sister Moment arrived the following morning. That was nice. Malinda told them to leave while there was still time, but they refused. Thereafter Dian mothered her with hot food, bathwater, fresh clothes. Amby no longer knew she was there. He knew nothing and would not swallow. That was the end; without food or drink his hours must be few.

  That night, as before, Malinda slept fully dressed on the bed. At times she would waken and listen to the rasping struggle while the doomed child fought for each next breath with all the stubborn courage of his royal forebears. Suddenly she was wondering how long Sir Audley had been standing there, holding papers, his bony face just a white blur in the candle-lit gloom.

  “Message from Thundershower, Your Grace—Marshal Souris, I mean. He says that Constable Valdor is a key player in the game—his words, my lady—and is available on the same terms and conditions. He asks that you sign and return this…Your Grace.”

  She took the parchment and peered at it. Another peerage, another three hundred thousand crowns. That must be several months’ income for the crown of Chivial. “Who is this man?”

  “Oh, beg pardon, my lady. He was recently appointed commander of the Household Yeomen. I understand that he is a lifelong friend of Lord Granville. He has indicated to Marshal Souris that he will support Your Grace if suitably rewarded.”

  “Has he really? Marshal Souris is a mercenary, always available to serve the highest bidder, whereas I always understood the Constable of the Household Yeomen to be a sworn officer of the crown.”

  Audley sighed. “Not all men are bound like Blades, Your Grace.”

  “No, they are not.” She realized that she no longer believed in Marshal Souris. He was another long-time friend of Granville’s, and no doubt all three of them were convulsed with mirth over her efforts to subvert their little coterie. To bribe the commander of the Yeomen was treason of the first water.

  She signed and gave the paper to Audley, along with her signet to seal it.

  “Malinda!” said the whisper. “Lady Malinda. Your Grace?”

  From the feel of the night it was close to dawn. Reluctantly she turned her head and saw the small figure standing there, white robe glimmering in the near darkness. Only her tall hat made her adult size and her face was almost as pale.

  “Moment? Sister?”

  “Malinda, they are gathering! I can feel them.”

  Understanding took an instant, then Malinda sat up with a quick shudder, as if she had wakened to find her bed full of ants. Moment was speaking of elementals, and in this instance she meant the spirits of death. Amby’s breathing stopped, started…stopped again, every gasp like the cry of a suffering cat.

  “Fetch the healers!”

  “They cannot…Yes, Your Grace.” Moment faded off into the darkness.

  He lasted until da
ylight, never moving. His breathing became more and more erratic. One silver-bearded healer remained, frequently bending to lay an ear on the tiny form, as if the entire room could not hear that struggle. Finally even he hastened out, muttering about fetching a philter.

  “Amby?” Malinda said. “Amby! Amby!”

  A few rattling breaths…pause…a few more…longer, agonizing pause…gasp…more breaths…

  “Amby!”

  No answer. Wheeze, rattle…The room was filling up. Four green liveries close by the bed—Audley, Winter, Abel…Oh, dear Dog, have I spoken a word to you since we left Ness Royal? Beyond the four greens, the pale blues. Dozens of them tiptoeing in. The word was out; the time had come. Surely that was Oak, one arm in a sling? And Marlon? How long had she been here? Only Blades now, no one else.

  She and Amby and a room full of Blades. All the Blades? Were they now so few?

  Wheeze. Rattle. Silence. Rattle…Silence…

  Dog held out a hand to help her off the bed, then put his great arms around her as they stood and watched the pathetic little body take its last few breaths. Everyone else sank down on their knees.

  Staring eyes…Rattle…Silence…

  Still silence.

  Unbearable silence.

  She reached down to close the gaping eyelids and they stayed shut.

  Dog tilted his head back and bayed at the roof in a horribly discordant yell: “Long live the Queen!” The room exploded. With screams and tears and howls, all the Blades echoed him. They chanted it, yelled it, screamed it. “Long live the Queen! Long live Queen Malinda!” No one drew a sword, no one rampaged, and soon they were on their feet, hugging one another and weeping and endlessly repeating, “Long live the Queen!” They had exorcized their curse. They celebrated.

  Malinda wept in silence on Dog’s shoulder for a little space, while all around her the chant continued, echoed, repeated, spread out in circles, raced away on horseback to Grandon and all the realms of Eurania….

  The King is dead! Long live the—

  Long live who?

  31

  Count your friends first.

  LORD GRANVILLE

  “You may continue to wear that,” she said. “You have our complete confidence.”

  Sir Dominic was already kneeling to the new monarch with the commander’s baldric draped across his hands. “Your Majesty, it is traditional….” He somehow contrived to look as if he was squirming, which was a tricky feat for a man on his knees. “Yours was not the hand…I mean, I will gladly defend Your Grace with my life, but…when the king dies, my lady, the prince’s…I mean the heir’s…”

  Spirits! Her brother lying there with his last tear not dry, probably an army outside waiting to arrest her—and necessarily massacre all of these men in the process—but they had to have this sort of pointless argument? Audley like a schoolboy, trying very hard not to show his feelings or look in any direction at all…

  “How many years have you served in the Guard, Sir Dominic?”

  “Near eleven, Your Majesty.”

  “And in normal times Sir Audley would still be a candidate at Ironhall, possibly not even yet a senior.”

  Still he argued. “It is traditional…. The Changing of the Guard, Your Majesty.”

  “Fire and death!” she snapped, but all the dismayed faces reminded her that these men might well have to throw down their lives for her within this very hour. If they needed their precious traditions to comfort them, then she owed them that much.

  “All right. Sir Audley, I appoint you Commander of the Royal Guard, but only on condition that Sir Dominic is your deputy, and that you keep him informed and heed his advice.” As the worried-looking appointee knelt to kiss her hand, she added, “Sir Dominic, I charge you that if you disagree with anything Sir Audley decides or does, then you inform me without delay. Is that clear?”

  Clear or not, it was enough to fill the room with grins and even some laughter as the two men rose and Dominic draped the silver ribbon across Audley’s chest, being first to hail him with the revered title, Leader. “Don’t forget his ball and hoop,” said a gruff voice. “Must be nearly time for his nap,” said another.

  “Quiet! Stop that foolery! I shall be reviewing the Guard’s pay, which I believe is inadequate. I also want you all in new liveries. Green, not blue, and more fashionable. Submit sketches for my approval by next week, Commander.”

  Still pink from the ribbing, Audley said, “Certainly, Your Majesty.”

  Dian and Moment were waiting for the new sovereign’s attention. They curtseyed when she noticed them. She gave them each a hug, took a second look at their faces, especially Dian’s, which she had known for so long, and said, “All right, tell me the worst.”

  “Everyone’s gone! We’re besieged.”

  “I am hardly surprised.”

  Blades hurriedly cleared a path as she headed over to the windows, which offered a view of lawns, flower beds, and the main drive running arrow-straight to the boundary wall. Along it scurried a few departing servants and other civilians like frightened ants, with the last of them being the white-bearded healer who had so recently left the room. The men-at-arms on the gates were letting them through; a troop of lancers was riding in and forming up on the grass. In the fields beyond, a tent city had appeared, large enough to house several thousand men.

  “Has the standard been lowered to half-mast?”

  Audley said, “Er, no. I’ll send a man directly—”

  “No! Leave it.” Let the watchers wonder a little longer. “What word from Marshal Souris?”

  “None, Your Grace. No one has been allowed in since noon yesterday. We are out of food.”

  She had already identified the liveries of Granville’s own troops and the Household Yeomen, but could see no sign of the Black Riders. Was Mouse Rampant coyly keeping his change of loyalty a secret until the right time or had there been no change of loyalty? She could not rid her mind of that image of Souris amusing his longtime comrade in arms Lord Granville with the hilarious story of her clumsy efforts to suborn him and Constable Valdor.

  “Lord Roland and the others are still in the Bastion?”

  “The last we heard they were, my lady. There have been more arrests.”

  While she had been helping one brother die, the other had been preparing his coup. She had tried to bribe with paper promises, but Granville could empty the treasury to buy support and lock up those who would not be bought. No doubt he was now standing by in the capital, still tightening his grip on the government while avoiding being implicated in whatever disaster was planned for Beaufort. When word of Amby’s death arrived he would have himself proclaimed king and only a civil war could oust him.

  “We have a problem,” she said. She had no training or experience to help her and only these forty or so Blades to back her. Granville, in contrast, had been living by his wits and his sword since before she was born, and he had had months in which to bend the government to his bidding. “Just how do you propose to get me out of here, Leader?”

  Audley drew a deep breath. “Sir Dominic and I discussed the matter with some others, Your Majesty, and the consensus was that word should be sent to the officers in charge of those forces, summoning them to come and swear allegiance to Your Majesty.”

  “And if they arrest your herald?”

  The boy commander shivered. “Kill him? I’ll have to send a Blade and Blades can’t be arrested. I think then we wait until dark, my lady, and hope to smuggle…” He withered under her glare.

  “You think they will wait that long before they burn the place down around our ears? Queen Malinda the Brief?”

  The room had fallen very still. Audley looked around despairingly and found no help. There was more to being Leader than just fighting off admiring girls. Nor was it true that bound Blades did not know fear. The room stank of it. They would do their duty, but they expected to die.

  “Never!” said the Queen. “Bring three horses to the front door. I shall go
out and—Silence! How dare you? Did you expect my father to explain his orders?” She glared around until the hubbub collapsed into sheepish quiet, but then she did explain, knowing that what she was asking was almost impossible for them. “A competent soldier like the Lord Protector will use archers against Blades. To usurp the throne, he must dispose of the rightful sovereign, so if you offer yourselves as a target, I shall die in the crossfire. His simplest solution is to massacre everyone presently in this house and announce to the nation that he had to suppress another Blade rampage. Sir Dominic, only you and one other will accompany me. Commander, it is your task to make sure everyone else stays out of sight until I send for you. If I am removed by force, you are to keep the Blades alive even if you must surrender your swords and swear allegiance to the usurper. That way, one day you may be able to rescue me.”

  She was answered by sullen silence. There was not a chance in a million that their bindings would let them obey those orders.

  It was a fine late summer morning, with blue skies and a few first golden leaves speckling the grass. A good day to die. Sheep placidly grazed the lawns, caring not what name followed Ambrose V in the chronicles of Chivial. Hooves crunched gravel as she rode along the driveway with Dominic and Winter, whom she had chosen for his wits and because she knew he would obey her. They had given her a young chestnut gelding, handsome enough but skittish, as if he lacked exercise, and since she was mounted sidesaddle, she had to direct too much of her attention to controlling him when she should be studying the ominous situation ahead. Granville’s lancers were lined up to the left of the gate, archers of the Household Yeomen on the right. A small conclave of officers and civilians had gathered between them; as she drew closer, three men separated from it and rode forward a little way.

  “You two wait here,” she said, and was astonished when Winter and Dominic both halted. She rode a dozen or so paces, then reined in.

  Accepting this compromise, the three advanced to parley. They were all in battle gear, their faces shadowed under the wide brims of their helmets, but even at a distance she could identify Souris on the left by his lack of stature and Valdor on the right by the scarlet Yeoman surcoat over his steel corselet. Surprisingly, the one in the center was Granville himself. They all halted and there was an expectant pause.