Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “Lindy! You skewered the…bastard! Flaming good…good…” and then his legs began to fold. Eagle, Basilisk, and Griffon all leaped forward to catch him, but in the resulting melee, the Prince escaped them all and collapsed in a snoring heap.

  “Put him back in his cell to sober up!” Malinda commanded, biting the words. She sat on the throne of Ranulf and steamed, while her errant cousin was removed. How dare he! To think that disgusting drunken lecher was her heir! If anything happened to her, Courtney would inherit Chivial. This was unthinkable; she must produce an heir, a legitimate heir, and as soon as possible. Oh, Dog, Dog! She would have to marry someone—male presumably, aristocrat certainly. Biddable…Parliament would insist on a Chivian. But never Dog.

  When the proceedings were resumed, the next man forward was, surprisingly, the ponderous, platitudinous Duke of Brinton, who must have rushed south as soon as he received her appeal for help. She smiled at him, said a few polite words, and made a mental note to send him a suitable gift. A spare castle, perhaps.

  And so it continued, all the great ones of the kingdom whom the heralds had been able to locate. Many of her father’s old councillors were there—Lord High Admiral, Baron Dechaise of the Treasury, Mother Superior of the White Sisters—and also many of Granville’s men, including those she had named Pig, Ratface, and Fish-Eyes.

  But not…

  Eagle King of Arms bowed. “All persons summoned having sworn true fealty to Your Majesty, this audience now awaits Your Majesty’s pleasure.” It was over, in other words.

  “Where,” she said quietly, “is Lord Roland?”

  Eagle looked at Griffon; Griffon glanced at Basilisk; Basilisk considered Sir Dominic. Sir Dominic was staring up at Grand Inquisitor with hatred almost palpable. She realized that everyone near her knew something that she did not, something that must have been whispered around during the ceremony, while she was accepting the oaths. She remembered the strange shadows in Piers’s eyes.

  “If we may withdraw to the robing room, Your Grace,” Dominic muttered thickly, “we have some tragic news to impart. I suggest you bring Grand Inquisitor along—for his own safety.”

  By the time Malinda reached the cramped little robing room it was packed so full of Blades that they even blocked the doorway, although she had no idea how they had managed to get there before she did. She dropped the massive robe off her shoulders into the arms of the page, who staggered under the load, and by then Dominic and Audley were clearing a way in.

  She registered sounds of heartbroken sobbing, a sickening stench of sewer, a pervading emotional tension as intense as physical pain. The crowd squeezed back to reveal two people embracing on a sofa. One of them was a dainty woman of around thirty—exquisitely dressed and with a striking beauty that her terrible pallor failed to mar. She did not rise, just turned her head to stare accusingly up at Malinda. She was not the one sobbing. She was comforting the man in her arms, but she herself looked as if she would never feel any emotion again.

  Malinda trawled her memory for the correct name. “Countess Kate!”

  The woman nodded and turned her attention back to the man she held. Malinda knew who it was, of course, but she had to force herself to look directly at him. He was the source of the foul odor and the weeping. His clothes were disgusting rags. Huddled in his wife’s embrace, he kept his face down and sobbed. Sobbed, sobbed, sobbed.

  All the Blades in the room had turned to stare at the Queen, waiting for her to do something, say something. Kill somebody. All she could think of were her shattered plans to put the government back in this man’s hands. What in the name of death had they done to him? And why was he being tortured with this public shame?

  “I am waiting for an explanation. Sir Dominic?”

  “They put him to the Question.”

  She spun around to Grand Inquisitor. “Is this true?”

  His face was an expressionless skull. He nodded, shrugged.

  Malinda’s hand struck his cheek with a crack like an ax; with all her strength behind it, the blow made him stagger. “Kneel when I address you!”

  Ancient knees crackled as he went down, but he still seemed to find the fuss unnecessary. “Yes, Your Majesty. He was arrested nine days ago on a charge of high treason. When interrogated, he refused to answer questions.”

  “Interrogated by inquisitors, of course?”

  “Of course.” The old man must be finding it very odd to be looking up at a woman, or indeed at anyone. His gaze glided from face to face as if he were calculating his chance of leaving the room alive. All these young swordsmen had worshiped Lord Roland since their boyhood. This black-robed serpent had destroyed their hero.

  “It was all legal, Your Grace,” the inquisitor protested.

  “The law allows no exceptions in cases of treason. Suspects failing to testify fully and truthfully shall be put to the Question.” The marks of his queen’s hand glowed red on his cheek.

  “Treason? You thought the Lord Chancellor was guilty of treason?”

  “But I was!” Lord Roland cried. Gasping for breath between sobs, he said, “I revealed state secrets! I embezzled money. I conspired—”

  His wife clapped a hand over his mouth to hush him. He did not resist, just stopped talking and sobbed harder, tears streaming from blood-rimmed eyes.

  “He did this to aid me!” Malinda shouted. “That was not treason! He was trying to block treason, block a conspiracy to dispossess the rightful heir!”

  Silence, deadly silence. Knuckles were white on sword hilts all around the room. Grand Inquisitor’s life hung by its fingertips.

  “You may well approve of his intent, Your Grace,” the old man protested shakily, “but the fact remains that what he was doing was in violation of his Privy Councillor’s oath, and once enchanted he confessed to numerous breaches of trust. He is consequently under sentence of death. It is as blatant a case as I have ever—”

  “Silence! Countess, I cannot begin to convey my horror and sorrow. Whatever treatment is required will—”

  “There is no treatment!” the little woman said harshly.

  “He can never be a real man again. Can you?” She removed her hand. “Tell them.”

  Lord Roland groaned. “Never. I must tell the truth always, the complete truth. I must confess everything, however trivial, volunteer anything relevant, answer any question.” He was quite conscious, aware of his shame, his eyes wide with horror. “The tears I shed are of remorse. Even now I am compelled to say, Your Grace, that I considered you a spoiled and willful, impetuous, oversexed—” His wife’s hand slid over his mouth again. He choked a couple of times, then buried his face in her shoulder to weep more.

  Nothing was more dangerous than truth.

  Well, Queen Malinda? Everyone else was looking to her. The monarch makes the decisions, doesn’t she? She wanted to scream. She could do nothing for Lord Roland and one careless word from her would make Grand Inquisitor a colander. She would shed no tears over that bloodless reptile, but his murder would be a crime to doom her reign before it had even begun. What could she possibly say? “Countess, I am truly heartbroken. I needed him as much as you do. And as your children do.” There were two children, she recalled, a boy of eleven or twelve, a girl about half that. “Chivial needed him. Whatever can be done…ask and I shall order it.”

  “Carry out the sentence!”

  “What!?”

  “You heard me—Your Majesty!” The little countess had an astonishingly piercing voice when she wanted to use it.

  “You think the Durendal we all know wants to live like this? Being this blathering, halfwit horror evermore? Seeing pity in every eye? Spewing secrets with every breath? Sign the warrant, Queen Malinda. Get it over with. Don’t make him suffer longer!”

  Silence. The pain was unbearable, nobody looking at anyone.

  “Sir Piers,” Malinda said, “have Lord Roland and his lady escorted to the best available rooms and provide anything they require or request. We shall disc
uss this matter in council as soon as possible.” She looked down at Grand Inquisitor, whose unwinking eyes stared up at her like holes. Shuddering, she looked away to locate the bone-white face of Audley.

  “Commander, this has been a day of great sorrows, but none worse than this.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Unfortunately, we cannot punish the man responsible, because he is already dead. Those who put Lord Roland to the Question were doing no more than their duty under the law.” She heard a few Blade growls and looked around to locate their source, but naturally failed to do so. “We will not start our reign with a lynching or vendetta, is that quite clear? Pray inform every Blade—and I mean every Blade, every Blade in the entire Order, not just the Royal Guard—that the inquisitors are covered by our royal pardon and there is to be no private vengeance for what was done to Durendal. Is that understood?”

  Audley’s eyes glanced around uneasily, looking for guidance. “I think so, Your Grace.”

  “Deputy?”

  Dominic sighed. “Yes, Your Grace. The Blades are aware that they owe their continued existence to your efforts, my lady, and they will not mar the beginning of your reign with a crime for which you will undoubtedly be blamed. There must be no vengeance!”

  The Guard moaned. The real Leader had spoken. They would obey Dominic as they would not have obeyed Audley, whoever might be wearing the baldric. Fingers opened, releasing hilts.

  She could relax a little then. “You have our permission to withdraw, Grand Inquisitor. The Commander will find some Yeomen to escort you home.”

  Shaking, she turned and swept from the room.

  Blades conducted her to the royal suite. Dian was waiting…. It was all a blur. None of it mattered. Roland was useless, as good as dead. Who was going to be her chancellor? She had absolutely no second choice in mind. Her father had gone through four chancellors, learning from the one he had inherited from his father, Lord Bluefield, and subsequently training Bluefield’s successors. Roland, she had heard him say several times, was the best of them all by far. Rookie monarch and rookie chancellor together were a recipe for disaster.

  She pulled arms out, pushed hands in, sat for hair brushing, went through all the standard motions of preparing for bed, and her mind danced like a moth elsewhere. Whom could she find to be chancellor? Some halfwit noble who would create a dog’s vomit of her government? An upstart lowborn clerk who would rile the aristocracy and antagonize the Commons? She knew no one. Her father had been a superb judge of men, at least by the time she knew him—he had made his share of mistakes in his youth—but she had no experience. The most important decision she would make in the next five years, she was going to be making blind. Roll dice? Draw lots? Write the names of all the men in Chivial and throw them into a hat…

  Some hat.

  “All done,” Dian said, giving her a hug. “I’ll leave this candle burning. There are eight Blades standing guard outside the door. Dog’s there…?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “I’ll tell him. I think you’ll find the bed warm enough. Try to get some sleep.”

  Some hope.

  “Tell Audley that I’ll need a secretary and—”

  “You need sleep,” Dian said firmly. “Get into bed, Queen!”

  So ended the first day of her reign.

  34

  She summoned the raven and the lion and all the mice of the field.

  THE LEGEND OF ELBERTHA

  The room was small and stark and furnished with only a table and a single chair, as she had commanded, but someone had thoughtfully kept a fire burning overnight to warm the ancient masonry. The chair was almost a throne, a pretentious thing of carved oak with a cloth of estate over it, which she hoped she would not need to bolster her authority. Like her father, she preferred to conduct business standing. She was better dressed this morning, in a queenly gown Dian had miraculously produced, and she had decided to stay with the gold circlet and unbound hair—they made her look like pictures of her ferocious and notorious great-grandmother, Queen Charis.

  Now she placed herself comfortably near the fire with the light from the narrow window at her back, then scowled bleakly at Sir Fitzroy, one of the two Blades present. He was standing against the wall as if he were painted there.

  “Standard procedure, my lady,” he said stubbornly.

  Her father had done nothing without a Blade present, even bathe. She had established already that she would not tolerate that level of supervision, but she strongly suspected that an attempt to evict Fitzroy now would not succeed. She would just have to get used to life with Blades everywhere. At least Fitzroy was among the oldest of the current Guard, an ancient of more than thirty. He would not babble if she made a fool of herself today.

  The other was Winter, whom Audley had appointed as her secretary—a wise choice, because most of the Guard would have hated the task. He had an excellent memory and typically had brought no papers with him, just fingers to chew.

  “Well, Sir Winter? Who wants to see me? I rely on you to rank them in some sort of priority.”

  He took his hand away from his mouth. “Then, Sir Piers first, Your Grace. Seven former privy councillors and eleven peers, all wanting to swear allegiance. You want their names?”

  “Written, please.”

  “Yes, my lady. Constable Valdor to report on unrest, except there isn’t any.” He paused just long enough for a hasty gnaw at his right thumbnail. “Marshal Souris with a list of Granville garrisons that should be called on to surrender. Two senior clerks from Treasury in a panic because they have no money to pay bills. The Lord Mayor of Grandon and alderman with a loyal address. Eagle King of Arms about your late brother’s funeral…”

  “I’ll see Piers first, then the herald, and send for Sir Snake. The Lord Mayor mustn’t be kept waiting very long. Most of all I want to talk with Mother Superior. I expect she’s at Greymere.”

  “I’m not sure…believe she stayed here overnight, my lady. I’ll see….” Winter bowed and withdrew to send in Piers.

  Malinda had guessed the news Piers would bring and the look in his eyes confirmed it before he opened his mouth. With deep regret he must inform Her Majesty that Lord Roland had died suddenly in the night. She turned and pretended to stare out the window, although its little bottle-glass panes distorted the view to a blur. Sudden tears did not help, either. “Of the same infection that struck down Secretary Kromman last spring, I presume.” Had they drawn lots again? The Dark Chamber could probably ferret out which one had actually done the deed, but to order such an investigation would turn the entire Guard against her. It was done and fury would not undo it. “His wife?”

  “She went home to her children last night, my lady.”

  Kate had asked for this mercy, but it must have been Durendal’s own idea. He would have known that the Blades would grant his wish. The Queen had not granted it! Nor had she forbidden it. She had forbidden revenge, not mercy. They would not have obeyed her if she had. It had been an internal Guard matter. So last night the Rolands had said good-bye and Kate had left….

  Malinda turned, struggling to keep her voice calm. “I think you should deliver the news to his widow yourself, Sir Piers, since you are in charge of this fortress and the royal hospitality extended to its guests.”

  He winced at the jab. “As Your Grace commands.”

  “I do not know her financial circumstances, but you may inform her that she and her children will not want. Now listen to me. You will go at once to Dominic and tell him to pass the word throughout the Order that I will tolerate no more action of this kind—none whatsoever, under any circumstances! I must summon a parliament right away and I will have to fight tooth and claw to stop it from dissolving your Order outright. My case will be hopeless if rumor of this crime gets out. The Blades will be finished, utterly! Now get out of here!” Her sudden roar sent him leaping for the door handle. She even tried a glare at Fitzroy, but Fitzroy was technically not there, neither hearing n
or seeing, and in this case he definitely did not allow himself to see the glare.

  Next came the new Eagle King of Arms to discuss Amby’s funeral. She accepted that the arrangements would require at least two days. “Include whatever seems fitting. All the bands you can find. He loved bands.”

  The herald nodded, but it was a deep enough nod to be classed as a small bow. “Eulogies, Your Grace?”

  “I shall say a few words, very few. Anything more would be hypocrisy. Nobody else really knew him. No banquet.”

  “May I include some additional fireworks, then? Did he enjoy fireworks?”

  She liked the herald’s terse style. He was a bookish-seeming man of around thirty; it was his grotesque tabard that made him seem young, because she was accustomed to think of heralds as old.

  “Fireworks startled him. But include them by all means. The public likes them.”

  Nod again. “Thank you, my lady. I also brought sketches for your great seal. This is a matter of some urgency, because all official business…”He was already spreading drawings on the table. She glanced briefly at the designs. They were all much like her father’s seal with a token addition of a rose, a symbol from her mother’s family. “That one.”

  He gathered his papers. “There are many other matters, Your Grace, but none that cannot wait a few days.”

  She smiled. “One won’t. You may be able to help me. I need a private secretary, someone who is industrious, efficient, and circumspect. I could not entirely trust a Blade”—that was for Fitzroy’s benefit—“nor an inquisitor like Master Kromman. I wonder…can you think of some promising clerk in the College who may be willing to take on a regiment’s work, at least for a few months?”

  Eagle King of Arms turned geranium pink, drew himself up stiffly in his fancy tabard, and gulped twice. “If Your Majesty would consider me…”

  She had thought that one of the senior heralds of the kingdom would greatly outrank a mere secretary, but a few questions revealed her error. There would be more money, more respect, and vastly more interesting work. There would also be considerable opportunity for taking bribes, but he did not mention that. He was the Honorable Robert Kinwinkle, eleventh child of a baron noted more for physical prowess than fiscal prudence. As a herald he was still, just barely, a gentleman, but even his recent promotion to a King of Arms had brought him only enough income to stay lean, never enough to grow fat or support a family. He claimed he knew as much about the workings of the government as anyone. He would work himself to death for the honor of being Her Majesty’s secretary.