by Dave Duncan
Grand Inquisitor produced her closest
approximation yet to a genuine smile. It was an
unpleasant sight. "What about languages?"
He had not given a thought to languages. "I
suppose we must hire local guides." He
saw at once that he had again displayed total
incompetence for the task the King had set him.
She shook her head, and there was a disapproving
set to her mouth now. "At His
Majesty's insistence, we have arranged for you to receive
a spiritual enhancement known as the gift of tongues.
With that you will be able to pick up any foreign
language within hours. After a day's exposure
you will speak it like a native."
He had never heard of that conjuration--an
intriguing insight into the Dark Chamber.
"Inquisitor Kromman is already so enchanted,
I presume? A specialty of your office,
ma'am?"
"We employ it," she admitted. "The
conjuration itself belongs to the Silk Merchants'
Guild. They charge a fortune for its use, I
may add."
Had the guild's sudden new wealth enabled it
to hire the services of some sniffers, including
Sister Kate? She would be in Brimiarde when
he arrived there. The Everman Affair spread its
tentacles ever wider.
Kromman said, "Tomorrow night, in
Brimiarde."
"And my Blade will be enchanted as well, of
course."
Grand Inquisitor pursed her lips. "I
am afraid not. The budget will not run to two
fortunes, Sir Durendal."
Here was a place to stand and fight. "I am
afraid I must insist. Tomorrow night he will be
freshly bound. It will be virtually impossible for
him to leave my side. More important, the gift
of tongues will make him much more useful." He
tried to look as if he were prepared to take his
case to the King. He knew his pride would not let
him go running for help, yet he was certain that the
King would agree with him if he did.
Perhaps that certainty was what Mother Spider
smelled, for she scowled and said, "Very well.
Anything else?"
Kromman and Durendal glanced at each other
and shook their heads simultaneously.
"Until tomorrow then, Master Chalice."
Durendal rose and bowed. "A most interesting
meeting, ma'am. My thanks for all your
help."
She acknowledged the courtesy with a queenly
nod. "I suggest you visit some convenient
elementary and spend a little of the King's money on a
good-fortune conjuration. You will need it."
EVERMAN
III (continued)
He rode up to the royal door at
Ironhall with his hat pulled down to hide his
face, for it would be unfair to reveal the identity
of Prime's ward until Prime himself was
told. The last few miles he had ridden by the
light of the full moon, chivied by a bitter
moorland wind. He had cut it fine, for the
ritual must begin at midnight andwitha man's
life at stake he would not dare dispense
completely with meditation, as the King sometimes did.
His day-long fast had left him shaky and
depressed.
The door opened before he had even dismounted.
Wallop had been a servant there since long before
his time, perhaps since before he was born. If
Wallop recognized the cloaked visitor, he
did not say so. He mumbled, "You are
expected, my lord," and led the horse away.
Durendal went in and began to climb a dark and
narrow spiral stair. This was his third visit
to Ironhall, and might well be his last, but he
could see that no Blade could ever wholly escape
its clutches. Would Harvest ever hang in the
hall, or would she rust away in some distant
jungle?
The door at the top opened into Grand Master's
private study, with lamplight and a crackling
fire, comfortable chairs and shelves of books, and
heavy drapes drawn over the casements to keep
out the drafts. Grand Master was standing in front
of the hearth, toasting himself. Old Sir Silver
had died in the winter, honored and sincerely
mourned. His replacement was Sir Vicious, who
had been Master of Rituals in Durendal's
day and was one of the best. He had grown a little
shorter and somewhat wider, but his hair was still a
field of seeding dandelions and his cheerful face
glowed red from the fire.
"You?" The astonishment was almost comical. "I
expected the King. My! How very ...
unexpected."
Tossing his cloak over a chair, Durendal
headed for that seductive hearth. "I thought you would
guess. That's all right, isn't it--one
Blade binding another?"
"It's been done. Not in this century, I
suspect. No, I never dreamed. Can you tell
me why?"
"'Fraid not." He squatted beside the
knight's knees to warm his hands. The respect with
which the old man was treating him was a little unnerving,
for his memories of Ironhall were memories of
his boyhood. He had not realized how the years
had flown.
"Well! We must break the good news
to Prime right away!" Grand Master seemed almost
as excited as if he were about to be bound again himself.
Without waiting for consent, he went to the door and
spoke to someone outside. In a moment he came
back to the hearth. "I'd offer you wine if you
weren't fasting."
"I understand. Tell me about Wolfbiter."
"Oh, the best. Absolutely first class.
Not quite Durendal, but he'll be giving you a run
for the King's Cup in another couple of years."
Grand Master chuckled. "It's time somebody
else got a chance at it anyway."
"Tell me about the man, though."
"Solid steel. Mind you, the last six
months have been hard on him--can't recall any
Prime having to wait that long. Make allowances
for that."
Blast fat Ambrose for being so unthinking!
Durendal rose and leaned an elbow on the
mantel. Watching for a reaction, he said, "Is
the boy going to be resentful that he's not being bound
to the King?"
"Resentful? Resentful?" Grand Master
chortled. "Well, no, I don't think I
expect resentment. You realize that this is your
night you've picked?"
"My night?"
"We have a hard time explaining that Durendal
Night isn't named after you. No, I don't
think Wolfbiter will be resentful. Delirious,
perhaps. Hysterical joy is a possibility, I
suppose. Being torn limb from limb by all the
other--"
Horror! "You're joking!"
"Not much. You are the Blade of Blades
to them. Win the cup every year, saved the King's
life, bound twice, deputy commander of the Guard,
the Aldane bout--they think the sun won't rise
if you don't
pee in the morning. We
postponed the Durendal Night dinner until after
the binding. That thunder you can hear is all those young
bellies growling." Grand Master rubbed his hands.
"And now we discover that the guest of honor will be the
second Durendal himself with his new Blade at
his side! No, I don't think Prime will have
any complaints."
Death and fire! How could a man live up
to such expectations? He was not worthy of
absolute loyalty. He had been feeling
unhappy about becoming a ward ever since the King
ordered it; this news made him feel much worse.
He was going to lead his Blade on a useless
trek halfway around the world, with very few
prospects for a safe return.
"Bring your cloak," Grand Master said,
producing one of his own. "We'll await them in
the flea room."
Durendal followed, stooping along a
low-roofed corridor and down a short flight of
stairs. This was the oldest part of the keep, an
ants' nest of passages. It smelled of rot.
"Why do you play these tricks?"
Grand Master stepped aside for him to enter the
little room he remembered so well, where he had
caught coins, where he had first met the Marquis.
Candles already flickered on the table and mantel,
but the air was icy and unused.
"Dunno. Because it's always been done, I
suppose. Because the tricks were played on us, so
we play them on others. You sit there. Maybe
it is childish," he conceded.
He settled in one chair, Durendal in the
other, where he would not be readily visible. Yes,
Grand Master's glee as he prepared to spring the
great surprise was juvenile. What happened to a
Blade when he retired to these forsaken moors
to forge more Blades? From the shimmer and glitter of
court to--what? Bleak nothing and a house full
of children. were the knights and masters perhaps all a little
crazy? It was not a welcome thought, but it might
be one to ponder when he succeeded Montpurse as
... but he was going to Samarinda, wasn't he?
He would never succeed Montpurse.
"You had a fire last summer, I heard."
The older man nodded. "Lightning. Happens
every hundred years or so. It was one of those freak
late storms, middle of the night. We were lucky
all the boys got out safely. That was only
thanks to--"
Knuckles rapped on ancient boards.
Grand Master winked. "Enter."
How many times had this scene been played out?
Five thousand swords in the hall ... For a
moment the door blocked Durendal's view.
When it closed, two boys stood at attention
between him and the other chair.
"You sent for us, Grand Master?"
Wolfbiter was unusually short for a Blade,
and slight of build--a rapier man. From that
angle he certainly did not look twenty-one.
His hair was black. Second was very different,
fair, big-boned, and meaty. They represented
the two end limits of the Blade type.
"I did, Prime. His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
"More than ready, Grand Master."
No hesitation there!
Grand Master smirked and gestured. "Then
pray greet your assigned ward."
Wolfbiter spun around and completed the turn
without stopping, a complete circle until he was
looking at Grand Master again, and snapped, "Is
this some kind of a joke?"
Second was staring at the visitor with his mouth
hanging open. It was less than four years since
Durendal's second binding. These lads would have
been juniors then, so they knew his face, but
Wolfbiter's reaction had been incredibly fast
--so fast that it could not have been faked, even. If
he had been forewarned he would have faked better
than that.
Grand Master spluttered, totally taken
aback. "Joke? What do you mean by insulting--"
"To bind a Blade to Sir Durendal would be
setting a lamb to guard a wolf! I do not
understand." The bantam cock was furious! Was this the
resentment Durendal had feared?
It was time for him to intervene. He rose. "No
joke. Grand Master does not describe you as a
lamb, nor even a ram. But my own first
experience with binding had terrible consequences for me,
and I have no wish to put you to the same ordeal.
If you would prefer to wait for another ward,
Prime, then this episode can be quietly
forgotten, as if it never happened."
The kid had blushed scarlet. "No, no,
no! I meant no disrespect, Sir
Durendal! Quite the reverse. To be bound to you is
an unbelievable honor, that's all--
one I could not have dreamed of." He bowed with a
fencer's grace.
Durendal offered a hand. "The honor and the
burden are mine. I shall strive to be worthy of the
loyalty you pledge."
Wolfbiter's grip was powerful. His dark
eyes gleamed bright and clear in the candlelight, and
undoubtedly those quick wits were now trying
to calculate why a Blade should need a
Blade. His gaze kept darting toward
Durendal's right hip. Either he wanted to see the
famous sword breaker, or he had glimpsed its
absence under the cloak but could not be sure.
Yes, this one would do.
Then ... "By fire! You were the Brat! You
gave me my sword!"
Intense satisfaction flashed back at him.
"Yes, sir. And you came and thanked me afterward.
You can't imagine what that meant to me!"
"Yes, I can." Montpurse and himself.
Deja vu!
"Second?"
"Candidate Bullwhip, Sir Durendal,"
Grand Master said.
"My pleasure. I have heard much good of you
also."
It was Bullwhip's turn to blush, but he also
stammered incoherently. His grip was positively
crushing--a broadsword man. Wolfbiter would
be the better man for the job.
Grand Master rose. "I expect you will all
wish to start the preliminary stages of the ritual as
soon as possible so we can start on the
banquet."
Wolfbiter looked inquiringly at
Durendal, who said, "The sopranos won't
starve if we keep them waiting a few more
minutes. If we may stop by the gym, I'd be
interested in trying a couple of passes with
Prime."
"In this light?" Grand Master protested.
"If the candidate has no objections."
"None at all, sir. My honor." Dark
eyes gleamed in triumph. "We shall be leaving before
dawn, then, sir?"
Quick!
Word must have flashed through Ironhall like a bolt
of lightning. By the time the contestants had removed
their doublets--retaining their shirts against the
cold--the entire school had assembled around the
walls of the gym, most o
f them holding candles or
lanterns. Durendal could hear his own name being
whispered everywhere. He stipulated rapiers to let
his future Blade show his best weapon. The
lighting was certainly tricky, as all the myriad
flames danced on the foils like a mist of stars.
Wolfbiter was sunlight on water. He
flashed from position to position, making even
tricky transitions gracefully: Swan,
Violet, Steeple. ... He was aggressive
as a bee swarm but never predictable. The foils
clashed and clattered, feet tapped like a patter
of raindrops. Durendal let him lead, holding
him off but finding himself stretched almost to his
limits. Deciding not to let the lad get too
cocky, he switched to attack, seeking a touch.
But Wolfbiter was never there. Incredible speed!
Ah!
"A touch, sir!" He was ready to go again,
barely even puffing.
Durendal saluted and tossed his foil to a
waiting junior. "No. I daren't risk my
reputation. I know only three men other than
myself who might beat you, Candidate, and I'm not
sure of any of them. I do not flatter."
He felt ill. Who was he to own this superb
young man body and soul for the rest of his life?
By the time the familiar ritual rose to its
climax, Durendal had lost most of his doubts.
Perhaps the singing was spinning its old seductive
spell around him again, the love of men in bands that
Kate had mentioned. He could rationalize that
Wolfbiter had chosen this life, just as he had.
If a man must serve his King indirectly, that was
still service. Of course it was a shame that his first
duty was to risk his skin in a distant land to no
real purpose, but the King must be the judge of such
matters. Kings' whims were not as other men's. There
might be more to the foolish tale than Grand
Inquisitor knew or had admitted.
It was strange to watch the candidate jump up
on the anvil and address him in the words of the oath.
It was even stranger to stare at that ominous smudge
of charcoal below the dark fuzz on his chest and take
up a sword to try and kill him. The sword was
a surprise, too. It had a slight
back curve and its point of balance was far
forward, so Wolfbiter was a slasher, not a point
man after all. If he was so good with rapiers, how
must he be with his preferred sabers?
Now he must find the lad's heart.
Wolfbiter was seated on the anvil, pale but
determined as he stared up at death, but exactly