by Dave Duncan
And now, again, he heard voices. Torches flared against the sky, silhouetting heads peering over the edge. He did not want people trying to climb down while he was climbing up.
“If you’re looking for my body,” he yelled, “I’m bringing it as fast as I can.”
“How about this one, then?” Dreadnought asked, thrusting another jerkin at him. “I’ve known ants with fatter waists.”
“Lazy creatures, ants. Sit around getting fat.” It was not easy for Stalwart to try on livery while Leader himself was toweling his hair for him. They were in the bath house. Fitzroy was kneeling at his feet, cleaning his boots; Fairtrue was polishing Sleight. A dozen of the most senior members of the Guard were falling all over themselves in a mad rush to make the hero presentable. They had chosen Hawkney and Charente as the nearest to Stalwart’s size, and stripped them.
The King was waiting.
“What—ouch!—does Silvercloak really look like?” Stalwart asked as someone combed his hair.
“A bag of broken bones,” Bandit said. “He dropped dead at Fat Man’s feet when you disappeared. Before that—plump, swarthy, fortyish. Mustache. Nothing like you described.”
“Of course not.”
“I think that’ll have to do until he grows up,” Dreadnought said. “Here, Brother Wart, I’ll loan you this.” He pinned his diamond star on Stalwart’s jerkin and then saluted. “Ready to go on duty, guardsman?”
It was a dream. It had to be. The King never held court in Ironhall! Yet there he was at the far end of the hall, sitting on the throne in splendor, under the glittering sky of swords. Tables and stools had been removed. A dozen blue-liveried guardsmen flanked him on either side. Everyone else was standing along the walls—knights, masters, more Blades, candidates, servants; and they were all screaming their lungs out as the hero marched in at the head of his honor guard.
Any minute now he was going to wake up.
But he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.
Ambrose was even smiling, although he notoriously resented anyone else being cheered in his presence. He lacked the crown and robes he wore on state occasions, but he did have a few fancy jeweled orders spread about his person. He was imposing enough. He would do.
And now he was rising! Kings never stood to honor anyone except ambassadors. This could not be real. Twenty paces…fifteen…ten…
“Guard, halt!” Bandit barked.
Stalwart stopped and drew Sleight.
“What are you doing?” roared the King. The hall cringed into mousey silence.
“Er…Sire, he is not bound.” Even Bandit sounded disconcerted. “Tonight, after—”
“Bound? Bound? Why does he need binding?”
“Um, loyalty, sire…?”
“Loyalty?” Ambrose bellowed, even louder. “The man throws himself off a cliff for me and you question his loyalty? We allow Lord Roland to come armed into our presence and now we extend that same distinction to Sir Stalwart. Give the man back his sword!”
Still dreaming then, Stalwart made formal approach to the throne: three bows, kiss royal fingers….
“Good!” said the King, sitting down again. “Now, Sir Stalwart, stand here at our side and tell us exactly what you did and how you knew to do it.” His little amber eyes regarded Stalwart suspiciously.
The hall hushed, every ear craning to hear.
“It was his cloak, sire. I mean, the dog made it obvious. It had its throat ripped out. And the door in Quirk Row. I pushed it and instead of thumping him it thumped me, only harder. And he looked much like me. To me, I mean. He looked different to everyone…never threatening to anyone, because he was always familiar. He fenced southpaw. And better—I mean his silver cloak reflected everything, but stronger.” Stalwart was not doing a good job of this explanation. “He was a hopeless fencer. I could have killed him on the first riposte—but that’s what Chefney and Demise tried. I’d have died. I had to make him attack me…Your Grace?”
“And then kill you?”
“Er…yes. And he wouldn’t, because he knew what would happen. So I let him drive me off the edge. He didn’t mean to, I mean….”
The hall buzzed.
The King frowned. “But he could kill people when he wanted to! Not all his victims died from trying to kill him, surely. So how could you know that his cloak would work for you?”
“I, er…I did sort of gamble on that, Your Majesty. I assumed he could switch the magic off somehow but he wouldn’t dare do that when he was fencing with an expert.”
“Mm?” said the King, as if he needed to think. “Stand back a moment, Sir Stalwart. When you arrived we were questioning…Sister Emerald?”
The dream grew stranger, for there was Em curtseying in a fantastic ball gown of green silk, all ruffles and pleats, with a long train. The effect was not improved by her magnificent multicolored shiner.
“We were about to inquire, Sister, who was responsible for that eye?”
“It was a misunderstanding, sire.”
“Answer!”
Emerald jumped, sending ripples along her train. “Candidate Servian, Your Grace.”
“Who?” the King said incredulously. He scowled around to locate Grand Master. “Where is this boy?”
Grand Master shuffled forward, looking flustered. “Candidate Servian!” he shouted shrilly at the hall. “A promising fencer with sabers, Your Grace, although I have been keeping an eye on…Servian?”
No response.
“He is sometimes inclined to…Servian!”
Silence.
“Candidate Servian is indisposed, sire.” Sir Fury advanced a pace and saluted. He had a split lip and a bruise on his cheek.
“Indisposed?” growled the King. “Show me your hands.”
With obvious reluctance, Fury displayed two hands swollen and battered as if he had punched his way through the curtain wall. If Candidate Servian had done that damage by beating on them with his face, Stalwart decided, then Candidate Servian must be very indisposed indeed. Which was long overdue. A hint of a cheer rippled through the sopranos and was hastily hushed.
“You indisposed him?”
“A lesson in manners, sire.” Fury tried to return the royal glare defiantly, but that was never easy.
His Majesty growled. “On what grounds, guardsman, do you take it upon yourself—”
“Because I asked him to!” Emerald said.
Fury looked surprised and then extremely pleased, in quick succession.
Emerald avoided his eye and blushed. Which was strange, because Stalwart had never thought of her as being shy.
The King said, “Umph!” suspiciously. He waved Fury away. “We shall take this matter under advisement. Meanwhile, we instructed you earlier, Sister, to consider what reward we might bestow on you for your outstanding service. Have you decided?”
“I beg leave to defer to Your Majesty’s renowned generosity. Well, there is one small matter. Last night some of the candidates assisted me. If Your Grace would spare a moment to acknowledge—”
Not willingly. Normally the King ignored candidates lower than the seniors ready to be bound. Only Ironhall’s finished product interested him, not the raw material. He shrugged his consent with a poor grace and scowled as the sixteen wide-eyed residents of Rabbit shuffled forward and lined up in awed silence to be presented.
“Candidate Tremayne,” Emerald said. Tremayne advanced a pace and bowed awkwardly.
“Candidate Conradin…” And so on. “And lastly, sire, Candidate Intrepid.”
Intrepid stepped forward. “That means, ‘with-out fear!’” he explained.
“Obviously,” the King retorted.
The brief break had allowed him to reach a decision or two, though. “Stalwart?”
“Sire?” Wart came forward.
“We are also curious to know just how you came to be at the bottom of that ladder.” Ambrose already had a fair idea, clearly. His piggy little eyes glinted wickedly. “Begin when our Lord Chancellor as
signed you another of those special duties you have been performing so admirably these last few months.”
Oh, royal favor was heady stuff!
And when the tale was told—
“Strange!” said His Majesty. “You mean that when you arrived at Ironhall Grand Master failed to recognize you?”
Payback time. Looking across to the far side of the throne, Stalwart admired Sir Saxon’s appalled expression and the way his face was turning green, like a tree in springtime. He also sensed that the spectators were holding their breath, that everyone was waiting to hear his answer, not least of all the King. Grand Master’s fate was in his hands. He wished Snake were there to advise him. He wondered what the entire Loyal and Ancient Order would say if its youngest, most junior member, trashed its Grand Master. That didn’t feel like a wise move. He glanced at Emerald. Very slightly, she shook her head, which confirmed what he was thinking.
Sigh!
“Oh, no, sire. He merely declined to confirm my story. That was his duty, since he had never been officially advised of my position. I should not have expected him to do anything else.”
All Ironhall released its breath.
“And Inquisitor Nicely?” asked the King, still watching the witness intently.
Saving Grand Master’s hide was bad enough. No Blade should be expected to side with an inquisitor! “I confess that his denial surprised me.”
“Master Nicely?” the King rumbled.
Nicely came forward and bowed, but his glassy eyes failed to register any satisfying dread. “I was merely following the Commander’s instructions, sire. He informed us of Your Grace’s wish that Sir Stalwart remain incognito.”
Ambrose grunted and peered inquiringly at Stalwart again.
Fortunately, Wart had heard Snake tell many tales of the King’s little tricks. He was offering revenge, yes—Stalwart could exterminate Nicely if he wanted—but he was also testing his new favorite’s judgment and how far he could be trusted. No one could ever succeed at court without large quantities of tact.
To have an inquisitor by the throat and not squeeze? Was there no justice? Sigh!
“I recall hearing Leader tell him that, sire,” Stalwart said. “I accept his explanation.”
The King nodded, pursing his blubbery lips. “But Sir Fitzroy, Sir Rufus, Sir Panther, and Sir Dragon—those men over there in bandages and slings? They threw you out to be eaten by monsters.”
Having forgiven an inquisitor, Wart could do no less for brother Blades. “With respect, not so, sire. They could hardly accept my story after Grand Master and the inquisitor failed to support it. I was the one who decided to leave. I am sorry I hurt them.”
The sopranos started a snigger, then the hall erupted in laughter and applause. Even the King smiled approval.
“I hope you will restrain that temper in future, Sir Stalwart. Our Guard is presently shorthanded and cannot afford such casualties every time you take offense.”
“I will try my best, sire.”
“Grand Master? If we accept his promise to behave, will you write his exploits into the Litany?”
“Indeed, I will, Your Grace! It will give me the utmost pleasure.”
Stalwart hadn’t thought of that. He gaped as the hall cheered him yet again. Few Blades ever made that honor roll, and even fewer of them lived to know it.
Then the King rose, and the hall fell silent. “Remove that star.”
“Sire?” Puzzled, Stalwart unpinned Dread-nought’s badge, wondering if the King could possibly know one from the other. They all looked the same to him. Then he saw Bandit and Dreadnought frantically gesturing at him….
Hastily Stalwart dropped to his knees.
“We give you this one instead.” Ambrose took the eight-pointed order from his cloak. He raised his voice to stir jingling echoes from the sky of swords overhead. “Know all ye here present, that we, Ambrose, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, do hereby raise our trusty and well-beloved Stalwart, member of the Order of the White Star, to the rank of companion in the said—” Renewed cheering drowned out the rest.
The King chuckled. The only person in Ironhall not making a noise was Stalwart him-self. He was speechless. Companion in the White Star? Like Roland? He was going to be hobnobbing with the Chancellor, royal dukes….
About to pin the badge on Stalwart’s chest, Ambrose paused, as if having second thoughts. “You do realize,” he muttered, almost inaudible under the tumult, “that this probably makes you the premier commoner in the land? I’ll have to ask the heralds, but I do believe you’ll even out-rank the Speaker of the House.”
“Your Majesty is being very generous,” Stalwart said hoarsely.
The piggy little eyes twinkled. “Well, I couldn’t be generous if I were dead. There!” And, as Stalwart was about to rise—“One other thing.”
“Sire?”
“We promise to stop making jokes about the King’s Daggers.”
Aftermath
SERVIAN, HAVING BEEN OFFICIALLY EXPELLED, was last seen begging a carter to give him a ride into Torwell, where he could hope to find work in the lead mines.
The assassin’s horse recovered from its trance, and when Ambrose left Ironhall a couple of days later, Stalwart rode it down to Blackwater. Lumpkin was there, having found his own way home safely—although he never let anyone ride him on Starkmoor again. Stalwart rode Yikes from Blackwater to Holmgarth, where she was reunited with Sheriff Sherwin.
Wart persuaded Sherwin to show Emerald his magic whistle, but Emerald said she couldn’t find any magic on it, which was very strange, because it would still alarm dogs and horses, and yet it made no noise at all.
The hard part of that whole journey back to Grandon was being a royal favorite, expected to remain in close attendance on the King. Stalwart would have much preferred to ride beside Emerald, but most of the Royal Guard had that very same idea. Sir Fury was there first, though, glaring murder at any other man who came close. Since Sister Emerald did not seem to mind, he was allowed to get away with this…for the time being, anyway….