by Dave Duncan
simple Blade in the Royal Guard, wanting
nothing more in the world, when life had been pleasure
from dawn till dawn.
"You missed an interesting display of
swordsmanship, Commander!" The King was enjoying his
Guards' collective dismay. "Another
Durendal legend, I fancy."
"Take it, my liege!" Montpurse was on
his knees in the mud, offering up his sword.
"Take it. Cut off my useless head if you
want, because I certainly--"
"Stand up, man! Keep your sword.
You won't escape that easily. Well, perhaps
I need to borrow it for a minute."
A nearby copse exploded with an
earth-shattering roar, hurling branches and rocks
everywhere. The King ignored it, although some of the
debris went dancing past his feet. The river
plain was pockmarked with craters, most of them now
full of water. The honey-colored walls of
Waterby were in worse shape, with half the towers
in ruins; but archers on the battlements had been
sending arrows this far. Not accurately,
fortunately. Another thudded into the turf close
to Chefney, who jumped.
Bewildered, Durendal was examining Harvest.
That was fresh blood on her and those were dead men on
the ground, but the last few minutes had vanished in
a confused blur of leaping and slashing and parrying.
Four?
"What was your family name, Sir
Durendal?"
"Family ... Roland, sire." He had not
spoken the word in a dozen years. He almost had
to think to remember it. Of course a King could ask
questions that others must not, but what on earth was
Ambrose after now?
The King frowned. "The Rolands of
Mayshire?"
"Who? Oh, no, sire. Dimpleshire, very
minor gentry. My grandfather held lands in
tenancy-in-chief from the Priory of
Goodham." Why ask? And why was Montpurse
pressing a hand on his shoulder so heavily?
Then realization--the Commander was signaling him
to kneel. Mystified, he dropped to one knee and
then to two as full understanding came. Oh, no!
He felt the mud cold through his hose.
Oh, yes! The blade came down on his
shoulder. Then on the other.
"Arise, Baron Roland of Waterby."
He arose. Montpurse grabbed his hand and
pumped it, hugging him with the other arm. The rest of the
Blades started a cheer and gathered around to thump
him on the back.
"My liege! I--I thank you, Your
Majesty. But I do not deserve--"
"Deserve?" Hoare bellowed. "Four dead
men and you don't deserve? The rest of us ought to be
hung, drawn, and quartered--every day for a month."
One of the towers of Waterby dissolved in a
ball of stones and dust that floated
leisurely to the ground. Everyone looked quickly
to the battery where the conjurers of the Royal Office
of Demolition were at work, to see if they had all
survived, because sometimes they blew themselves out of the
octogram as well as the shot. Then came the
sounds--first the distant cheering of the army, second the
roll of thunder over the plain.
Durendal turned back to face the King's
smug smile. "But, Your Majesty ... I
trust that this does not mean ... that I don't have
to ..." How could a peer belong to the Royal
Guard? Unthinkable!
Chuckling, the King returned Montpurse's
sword to him. "Not unless you wish. We grant you
leave to retain your present style at your own
pleasure."
That was honor indeed! He could retire at will
and be a lord. Not that he ever would, of course. A
noble must live nobly, which required vast amounts
of money.
Another explosion showered mud and pebbles. They
all ducked, and one or two swore at being
struck.
"They are finding the range, sire!"
Montpurse said angrily.
"True. Well, let us proceed to the
battery and hear how Destroyer General views
his progress." The King set off at a
leisurely stroll, anxious not to appear to be
retreating. With much relief his Blades
accompanied him.
Hoare edged close to Durendal to whisper,
"My lord, may I kiss your backside?"
"No. You aren't worthy."
"I know that. I was just hoping."
Baron Roland of Waterby. Meaningless,
really. He could never afford to use the title,
even if he would ever want to.
That evening, as the new peer was whetting Harvest
to remove a few recent nicks, a herald
came to the tent and presented him with an official
notice from Chancery. The honor and lands of
Peckmoss in Dimpleshire had been estranged
from the royal demesne and granted in freehold
to Baron Roland of Waterby; said lands would be
henceforth administered to the avail, benefit, and
profit of the said baron, pending his further
instructions.
He was rich. It didn't matter.
He was more worried about getting the bloodstains
off his jerkin.
Those were the great days. In the four years between his
second and third visits to Ironhall, he was
never far from the King. Of the hundred or so
Blades in the Royal Guard, five or six
were especially favored; and Sir Durendal was
one of them, companion at both work and play.
Ambrose was a ferocious horseman still, in
spite of his ever-increasing size, and rode in mad
hunts. He hawked and followed hounds. He
danced and attended masques. He went on
progresses through town and country, while the
crowds roared their loyalty. Seldom, if ever,
had Chivial loved a monarch as much as this one.
He repaired highways and built bridges,
fostered trade, wenched notoriously, and kept the
nobility under control. He had managed
to conclude a treaty with Baelmark, ending a war that
had dragged on for fourteen years, so now the
coasts no longer lived in dread of Baelish
raiders. Almost the only complaints ever heard in
Parliament concerned the lack of a male heir, so
when the King divorced Queen Godeleva and
married the Lady Sian, the country rejoiced and his
popularity soared even higher. From any
viewpoint, he loomed larger than life. The
fickle spirits of chance were his handmaids in those days,
and Durendal was there to share in the glory.
When the King did not need him, he never lacked
for recreation. There was Rose, soon after he
joined the Guard, but Rose's father disapproved and
married her off to a man of better breeding.
There was Isolde. They spoke seriously of
marriage until the rebellion in Nythia
called him away. He had thought they had an
understanding, but on his return he found her betrothed
to another.
That summer of th
e Nythian Rebellion was perhaps
the finest time of all--living with the army, fighting a
war. Apart from the vague few minutes when he
earned his barony, he experienced little real
battle, for the days of kings in armor leading charges
had long gone. Only very hard talking
by Montpurse kept Ambrose out of several
skirmishes, though; and even Montpurse could not
stop him on the day Kirkwain fell.
Then the King rode through the breach directly behind the
vanguard with his Blades around him. Four were
killed, a dozen wounded, but they gave more than they
took. Harvest alone avenged the four, and the
legend of the second Durendal crept a little
closer to the legend of the first.
Then there was Kate.
He had seen her around the palace many times, but
never close. He took a long time to find the
resolution to address her, for he feared rejection
--not from most women, for he knew his abilities,
but from her--because he still remembered the last time he
had presumed to approach a White Sister. One
evening, while he was considering whom to invite to a
masque, he saw her on the terrace, admiring
the swans. Her robe and tall hat were the same
snowy white as they, and the blossoms overhead
matched as well. ... A little rejection would not
kill him.
He walked closer and closer and closer, and
she did not sniff inquiringly and turn around
to glare. She just watched the swans. He saw that
she was smaller than he had realized; the tall
hennin was deceptive. Size did not matter when
everything else was perfection. When he judged the
distance to be about right--interest, but not threat--he
rested his forearms on the stone balustrade, to bring
his eyes nearer to the level of hers.
"Ugly brutes!" he said.
She turned her head with a frown. "I think
they're beautiful."
"You're not standing where I am."
He had always been puzzled by the fact that he
could never predict a person's laugh until he
heard it. The largest men might titter and the
smallest women guffaw. She had a wonderful
laugh, like birdsong.
"You are flattering me already, Sir
Durendal!"
"You know my name?" He pretended surprise,
although everyone knew his name.
"You have quite a reputation." She had a lovely
smile, too, and eyes of cornflower blue.
He presumed her hair would be the same gold as
her eyebrows, but it was hidden by her veils and
hat.
"What sort of reputation?"
"I don't think we should both indulge in
flattery. It might be dangerous."
"I spurn such danger." He
proved it by moving closer.
"That's part of the reputation."
This was definitely promising, but before his hopes
soared any higher he must discover if his binding
made him repugnant to her. "I have been told
that White Sisters can detect Blades at a
considerable distance."
"Thirty paces or so. Less in a crowd."
"Upwind or downwind?"
She laughed again. "Any wind. I could
detect you behind a wall, too, or in the dark.
Your binding is a powerful enchantment."
"Detect how? You really sniff?"
She smiled. "That's an old superstition. Not
by smell nor sight nor touch nor sound, and yet
by all of those. Explain color to a blind person."
"I asked you first. What does a Blade
look like, otherwise than other men?"
She considered, head tilted cutely. "More
intense. A Blade in a group seems more
solid, more important, I suppose.
Detecting conjurements is my duty, after all,
and my skill. A dagger in a box of kitchen
knives."
"This is very interesting. And hearing? You can tell
by my voice?"
"Even when you are silent. All the time. Like the
highest note on a trumpet, very high, very
clear. ... That sounds unpleasant, but it
isn't. Sort of rousing."
"Rousing?"
"In a military sense," she said hastily.
"And as for smell, you know that dry sort of odor
from very hot iron?"
"The smell of the Forge, I expect." He
laid a hand on hers. "And how do I feel?"
She stiffened. He feared he had moved too
soon, but she did not snatch her hand away. She
turned it over, so that they were palm to palm.
"Strong."
"So a Blade is not too horrible to be with?"
"One could get used to it."
"Would you begin by accompanying me to the masque
tomorrow?"
She looked up in astonishment. "Oh, I should
love to! You mean it?"
They parted an hour later, when he had to go on
duty. He had forgotten to ask her name. He
knew it by the end of the masque the next night, and
he also knew that this was a fish he wanted
to land. He must play his line very carefully.
Kate had other ideas. On the afternoon following
the masque, as they strolled hand in hand under the
spring blossoms, she said, "This dramatic
sword-through-the-heart ritual, does it leave a
scar?"
"Two--one front and one back. I have
four."
"I should like to see those."
Earth and fire!
He led her to his quarters--a small room,
poorly lit and cramped by an oversize bed.
He locked the door, for the Blades had informal
ways among themselves, but she did not protest. She
turned to peer at the lithographs on the wall,
while he went over to stand in the light under the
window. As he removed his doublet, then his shirt,
he could feel his heart pounding as it had not pounded
for a woman in years. Then she turned. He
held out his arms; she came to them.
She ignored his scars completely.
He knew very soon that she had no experience of
lovemaking. He did, though. He was skilled
and, in this case, extremely careful. And
extremely successful.
Later, as they lay entwined, he said many things,
but one of them was, "You astonish me. We have
only known each other for two days."
She snuggled even deeper into his embrace.
"I have loved you for months. For weeks I have
been putting myself in your path and you never seemed
to notice me."
"I did notice you. I was always frightened that you
would think ... that you might find a Blade
unpleasant at close quarters."
"Very pleasant."
"Trumpets and hot iron, daggers ... what
am I now?"
"Mm?" She stroked the hairs on his chest.
"Like being in bed with a sword."
"A naked Blade, you mean?"
"Exactly."
"Months, you say? Then I have a lot of
catching up to do."
She sighed and stretched her body against his.
"Begin now."
day with Parsewood and Scrimpnel,
surreptitiously rolling dice on a cushion
so they made no noise, while pointedly
ignoring disapproving stares from the officials who
waited endlessly in the big brocade chairs and
understood perfectly that the Blades would not
misbehave like that if there was anyone of real
importance present. Dusk was falling, pages
were lighting the lamps, the Chamberlain fussed with
papers at his desk. From time to time a secretary
would shuffle in and out again.
The antechamber was boredom incarnate.
Eavesdropping on what went on in the King's
presence could sometimes be interesting. At least one
Blade was normally present when the King granted
audience, but at that moment he was receiving Grand
Inquisitor, and not even Blades overheard her
reports.
The outer door opened a handbreadth to admit a
pint-sized page, who scurried over to Sir
Durendal and handed him a note, thus prompting
sarcastic whispers about billets-doux from his
insubordinate subordinates.
Must see you. Very urgent. K.
It had better be urgent! Cataclysmic!
Ignoring all the curious and disapproving
stares, he went over to the door and peered out. She
was right there, with the two men-at-arms scowling at her.
Montpurse would have him racked for this, but his anger
melted as he saw her pallor. She would never
weep, but something was very wrong.
"Quick!"
"I've been reassigned!" she whispered.
"First thing in the morning."
"No!" Then quieter, "To Oakendown?"
"No. To Brimiarde. It's a new posting."
"How long?"
"Probably forever."
To lose her so soon? It was unbearable. "Will
you marry me?"
"What?"
"They won't transfer you if you're married.
Marry me."
"But, but ... but we can't! There isn't time.
It takes days, weeks. ... I need
permission from--"
Parsewood coughed. Durendal glanced around and
saw the door to the council chamber already opening.
"No, it doesn't. I'll ask the King
to declare us man and wife. Then it'll be done. You
agree?"
She gasped, took one breath. ... "Oh
yes!"
"I adore you!" He closed the door and
moved away from it, aware of amused grins from
Scrimpnel and Parsewood and wondering what the
men-at-arms thought.
Grand Inquisitor backed out of the council