Impossible Odds
Page 40
“He’ll need a few days,” Voica warned. “It’s been far too long for him to remember. Do you know who this is, Freddie?”
The small but genuine Grand Duke thought for a moment and then said, “Mommy,” and all the women started weeping. That frightened him, so he wept, too. Even the stallion-sized charcoal burner did. The former charcoal burner—he had been promoted to woodward. Blades were not allowed to weep, so Ringwood didn’t. His wife shed enough tears for both of them.
The highlight of the day would be the enthronement. Get through that, Bellman thought, and he could survive anything. People believe what they want to believe.
The first great test was his toilet, though, and he could not reasonably have Volpe around to back him up in that. It went without a hitch. Valets shaved his fake face, combed his thinning gray locks without noticing that they were in fact an overlong mop of brown waves, and pulled silken hose over calves and thighs of solid muscle, thinking they were flab. None of the dozen or so people attending him noticed anything wrong, other than a bad throat infection. None was brash enough to suggest that he trot down to the palace octogram for a healing, because they all knew that no conjuration could cure the common cold.
He refused all the grandiose brocade and jewels laid out for his wedding. Tonight was to be his wife’s triumph, he explained, and he would not upstage her. He was seriously out of character there, but nobody talked back to the sovereign, and disbelief did not extend to questioning his identity. Reluctantly the dressers produced a somber, almost drab cloak and very plain, dark hose. He had to wear his gold coronet, of course, and he let the heralds talk him into the jeweled star of the Order of Gottfried the Glorious. All through his ordeal flunkies were coming and going, whispering messages, improvising a new ceremony to replace what had been planned for months. He barely had time to disgust himself with a glance in a mirror before they informed him that he was due downstairs in the anteroom.
“Lead on!” he croaked, and went out to meet his fate.
He had never seen Johanna properly adorned before, and she was breathtaking in a gown of cobalt and emerald silk with slashed and puffed sleeves and ermine trim; state jewels flashed and sparkled on her bodice and neck. His wife! He stared at her in incredulous delight. She curtsied to him; he bowed to her, and moved close to kiss her fingers.
“You look magnificent, my dear,” he whispered.
Her eyes shone happily at him. “So do you, Your Highness.”
At her side stood a skinny swordsman gloriously bedecked in braid and gold epaulets. How had they ever found anything to fit him at such short notice?
“Congratulations, brother,” Bellman whispered. Oh, the joys of laryngitis!
Ringwood’s glazed eyes came to startled focus. “What?” Then a faint smile. “On what, er…Your Highness?”
If even he was starting to believe, then this must be going to work. “On your marriage, of course.”
Ringwood nodded and smiled uncertainly. Bellman resisted the temptation to spring his impending fatherhood on him. As Trudy had said, he had enough to worry about just now.
Volpe hurried in, apologizing for being late. His sword hilt sparkled with gems, his spurs were silver, ostrich plumes waved above his helmet.
“If it please Your Royal Highness to proceed?” bleated the chief herald in his dazzling tabard.
Bellman offered his arm to his Grand Duchess.
“We are ready,” she said.
The great hall was huge and bizarre: gilt, marble, and frescoes, with bosomy ladies wafting across the ceiling and near-naked but remarkably unsweaty warriors battling all around the walls. King Athelgar’s palace of Nocare had nothing that would compare to it for outright vulgarity, and that evening it blazed with lamps and all the nobility of the realm in massed finery. On the dais stood twin thrones for the Grand Duke and his consort. But which consort? The news was out, and if any of the hundreds of guests assembled had still been in doubt that the marriage they had come to witness had been canceled, they were reassured when the Margrave and his daughter entered with the other Trenkoan notables and sat beside them in the Trenkoan reserved section. The ex-bride’s radiant happiness was noted by all.
Trumpets brayed and everyone rose to honor…who? The published order of service indicated that the bride would now enter, but the bride was already present.
Instead the Grand Duke himself walked in from the side to take his throne, but his attendants were not as listed, either. Abbot Minhea of the Vamky Brotherhood was supposed to lead the way with the ceremonial mace, but that was certainly Lord Volpe carrying the ugly thing. After him came an unidentified lanky youth in the uniform of a colonel in the Palace Guard, bearing a naked sword, and who was the woman leading the infant Marquis Frederik? None of these people was mentioned at all. And the Grand Duchess on the ducal arm was the late Grand Duchess, who had been officially mourned for half a year.
The last notes of the national anthem mercifully died away. Duke and Duchess settled on their respective thrones and everyone else was free to sit down also. Almost the only one who didn’t was the boy with the sword, whoever he was.
So that woman, the peasant, sat on the consort’s throne in state at last? But Lord Volpe was there, raising no objection—not even looking displeased. If he was willing to accept her it would be politic to do likewise. At first glance she seemed to have quit her boudoir half-dressed, for she was hatless, unlike every other woman in the hall, and her ash-blond hair hung unbound, but that was necessary for the ceremony. The great ladies of Krupina pursed their lips.
Grand Duke Rubin began to speak and sneezed three times. He tried again, but no one could hear a word. He coughed. He waved his nephew forward.
“Your Graces, my lords and ladies,” Lord Volpe proclaimed, in tones that filled the hall like a carillon of bells, “His Royal Highness is suffering from a minor throat fever and has bade me speak in his stead. He apologizes for this discourtesy. He bids you all welcome, especially his dear brother ruler, Marquis Ladislas of Trenko, and his most exquisite daughter, the Lady Margarita…” An excruciatingly long list of names and titles followed. His Highness nodded to confirm that he had approved this tribute.
The best view in the house belonged to Ringwood, standing alongside the Duchess’s throne. He could take some small pride in the glow of happiness that his ward was radiating. As True had said, this did smell like a happy ending. He still could not quite believe that the pudgy, pompous man with the gray goatee and gold coronet was actually Bellman. How did he keep a straight face amid all this kowtowing and folderol?
“As you can see,” the Provost continued, his glare defying anyone present not to, “there has been a change of plan. Her Royal Highness Grand Duchess Johanna, my dear niece-in-law”—he bowed to her—“supposedly died in an accident half a year ago. Although her body had not been found, she was declared legally dead, as was her son, His Grace, Marquis Frederik of Krupa. His Royal Highness subsequently announced his betrothal to Lady Margarita, daughter of His Grace, Margrave Ladislas of Trenko.” Volpe bowed again.
You could hear a snowflake fall, Ringwood thought. When King Athelgar wore his crown—opening Parliament, say, or at investitures—Commander Florian stood beside him like this, holding his sword, Thorn. But Florian was quite old, probably over thirty, and Ringwood should be still a precocious senior at Ironhall, yet here he was, on display like a state treasure.
He wondered if Florian ever developed this frantic need to scratch.
“The reason for this deception…” Volpe glared at the ensuing ripple of shock. “Yes, it was a deliberate deception! The reason this deception was necessary was that the accident to the coach in which Her Royal Highness was traveling was no accident. It was contrived, and it was murder!”
Tumult.
Seeking to divert his attention from the itch that now consumed him from his knees to his waist, but mostly burned in his crotch, Ringwood meditated on being a colonel at his age. If he had done the ca
lculations correctly, he was now earning more in a year than Dad had made in a lifetime of mending pots. And there was the small matter of a Grand Duchess kissing him right on the mouth and thanking him for making it all possible, as if he’d done something brave or remarkable. Ranter and Bellman had done it, not he. He’d made too many mistakes, just as he’d feared, and only luck had let him win through in the end.
Volpe had them calmed down again.
“Obviously whoever the miscreant was who sought to slay the Heir Apparent and his mother, his initial failure did not mean that they were out of danger. Nay! Far from it! The monster might strike again at any time! For this reason, it was deemed advisable that Her Royal Highness the Grand Duchess and His Highness the Marquis should disappear from sight. Their deaths were proclaimed so that the murderer would believe his foul schemes had succeeded. Thus might he be lulled into a false sense of security!”
Volpe ought to have made a career in epic poetry, Ringwood thought. He had the audience shivering in their corsets.
“To aid in this deception, the noble Margrave Ladislas and his daughter most graciously consented to engage in a deception—”
Bellman had invented all this foolery in the coach. Now he was sitting there in glory looking as if he didn’t care what happened, please could he just crawl away and die? Probably a week from now he would be feeling much better and his entire dukedom would be down with the same curse.
“And only today was the killer unmasked!” Volpe’s voice ricocheted through the hall. “The treacherous Abbot Minhea—”
The roar of disapproval frightened the Marquis, so Voica led him out, lucky fellow. Ringwood identified Trudy up in the balcony and wished he dared wink at her. Married! He was married! She was his forever! That was the most incredible event of this whole incredible day. What could possibly top that?
Now the ceremony could proceed, with Volpe reading out the proclamations and Bellman performing the ceremonial, prompted by whispers from Johanna. He set the silver coronet on her head, he bestowed the Order of Gottfried the Glorious on her, and finally he knelt to kiss her hand. Only Ringwood noticed how she chucked him under the chin. Everyone else was cheering loud enough to drown out the trumpets.
Now a hundred or so other people would have to come forward and kneel to her. It was going to take a long time, and no doubt she would savor every moment of it. After that would come the banquet, when Ringwood would have to stand and watch everyone else eat.
That did not feel like a happy ending.
EPILOGUE
Far, Far Away
Most honored Grand Master,
I greet you well, commending to your lordship the bearer of this letter, Sir Radu Priboi, personal equerry to Her Royal Highness, Grand Duchess Johanna of Krupina. The noble knight is a man of most excellent probity and discretion, charged by Her Grace to deliver this and divers other documents to you. He also bears letters to others, including their Majesties and some members of the Fellowship of White Sisters.
Yet the kernel of his mission is to lay before you in Ironhall Invincible, the sword of Sir Ranter, that it may hang in its proper place forever. Sir Ranter died alone and very young, but in the manner of his death his name is worthy to stand with the greatest in the chronicles of our Order. I enclose herewith a formal notice of his death for inclusion in the Litany of Heroes. Because this is limited by tradition to the bare facts, I do earnestly pray your lordship that you will also make known in the hall and throughout our Order that Sir Ranter with his own hands slew the evildoer who originated the deaths of Sir Bernard, Sir Clovis, Sir East, Sir Richey, Sir Valiant, and Sir Yorick. Thereby he avenged their deaths and also those of many other persons, even his own.
My ward was moved by Sir Ranter’s sacrifice to consider erecting a statue to him, but on taking counsel determined that no true likeness could be posthumously wrought and such a memorial would have little value in a faraway land where our Order is unknown. When honored by a request for advice on this matter, I ventured to propose that a more fitting remembrance would be to donate funds in memory of Sir Ranter for the upkeep and repair of Ironhall, whose fabric and furnishings are in many cases suffering from age, as your lordship is aware. My ward was graciously pleased to approve this suggestion, and sends a most generous endowment by the hand of Sir Radu, with the prayer that your lordship will accept the same on behalf of our Order. The deed of gift grants your lordship and succeeding Grand Masters total discretion in the application of these funds for the benefit of all candidates in years to come.
Sir Radu also brings to your lordship in your private capacity, a packet from Master Bellman, which I understand represents certain financial instruments that your lordship made available to him, but for which he now sees no need, and which he therefore returns to your purse, being most grateful for your loving consideration, as was I upon hearing of it.
I regret that I am forbidden by solemn oaths from revealing all that I am disposed to tell you, and I do particularly caution your lordship that Sir Radu is not privy to Master Bellman’s current situation. I can divulge only that he prospers, having found gratifying and meaningful employment well suited to his talents, and is most happily married to a lady of great estate and personal charm.
Sir Radu may freely disclose to you my own happy circumstances. Although the duties of a solitary Blade can be onerous, His Royal Highness has generously appointed me commander of the Palace Guard, granting me the means and authority to train assistants who are already able to ease my burden. It is no small perquisite to dwell in a royal palace! You may be surprised to hear of my own marriage, to the former Sister Gertrude of the Fellowship of the White Sisters, who accompanied us on our journey and at divers times saved us from peril, but our union brings us both great happiness and is likely to be blessed with progeny even before you read these words.
In closing, although my joy is tempered by grief at Sir Ranter’s untimely end, I am content to inform your lordship that the mission you assigned to us last summer, which we undertook with trepidation and scant hope of success, has been brought to successful fruition. Our ward came safely home, although not without some anxious moments, and our efforts aided in resolving Krupina’s problems, so that the land again rejoices in the rule of a sagacious and benevolent Grand Duke, secure in the prospect of the royal line being legitimately extended to future generations. Lord Volpe’s part in the turbulent events of a year or so ago proved on careful analysis by Master Bellman to have been misrepresented, and I know for a fact that Provost Volpe and His Royal Highness are now on better terms than they had been for many years past.
Most honored lord,
I pray that this brief report will meet with your approval.
Done by my hand in Krupina,
this first day of Thirdmoon, 406 (Chivian style)
Ringwood,
Companion
About the Author
DAVE DUNCAN is an award-winning author whose fantasy trilogy, The Seventh Sword, is considered a sword-and-sorcery classic. His numerous novels include three Tales of the King’s Blades—The Gilded Chain, Lord of the Fire Lands, and Sky of Swords, Paragon Lost, a previous Chronicle of the King’s Blades, Strings, Hero, the popular tetralogies A Man of His Word and A Handful of Men, and the remarkable, critically acclaimed fantasy trilogy The Great Game.
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Books
By
Dave Duncan
THE KING’S BLADES
GILDED CHAIN
LORD OF THE FIRE LANDS
SKY OF SWORDS
PARAGON LOST
IMPOSSIBLE ODDS
THE JAGUAR KNIGHTS
THE KING’S DAGGERS
SIR STALWART
CROOKED HOUSE
SILVERCLOAK
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IMPOSSIBLE ODDS. Copyright © 2003 by Dave Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.