by Dave Duncan
“Sighting report,” said a man in the back-ground, rustling paper. “Must have been recent. Someone claimed he—”
“That was me,” said a familiar voice. Stalwart squirmed in through the crowd. “I saw Skuldigger.”
Snake sat up on the table and crossed his bony legs. “So you said.” He had collected ink stains on his silk hose.
Everyone else made eager go on! noises. Skuldigger was the maniac sorcerer genius who had created the chimera monsters. Those had killed many Blades, and more than once endangered the King himself. Skuldigger had escaped at Quagmarsh, but every Blade dreamed of adding Skuldigger’s head to the trophies above his fire-place.
“Good chance, Em.” Stalwart flashed Emerald a joyful smile. They had not seen each other for several weeks and she had forgotten how boyish he looked, especially when surrounded by men twice his age. If he had grown in the last month, she couldn’t detect it. His straw-colored hair was not quite as tumbledown shaggy as before, but still absurdly short.
“Good chance to you, Wart. I hear you’re still collecting sorcerers’ heads to hang on your wall.”
“Oh?” he said casually. “Who told you that?”
“The King. He praised you highly.”
His face reddened in anger. “Fat Man has a funny way of showing his gratitude.”
She had intended to flatter him in front of the others. She had forgotten how much he wanted to be a real Blade, a member of the Royal Guard. Valuable though it was, the undercover work he was doing for Snake seemed to him like cheating, and unworthy.
“Skuldigger, guardsman!” Snake snarled. “We’re waiting!”
“Er, yes, brother. If I’d had my sword with me, I’d have nailed him to a post and called the watch.” Wart was not joking; he was deadly when he had to be. “But I didn’t. Saw him on Cupmaker Street, heading toward the palace. Two days ago. I followed him. He turned into Long Bacon Road and I lost him near the Silk Traders’ Guildhall.” Snake started to speak, but Wart drowned him out. “I’m certain he didn’t see me. And look on the map—There’s an alley there leads into that same pump court!”
“So that was a shortcut for him.” Snake leaned over to thump Wart on the shoulder. “He was just going the best way home. Well done!”
“So now do you believe me?”
“Do you think I ever doubted you?” Snake asked in outraged tones, scrambling down off the table in a shower of paper and a couple of writing slates.
“Yes.”
“What sort of conjuration?” asked a new voice.
The men cleared a way for a tall, elderly lady in White Sister robes and high hennin. Emerald had met Mother Spinel only once, but knew her reputation as a battleaxe second only to Mother Superior herself. Behind her very upright back she was known as “Sister Spinal.”
Emerald struggled to recall the elemental spirits she had detected. “Mostly air, my lady, a trace of fire, I think, and maybe some earth, too…I was in a moving carriage….”
Sister Spinal’s face had more wrinkles than a basket of walnuts and they all seemed to deepen in disapproval. “Not threatening, then?”
“Um, no, Mother. It gave me no sense of evil.”
“Doesn’t matter!” Snake snapped. “Unlicensed conjuring near the palace is forbidden and we have a Skuldigger sighting. That’s enough. We’ll do this the way we did Brandford Priory last week. Sir Dagger, you’ll handle the door for us again.”
Wart pulled an angry face. “Yes, brother.”
“By the time you get there, we’ll be in place. If there’s no back door, use the front.” Snake smirked. “Don’t get stepped on!”
Scowling, Wart headed for the door. Emerald noticed grins following him. His earlier exploits had made him a hero, but now the others were treating him as their mascot or water boy. He must hate that.
Snake was barking orders. “Head over there in twos and threes—leisurely stroll, don’t hurry, don’t dawdle. I want everyone in position when the palace clock chimes three. Chefney, you and Demise take the Quirk archway next to the house itself. Blow your whistle when the kid gets in. They may make a break out the front. Felix and Bram, take Quirk Row on the palace side. Raptor and Grady…” When he had assigned everyone he grinned. “Any questions?”
“What if the kid doesn’t force the door?”
“I’ll bring a pry bar. Two whistles for that, Chef. Any more questions? No? Then go and get your swords wet!”
Laughing, the men began pouring out of the room, almost jamming up in the corridor.
Snake himself paused in the doorway to look back. “Mother, would you be so kind as to alert Master Nicely—soon but not too soon?”
The old lady seemed to draw herself up even taller. “I certainly will do no such thing. You think we Sisters are kitchen scullions to be sent on errands?”
“Ah, well I did try to keep him informed.” Snake vanished. Emerald heard him laughing as the outer door slammed.
“Don’t they need a search warrant?”
Mother Spinel coughed disapprovingly. “Not if they can catch them red-handed, and your evidence is good enough for that. Besides, if Sir Snake can just nab Skuldigger, he can count on a royal pardon, no matter what he does. The enchantment you detected—could it have been a language spell?”
“Um, yes! Yes, it could.” It could have been several other things, too.
“Interesting.” The old lady frowned without explaining why that should be interesting or why she had made such a guess. “And you came straight here, to the Snakepit?”
Emerald braced herself for an ear-roasting tirade on the Importance of Going Through Proper Channels. “Well…yes, my lady. I, er…Yes.”
“Very quick thinking! I commend you. Too many young people today just never seem to use their brains. They have no initiative! Where did you leave your coach?”
“Oh! I told the man to wait in Ranulf Square.”
Mother Spinel rearranged some wrinkles into what was apparently a smile. “I have to go through to the front office and alert the inquisitors. I don’t like Master Nicely any better than Snake does, but he should be told. And also the healers, whom Sir Snake tends to forget until it is too late. I expect you want to see the end of this affair? Why don’t we ride over to Quirk Row together and help pick up the pieces?”
“That is most kind of you, my lady.” This was turning out to be very interesting afternoon.
2
All the King’s Men
SIR DAGGER? SPURRED BY FURY, STALWART bounded up two flights of stairs without drawing breath. He was unlucky with names. When he was admitted to Ironhall four years ago, he had chosen to call himself “Stalwart” and promptly been labeled “Wart.” That had not bothered him too much, it being so like his original name of Wat, but “stalwart” did not only mean “brave,” it also meant “big and strong” and here he was, four years later, just turned seventeen and still a runt! Understandably, the Guard had no use for a Sir Stalwart who looked like a puny kid. Now Snake had picked up Ambrose’s infantile joke about the King’s Daggers, so Stalwart was “Sir Dagger” all the time. Big bellylaugh!
He charged into the hot little cubicle that was his personal piece of the world just now. His precious lute stood in a corner and a rickety wicker hamper held all the rest of his worldly goods. He pulled off his baldric and his sword, Sleight. He laid her carefully under the bed, then began tearing off his clothes, willfully spraying buttons that he would have to find and sew on again tonight. What use was a swordsman without a sword?
Spirits, he was a good swordsman! He’d been the best in Ironhall when he was sworn in to the Guard—better than Panther or Orvil or Rufus or Dragon, who had all been senior to him and had been bound that day. It was not because of his swordsmanship that the King had refused to bind him. It was because of his stupid looks! He was a better swordsman than most of the Old Blades, even—he could beat Snake with his eyes shut (well, almost). The only men who could outscore him consistently were Chefney and Demi
se, and they’d both won the King’s Cup in their day. Now they were coaching him for next year’s tournament, swearing that he was going to come out of nowhere and beat even Deputy Commander Dreadnought, who’d won it for the past two years. One thing Stalwart would not complain about was the fencing instruction he was getting. They worked him to bare bones, day in and day out, but they were making a crack Blade out of him. Chefney said he was already one of the top dozen swordsmen in the whole world.
Yet Snake wouldn’t let him use his sword in the real fights!
He’d killed men, and still they gave him jobs where he couldn’t wear his sword.
He threw open the hamper and pulled out a greasy smock, a stinky, tattered thing that left his arms bare and covered the rest of him to the knees. This was what he wore these days to serve his King. He’d worn it when the Old Blades raided Brandford Priory, and he’d worn it for three awful days at the Darland Brethren place, working as a kitchen scullion to gather evidence—and bloodcurdling horrible evidence, too. He’d begun his Blade career disguised as a wagon driver, in the Quagmarsh affair, so how could he start complaining now?
It was important work and he’d helped destroy a lot of the King’s enemies in the last three months, but he still felt jealous of Orvil and the rest strutting around the palace in their fancy livery. A man needed friends of his own age. All of his were either in the Royal Guard or still back in Ironhall.
He jammed a shapeless cloth hat on his head and slid his feet into wooden shoes. They were surprisingly comfortable and ideal for working in filthy streets and courtyards, but a man couldn’t fence in them. He scowled at himself in the mirror. Something wrong? Yes, he was too clean. He ran his fingers along the top of the door and collected a century of dust to smear on his face. He gave his upper lip a double dose and peered closer. There was some faint blond fuzz there, but the dirt didn’t really make it any more visible. And now all the world would smell of mouse. Sigh!
Lastly, he took up the feather-stuffed sack he kept in the corner and slung it over his shoulder. It weighed nothing, but back in his days as a minstrel’s helper he had learned some miming, so he knew how to make it look heavy. Indistinguishable from hundreds of boys who earned a skimpy living running errands around Grandon, he clattered off down the stairs in his wooden shoes.
Sir Stalwart, member of the Order of the White Star, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, guardsman in the Royal Guard on temporary assignment to the Old Blades, Commissioner of His Majesty’s Court of Conjury…reporting for duty, SIR!
As Emerald accompanied Mother Spinel through the bewildering interior maze of the Snakepit, she suddenly detected a strong odor of rotting fish. A moment later their way was blocked by a roly-poly man in unusually gaudy clothes—purple hose, silver boots, gold-striped velvet cloak, and a green-and-scarlet jerkin all puffed and piped and slashed. His smile did not go up to his eyes. His bow barely reached down to his shoulders.
“Sister Emerald! I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last, having heard so much about your exploits.”
Having never met the man before, Emerald found herself at a loss for words, an unfamiliar sensation. Although he was not wearing the usual black robes and biretta, she knew he was an inquisitor by the stench of the Dark Chamber’s conjuration. And there was no mistaking the unwinking fishy stare.
“Senior Inquisitor Nicely,” Mother Spinel explained drily, “seeks to impress you with his all-seeing wisdom, but in fact his minions keep watch on the door of the Snakepit. I expect your arms are emblazoned on your coach?”
“My lady,” Nicely protested, “you will corrupt the fair damsel with your cynicism.” He was not merely hatless but also totally hairless, so that his head resembled a polished wooden ball. His eyes had been painted on as an afterthought.
“There are worse ways of being corrupted,” Sister Spinal retorted. “I am surprised that you are not taking part in the raid.”
“Raid?” That was the first time Emerald had seen an inquisitor startled.
“Sir Snake and his merry men are presently storming the illegal elementary at twenty-five Quirk Row.”
“I was not informed that there were premises under surveillance at that address.”
“Perhaps,” Mother Spinel said, with one of her gruesome little smiles, “you should keep closer watch on the enemy and less on your friends.”
“Perhaps,” Nicely said coldly. He spun around and waddled off the way he had come.
“What is it about inquisitors?” Emerald muttered as they followed.
“They like to make us feel guilty.”
“But I have nothing to feel guilty about!”
“To an inquisitor,” Mother Spinel said blandly, “that would seem highly suspicious.”
The old lady was very effective at getting her way. When they arrived at the musty but grandiose offices of the Court of Conjury, she said, “Why don’t you summon your carriage, child, while I roust up a bevy of healers?” and Emerald promptly found herself out on the steps.
There were coaches parked all around Ranulf Square and it took her a moment or two to recognize her mother’s on the far side. That was not Wilf’s fault, since she had not told him exactly where to wait for her, but now he was deep in gossip with two other coachmen. Street cleaning being a service unknown to the civic fathers of Grandon, and ladies’ shoes not being made for walking in mire, Emerald was still frantically waving when Mother Spinel came out to join her on the doorstep.
“Tsk!” the old lady said. She put her head back inside and shouted, “You! Boy!” When an alarmed apprentice appeared, she had Emerald identify her carriage and sent the lad off at a run. Emerald wondered wistfully what would have happened if she had tried that.
But it was fun to see the expression on Wilf’s face when he saw the imposing Mother he was to transport, and even more when Emerald ordered him to take them back to 25 Quirk Row.
3
Defeat Snatched from the Jaws of Victory
ONE OF IRONHALL’S BASIC LESSONS, POUNDED into every candidate, was Know your ground. Wherever a Blade found himself, he owed it to his ward to be familiar with every bush, puddle, and tree—or street, square, and alley, as the case might be. That, the masters said grimly, was often half the battle. Stalwart had spent many hours walking the streets of Grandon. He knew the archway Emerald had mentioned, leading from Quirk Way to the fetid, gloomy courtyard where the locals pumped their water. He even had a vague recollection of the green door she had pinpointed. As Snake had said, there would be a kitchen exit at the rear of the house.
The map had showed four ways into the yard. He went past the Pepper Street entrance, where Sir Julius and Sir Rodden stood, chatting as if they had just met by chance. Julius flashed him a wink. He turned into Nethergate and went along seven houses until he came to Sir Terror and Sir Torquil in a ferocious argument about some fictitious gambling debt. The entrance beside them would do well, because he would cross the full width of the court to reach his destination. If there happened to be guards watching from a rear window—possible, but not probable—they would note the “errand boy’s” approach and not be taken by surprise.
Stalwart trudged through the tunnel and across the cobbles, tilted over as if the sack on his shoulder weighed as much as he did. Buildings four or five stories beetled all around, shutting out the light. The air stank of garbage and urine. Two women gossiping beside the pump ignored him, as did some grubby toddlers stalking pigeons, but excitement was drying his throat and twisting knots in his belly. Chefney and Demise stood in the Quirk Row archway ahead of him; neither seemed to look his way, but a casual gesture from Chefney confirmed that the door Stalwart needed was the one next to the corner. It was comforting to know that two of the world’s best swordsmen were close at hand to back him up.
The easiest way to open a locked door, of course, was to arm a husky blacksmith or woodcutter with a sledgehammer and say, “Now!” and then, “Thank you!” For obscure
legal reasons, the Crown’s lawyers preferred that the door be opened voluntarily. They liked the occupants themselves to admit the King’s men, even if the first one in did happen to look like an errand boy.
It had worked at Brandford. A servant girl had opened the door and Stalwart had pushed past her with a shout of “Open in the King’s name!” The Old Blades had poured in at his back and most of the enchanters in residence had been arrested while they were still asleep in bed.
If he failed, there were other methods. The inquisitors had a sorcery that would open any door, but the Old Blades did not ask favors of the Dark Chamber unless they absolutely had to. Give those fishy-eyed scorpions an inch and they’d hang you, Snake said. The King had put the Old Blades, not the inquisitors, in charge of the Monster War. Master Nicely and his team were welcome to tidy up later—interrogate prisoners and handle the paperwork.
The door was set back in a shallow alcove. It was made of massive timbers, with a small grille set in it at eye level, and it opened inward, which was good. Still aware that he might be observed, reminding himself that the sack was full of rocks, Stalwart rapped hard with his shoe. He leaned his burden against the wall, to help support it, but in a position where it could be seen through the peephole.
He was just going to kick again when a face peered through the grille…a man’s face…quite young, oddly familiar….
“Carrots!” Stalwart yelled. “Brought your carrots.”
“You got the wrong house.” Even the voice sounded familiar.
“Twenty-five Quirk Row? Bag o’ carrots,” Stalwart insisted, speaking as if he were straining to hold up the bag. “Someone here paid five groats for these carrots.”