Sky of Swords

by Dave Duncan

  “You are appointed, Master Kinwinkle! You will not be required to work yourself to death very often. Can you start now?”

  He went down on one knee to kiss her hand. “This instant, Your Majesty!” He thereupon repeated the entire oath of allegiance without a single hesitation.

  She dared hope that she had struck lucky. “Pray inform Sir Winter that he is relieved as soon as he has brought you up to date. Make your own decisions about priorities, but I want to see Mother Superior when she arrives.”

  As Kinwinkle went out she caught Fitzroy’s eye and this time it was being allowed to convey amusement. She repeated her earlier glare and it went blank again.

  The next caller was Sir Snake, who had been among the ex-councillors swearing allegiance the previous evening. He bowed with both verve and style. In the small hours of the night she had considered him for chancellor, but he was not another Roland. He was too slapdash, a daredevil, cynical—he would make enemies for her. Besides, he had other uses.

  “You do not appear to have grown fat in the dungeons, Sir Snake.”

  “Nay, Your Grace. Another month and I could have slipped out through the bars.”

  He showed no signs of his ordeal, although he must have escaped the same fate as Durendal by no more than the width of his arrogant string mustache. They chatted for a moment without mentioning the late Lord Roland. She wondered whether the knights had been invited to join in the Guard’s murderous lottery and if Snake would have been capable of putting his old mentor out of such misery. His face maintained its usual supercilious smile, revealing nothing. She went to business.

  “First, my thanks for all your efforts when you were Stealth. Your service will be acknowledged in the first Honors List of my reign.”

  “My sword is always at Your Majesty’s service.” He bowed again.

  “I hope so, because our treasury is empty. It will take time to summon another parliament and persuade it to vote supply. I want to resume the Monster War.”

  His eyes lit up. “The Old Blades are ready!”

  “I saw enough of the evil,” she said, “to want it stamped out even if I did not need the money. How soon can you move?”

  “I have to muster the lads, of course. Most of them are down at Ironhall.”

  “Yes, Sir Dominic told me. I am impressed and touched by the way your Order continues to serve the best interests of the crown, Sir Snake.” When Granville had disbanded the Court of Conjury, Durendal and Snake had secretly sent the knights off to Ironhall to help train more swordsmen. She had not inquired how the school had been financed during the protectorate.

  “Happy to serve, Your Grace. I can have them back here in three or four days. There are nests right here in Grandon that need to be smoked out. May I borrow some of those troops on Great Common?”

  That took some discussion of terms of payment and granting of authority, but it was not long before a grinning Snake went striding out to prepare a detailed plan. This time Malinda smiled sweetly at Fitzroy, who looked sick to his stomach. She was going to resume the Monster War with the Guard down to less than forty?

  Master Kinwinkle delivered a scroll bearing some fifty names of persons anxious to wait upon Her Majesty. He also announced Mother Superior.

  The old woman who entered, ducking her tall hennin under the lintel, was a national monument, tall, gaunt, white-draped; she had been at court when Malinda was a child, seeming no less ancient then than she did now. Her eyes were awls and her nose could have served to fashion dugout canoes; the wimple framing her face hid what the years had done to her neck, but her back was as straight as a pikestaff. It was true she treated Malinda as an errant nine-year-old, but she treated everyone as an errant nine-year-old. She curtseyed stiffly, waited to hear what her sovereign required of her and somehow conveying disapproval in advance.

  “You have heard the tragic news about Lord Roland?”

  Mother Superior’s thin lips grew even thinner. “Absolutely disgusting!” She did not explain whether that comment referred to Lambskin’s Question or the Blades’ reaction.

  “Certainly. I often heard my father say Lord Roland was the finest chancellor he had ever had, and I fully intended to confirm him in that post. Now I must find a replacement without delay. It occurred to me that you have been a privy councillor for many years, Mother.”

  Wrinkles deepened in a frown. “True, my lady, but I rarely attended meetings until your father began what is now known as the Monster War.”

  “But you have seen men come and—”

  The frown became a satisfied smile. “And you wish me to recommend possible chancellors? Well, Baron Dechaise must be the longest serving…reliable and honest, but anxious to retire, I suspect. Some of Lord Granville’s appointments were doing very well, although whether or not Your Grace is prepared to trust…”

  Malinda was shaking her head. “This was not why I summoned you, Mother.”

  “Oh.” The old lady did not like finding herself in the wrong. “Then how may I serve Your Majesty?”

  “As my chancellor.”

  It must have been a long time since Mother Superior’s jaw dropped like that.

  “You have experience on the Council itself,” Malinda said. “And you have run the White Sisters for…how many years?”

  “Eleven.”

  “It is without doubt the most efficiently run organization in Chivial. You have no political enemies, so far as I have ever heard, which is important. And,” she added mischievously, “you fear neither man nor beast.”

  “I don’t know about that…” The old lady looked ready to pinch herself. “Your Grace, this is a totally unexpected honor and a very daunting…overwhelmed…need time to…You do realize that the hairier half of your subjects will have enough trouble accepting even a female ruler? To offer them a female first minister at the same time—is this wise, Your Grace?”

  Perhaps not. Malinda was determined not to look directly, but she was fairly sure that Sir Fitzroy was white with shock. “I am not offering anyone anything. I am appointing you. If you wish to regard the post as temporary, we may reconsider our decision in a few months. Meanwhile, you are now the Chancellor of Chivial.” She held out her fingers to be kissed. “You may call yourself Lord Chancellor, or Lady Chancellor, whichever you prefer, but of course there is always at least an earldom to go with the position. Countess—” She laughed. “I don’t know your name!”

  “Few remember these days.” A notable glitter in the old lady’s eyes suggested she was already starting to see humor in the situation. “It is Burningstar, Your Grace.” However odd White Sisters’ names often were, they always seemed to suit their owners.

  “Excellent!” Malinda said. “Lend me your sword, Sir Fitzroy. Kneel, please, Mother. Arise Countess Burningstar of Oakendown. Thank you, Sir Fitzroy. Now, Chancellor, the government is destitute and there are some Treasury bead pushers waiting outside to tell me so. Master Kinwinkle will point them out to you. Find out from them what we shall need for the next week. Then embrace the Lord Mayor fondly, inform him that he will be invited to a formal levee in a few days so he may pay his respects, and send him off to raise a loan to us for whatever the amount is.”

  “One week?” said the new Chancellor disbelievingly.

  “That should do. Between you and me and Sir Snake, I am about to resume the Monster War. I expect to confiscate some valuable real estate that can be sold or used as collateral, and possibly the odd hoard of ill-gotten bullion, too.”

  The old lady shook her head. “I really don’t think I am competent for all this, Your Grace.”

  Malinda eased her gently toward the door. “I am sure you are more competent than I am, my lady, and I am doing quite well so far. If mere men can do it, then government cannot be too difficult, can it? After you have thrown out the Lord Mayor and alderman, pray draw up a list of potential privy councillors that we can discuss over lunch. I want to have the government up and running by sunset.”

  “Thi
s may kill me, you know!” the new Chancellor said sharply.

  “I’ll give you a state funeral,” the Queen promised.

  Some matters she must now defer to Burningstar, lest the two of them snarl things up between them. Others fell squarely within the royal prerogative, and one of those was Cousin Courtney, Prince of the Realm, Duke of Mayshire, Baron Leandre, drunken lecher, persona non grata.

  When he was shown in, Malinda was seated on the throne. He was better dressed than he had been the previous night, but a faint odor of dungeon still hung around him. He advanced, bowed, and smiled sheepishly.

  “Congratulations, Your darling Majesty. A classic countercoup, I understand. Historians will love it. I never really doubted you, but I confess I was starting to get a teeny bit worried.”

  She continued to project her best House-of-Ranulf glare. He was going to kneel to her if she had to call in the Household Yeomen to cut off his shins.

  Courtney pulled a puzzled little frown and turned to regard the Blade. “Do we need old Sir Fitz, here, darling? This is just a family chat, after all, isn’t it?”

  “No. It isn’t. Had you done to my father what you did to me last night, he would have thrown you back in that dungeon and left you there for years. He would probably have had you flogged. I still may.”

  Courtney pulled himself up to his full shoulder-high height. “I think you are displaying a cruel lack of sensitivity, my dear! Do you know how many weeks I languished in that sewer? Never in my life had I slept on anything except the best quality silk, and down there even the straw was damp and unacceptable. The food…oh, spirits!…the food…You cannot imagine! Day after day, night after night, dreading the torments! Hearing the screams of the tortured! The rats! Hoping always for the tyrant’s downfall, the triumph of my dear cousin Malinda. Of course I had a nervous reaction! You are being unnecessarily cruel even to mention it.”

  “Just how many people were tortured within your hearing?”

  “Several…I kept no exact count. Although I assure you they suffered no more than I did this morning. My head—”

  “Bah!” Malinda said, steeling herself. “The way you behaved last night would shame a swineherd in his wallow, let alone a—”

  “Careful!” Courtney raised a hand. “Say nothing you may regret, darling. Consider our future.”

  “Future? Our future, did you say?”

  “What else? You know how Chivians feel about queens regnant, dearest. I certainly grant that you are the legitimate heir, princess of the Blood, first in line, but you have Estrith and Adela around your neck. You also wear some very curious whispers about Blades and orgies and such. You have put a national hero to death, and there are still lurking questions about your part in Ambrose’s murder—what you said to King Radgar and what he said to you…”He preened, showing bad teeth. “Now I, dearest, am your Heir Presumptive. The law says so. Your father’s will says so. I admit that I am ten or twelve years older than you are, but—”

  “Almost twenty-four years older.”

  “Spirits! Is it that long? It feels like yesterday. The fact remains, Cousin, that the country does not savor the idea of a juvenile female autocrat, but when you marry me and we rule jointly, the Commons will be joyous, the Lords mollified, the—”

  “Stop!” she roared, making him wince. “I wouldn’t marry you if my only alternative was being burned at the stake. You won’t slip any sleazy potions to me, Courtney.”

  “Your Grace speaks in riddles.”

  “Love potions. I know now how you cheated in affairs of the heart. The White Sisters have always known. Father knew, but preferred to avoid the scandal of charging you. Well, I have no such scruples. Go back to your lair in Mayshire, you debauched horror. Stay there until you are thickly coated in moss or I will have you indicted on charges of multiple rape.”

  Courtney swelled up as if about to argue, but Sir Fitzroy’s hand gripped his collar and spun him around. He was thrust roughly out the door, and the door was slammed behind him.

  Malinda said, “Thank you!” breathlessly and leaned back on the throne until her heart stopped thundering. Marry Courtney? Ridiculous!

  It was only later, during lunch with Chancellor Burningstar, that she realized Cousin Courtney had still not knelt to her.

  So the day went.

  The afternoon light was fading when she sent for Neville Fitzambrose, the Traitor’s son—her nephew, about the same age as herself, whom she had never met.

  Although he had been imprisoned little more than a day, his clothes were already fetid rags and he brought a stench of dungeon that fouled the room. He was delivered in his chains, clanking and stumbling, yet six Blades came with him, led by Sir Dominic himself. They hurled the prisoner to his knees before the throne. Having his hands manacled behind his back, he pitched forward helplessly onto his face, so they hauled him up again by his iron collar.

  “That will do!” Malinda said angrily. “Control yourselves!” This was the way prisoners were always treated, of course—any man who found himself in such a predicament must have done something to deserve it—but she hated to see the Blades indulging in wanton cruelty.

  Neville’s face was filthy, unshaven, recently bruised. His hair—dark and thick—kept falling over his eyes, and his efforts to shake it away scraped his neck against the rusty collar. Height was hard to judge when he was down on the floor, but he was certainly well built. Under normal circumstance he would probably appear quite handsome. He scowled up at her defiantly.

  “How much have they told you?” she asked.

  “The brat is dead and you killed my father. Bitch!”

  “No!” she yelled, just in time to save him from a boot in the kidneys. If Neville guessed what he had escaped, he gave no sign.

  “I will tell you the real facts. If you wish, I will summon an inquisitor who can testify that I have spoken only the truth. Do you want that?”

  He sneered. “Why bother? You think I’d believe one of your inquisitors more than I believe you?”

  “You should,” she said. “However, here is the truth. My brother died yesterday morning. By law and right, I was then queen. Your father refused to swear allegiance, tried to resist arrest, and was slain in the resulting struggle. So were several innocent men.”

  His surly expression remained unchanged. “What man is innocent?” A Blade fist slammed into his ear, almost knocking him over.

  “Stop that!” Malinda shouted. “Dominic, if you maltreat this prisoner again, I will dismiss you from the Guard and have you expelled from the Order. The same goes for all of you. Bring him a chair and a glass of wine and release his hands. Now!”

  She sat in angry silence until her nephew was seated on a chair facing her. He took the proffered goblet in both hands and drank greedily. Then he glowered at his young aunt as if ashamed of having revealed weakness. His glower was nothing compared to the detestation on the faces of the Blades behind him.

  “Your father was not innocent,” Malinda said. “He knowingly rebelled against the law.”

  “He was the eldest son! He should have been king!”

  “Then why did he ever acknowledge Amby?”

  The prisoner had probably not thought of that argument. “He was fit to be king!” he said sulkily. “He would have made a great king!”

  “Would he?” She tried to sound reasonable, not gloating.

  “I’m sure he told you so, and your loyalty is understandable, but look at the facts. He had an army, the treasury, and complete control of the government for half a year. All I had was right on my side and a few men willing to die for me. Our contest lasted all of ten minutes. Does that sound as if Granville Fitzambrose was kingly material? But he served the realm well until then, and I am truly sorry. Now I must decide what to do about you.”

  “Go ahead and chop my head off!” Neville’s blustering made him seem very immature, but he was probably terrified beyond endurance, desperately trying to hang on to his self-control.

 
“I’d rather not. I bear you no grudge. Your father made you governor of the Bastion.”

  “That was his right!”

  She smiled. “Yes, because he was Lord Protector. It was a legal appointment, although it may not have been a wise one. You were outwitted and overpowered quite easily. But you have done nothing I can see as treasonous.”

  Neville tried to hold his scowl, but hope had widened his eyes. They were brown eyes, not amber.

  Quite attractive eyes. He was her half nephew. Under the laws of consanguinity that was still too close for marriage, but sovereigns could decree themselves exemptions. If some sort of dynastic marriage was inevitable, Neville would be a much less abhorrent choice than Courtney. Best not to leave him lying around as a temptation to Parliament.

  “As I understand your situation,” she said, “you have no other family. Your father’s lands and titles are forfeit. You know no trade or craft except that of soldier. Constable Valdor describes you as a handy man with a halberd. He is willing to enlist you as man-at-arms in the Household Yeomen.”

  The prisoner raised the goblet to his lips. His throat showed no signs of swallowing, so he was merely concealing his face while he thought. Had he really expected her to chop his head off?

  “My, you must have been thirsty,” Malinda said. He lowered the goblet and she smiled again. “It’s a fair offer. You swear allegiance, the Constable gives you employment so you can eat, and I promise that if you behave yourself, in three years or less I will find you more honorable estate, befitting your blood and name.”