One Velvet Glove

by Dave Duncan

  The tailor brightened, Dragon scowled.

  “Our ward said nothing about that! That is not his standard livery.”

  “Your cut, brother, is too tight to fight in. The king stopped dressing like that two years ago, our ward doesn’t, and the Guard never has. Measure me, please, master tailor.”

  “Lord Bannerville has to pay for it!” Dragon complained.

  “He will—and almost certainly when he sees it, he will want to bring you and Sir Burl up to date too.”

  That got the tailor onside, but left Dragon scowling.

  I dropped the third boot after supper, when the ambassadorial party had congregated in the guard room. By then we had been joined by Master Robins, who was to be Ambassador Bannerville’s political secretary. He was a smiley, plump little man with jowls and a pointed nose like a mouse’s. He wore a brown robe tied by a cord around his waist and a skull cap above silver-streaked hair. Altogether he looked pleasant and harmless, but his eyes were sharp as Fortune and missed nothing.

  “Gudge,” Bannerville proclaimed, “I shan’t need you more tonight. Tell the innkeeper to send up his youngest night girl. “Good morrow to you, sirs.”

  As his entourage bowed, he marched into his room and closed the door, while Gudge scuttled out like a fugitive spider. In a few moments he returned with a highly painted girl of around fourteen, who eyed the assembly with indifference as she sashayed across the guardroom. The Blades watched with interest, but I now had more important matters on my mind than my so-regrettable virginity.

  “I think I will also leave you brave men to your duties,” Robins announced as soon as the inner door closed. “The brothel across the street is highly recommended by the innkeeper. I expect his wife runs it.”

  Dragon rose also.

  “Brother,” I said. “What is that?” I pointed to a narrow red ribbon stretched diagonally across his chest. I knew perfectly well what it was, but it had first appeared at supper time.

  “Regulations, brother. Any group of Blades must have a leader. Burl and I agreed long ago that—”

  “Right.” I rose. “I’ll fight you for it.”

  Dragon rolled his eyes. “No, sonny. It’s done by majority vote. And we have no foils.”

  “We don’t need foils, we’re Blades.” I drew Fortune for the first time in public and swished her a few times. “First blood or best of three?” Fresh out of the box, versus a private blade six years older seemed like good odds unless the older man was a fanatic who practiced every day, which Dragon obviously was not.

  “Kid, you are out of your mind! Burl, tell him.”

  Burl remained silent.

  “On guard!” I said, coming straight to the point. “I’ll start by giving you a hare lip. That will really mess up your kissing muscles.”

  “Put that pipsqueak sword away and behave yourself.”

  Suddenly I realized that I was enjoying myself for the first time since I had watched the king riding to Ironhall. “This is your last warning, Brother Dragon.”

  Fortune flicked, fast as a whip. Dragon howled and jumped back, clapping a hand to his mouth.

  “Next time I will cut, not prick.” Fortune had no cutting edge at all, which was why I carried her in a belt loop, not a scabbard, but her point was sharp as a needle, and she would rip skin if I told her to.

  “I do believe you ought to draw your sword, Sir Dragon,” said Master Robins, who had sat down again to watch the action. Gudge had mysteriously vanished.

  I said, “You heard him, brother. He’s an inquisitor, so he knows that I’m not bluffing.”

  “Inquisitor? What’ch mean he’s an inquisitor? He’s just a mangy clerk.” Angry now, Dragon drew his rapier and went to middle guard. I feinted high, at Steeple, swept under Dragon’s parry in Snake, and lunged at Cockroach, nicking his groin one inch to the left of the vital central organs. Dragon yelled and slapped a hand over the wound. This one was really bleeding, oozing through his tights.

  “Fire and death! Idiot! There’s an artery near there.”

  “If I’d wanted the artery, you’d be bleeding to death right now. How much padding do you have in that bulge? I think I’ll find out. On guard.”

  Dragon went back to guard, keeping it low. Rapiers went clink! clink! And again he yelped, reached for a bleeding ear lobe.

  I said, “You are seriously out of practice, brother. That is worth knowing. Now, are you satisfied, or do you want worse?”

  Holding his sword down—with the guard in front of his crotch—Dragon said, “Burl, stop him!”

  The ogre shrugged. “I talked with the kids at Ironhall, Drag. They didn’t think he was as great with a sword as Commander Montpurse told Chinless. But they did say he was sharp as a tack and as tough as nails. Last winter he was out running on the moor with Prime; Prime slipped and broke an ankle. Spender carried him on his back for five miles before the search parties found them, and Prime was bigger than him.”

  “It wasn’t five miles,” I said. Two, maybe.

  Burl ignored me. “They also said he has a mean streak if crossed. So why not let him strut his stuff for a week or two? If he’s all mouth we can stuff him back in the box.”

  “Can’t ask for more than that,” I said.

  Dragon slammed his sword down on the table, hauled the leader’s sash over his head and threw it on the floor.

  I scooped it up with Fortune, then hung her back in her loop. I tucked the ribbon in my belt, having no need to wear it just then. “Thank you, brothers. You two are on watch until I get back. I will be as fast as I can. Master Robins, I have two groats and a penny. What will that buy me at the cat house?”

  The little man’s eyes were twinkling. “Not much more than a foot rub, I’m afraid—one foot. That was a most entertaining self-promotion, but it does seem a little hasty, this being only your second day on the job. Why did you do it?”

  “Commander Montpurse told me to.” He had dropped a broad hint, anyway.

  Dragon howled, “What?”

  Burl laughed. “I think we’ve been had, brother. Two fat cats and a tiger cub!”

  Robins nodded. “I am not surprised. Come along then, lad, I will be happy to treat you to the house special, whatever it may be. And if it’s your first time, I’ll make it a double.”

  As I opened the door for the older man, Burl’s gentle voice behind him said, “Leader?” With a jab of fear that he might have to face that horrible bastard sword, I turned.

  “Yes, brother?”

  “He’s flubdubbing you. He knows your binding’s still so strong that you won’t be able to leave the building. Why don’t you just tell the landlord to send a girl up here and charge her to his lordship’s tab? Drag and I will wait outside the door if you want.”

  Robins’s smile was quite well done, even if not believable. “I had forgotten about the binding.”

  “So had I,” I said, realizing that it was true. I might not get even halfway down the stairs. “You two go with him and I’ll stand guard. I’m young enough yet. I have lots of nights ahead of me.”

  The following morning, when the sun shone brightly, and I ached with frustration, still shamefully virgin, Master Robins announced that he had arranged for all five of us to be enchanted with fluency in Fitish. So we all walked over to the elementary. The conjuration made me itch so much that I almost screamed in two languages.

  That afternoon Bannerville noticed the ribbon. “Harrumph! I believe I appointed Sir Dragon to be my senior Blade.”

  “Blades elect their own leader, my lord. It’s one of the Order’s rules. My brothers did me the honour.” Better not to go into details.

  His lordship pouted but promptly asserted his overall authority. “That’s a much more fashionable livery they made for you. Dress your men in the same style, Commander.”

  “Um, I’m not ‘commander�
�, my lord, just ‘leader’. And I was thinking your lordship would want to wait until we arrive in Fitain and you can see what the style is there. No need to throw money away, I thought.”

  Bannerville said, “Harrumph!” again and changed the subject.

  The following day, Master Robins took his lordship—escorted by three Blades—to view a fifty-foot, three-masted barque available for charter. Captain Silber, a rangy, weatherbeaten man who seemed very anxious to show us around his little craft, Fair Voyage, which was obviously old but well-scrubbed—suspiciously well-scrubbed, I thought. Every rope was neatly coiled, every tarpaulin tidily folded. There were only two other men in sight. Obviously out of his depth, Bannerville let Robins ask all of the questions on the tour. Near the end, though, I broke in to ask where the ship’s last voyage had taken her, and how long ago. Captain Silber rattled off several ports, but of course I was also testing to see if Master Robins had an inquisitor’s ability to detect lies.

  “So how long has she been tied up here?” I persisted.

  “’Bout a week,” he growled. “Trade is slow just now.”

  “That,” Robins said, with an inscrutable glance at my innocent smile, “is why Lord Bannerville is going to Fitain.” But he bargained harder after my intervention.

  As soon as supper was over that evening, I managed to shepherd everyone into the guardroom, where I asked the political secretary if he would briefly summarize the problems we were likely to meet when, if ever, we arrived in Fitain. I did not expect my ward to stay and listen because he ought to know the story better than anyone, but he did.

  Since the incident aboard Fair Voyage, I had no doubt that Master Robins was an inquisitor from His Majesty’s Office of General Inquiry, or as the Blades would put it, a snoop from the Dark Chamber. Blades and snoops distrusted each other intensely. Both served the king—probably—but they did so in very different ways. Snoops featured prominently in the seniors’ political classes.

  Gudge was busy in his lordship’s bedroom, but the door was open.

  Again Robins eyed me carefully, as if Blades were not supposed to think. “Of course.” He leaned back on his chair and folded his hands over his paunch.

  “Chivial and Fitain have been allies for centuries. That is understandable since they are separated by Isilond, an arrogant and oppressive nation. They used to trade extensively—wine, olives, and spices from Fitain; wool, tin ore, and hard wheat from Chivial. Mostly, that is. Many other things also, in smaller amounts.

  “But then came the Baelish War, and of course the Baels are pirates par excellence. Trade withered as ship after ship was seized or sunk. Some commerce persisted by way of Isilond, but land transport is very expensive, and of course the Isilondians took their bite. It is true that the Baels also preyed on ships making the crossing from northern Isilond to Chivial, but that is a short hop, and the vessels could carry men-at-arms to defend them. Feeding men-at-arms on the much longer voyage to and from Fitain itself was not economical. All with me so far?”

  I was. I thought my ward’s frown meant that he was trying very hard to understand the lesson. So was Burl. Dragon just seemed bored. His job was to guard Lord Bannerville, not to think or understand.

  “Of course King Ambrose ended the Baelish war with the Treaty of Twigeport, and trade began to pick up at once. Then it faltered. You see, during the war the Isilondians had been doing very well out of taxing the goods passing through their territory. They had even developed a taste for Fitish wines, although they would never admit that. A year ago, King Afonso of Fitain began imposing fearsome duties on seaborne trade. Choking it off, in fact.”

  Master Robins scanned his audience with fishy eyes to see who would react to that information.

  I said, “Why? Surely a large part of his own income must come from import and export duties?”

  “The duties on overland trade remain at their former levels, but now everything has to go through Isilond again. Just like wartime.”

  I felt lost. “It seems wrong somehow. He will bankrupt a lot of his own people and probably cut his own income.”

  Robins gave me a sleepy smile. “That depends on how large the bribes are that he receives from King Francois of Isilond, but Afonso IX is generally believed to be loopier than a crocheted bedspread.”

  “He sounds it. These bribes are large?”

  “They must be enormous. Yes, Afonso’s own merchants are suffering, because Isilondian merchants pay much lower prices than Chivial’s did, but his nobles are even more furious, because they rely on the revenues from their vineyards. They believe the king’s real purpose is to impoverish them.”

  Ironhall encouraged candidates to ask lots of questions. When no one else commented, apparently leaving it all up to me, I said, “Just how secure is King Afonso on his throne?” Assassination was not on the Blades’ approved schedule of duties, but was rumoured to be a Dark Chamber speciality.

  Master Robins chuckled, nodding as if approving of this baby Blade. “His Majesty is not as secure as he was. He has a cousin, Prince Luis, who seems to be actively gathering support.”

  Master Robins was remarkably well informed, as would be expected of a Dark Chamber snoop. Was Ambrose sending his ambassador to Fitain to out-bribe King Francois of Isilond, or to help Prince Luis depose King Afonso? I could not ask that question then, although I decided to bring it up with Robins later, in private.

  I said, “I see now why Commander Montpurse warned me that Fitish politics are a snake pit.” That was a deliberate indiscretion, and the reactions were interesting—my ward frowned and Burl raised eyebrows. Dragon still looked bored.

  Robins smiled. “Did he mention the Marquisa?”

  “No. Who is she?”

  “Desidéria da Eternidade, known as the Cobra. She is King Afonso’s mistress, and reputed to be a witch in the pay of the Isilondians. I suspect her of being the chief snake in the pit.”

  If King Ambrose thought that his childhood chum Lord Bannerville could straighten out such a mess, he must have been galloping his horse under too many low branches. If Commander Montpurse expected me to, then he was even crazier.

  Chapter 4

  Ambassador Bannerville did charter Fair Voyage, but it was more than three weeks before she was ready to sail. Captain Silber had to hire a crew and load stores, and especially buy extra water butts, because Master Robins insisted that we must make no landfalls in Isilond. Lord Bannerville was equally adamant that the captain’s cabin in the stern castle be enlarged and improved to a standard befitting a Chivian earl. I firmly required that the noble lord’s quarters be accessed only through a guardroom, for I was determined that no Blade would have to sit on deck for hours during any heavy weather we might encounter. At that point Master Robins declared that he was not going to be the only one sleeping with the crew in the fo’c’sle, so Captain Silber would have to do so. The captain, obviously furious at being evicted, was so desperate for a charter that he had to accept the terms.

  I never wore the sash after the first day, and yet Chinless always remembered which of his Blades to address when he wanted something, much to our unanimous surprise. He tended to address me as, “Um... Leader?” so Burl and Dragon took to doing so also. I would then reply, “Um brother?” It was childish humour, but the start of fraternity.

  I also purchased foils—two rapiers and two sabres. I trusted my own skill at fencing with real swords while on dry land, but wouldn’t dare try it on a rolling ship. I instituted daily fencing lessons, and quickly confirmed that my companions were shamefully out of practice.

  “You couldn’t find something in my size?” Burl grumped when handed a sabre.

  “Perhaps I could have done, but I already had quite enough of a load to lug back to the ship. I never heard of the hand-and-a-half sword being seriously taught in Ironhall.”

  Burl’s great scar gave him a fearsome grin. He patted his
weapon lovingly. “Sir Durendal uses a bastard. We hew-and-cleave men are a rare breed, but there are at least four like my Thunderbolt hanging in the Sky of Swords.”

  Having made his complaint, he then did his best with a sabre, which was better than I had feared. He was not as fast as we rapier men, but his bovine shoulders could apply enormous pressure during engagement, and he would be deadly with his preferred bastard sword.

  Dragon was not pleased by his demotion, but did not openly refuse my orders. On the second day of practice, held on deck while Lord Bannerville was aboard and Fair Voyage was still tied up in at the quay, Master Robins stood and watched the play. I was close to losing my temper, because I was sure that Dragon could do better if he really tried, so I drove hard, barking out comments, directions, and even insults.

  When we broke off to catch our breath and drink water, the tubby inquisitor wandered over and held out a hand for my foil. He swished it a few times, then turned to Dragon and remarked mildly, “I could use some exercise, also. Best of five?” Dragon went white and showed his teeth. For a Blade to be beaten by a layman—and by a possible snoop at that—would be the shaming of a lifetime.

  The two men went to guard, then Dragon lunged, Robins parried like a master, and the fight was on. They fenced like maniacs, dancing around the deck in a staccato of steel on steel and shoes on oak. It was no practice, it was a battle. Dragon did win, three touches to none, so there was no need for ridicule or suicide. I accepted the return of my foil with a grateful smile. Robins was so good that I couldn’t be certain, but I suspected that he had been holding back several times, slowing his ripostes. He certainly fenced in Ironhall style, which the inquisitors were known to have stolen from the Blades years ago. From then on Dragon needed no urging to do his best.

  I was well aware, though, that Robins was trying to ingratiate himself with me. Camaraderie was more pleasant than acrimony, but I had not forgotten Ironhall warnings that snoops were always willing to shift blame onto Blades when anything went wrong and claim the credit when they went right.