by Dave Duncan
Three swords whipped out, flashed in the sunlight, and rose in parade salute. The king saw us, and laughingly raised a hand in acknowledgment as he thundered by.
Watching with one eye on either side of my sword, I almost chopped off my nose. I’d seen the king ride in before, and Commander Montpurse had always been at his side. This time he had been directly behind. I had not gained a clear view of whoever had been in the place of honour, only that he had not been wearing Guard livery. Moreover, there had been two other unknowns at the rear of the column, two men in green and blue.
Random sheathed his sword. “Methinks we should now make haste and arrive betimes.”
“Verily ’tis thus,” said Glanvil, and all three of us nudged our horses forward. Already a second caravan was coming into view, two strings of horses led by a couple of mounted Blades, staying well back from the main party lest the wind blow their dust in an inappropriate direction. Count those spare mounts and you would know how many candidates the king expected to bind.
I was still analyzing what I had seen. I was certain that the two extra men at the end of the column had been armed, and no armed civilian would be allowed so close to the king. Therefore, they must be private Blades, bound to someone else, who could only be the man riding alongside the king. Private Blades rarely lived in the palace, did not quite belong to the gang, and were bound for life, until they or their ward died. So the man at the front of the column must be a royal favourite. If he already had two Blades, was he about to be given more?
It could happen. If it did, some poor sucker in the seniors’ class was going to get a truly horrible shock.
The courtyard was a madhouse, as it always was when the king came. Candidates down to the rank of beardless were unsaddling, rubbing down, watering, and stabling the Guard’s horses, most of them under the watchful eyes of the men who had been riding them. Already some fencing bouts were starting up, as inmates demanded lessons from someone other than their usual instructors. The king and his guest were not there. They would have entered by the royal door and would now be quaffing ale and talking with Grand Master.
Prime beckoned over a trio of beansprouts and ordered them to look after these three horses, because he had to go and put on his chain mail. They laughed and obeyed. With Glanvil and me on his heels, he headed for First House and the seniors’ dormitory. As I reached the door, I noticed one of the men in unfamiliar livery chatting with Master of Protocol. He was in twenties, and therefore dated from before my time, but he hardly needed his cat’s eye sword to be recognizable as a Blade. He had the limber, athletic physique to perfection, in his case combined with chiseled features and a mop of shiny black curls, at present artfully windblown. Even without his binding he would bowl over girls at a glance, or so I concluded wistfully as I raced up the stairs. Girls were an obsession for an eighteen-year-old who had not come within smiling distance of one in the last five years.
When the seniors’ class grew large, its dormitories became crowded, and mine was currently in even more confusion than the courtyard below. At the best of times there was barely room to walk between the six beds. Now arms and clothes flailed in all directions, provoking howls of outrage from two men trying to shave. Any minute now the binding ritual would begin with the Brat bringing a formal summons from Grand Master, and then all of these men would be heading off to meet the king.
I shouted over the hubbub: “There’s going to be a private binding!”
Dead silence. Ten horrified eyes stared at me.
I explained. Apparently neither Glanvil nor Random had noticed the king’s companion and his two Blades in blue and green, but the logic was indisputable. Only very rarely was one man alone bound as a private Blade, for that promised a lifetime of hell, trying to keep watch over his ward day and night. Two was normal, but still not enough, for how could they find time to keep their swordsmanship up to standard if one of them must always be on duty? Three would be tolerable, although a far cry from being a Royal Guardsman. But why else would the king have brought a courtier to Ironhall?
“Only one, surely?” Random said with an attempt at confident leadership. “I can’t recall Fat Man awarding more than three Blades to anyone else.”
He could remember further back than the rest of us, but only a few days farther than Glanvil or me, because the three of us had been admitted in a single week. Dressing, shaving, grooming resumed in a brooding silence. No more than one meant odds of about one in eight or nine, likely. Still not a safe bet to stake your life on.
Half an hour or so later, all six of us were ready, sitting on the edges of our beds, each trying to look perfectly calm while suppressing frantic needs to chew fingernails or urinate. Or both. Both at the same time, even.
“Cheer up,” I said. “We’re waiting on the king, and we’d better get used to that. We’re going to be doing it for the next—”
A sharp tap on the door silenced me. Random had put himself closest to the handle. He barked, “Er... um... enter!” and sprang up, almost tripping over his feet—hardly a good demonstration of a Blade’s legendary reflexes. Nervous? Certainly not!
Enter the Brat... This brat was a little older than most brats, already speaking in baritone, although that would not save him from a year in the soprano class as soon as some new candidate was admitted to take his place. Having been around for over a month, he had gained enough confidence to know that seniors regarded tormenting him as beneath their dignity.
“Honoured Prime,” he announced solemnly, “Grand Master bade me tell you that he requires you to come at once to the Flea Room, bringing with you the next eight candidates in order of seniority.”
Eight! That meant nine in all, eight to be bound and one left over to assume the office of Prime.
Random responded as formally. “I thank you, Brat, and if you would just tap on that door over... Too late!” he added, as the door in question opened to see what was going on across the corridor. “Scrimpnel—you and two more, please. Wait, Brat! This is your moment of glory. You have to lead the parade.”
Everything in Ironhall ran on tradition.
Then, as now I expect, Flea Room was as stark as an abandoned tomb, used for only two purposes: interviewing applicants when they first arrived and presenting graduates to their wards when they left. It was far too small to hold twelve people on what was turning out to be an unseasonably hot day.
Nine anxious candidates stood rigidly as fence posts, facing old Sir Silver, who had been Grand Master for longer than anyone could remember. We kept our eyes firmly on him and not on the king, who stood in the corner to Grand Master’s right. We were even more careful not to acknowledge the stranger in the corner to his left—he was a threat. Commander Montpurse stood behind us, out of our sight.
It was hard not to notice the king. He was by far the tallest and mightiest man in the room, looking as if he could snap any Blade in half with his bare hands, and his frilled and slashed and piped clothing outshone every other man’s garments. The country had cheered itself hoarse when old King Taisson died at last, and Ambrose was still more popular than most monarchs ever were. He had fulfilled the people’s hopes by ending the thirteen-year Baelish War—although there were still some murmurs that he had talked his father into starting it. The awful raiding had stopped and prosperity had returned. One thing no one could doubt, and that was that Ambrose IV enjoyed his job—hunting, jousting, wenching, and bullying Parliament into doing his will. He stood there now like a jovial giant, beaming through his reddish beard.
At a nod from Grand Master, Random began the ancient ritual, having witnessed it the last time.
“You summoned us, Grand Master?”
The old man nodded. How many hundred times had he done this? How many scruffy, unloved, often criminal boys had he turned into dashing and deadly young swordsmen like us? “Yes, Prime. His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?”
“Sire, I have the honour to present...”
Random bowed, knelt, accepted a kind word about his reputation with sabres from Ambrose, kissed the royal hand, and then backed off, out of the way. One through safely...
“Candidate Glanvil...” Two through...
Then, “Candidate Spender?” just instants before my knees really began knocking.
“I am ready, Grand Master.” I was relieved that my voice had not quavered.
Oh horrors! Grand Master turned to the left, not the right. “Then greet Ambassador Lord Bannerville, who will be your ward.”
No! No! No! Why me? I wasn’t the best fencer, nor the worst. I didn’t pick my nose or scratch my ass in public. This was shame and humiliation and outlawry and the end of both dreams and all my friendships. Even now, after almost thirty-two years, I still remember the nauseating jolt of that disappointment.
The stranger in the other corner was almost as tall as the king, and dressed almost as fancifully, but he was skinny, his hair was mousey-coloured, and either his nose was much too big or his chin much too small. I must then have gone through the motions of bowing and mouthing hypocritical words, but I do not remember doing so.
Eight were processed, the new Prime was presented to the king, and seven excited young men went clattering down the narrow stairs, chattering like kids. Behind them trailed me, the outcast, plus a glum Candidate Bravo, condemned to be the new prime, very likely for six months or more. A chorus of congratulations met us at the bottom as we retrieved our swords from the Blade who had taken care of them while they were in the royal presence. Random and Glanvil broke loose briefly to commiserate with the black sheep, the pariah. Which was good of them.
“Stuff it!” I said. “You’re just jealous! You may spend the next ten years fucking your brains out in the palace, but I’m going to be guarding an ambassador, who’ll be a lot more, um— endangered—than the king.” I’d very nearly said, “worthwhile”, which would have been treasonous.
“Try to keep thinking that way,” Random said, as he was again swallowed up by the jubilant mob.
Glanvil said, “I’ll hump some girls for you, brother,” and parried a fast lunge by my knee that might have delayed the proposed activity for several days.
Sheathing my sword, I stepped out into the sunshine. I admit that I felt like a discard, the one who wasn’t good enough, but I was determined that I would never admit that. I kept my chin up, happy smile in place, and...
“You must be Spender?”
I turned. It was Pretty Boy in the blue and green livery—Bannerville’s livery, that I would soon have to wear.
“Dragon,” it said, extending a very soft hand. “This isn’t the end of the world, honestly it isn’t.” It had a lovely face, with perfect teeth, and a vapid smile quite unlike the wary, leery, cagey gaze of a guardsman. Was this what a Blade became if he wasn’t under the discipline of the Guard?
What to say? “Thank you, sir.”
“‘Brother.’”
“Brother, of course.” I managed to maintain the smile. “I’m honoured to join the elect.” May the elements strike me dead.
Dragon glanced around to make sure no juvenile ears were listening. “I’ll let you into a secret, although you’re not supposed to hear this yet. You know why you were chosen? Because you’re the best swordsman Ironhall has on offer right now.”
That wasn’t true. We all kept very careful tally of our standings. Random could beat me three times out of five and Godfrey four times. Who was lying?
“Maybe on a good day,” I said.
Dragon shook his head. “Don’t be so modest! Burl and I have been His Lordship’s Blades for five years, almost, and never swung a sword in anger, but that may be about to change. The reason the king is giving him a third Blade is that he’s sending Chinless—that’s what we call him—sending him overseas on a mission that could be very touchy. So all these pals of yours can quietly die of boredom in the palace, while you may find yourself fighting for your life, and your ward’s also, of course.”
This was comfort? Blood and death! What of the lifetime after the mission? Ten years was the standard term in the Royal Guard. Only death could release a private Blade. But a man could do nothing except grin wider and say, “Hey! Now you’re scoring, brother!”
Dragon’s attention wandered, his eyes searched. Then he shouted, “Burl! Over here.”
The second Bannerville Blade emerged from the crowd and headed in their direction. If Dragon was a paragon of male good looks, Burl was close to his direct opposite. What joker had paired these two? Burl had the most grotesquely bowed legs I had ever seen—he could click his heels on horseback, as the saying goes. Oversized shoulders made him look top-heavy, his chin and brows were too solid, and his ugly face seemed permanently and aggressively thrust forward. With those legs could he possibly fence at Blade standards? Then I noted the length of both the man’s arms and of the hand-and-a half sword at his waist. He wouldn’t fence daintily, but he’d be a human earthquake on a horse or in a melee.
He enveloped my hand in an enormous paw and said in a surprisingly soft tenor, “Welcome to the zoo, brother. I promise we won’t make you take out the piss-pot every day.”
“Oh, good. I was really worried about that, brother. How about the stable shovelling?”
“No, that’s top of your list.” He laughed and gave my shoulder a thump like a sledgehammer.
Dragon said, “Looks like they’re rounding up the sacrificial lambs, so the massacre will be held right away, tonight.”
Chapter 2
I was halfway to the Forge, where bindings took place, when a voice called my name. I turned to see Raider racing toward me on unseemly long legs. The sopranos had named him while he was still the Brat for his brilliantly Baelish red hair, and he had stuck with the name. He had recently been promoted from Fuzzy to Beardless, although he had been shaving for at least a year, and was already the tallest man in the school.
“Spender! Commander Montpurse wants to speak with you. Over there.”
Intrigued, I changed direction and headed for the man standing in a shadowed corner at the base of the Queen’s Tower. If anyone outranked the king in Blades’ eyes back then, it would have been Montpurse. No one had ever heard a bad word about him. He had served Ambrose since he was merely the crown prince. Like me, he was blond, blue-eyed, and looked no more than fifteen, the main difference between us being that he could thrash any man in the guard with steel.
In my soprano and beansprout years, I had put up with many jibes about my being a Montpurse by-blow hidden away in Ironhall. Then I had treated those as compliments, but later I decided they were insults and began taking offence. That attracted the louts, of course, but after I thoroughly thrashed two of the biggest, the rest lost interest.
I arrived and tapped my sword hilt in salute.
Montpurse held out a hand to shake. “Well done! Very well done. I’ve been watching you, and no one would ever guess that you’d just been kicked in the gonads.”
“Sir?” The words felt good. I am grey and wrinkled now, but in those days I had a face as fresh as morning dew, not suitable for disguising my feelings. I knew I looked at least two years younger than my age, and was liable to flush scarlet at the least excuse, which I was presently doing.
“Listen, because we have very little time, and I’m going to tell you things that I shouldn’t tell you until you’ve been bound. Trouble is, for about two weeks after you’ve been bound, you’ll be sticking to your ward like bark on a tree, and he mustn’t hear what I’m about to say. In fact, nobody should, ever. But I know I can trust you.”
The world was spinning faster than usual today. “Yes, sir?... I mean Commander.”
Montpurse ignored the slip. “Grand Master does not tattle to the king about the candidates in I
ronhall. That’s understood, always, right?” He was smiling.
“Right.”
“But he reports to me, and I tattle to the king—within limits. And I am flaming furious that you’re not coming into the Guard. We had you flagged as a possible commander after the one after me.”
“You’re not making it hurt less, sir.” That was the understatement of the year.
Montpurse nodded. “I will in a minute. You know, of course, that kings’ children’s playmates are always chosen from the nobility? It wouldn’t do for them to start bonding with cooks or stable hands. Lord Bannerville has been Ambrose’s bosom buddy since childhood. He inherited his father’s barony before Ambrose got the throne, and one of the new king’s first acts was to promote his pal from baron to earl.”
Worse! I nodded.
“Trouble is, Bannerville is as thick as a castle wall. The one thing, the only thing, that Lord Bannerville does well is kiss the king’s ass. Report that I said that and you’ll get my head chopped off.”
For the first time in what felt like hours, I did not have to fake a grin.
“A year or two later, Fat Man appointed him ambassador to Thergy. That didn’t matter much, because nothing ever happens in Thergy, but of course a Chivian ambassador must have a Blade escort. It’s expected. That’s the sort of situation where Grand Master and I indulge in a little manipulation that a... certain person... might get very mad about and call treason if he suspected it was going on. Burl was easy, because the king would never tolerate a man that ugly around the palace—bitterly unfair, of course, but true. Dragon happened to be next to him in seniority and had no special talent, so we arranged that His Lordship got those two. Are you with me so far?”
Nod.
“But now, dammit, he’s made the idiot Ambassador to Fitain, and that’s not the same thing at all. Fitain matters! It’s vital and its politics are a snake pit. Chancellor Bluefield is tearing his hair, but the king is the king and he’s adamant that his childhood chum will be the new ambassador.”