Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “Did Sir Dominic approve?”

  “He said he saw no harm in it. Said he was waiting to see if I would suggest it, my lady.”

  “Then you are doing well.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “You have men out in front?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “I wish to be advised at once if you intercept word from Sir Piers at the Bastion.”

  “Certainly. May I presume to ask a question—regarding your security, Your Grace, of course.”

  “That is your privilege, Commander.”

  “I—we—are concerned by your destination. Greymere is not readily defensible, and until we can be sure that—”

  “I have no intention of going to Greymere today. If the Bastion has been secured, we go there. Otherwise we shall head for the Black Riders’ camp on Great Common.”

  Audley nodded, then braced himself. Staring straight ahead at the rutted trail, he said, “If I may presume so far, Your Majesty, should I not have been entrusted with that information sooner?”

  Of course, but she had only just worked it out herself. “You have been entrusted with it now, Commander.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Huge and foreboding, Grandon Bastion dominated the skyline of the city always, but it seemed especially menacing at dusk, when its black walls showed stark against the silver of the river and the last rays of evening painted blood on the roofs of its towers. So it was when Queen Malinda rode up to the gates with her escort of Blades, and the joyous tolling of the city’s bells to welcome her could as easily have been a call to Amby’s mourning. Constable Valdor and Sir Piers were there to welcome her, proudly offering ceremonial keys on a scarlet cushion. Screaming fanfares sent birds wheeling upward, and an honor guard of Yeomen men-at-arms lining the drawbridge pounded the butts of their pikes on the timbers in salute. Her half brother’s head stared sightlessly over the scene; in the games of the mighty, one miscalculation was too many.

  Already the wheels of government were starting to turn for her. She had been proclaimed throughout the capital without incident, heralds on lathered horses were bearing the word to the far corners of the realm, and Neville Fitzambrose was chained to a dungeon wall. No resistance had been reported, although that might change when outlying contingents of Granville’s troops heard the news. The monarch’s progress through the streets had provoked precious little cheering but no riots, and at her back, on the far side of the square, onlookers stood in respectful silence. Hundreds of curious faces peered down from windows. It seemed the citizens were reserving judgment. So the baby King was dead, the gallant Lord Granville had been put to death, and the girl claimed the throne of Ranulf? Good for the big lass! As long as she was better than Adela or Estrith…

  Every century or so, the spirits of chance dealt out a queen regnant. Adela and Estrith, Estrith and Adela…Ma-linda had been thinking about them all day. Now, as her horse’s shoes rang on the cobbles of the tunnel gateway, she thought especially of Estrith, who had been brought here to the Bastion a hundred years ago to be beheaded. The stupid woman had begun the beheading by shortening her husband, had then married a brigand baron, antagonized the great lords, tried to levy taxes without Parliament’s approval, started wars, and generally made every mistake imaginable. In six short years she had earned an unquestioned reputation as the most inept ruler Chivial had ever known. Indeed, the only good thing she had done was to die of a fever two days before the date scheduled for her execution, and no one had ever much believed in that fever.

  Adela, more than a century earlier still, had probably been more victim than villain. “Stay close, please,” Malinda had told Moment during the ride from Beaufort. “Don’t forget what happened to Adela.” The little Sister had twinkled her gamin grin and said she had not forgotten Queen Adela.

  But what had happened to Adela was something of a mystery and evermore would be. Although her reign of thirty-six years had been one of the longest, she had ruled for only the first couple of months of it before being hustled off to captivity on Ness Royal. Even her Blades had agreed by then that she was mad, yet the evidence suggested she had been sane enough at her accession. Most historians believed she had been poisoned by some foul conjuration—there had been no White Sisters in those days—and her husband was the favored suspect, since he had then claimed the crown matrimonial and reigned for twenty years in her stead.

  Third time lucky?

  The horses clattered through the echoing tunnel, past gates and under portcullises, into the wide expanse of the bailey, filled with tents and many people. Malinda had not been there for years and was surprised at how large it seemed when lit by fiery torches in the twilight, for the Bastion was almost a small town of its own, several minor fortresses enclosed by massively fortified outer walls. The royal apartments were located in the tallest, the Sable Tower, looming against the last ruddy glow in the west. Even at noontime this was a dismal place, a monument to inhumanity dating back a thousand years. It was grimmer still in the dusk, yet she felt a deep sense of relief at being there. She had enough Yeomen to hold this keep and enough Blades to keep the Yeomen loyal; even if Souris played false, she could withstand a long siege in the Bastion. She was queen in fact and deed now, and anyone who disagreed would have to topple her from the throne.

  All around her Blades were dropping nimbly from their saddles, but a queen must maintain her dignity. She reined in her horse at the mounting block and accepted Sir Dominic’s aid to descend. All her life men and women had treated her with the deference due her rank, and yet already she sensed a change, for until now there had always been a higher authority with power to overrule her whims. No more. The monarch was unique, and while she lacked the despotic power to chop off heads at will, as rulers of many other lands could, she certainly had the power to make a special hell for anyone who displeased her. With power came duty, and all day she had felt it settling on her shoulders like a winter snowfall. Privy Council, government, Parliament…but ultimately the responsibility was the sovereign’s alone, and she might kill hundreds or thousands of her people with one ill-advised fit of pique. From now on she must weigh every decision and consider every move.

  She turned to the warriors waiting, men of steel and blood. Most of them had studied her father for years and knew better than she did how a ruler ruled. “I thank you all. I am aware that I would not be here without the Blades. For your support and help I shall always be grateful. Sir Piers—I am tired and dirty and hungry, but tonight belongs to Chivial. What needs be done most urgently?”

  “Why, everything, Your Majesty!” he said somberly. “But I often heard your honored father remark that a country that could not wait an hour was not much of a country. History will not censure you if you take a break to freshen up, to eat and change clothes.”

  “Clothes?” she said disbelievingly.

  “I fear that the garments I have been able to find at such short notice will not befit a queen in style or quality, but they are clean and should not be so very bad a fit. I have ordered hot water and soft towels.”

  Just for a moment the weight lifted and she could laugh. “You tempt me to bestow earldoms with those words, Sir Piers! Lead me to this mirage.” Then she paused and studied him. His face had always been hard to read, but there was pain in those midnight eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  He shrugged. “Many things, Your Grace, but more things are right, and your safe arrival here is cause for great rejoicing. Let the bells ring; the rest can wait until its due season.”

  Dian had never visited the Bastion before, and she scowled in disbelief at the dingy rooms of the Royal Suite, their bare stone walls, worn rugs, and ancient furniture. Nevertheless a huge copper tub steamed invitingly, a fire crackled in every grate, and there was enough food piled up on a sideboard to feed the entire Royal Guard. Knowing Malinda even better than Malinda knew herself, she promptly shooed everyone else out—all but Sister Moment, who flopped down on a chair, closed her ey
es, and moaned dramatically. Being much less skilled on horseback than the others, she had done very well to keep up.

  “Strip!” Dian said, reaching for flannel and soap. “Reveal yourself in all your naked majesty, Your Majesty!”

  Malinda began to strip. “I want you to set up a household, please, Dian. I expect we’ll be staying for several days.” She sank gratefully into bitingly hot water. “Don’t let me fall asleep in here!”

  “There’s pheasant with chestnuts over there. Sturgeon and kid pie. Candied berry cake.”

  “Oh, all right.” The Queen began sponging. “I’ll stay awake for the cake. Do please see that my bed is well aired. It probably hasn’t been slept in since the Fatherland Wars. I shan’t be late—just long enough to accept their homage, appoint Lord Roland chancellor again and dump the country in his hands. Then back here and into bed.”

  “Warm bricks in it?” Dian asked, struggling with tangles in the royal hair.

  “Definitely.”

  “And warm Dog?”

  “No! Not here. Dog must remain a state secret. I don’t even want the rest of the Guard to know about him!”

  “Mm?” her friend said skeptically. “You think they don’t? You let him hug you this morning.”

  “Flames, so I did!” Could forty Blades keep such a secret? What sort of jokes might they be making about her? Malinda splashed in angry silence for a while, then heaved herself reluctantly out of the bath. “The trouble isn’t just scandal, you know. That’s bad enough, but in my case it’s also heir-to-the-throne trouble, a purity-ofthe-Blood thing. And men have this stupid idea that women can’t think for themselves. When I do get married, they’ll expect my husband to make the decisions and me the babies.”

  “Stay single then.” Dian enveloped her in a thick towel.

  “Dog’s wonderful. He won’t mind being kept secret. He won’t expect to be made a duke just because he has such an attractive anatomy.”

  “I do not love him for his anatomy!”

  “No?” Dian said. “But it helps. I saw it in the Forge, you know. Very impressive! I’m screamingly jealous.”

  Unsure where that line of conversation might lead, Malinda said, “Sister?”

  Moment’s eyes popped open. Evidently she had been meditating, not sleeping. “Your Majesty?” Without her absurd hat, she seemed no larger than a child.

  “Is it not true that White Sisters can detect spoken falsehood as well as inquisitors can?”

  “Some can. Never as well, probably.”

  “You? If anyone foreswears himself in the oath of allegiance, could you detect that?”

  The Sister’s eyes were very large and very blue, adding to her customary air of childlike wonder. “That would be treasonous. A lie of that magnitude should be obvious, but it will be hard here, my lady.”

  “Why?”

  “Because lies are made of air and death. Air I can handle, it being dominant in my own makeup, but this place is saturated with death. The very stones reek of death. Death shouts at me everywhere. I will do my best, but an inquisitor would do much better.”

  “What inquisitor can I trust as I trust you? I will appoint no liars to my Council.”

  Moment was rarely solemn like that; she normally regarded the world with impish glee. “You may be trusting me beyond my abilities, Your Grace. I have told you that our skills are very personal and distinctive, which is why we like to have at least two Sisters present on any vital occasion.”

  “But today there is only you,” Malinda said, “and me, and history rattling bones at our backs. Preserve me from conjuration and warn me of falsehood. I ask for no more than your best effort.”

  33

  You think you can get your own way all the time.

  AMBROSE IV TO HIS DAUGHTER

  The Bastion’s Hall of Banners had hosted many memorable quarrels, murders, and trials, but grand it was not. Its floors were rough planks, and the bare masonry walls still bore evidence of ancient fires. By day it seemed more suitable for arms drill than stately pomp; that evening it was awash in ominous shadow, its ceiling barely visible. Light from the smoky torches found no gold or jewels to sparkle on, only silken embroidery on the heralds’ tabards and the steel of men-at-arms. Everyone else was kneeling as the brazen fanfare’s echoes faded and the Queen entered, following Sergeant Usher of the Silver and Basilisk King of Arms and a couple of other mace-bearing worthies, followed in turn by this and that personage of enormous dignity, not to mention almost the entire Royal Guard.

  Her robe was scarlet, trimmed with white fur, and must have been made for her father or some equally stalwart fore-bear. Fortunately, she had a page to carry the train, because the whole thing weighed as much as a horse—but at least it kept the drafts off, and it did hide her dowdy gown. On her head she wore a simple gold circlet, which could not be reconciled with any fashionable bonnet, so her hair hung unbound down her back. Queens set fashion, and that might be proper style by tomorrow.

  There was no dais; an ill-shaped chair of state served as a throne, but sitting was no easy move in that cartload of robe. The page adjusted her train and then backed away, bowing. She appraised the crowd—about thirty, she estimated, with Grand Inquisitor the most conspicuous, looming over the rest. Allow two minutes apiece and in an hour she should be able to stagger off to bed and close the book on this epic day.

  After another fanfare Griffon King of Arms proclaimed Her Gracious Majesty Malinda, by the spirits ordained, rightful Queen of the Realm of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia and so on. She had warned the heralds that she would speak then. The hall hushed for her.

  “Today,” she said, hearing her voice reverberate in the darkness overhead, “our dear brother died of a fever. He never ruled, but he shall be mourned as befits a king of Chivial. We claim the throne by law and custom, by our father’s will, by right of the Blood. If there be any here who disputes our rule, then let him rise and speak.” With three dozen Blades fiercely eyeing the audience, and about as many Yeomen, no one was stupid enough to accept her invitation.

  “The former Lord Protector attempted a coup and was slain. His lands and titles are forfeit. But since he failed and the harm done was small, any who will now swear allegiance to us will be automatically pardoned for any part played in his treason or conspiracy to treason, excepting only the Traitor’s son, Neville Fitzambrose, who remains in our royal mercy. This pardon will not cover any unrelated felonies or misdemeanors.” She nodded to the waiting heralds. “Proceed, my lords.”

  The one who bowed in acknowledgment wore the tabard of Eagle King of Arms, but he was the youngster who had read out her father’s will, so the spirits must have taken the old man at last. He proffered her a card on a silver plate. She raised an eyebrow.

  “The enthronement oath, Your Grace!” he whispered.

  She should have remembered that. She took the card and peered at a script so ornate as to be close to indecipherable in the uncertain torchlight. “I, Malinda…” She struggled through it, swearing to respect the ancient rights of her people, uphold their traditional liberties, protect them from perils foreign and domestic, impose justice on high and low alike, levy taxes according to law and custom, also attend to a basket of other things. Polish up the crown jewels in her spare time, maybe.

  The Basilisk herald besought her most gracious permission for the courtiers to sit. She so granted and they rose to take their places on the benches with a rustle like wind in a forest.

  The first to kneel at her feet was Commander Audley in green livery and silver baldric, exercising a traditional precedence on behalf of the entire Royal Guard, although Blades’ bindings made the oath superfluous. As he rose he caught her eye and winked. She sneaked a smile in return. Neither of them would ever forget this day of sorrow and triumph.

  The courtiers would now swear allegiance in order of rank…. Overhearing whispered exchanges including the name “Courtney,” she realized that dictates of protocol had put Sister Moment far away,
out of reach. Worse, she was in among a cluster of Blades. Blades were human blizzards, Moment claimed, hailstorms of every element at once numbing her.

  “Wait!” Malinda said. “Begin with Grand Inquisitor.”

  “That would be completely out of order!” Then Griffon King of Arms’s jaw dropped as he realized what he had said and to whom. He gabbled apologies. Heralds hastily conferred with heads bent, papers ashuffle. Apparently the councillors were listed by name, not by office, and no one knew which name belonged to Grand Inquisitor. Malinda certainly did not. Eventually a decision was reached and Basilisk King of Arms bellowed in a voice like a bugle:

  “Master Horatio Lambskin!”

  Amid a general muttering of surprise and outrage, the gaunt old man rose to his astonishing height and worked his way along the row to the aisle. Even when he sank down on the cushion before her, he seemed tall. A herald handed him a copy of the oath, and he read it out in his creaking voice.

  “We would have the benefit of your wisdom in our Privy Council, Grand Inquisitor,” Malinda said, still practicing the royal plural, “as did my, er, our, father.”

  He favored her with his fish-cold stare. “I can imagine no greater honor, Majesty.”

  “Meanwhile, stand here, by us. If your skills detect any falsehood or reservation, then speak up according to your oath. Proceed, Lord Herald.”

  “His Highness Prince Courtney, Duke of Mayshire!”

  After some hasty whispering and rushing around, Courtney was located on the wrong bench. He had apparently been dozing. Whatever clothes he had worn in his cell would now be fit only for burning, and there had been no time to fetch any garments of his own, so he had been dressed in whatever could be found to enclose his shortlegged tubbiness. The result was a bizarre distribution of colors and wrinkles. Courtney himself was in no better shape than his outfit. Too much celebration of his release from imprisonment had turned his usual delicate mincing gait to a stagger, his prissy little smile to a bewildered leer. Senior heralds tried to intercept him as he reached Malinda’s chair, but too late. He managed a slurred mumble of,