by Dave Duncan
“I expect Chivial has bigger counties. At one time the area was part of the Great Holy Empire, and the Emperor Carlus IV created the duchy for a son-in-law. So my ancestors held Krupina from the Emperor, but since the Empire is no more, they have held it against all comers. Fortunately it has very defensible borders.”
He put his fingertips together. “Imagine a fertile plain, a triangle like this. My hands are two mountain ranges and the Asch flows down the middle, emptying into the Siril Lakes in the south, where my thumbs are. Siril is more swamp than lake, even in wet years. There are two towns, both on the river. Krupa is the capital, and quite central. Zolensa is near the lakes, in the south. City folk mostly speak Fitainish and country people Bohakian.
“The dukes have always claimed to rule the hills and swamps as well as the plain, but they were usually satisfied with a token allegiance, rather than wasting money trying to tax those outlying areas by force. This works both ways. The people who live in the marshes don’t want foreigners intruding on them and mountain folk everywhere are doughty fighters. Foreigners have usually decided there isn’t enough left over to justify a war of conquest. And that’s not even taking Vamky into account. The Vamky Monastery defends Pilgrim Pass at the north end, the apex of the triangle, where the Asch emerges from the mountains.
“That’s my homeland. It’s small—you can ride from Vamky to Zolensa in a few hours. It’s insignificant and tries to stay that way, but it is beautiful. It raises cattle and horses. It exports conjurers, fine wines, and even finer fighting men, which is better than importing someone else’s. It belongs to me and my son after me, not my uncle. I want it back.”
“We’ll help you, Your Highness,” Ringwood said.
“Thank you.” The Grand Duke smiled approvingly. Or was he laughing at a loudmouthed boy? What could a couple of half-trained Blades hope to do? “How much do you know about the Vamky Brotherhood?”
Ranter said, “Nothing.”
Ringwood said, “Sire, Grand Master mentioned it as one of the famous spiritualist orders.”
“The oldest in Eurania. They are great warriors as well as great conjurers, and the monastery itself is a major fortress. Unfortunately my Uncle Volpe rules Vamky.”
Speaking of conjurers…The door squeaked and sunlight threw a doughty shadow down the steps. With a distinctive sound of slapping sandals, Master of Rituals descended, clutching a pile of white towels to his paunch. Unlike other masters, he was not a knight in the Order, but an adept of the Arcanes. His chubby form was enclosed in a full-length gray robe of heavy wool, although spirits knew how he stood it in summer. His bald head was burned crimson by the sun, hedged in a horseshoe of salt-and-pepper hair, and his face was even redder and shinier. He was the most constantly happy person Ringwood knew, always humming little songs.
“Bath time!” he chuckled. “If Your Grace will forgive my saying so. Better now than Firstmoon, mm? The order is very important. Start here…” He dropped a towel by one of the troughs. “Then here!” He crossed over to another and dropped two. “Here…and finally, here!” He spilled the rest of the pile and clasped his soft, plump hands. “A complete immersion in each is necessary, but splash around as long as you like. Take all day if you wish. We shall assemble in the hall and then come to join you just before midnight.” He beamed. “Any questions?”
“Are you suggesting,” Grand Duke Rubin inquired icily, “that I bathe in concert with these youths?”
For once Master of Rituals’s happy smile faded. He blinked. “His Majesty…King Athelgar has never objected, Your Grace.”
“How about his mother?”
“Queen Malinda?”
“Does he have other mothers?”
Grand Duke Rubin was displaying some grand-ducal temper for the first time. That was his privilege and almost welcome, because it showed he had spark. His reasons did not matter. Ringwood was much more worried by Ranter’s stupid leer. He was already unlacing his shirt to prove he was manly enough not to have scruples about stripping in front of other men. Any minute now he would do or say something appalling.
“M-mothers?” Master of Rituals stammered. “Not so far as…I believe there are some screens in the cellars that are brought up whenever a lady binds—”
“Surely, Master,” Ringwood said, “if our ward wishes privacy, Ranter and I can wait outside? And he can go outside while we bathe in our turn?”
The tubby man was flustered now. “You are supposed to remain in the Forge until the binding!”
“If your ritual is as fragile as that,” the Grand Duke sapped, “then I want no part of it.”
“Er…”
Ranter dropped his shirt on the floor.
“The porch at the top of the stairs is part of the Forge,” Ringwood said hastily. “We shall wait in there until Your Highness summons us. By your leave?” He turned Master of Rituals around and pushed him toward the steps. “Ranter!”
Ranter scowled and pulled his hose up again.
The stable was hot, acrid, and loud with the drone of flies. The hands were being ostentatiously busy, pretending not to eavesdrop, but even the horses had their ears pricked.
“You may inform Leader,” Durendal said, “that I shall send him a report on the new seniors class within the week.” He spoke softly, adding a glare for emphasis.
Sir Tancred, who had been checking his mount’s girths, leaned an arm on its neck to pat it and nodded warily. “Yes, Grand Master.”
“And you may tell him privily that there will be no more bindings until I report that we have suitable candidates available. That will be at least a year! Any request before that, even an informal inquiry, will be answered with my resignation.”
Deputy nodded vigorously. “Certainly, Grand Master.”
“Good chance to you.”
Tancred would tell Leader, but would Leader tell the King? Not unless he had to, likely. Grand Master stalked out into the sunshine and headed for First House.
The new Prime, Goodwin, fell into step beside him. “Beg your pardon, Grand—”
“How many?”
“What? Promotions? I thought twelve?”
“I think fifteen. Fourteen if you have doubts about Sparman. Not Bellman, of course.”
“Of course, Grand Master.”
“Tell them to move their kit. They’ll have to wait until tomorrow for swords. Go!”
And there was Bellman, waiting patiently by the steps for him, surrounded by sorrowful boys saying good-bye.
“Come,” Grand Master said, not stopping. “We need to talk.”
He felt old as he climbed the stairs. Lack of sleep was making him dull, fogging his wits. Perhaps he could rest for an hour or two, because the binding could not start until close to midnight. The royal guest was out of the way and Master of Rituals had orders to keep the odious Baron occupied. Everything was under control at last. Almost everything. Bellman flowed along beside him in respectful silence.
“Sit!” Grand Master said when they reach his study. “You’ll have some wine with me.” Yes, he would certainly take a nap. His gray hairs had earned it.
“Thank you, Grand Master.”
He handed his guest a glass and sat down facing him. “I drink to better chance in your future, Bellman.”
“Thank you, my lord. I blame no one but myself and my own folly. I am deeply grateful for your patience.”
“The folly was mine. After all these years I should have seen right away you had a problem. You are a great loss to the Order.”
Bellman acknowledged the compliment with his usual grace. Wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, a deeply tanned face that few people would call handsome—craggy or strong, perhaps, certainly not a face to be trifled with. Broad-shouldered and imposing, he stood taller than Ironhall preferred and had done so the day he arrived. Conjuration had stopped his growth but not reversed it. He had stood out from the herd for years because of his greater maturity. He made Ranter seem like a sulky child, although they were the same ag
e. One look at him and you thought competence.
“I have scanned the charter and the precedents,” Grand Master said, “and I can find no loophole, no way I can bend the rules to let you stay. Nor can I give you a cat’s-eye sword when you leave. But we will find you worthy employment. I am not without influence, even yet, and I will give you the strongest possible recommendation.”
“You are very kind, Grand Master. Can you recommend a murderer?”
“I can recommend you.”
Bellman sipped wine without taking eyes off him. “On the day I arrived, you told me you had known a lot of applicants to arrive with the law on their tails, but you had never had to close the gates on a lynch party before.”
A wolf pack mob of young louts who’d thought they had an excuse to hang someone? “They were fools if they expected to find a tree on Starkmoor.”
“You threw coins for me to catch and I missed half of them.”
“You caught half of them with a noose waiting outside the gate if I refused you. That was good enough for me. But tell me if you wish.” Obviously the boy wanted to get it off his chest, probably to test Grand Master’s reaction.
Bellman smiled wistfully. “It is a brief, sad tale, my lord. I was apprenticed to my father, the locksmith in Camford. He was called upon to repair a jammed lock at the Sheriff’s house, so he sent me to remove the lock and bring it to his shop. The Sheriff had forgotten or not been told, so he saw a man trying to force open his daughter’s bedroom. Not impossible, I suppose—I was fifteen and had designs on every man’s daughter. The first I knew was this wild old man in a nightshirt screaming and dancing and striking at me with a cane. I jumped up and tried to take it from him. I did not hit him, but he fell and did not rise. I ran for help and was met on the stair by people coming to investigate. He was dead and they thought I’d been running away. Which I then did.”
“He’d had a fit?”
Bellman sighed. “I think he banged his head on the edge of a table. Just a silly little bump on the head. One got me into Ironhall; another is taking me out. Even chance can make justice.”
“I know a very reliable witness who says it was an accident.”
“There were no witnesses.”
“There was one.”
Bellman smiled. “Thank you.”
“You would repeat your story before an inquisitor?”
The youth’s eyes brightened. “Certainly I would!”
“I can arrange that,” Lord Roland said. Commander Florian would be due to retire in six or seven years, and this boy would have been his logical successor if a certain Grand Master had not been so incompetent as to overlook an obvious injury. Alas! Now that could never be. “So…Employment? I am confident that you will succeed at anything you try. Is there any particular field you fancy? You handle people well. You could be a steward, running an estate. Master of Rituals is very anxious to see you enroll in the College to study conjury. Something more vigorous? A royal courier, if you enjoy travel.”
The boy looked down at his hands and the goblet. After a moment he said softly, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
Flash!
That was Roland’s secret name for the lightning bolt of opportunity, the momentary gap in your opponent’s guard when your foil streaks in for a hit. He had seen those flashes many times in his days as a swordsman. As Lord Chancellor he had sometimes experienced the same flash of recognition in meetings when a logjam could be broken and a deal made. He had never met it here in Ironhall, where the problems were almost always routine.
Even Ringwood had seen this one, and he had slapped the boy down.
So it had not been old age niggling at him all morning. It had been frustration, awareness of a problem he could do nothing about. Old age was always frustration, but frustration was not necessarily old age. Maybe he could do something about this one after all. Or Bellman could. Cancel the nap…
“What do you have in mind?” he asked, carefully keeping excitement out of his voice.
The boy cocked his head in that curious way he had now. “Only that Bernard was my friend, and there is something very odd about his death. I questioned Sir Hazard about it, but he knew nothing useful.” And if Hazard didn’t, no one in the Guard did. “But someone sent those shadowmen who killed my friend. That someone ought to pay dearly.”
“I agree. I have played hunches all my life, lad. Not always, although when I ignored them I was usually sorry, and once in a while they were wrong and led me into error. Followed or not, hunches should never be ignored, and I had the same hunch you did. There is something extremely odd about this vagrant Grand Duke and his undead pursuers. I can certainly suggest that he add you to his train, for it is pathetically small. Most dukes travel with dozens.”
“He may be suspicious, of course.”
So Bellman had seen that possibility, too.
Grand Master nodded. “If he has something to hide, he will be very suspicious. He will refuse, in fact. Suppose you discover that the Duke himself summoned the shadowmen for some vile scheming purpose—to win the King’s sympathy, perhaps. After all, candles seem to be an adequate defense. The guards were improperly warned, but the Krupinese knew the facts and were safe enough. Suppose the attack turns out to have been a fraud. What will you do then?”
Bellman shrugged. “Nothing. He will have two Blades to guard him, so he cannot be harmed without killing them first, and they are my friends, too. It can never be easy to bring a Grand Duke to justice. I do not even know why his subjects threw him out.”
“Nor do I. Did Hazard?”
A flicker of a smile. “No.”
“Then let us assume that our King knows what he is about and Rubin of Krupina is worthy of help. If he hires you, I know that you will not betray his trust. But I should like you to do something else, a service for me and the Order, subject to your loyalty to him. I will give you money. If the Duke dies, look after his deranged Blades as best you can, will you? And if he fails in his quest and falls into total poverty, as he may, bring him back to Chivial—exiled and friendless, with only his Blades still true. Then Athelgar can keep and feed all three of them.”
Bellman nodded, smiling. “Even chance can bring justice?”
“Exactly!” Grand Master said. “But it never hurts to nudge it in the right direction.”
• 4 •
Hammers clinked the beat on anvils, trebles soared over tenors and baritones in the Blades’ dedication song, and the rich reverberation of the Forge added palimpsests of harmony. From diminutive sopranos to ancient Sir Bram, who was rarely seen except at mealtimes, all Ironhall had assembled around the octogram. Light from the hearths behind the audience flickered dimly on the roof, making Ringwood worry about shadowmen, but the sky outside was clear and the Duke had assured him that the curse could not come on starry nights.
He hadn’t panicked and run away. Dad would be proud of him.
Eight stood within the octogram, of course. Ringwood himself was at earth point, with Ranter on his left, at death. And looking like it. Beyond him was Goodwin, not much happier, for he faced a very long stint as Prime. Then the Brat, grinning wildly down upon the two naked swords at his feet. This was his third binding in three weeks. He had three lines to say each time, and had cheekily informed Ringwood earlier that he would be the fourteenth Blade he had bound and that was a record.
The hymn ended. At fire point Master of Rituals began chanting Invoker. The Duke was at love point, directly across from Ranter, and beside him was Master Armorer, who would be chanting Dispenser—he had a stupendous bass and the lungs of a whale. Apparently elementals were not bothered by his incomprehensible accent. Grand Master was Arbiter, at time point.
Ringwood had witnessed more than a dozen bindings, and the ritual never palled. He was only mildly sensitive to the spirits, but he was very sentimental. His eyes were already brimming over at the thought that he might be gone tomorrow—the day after was more likely, his ward said—and would never wi
tness this again. Dad would surely be proud of him tonight. Oh, spirits! Here they came! Tears cascaded down his cheeks. Try and think of the whole wide world waiting for him out there.
A good man, Duke Rubin, in spite of his shopworn looks. Quiet, courteous, and steely. Guarding him would be a pleasure and much more exciting than being low man in a guard of over a hundred mooning around Athelgar. Ranter as Leader was not a cheering prospect. Ranter had his eyes closed and seemed to be swaying, as if moved by a wind no one else could feel. What happened if he fainted and fell out of the octogram? That might release the assembled elementals! There were horror stories of conjurers who lost control of assemblages going mad or being turned into monsters.
Grand Master stepped forward to the central anvil and scattered gold coins on it to make sure spirits of chance were not running riot. He peered suspiciously at the results, but then nodded and backed away again.
Why did time rush by so fast when you wanted to savor every second of it?
The elementals were assembled. Now came the Brat, clutching Invincible. He was a very small Brat and a long sword was, by definition, long. He laid it on the anvil without mishap, recited his piece in a series of chiropteran squeaks, and went back to his place at chance point.
Ranter was looking anywhere but at that sword. Receiving Grand Master’s signal, Goodwin went to help him off with his shirt. Ranter did nothing to make it easier. After that Ringwood had to mark Ranter’s chest to show where his heart was, which was not as simple a task as it would be in a good light with dry eyes. He found the bottom rib, counted up, wielded the charcoal. Ranter had a fair crop of chest fuzz already—why couldn’t he behave more like a man now? Just for once don’t bollix it!
Ringwood backed away two paces and realized that nothing was happening. He went back, took his future leader’s elbow and urged him forward. Ranter stumbled over to the anvil with Ringwood helping and even guiding Ranter’s hand down to grasp Invincible’s hilt. He was shivering and slick with sweat.
“Up!”
Ranter nodded, and heaved himself up on the anvil. He raised the sword in salute…It shook violently. The only sound was the chattering of Ranter’s teeth.