The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  “Then I shall be happy to see you to the docks.”

  Roland’s manner had thawed a little. “Of course you will have a mounted escort tomorrow, Sister, and it will make sure that he does as he has promised. If I may presume to ask one last favor? When you see Master Smealey embark, would you then—and only then—give him this package?”

  It was anonymous, wrapped in cloth, but just the right size to be a dagger with a green dragon worked into the hilt.

  “You are more than generous, my lord,” Badger said thickly. He had hoped for leniency. He had not expected generosity. He had never met it before. He did not know how to deal with it.

  Roland’s dark stare suggested that he had guessed as much. “As Sister Emerald says, we owe you a debt in the end. I warn you that I will burn this place to the ground before I leave. Not a stone will remain standing, and the land will be included in the royal forest of Brakwood. If there is anything else you wish to take from here, ask now.”

  He had found the paintings.

  Badger hesitated, then said, “Nothing. Burn it all.”

  The door closed behind Badger and Emerald. Stalwart stayed where he was because he had been told to do so. The next few minutes were going to be tricky and his temporary resemblance to King Ambrose was not going to help him one little bit. Durendal was giving him the basilisk stare treatment. When in doubt, attack…

  “May I inquire, my lord, how you managed to arrive so opportunely this morning?”

  “No. Do you recognize my authority to give you orders?”

  Technically a government minister had absolutely no authority over a Blade in the Royal Guard. This was no time to be technical.

  “I will do whatever you say, my lord.” There were three, and only three, Blades in the Order he must not address as “brother”—Leader, Grand Master, and the present Lord Chancellor, and he only because he was Durendal, not because of his office.

  “Tomorrow,” the great man said, “you and your escort will move to one of the royal hunting lodges, and there you will remain until you are yourself again—a matter of a week or so, according to the prisoners. During that time, you will be subject to the orders of Ensign Rolf. You will obey him in every respect, without argument or reservation. Is that clear, Sir Stalwart?”

  Stalwart cringed. “A Yeoman?” If the Guard ever heard about this he would be ruined.

  Roland’s stare had grown even more menacing. “Have I your word on it?”

  Sigh! “Yes, my lord.”

  “Three nights ago I congratulated you on the success of your first mission. I am considerably less impressed by your second.”

  Stalwart wiped his streaming forehead. His current body did sweat a lot. It was also perpetually hungry. He had eaten two enormous meals and was still starving.

  “I may have let my earlier success make me a little overconfident.”

  “A little?”

  In Stalwart’s considered opinion, he had met with a lot of bad luck, but only a ninny blamed his luck. “I should have listened to Sister Emerald. And yet, in the end, I was right about Badger and she was wrong. I was right to trust him with the message, because I had good reason to think a conventional letter might not arrive. I meant to send a backup letter in the morning, I really did. If we hadn’t found the body, I wouldn’t have been captured.” He waited, hoping to be dismissed.

  Roland was not finished. “Before leaving here, you will write a detailed letter of apology to Grand Master.”

  That was too much! “Grand Master is an incompetent oaf!”

  The Chancellor stiffened. “Guardsman, watch your tongue! You are speaking of the senior officer of the Order to which I also have the honor of belonging. If you refuse to apologize to him, then you will write a detailed letter to the King explaining what you just said!”

  “Very well!” Wart said recklessly. He was flying now. “I’ll do that. I will point out that if Grand Master had bothered to investigate Badger’s erratic behavior, he would have realized it was caused by more than a normal dose of seniors’ nerves. Then he would have uncovered a conspiracy that would have taken the King’s life at the next binding. By removing Badger from Ironhall, I undoubtedly saved—”

  “That was pure luck!”

  Stalwart pulled himself back to ground level. He was the most junior Blade in the kingdom. Who was he to bad-mouth Grand Master? “True! You are quite right, my lord. It was luck.”

  “If you will promise to keep your opinions to yourself,” the great man said warily, “I will waive the letter of apology. His Majesty will be informed of events, of course.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Have I your permission to withdraw?” Stalwart began to heave his bulk off the stool, planning another trip to the kitchens.

  “No. Wait a minute.” Lord Roland reached out finger and thumb to snuff a guttering candle. “This affair will never be made public. The ringleaders will be tried in secret and I’m sure many will be executed in secret, too. The rest will be locked up forever. We were all very lucky that His Grace survived this conspiracy. Digby did write a letter.”

  “And the traitors intercepted it, Badger said.”

  “He wrote two letters. The second one he sent from Buran, on his way home. He was a Blade, after all; not quite the blockhead many people thought him.” The great man looked inquiringly at Stalwart.

  “Certainly.” Stalwart wondered uneasily what had happened to Digby’s sword. Better not to mention it.

  “You will find…You will learn, as I have, that conspiracy is much less common in this world than plain, brainless incompetence.”

  “Er…my lord?”

  “About two hours after you and Emerald left the palace, I arrived at my office to start a long day’s work. I found Lord Digby’s name in my appointment book. I made inquiries, of course. I learned that he had tried to see me the day he returned, the day before his death, but I was occupied with arrangements for the reception.”

  Was it possible that the notoriously impassive Lord Roland was actually looking a little embarrassed?

  “Digby did not send his letters to Sir Snake, because he knew the King would disapprove. Having discovered an incompetent sheriff, he wrote posthaste to me. It was absolutely his duty to do that. He also mentioned a curious coincidence about the silver streak in the Prior’s hair. That was enough to set my britches on fire, I can tell you!”

  Wart stared blankly. “But…?”

  “My clerks,” the Chancellor said ruefully, “had treated the letter as entirely routine. It was put away for consideration at the regular meeting of the Council next month.”

  “Ah!” He had good reason to feel embarrassed!

  “I sent a courier after you—he missed you, obviously, probably because you went around by Ironhall. Snake and the Old Blades had been chasing their tails looking for octograms until they were all exhausted. I dragged the King out of bed to appoint a new sheriff, commandeered the Yeomen Lancers, and came boiling out here to Nythia to rescue you. As it happened, you didn’t really need all that much rescuing…”

  Lord Roland broke off to glare at his listener. His fist slammed down on the desk. “I have to put up with that supercilious smirk when the King’s behind it. I don’t need to take it from you!”

  “No! No, of course not, my lord!” Stalwart said hastily.

  Durendal sighed. “Sometimes even the best of us have to fall back on luck—brother.” He smiled as if he meant it.

  Book Three

  SILVERCLOAK

  “Will you walk into my parlor?” said the Spider to the Fly,

  “’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.

  The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

  And I have many curious things to show when you are there.”

  “Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain,

  “For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

  —MARY HOWITT “The Spider and the Fly”

&nb
sp; 1

  The Snakepit

  HAVING SPENT A FEW DAYS WITH HER MOTHER at Peachyard, Emerald headed back to her duties in Greymere Palace in the heart of Grandon. Old Wilf, her mother’s coachman, was unfamiliar with the city and took a wrong turning in the maze of narrow streets. Thus he found himself in a shabby alley where there was barely room for the horses to pass and he was in danger of banging his head against upper stories projecting out over the roadway. Street urchins jeered at the rich folks going by; hawkers with barrows cursed as they cleared a path for him. Then his passenger slid open the speaking panel in the roof behind him.

  “What’s this street called?”

  “Sorry, miss—er, Sister I mean. Have you out of here in a jiffy.”

  “I don’t want out of here!” she snapped. She had her mother’s temper. “I want you to turn around somewhere and drive back along this exact same street again. And I want to know what its name is.”

  There was no accounting for the lass, and she would bite his ears off if he argued. Seeing a woman leaning out of an upper window just ahead, Wilf tipped his hat to her and inquired the name of the alley as he went by underneath. “Quirk Row,” she said, grinning at his predicament.

  He made several right turns and eventually managed to retrace his path along Quirk Row. This time the jeering was louder and some of the gutter brats threw squelchy stuff at him and his highly polished paintwork. He cracked his whip at them, but it did no good.

  Another edict from the panel: “Go to Ranulf Square.”

  The coachman sighed. “Yes, miss, er, Sister.” Why couldn’t she make her mind up?

  He had no trouble finding Ranulf Square, for it was one of the more prestigious parts of Grandon, close by Greymere Palace itself. He enjoyed driving along such wide streets, under the great trees, admiring the fine buildings. His pleasure was short-lived.

  “Turn right at this corner!” said the voice of doom at his back. “And right again. Slower…Stop here.”

  “But, Sister!” This street looked very nearly as unsavory as Quirk Row. The windows were both barred and shuttered, the doors iron studded, and the few people in evidence all looked as if they had just escaped from a jail, or even a tomb. “This is not a good area, miss!”

  His protests were ignored. Before he could even dismount to lower the steps for her, Sister Emerald threw open the door. Holding up her skirts, she jumped down. Her white robes looked absurdly out of place in this pesthole. She reached back inside for her steeple hat, which was too tall to be worn in a coach, and settled it expertly on her head.

  “Go and wait for me back in Ranulf Square,” she called up to him, slamming the coach door. “Er…once you’ve made sure I can get in.”

  Why would she even want to get in? Spirits knew what might go on behind that sinister façade! But Wilf did as he was bid, watching her run up the steps, waiting until her vigorous pounding of the knocker brought a response. The man who opened the door could not be a servant, for he wore a sword—which usually indicated a gentleman but might not in this neighborhood. He evidently recognized Emerald, for he bowed gracefully and stepped aside to let her vanish into the darkness of the interior.

  Whatever would her mother say? Sighing, Wilf cracked his whip over the team and drove off. He did note the number 10 on the door, and he inquired the name of the road, which turned out to be Amber Street. It meant nothing to him.

  It meant nothing to most people.

  Most people would not even have realized that these rundown barns backed onto the fine mansions of Ranulf Square. Number 10 Amber Street, for example, was directly behind 17 Ranulf Square, which contained government offices. The brass plates listing these bureaucracies included one saying simply HIS MAJESTY’S COURT OF CONJURY. It was to 17 Ranulf Square that people went to lodge complaints about illegal magic—someone selling curses or love potions or other evils. There the visitors would be interviewed by flunkies whose glassy, fishy stares showed that they were inquisitors, with an enchanted ability to detect falsehoods.

  Then files would be opened, depositions taken, reports written. Eventually, if the case seemed worthwhile, a warrant would be issued and the commissioners themselves would raid the elementary. That was when things became exciting. Elementaries might be guarded by watchdogs the size of ponies, doormats that burst into flames underfoot, or other horrors. The commissioners were all knights in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, former members of the Royal Guard and therefore supremely skilled swordsmen.

  In her brief career in the palace, Emerald had learned to avoid red tape at all costs. She knew about 10 Amber Street because she had heard the Blades of the Guard refer to it; they called it the Snakepit. Whatever the brass plates of Ranulf Square might say, the Old Blades’ real headquarters was here.

  The man who let her in said, “Sister Emerald, this is a wonderful surprise,” as if he meant it.

  She curtseyed. “My pleasure, Sir Chefney.” Chefney was Snake’s deputy and had been partly responsible for her hair-raising adventures at Quagmarsh. In spite of that, she liked Chefney. He was unfailingly polite and good-humored.

  “What brings you to our humble abode, Sister?” “Humble” was pure flattery. The hallway reeked of mildew and dust, the floors were scuffed and splintery, much of the paneling had warped away from the walls, but originally this had been a gracious, rich-person’s residence. Somewhere upstairs feet were stamping and metal clinking as swordsmen kept up their fencing skills.

  “Someone is performing an enchantment not three streets from here. I detected it as my coach went along Quirk Row.”

  Anyone else except possibly Mother Superior would have countered with, “Are you sure?” Emerald might then have made a snippy retort.

  Chefney did not ask if Emerald was sure. He did not produce a form for her to fill in nor summon an inquisitor to interrogate her or a notary to witness her testimony. He did not even inquire what a lady was doing driving along Quirk Row. He just said, “In here, please, Sister,” very brusquely. As she stepped through the doorway he shouted, “Put away the dice, lads. We’ve got work to do.”

  The long room was almost filled by a very large table. The half dozen men standing around it had not been playing dice. They had been rummaging through a wagonload of books and paper, and there were mutters of relief as they turned to greet her. She recognized Sir Snake and Sir Bram and Sir Demise. She was introduced to Sir Rodden, Sir Raptor, Sir Felix…and so on.

  They were all very much alike, men in their thirties, still trim and athletic, neither very tall nor very short; they all moved like hot oil and their eyes were quick. They looked like older brothers of the Blades of the Royal Guard who strutted around the palace in blue and silver livery and were ever eager to squire a young lady to masques, balls, hay rides, fairs, or a dozen other festivities. The main difference to Emerald was that the Old Blades did not reek of hot iron, which was how she perceived the binding spell on the guardsmen.

  The formalities were brief, and then Snake did not even ask her to state her business. He just raised his eyebrows. She knew she might be about to make an epochal fool of herself. What she had sensed might have a very innocent explanation. Then these men would all smile politely and thank her and go back to the important work she had just interrupted.

  “My coachman took a wrong turning, into Quirk Row. I detected someone conjuring. I made him go back the same way and noted the house, number 25. There shouldn’t be an elementary operating this close to the palace, should there?”

  She was meddling in matters that did not directly concern her. Her business was watching over the King in whichever palace happened to be his residence at the time. Correct procedure probably required her to report her suspicions to her supervisor, Mother Petal, who would inform Prioress Alder, who would then write a note to Mother Superior herself, who would pass the word down to old Mother Spinel, who handled relations between the Sisters and the Old Blades—red tape!

  Snake did not say, “Oh,
that’s just the so-and-so Sisters of Healing. They mend peoples’ teeth.” Or, “That’s the Brethren of the Occult Word, where courtiers go for their good-luck charms—they’re harmless, so we ignore them.”

  No, Snake’s stringy mustache curled in a leer of great delight. “Absolutely not, my lady!” He was as thin as his namesake and about as trust-worthy—utterly loyal to the King, of course. Almost too loyal, because he had been known to use very sneaky-snaky means to achieve his ends, as Emerald well knew. “Bram, the map! Raptor, ring the bell!”

  The swordsman nearest the fireplace hauled on a rope. Instead of discreet tinkle in a distant kitchen, this produced a startling clangor out in the hallway, like a fire alarm. The muffled tap of fencers’ feet overhead was replaced by sounds of an avalanche on the staircase.

  By the time another dozen or so men poured in the door, Emerald was bent over a very grubby and dog-eared chart that Sir Bram had spread out over the table litter. Thick swordsmen’s fingers pointed for her.

  “Ranulf Square.”

  “We’re here.”

  “That’s Quirk Row.”

  “What does ‘seventy-five’ mean?”

  “It was about here,” she said, when they let her do some pointing of her own. “We came along here and then back this way…the elementary’s in this building…a green door next to an archway…about here.”

  “Aha!” said Snake, and spread himself full-length across the table so he could hold a lens over the tiny scribbles. “Number twenty-five. There’s the archway, there. Hand me a crayon, someone. Leads through to a mews, or a pump court. So one gets you a thousand there’s a back door, even if there aren’t any secret passages through the cellars. And there’s four ways out of the court, see? That’s a fine location for a nest of traitors. What’s this ‘seventy-five’ written here for?”