King's Blades 01 - The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  advise Your Majesty to prorogue

  Parliament." That would save Montpurse.

  "What?" The King's jaw dropped onto a

  layer of chins. "Go on, man, go on!"

  "Well, why just tax them if Parliament will

  let you shut them down? You could confiscate their

  lands entirely. Begging your pardon, sire, but

  who needs taxes?"

  The King stumped over to his chair of state and

  lowered his bulk onto it. Durendal waited to be

  told that he was an ignorant blockhead with

  congenital insanity. If the solution was so

  simple, surely Kromman or Montpurse

  or the King would have seen it long ago? Ambrose

  was going to laugh him to scorn and in a few months

  --just long enough that he would not have to admit he had

  made an error of judgment--he would find himself a

  new chancellor, one who did not advocate

  absurdities.

  Yes, the King did begin to laugh, but he

  laughed until his belly heaved and tears streamed

  down his roly-poly cheeks into his

  beard. When he managed to catch his breath, he

  wheezed, "And I accused you of not being a fighter!

  You're proposing outright war! Stamp them out!"

  This sounded promising. "They started the war,

  sire. Of course, there will be considerable danger

  when they realize what we are up to." The

  Guard would have a thousand fits--Bandit already

  looked as if he had just been kicked in the

  duodenum.

  But Durendal had guessed his king would not shrink

  from the prospect of danger and the supposition was

  correct. The royal fist thumped on the chair.

  "Blast them all! If we have to call on the

  Destroyer General, we'll do it! How will you

  proceed? Who'll bell this cat?"

  "The inquisitors will want to, of course, and

  so will the College. I'd prefer to set up an

  independent Court of Conjury. Investigate,

  convict, disband, expropriate, and move on to the

  next. Obviously, some of the orders are

  beneficial--license them and let them continue.

  I don't for a moment suppose you can reclaim the

  entire one fifth that Secretary Kromman

  mentioned, and you may glut the real estate market,

  but I doubt that your treasury will run dry for a

  year or two."

  "By the eight, I was right to pick you! A pox

  on Parliament! This is sumptuous!" The King

  smacked his lips, but then his habitual

  suspicion returned. "Who's going to run this

  Court of Conjury?"

  "Your Majesty will name the officers, of course,

  but what I suspect you will need most is a band of

  fighting men brave enough to storm these lairs of

  evil. It will be close to war, I am sure.

  And the obvious men to recruit, sire, are the

  knights of my order. As you saw on the Night

  of Dogs, sir, there are dozens of them still fit and

  strong, loyal to Your Majesty--some married, some

  not, some rusting away in Ironhall, many of them with

  no real purpose in life. They will leap at such

  a chance to serve you." That was the part of his plan that

  appealed to him most, and he would give all his

  teeth for the chance to lead the army. Alas, he knew

  he could not hope for that.

  The King muttered, "Sumptuous!" a few

  times. "By fire, we'll do it!" He seemed about

  to heave himself out of the chair, then he paused. He

  smirked at Durendal with his fat little mouth. "I

  reward those who serve me well. What

  do you need?"

  Montpurse safely out of the country?

  Kromman's head in a bottle? Ten more hours

  in the day? "I have given you only promises so

  far, sire. Should not rewards wait until I can

  show results?"

  The piggy eyes seemed to shrink and withdraw,

  making Durendal think of two hot chestnuts on

  butter. He wondered uneasily what was brewing

  inside the sly, unpredictable mind behind them.

  "Blast honest men!" the King muttered. "I

  could deed you a county and you'd stuff it in a drawer

  and forget it. There must be some way to make you fawn

  like the others!"

  "Your Majesty's approval is ample

  recompense for what I have achieved so far." That

  sounded like bootlicking, and yet it was true. On

  his first bout in the political arena, he had

  impressed this devious, lifelong schemer, and that

  felt like winning the King's Cup.

  "Ha! I know what's wrong with you. Thought you

  looked peculiar! You're running around half

  naked." Ambrose peered around him. "Guard?

  Oh, it's you, Commander, er, Bandit. Get me the

  Chancellor's sword!"

  With an understandable blink of surprise, Bandit

  opened the door and called to one of the Blades in the

  anteroom, who were guarding Harvest as a minor

  part of their duties.

  What?

  The King heaved himself out of his chair.

  "Secretary!"

  Kromman scuttled in like a giant, unwinking

  beetle. "Your Majesty?"

  "Make out a warrant!" said the King. "A

  decree of ... Oh, make up a name.

  Addressed to the Guard." He accepted the sword

  from Bandit. "Henceforth, at all times and places,

  Baron Roland may come armed into our presence."

  Durendal, Bandit, and Kromman all said

  "What?" simultaneously.

  Then Kromman bleated, "But the readings,

  sire ..."

  Bandit growled, "He's worth three of ..."

  Durendal protested, "Your Majesty, I

  am not ..."

  The King silenced them all with a glare and

  extended Harvest hilt first to Durendal. "No,

  you're not bound now. We reward you with our trust,

  my lord."

  Speechless, Durendal hung his sword back

  in her proper place at his belt. Armed and

  unbound! It was an honor he could not have dreamed

  of--the only man in the kingdom so trusted. For

  once, the Secretary's face was an open

  book, and the fury written on it was worth a

  dukedom. The King was smirking, so probably the

  Chancellor was being fairly readable himself.

  Moments like those taught a man a lot about

  loyalty.

  Even the King had underestimated the fury in

  Parliament. Merely throwing Montpurse in the

  Bastion did not sate his enemies--it just whetted

  their appetites. Suddenly the ex-chancellor was the

  greatest villain since Hargand the Terrible, and

  neither Lords nor Commons would debate anything

  except a Bill of Attainder, condemning him out

  of hand to the Question. Duly passed by both houses, it

  arrived at the palace one snowy evening to receive the

  King's signature and become law.

  The new chancellor slept very little that night and

  doubted that his sovereign did either. To accuse

  Montpurse of treason was absolute insanity

  --incompetence perhaps, for all men made

  mistakes. Indiscretion in accepting gifts from

  inappr
opriate persons was possible, but he could

  have done nothing to deserve what the act demanded.

  Yet if the King refused consent, Parliament

  might cut off his revenues. The decision was his

  to make; his Chancellor must advise him.

  By morning Durendal had almost convinced himself that

  duty to King and country required throwing

  Montpurse to the weasels. After all, although the

  Question was very harrowing, it was not fatal and would

  certainly clear him of the charges.

  Almost convinced himself.

  That must have been the right decision, though, because

  Montpurse agreed with it. Even then he served

  his King or his former friend. His signed confession

  arrived not long after dawn, leaving Durendal no

  choice. He took the bill into the King's

  bedroom to be ratified.

  Later that day he rode to the Bastion,

  accompanied by a squad of Blades. He had

  adamantly rejected the King's offer to assign

  personal Blades to him--quoting a precedent

  set by Montpurse--but he could hardly

  refuse an escort. The lads enjoyed the

  unnecessary outing with their former leader.

  In less than a month, Montpurse had

  aged ten years. His scalp showed through his hair, his

  face was dragged down in pouches, his arms were thin.

  Much more surprising was an apparent serenity quite

  improbable in a man confined to a dark and

  malodorous cell with chains on his ankles and

  only a prison shirt and britches between his skin

  and the cold.

  "You have absolutely nothing to fear,"

  Durendal said. "You will throw their charges back in

  their faces."

  Montpurse smiled sadly. "Everyone has

  secrets, my lord. When will it be done?"

  "I'm hoping I can hold them off until the

  King prorogues Parliament."

  "No, no! Get it over with, please. As

  soon as possible."

  "As you wish. I'll see to it."

  Knowing the man, Durendal had anticipated that

  request and had already given the necessary orders. He

  did not need to countermand them, as he would have done had

  Montpurse wanted a delay. He sat with the

  prisoner and talked about the good old days, although

  to him all past days must seem good now. And when the

  inquisitors came, Montpurse was taken

  by surprise.

  He drew one sharp breath and then said, "You are

  efficient, my lord! Thank you for this."

  In a case of high treason, a member of the

  Privy Council must attend when the suspect was

  put to the Question. Durendal would not delegate that

  terrible duty, but if it was not the worst experience

  of his life, he could never decide what else

  was. It went on forever. The elementary in the

  Bastion was just another stinking dungeon, so small

  that he must lean against a slimy wall with his toes

  almost on the lines of the octogram. Montpurse

  sat bound to a chair in the center, his face

  mercifully concealed by the near darkness. Halfway

  through the ritual, Durendal realized with fury that

  one of the chanting conjurers was Kromman, but by then the

  spirits were gathering and he dared not interrupt.

  The conjuration invoked water and fire, but mostly

  air, until the silences seemed to whistle with

  hurricane winds. Montpurse whimpered a

  few times and writhed against his bonds. At the end,

  he sat with his head slumped forward.

  "Have you injured him, you fools?"

  "He has merely fainted, my lord," Grand

  Inquisitor said calmly. "Quite normal. Do you

  wish us to throw a bucket of water over him?"

  "Of course not, you idiot! Put him to bed and

  call a healer."

  "I hardly think that is necessary, Chancellor."

  Interpreting the regulations as liberally as he

  dared and telling himself that he was merely being

  considerate of his patiently waiting escort and

  Montpurse's own feelings, Durendal left

  and returned to the palace.

  Having to waste time on sleep was a nuisance.

  Being deprived of it was a torment. Two days

  later, he went to the King feeling as if his head

  had been marinated overnight in vinegar. He

  dropped an inch-thick statement on Ambrose's

  lap.

  "Drivel!" he said. "Claptrap!

  Picayune maundering! There is nothing in here

  to convict a fox of stealing chickens. He accepted

  gifts--but they never influenced his decisions. He

  spoke harshly of you behind your back--what sort

  of a man would he have been if he had not? I have said

  much worse myself. He delayed carrying out orders

  in the hope you would change your mind--which you did,

  several times. He let you beat him at fencing.

  When did flattery become a capital offense?

  Sire, this man is innocent! You can never have had

  a truer or more faithful servant."

  The King scowled at him with his piggy little eyes.

  "Go and talk with him!"

  "What?"

  "Go and talk with the prisoner! That is a command,

  Chancellor!"

  So Durendal rode back to the Bastion.

  He found Montpurse in the same dark,

  stinking cell as before, frantically trying to write

  in the near darkness--on the floor under the narrow

  shaft that admitted what little air and light there

  was, because he had no table. Heaps of paper

  surrounded him.

  "Lord Roland!" He scrambled up eagerly,

  rattling his shackles. "I am so glad you have

  come!" He sounded close to tears.

  "I have read your statements and--"

  "But there is more, much more! So many things I

  wanted to include and they would not let me! Oh,

  my friend, I welcome this chance to tell you how I

  betrayed you. I was jealous. I hated you

  for your skill with a sword! When you defeated me in

  the King's Cup I wanted to come after you with a real

  blade. When you fenced with the King on your first night

  at court, exposing us all as toadies and

  lickspitters, I said such awful, dreadful things

  to you! I detested you for my own shame, the disgrace

  I had brought upon myself and the whole Guard. The first

  time we ever spoke, on the night of my binding,

  I came and thanked you, but not because I was in any

  way grateful to you. No, only to make me

  feel gracious and lordly. I was a detestable

  person in those days. Do you know I played with

  myself, back there at Ironhall? Oh, I know

  every boy does, but that doesn't excuse all the

  lecherous images and unclean thoughts ... Wait,

  I have it all in writing here."

  He began to scrabble among his papers. He

  would not, could not, stop confessing to every imaginable sin

  or fault he had ever committed or even

  contemplated, no matter how trivial. In

  minutes Durendal was pounding on the door and

  yelling for the guards to let him out. The change, he

  was informed, was perm
anent.

  He went back to the palace. In silence he

  took the death warrant to the King, and in silence the

  King signed it.

  KATE

  VI

  The coach crawled interminably through the snowy

  night, following the lackey who walked ahead with a

  lantern to keep it out of ditches. Shivering even

  with two of the three rugs wrapped around his old

  bones, Lord Roland was tempted to reach for the third

  also, because his young companion did not seem to need it.

  Pride would not let him.

  He was brooding again. He must say something.

  "You know, it's almost exactly twenty years

  to the day since the King made me his chancellor--

  Firstmoon, 368. About the time you were born, I

  suppose?"

  "Roughly." Quarrel's face was invisible.

  His tone implied that it was shameful to be so young, so

  another topic was required.

  "Not very far to go now. Ivywalls is nearer

  Nocare than Greymere, of course."

  "It's a beautiful place. I look forward

  to seeing it in spring."

  Would the malevolent new chancellor allow either

  of them to see spring? Worry about that tomorrow. "When the

  King suppressed the elementaries, it was my share

  of the loot."

  "My lord!" Quarrel sounded almost comically

  shocked. He would have been only a child during the

  suppressions.

  "I speak crudely but not inexactly. It was

  never used as an elementary itself, or my wife

  couldn't go near it even now, but it was a fairly

  typical case. The land had belonged to the Curry

  family since the previous dynasty. ... The

  house is much more recent. In his last illness,

  old Lord Curry called in healers from the

  Priory of Demenly. While they were

  supposedly enchanting him back to health, they

  enchanted him to leave his entire estate to the

  priory. His wife and children were thrown out in the

  fields."

  "Spirits! What? That's outrageous!"

  "Oh, we uncovered much worse things than

  that--children turned into sex toys, men and women

  enslaved or deliberately addicted so that they would

  die or suffer horrible pain unless they paid for

  fresh conjurations every day. Some of the ways the orders

  used to fight back were equally vile. It wasn't

  called the Monster War for nothing. Had

  you been my Blade in those days, Sir

  Quarrel, you would have had your work cut out for you. The

  assassins usually tried for the King or Princess

  Malinda, but they honored me a few times."