by Dave Duncan
of information--Dragon in this case, of course, but
Kromman ran an efficient spy network quite
apart from the Office of General Inquiry. There were
undoubtedly others. Wily old Ambrose had
not loosed his grip on his kingdom yet.
"Sire, if you must give me a horse like
Destrier, you cannot expect me to haul fish with
him." He could still flinch under the royal glare.
"On the way back last time I did suggest a
small race. My escort agreed, and I won
by a nose--purely because I had the best mount. It
was foolish and unkind to the horses." Luckily
Kate had not heard of the incident.
The King gasped a sort of cough that was
probably meant to be a laugh. "Two fell
off, you won ... three lengths. Won't hurt
brats ... know best man still best." His tone
changed to annoyance. "Why're you here, bothering
me, interrupting vacation?"
Durendal turned to look at Kromman.
"Oh, let him be," the King snarled.
"Only eavesdrop in the crapper. Can't keep
secrets, this place."
Why torture a dying man with a personal
squabble? "As Your Majesty wishes."
Durendal reached in his pack and brought out his
folder of papers. "I need your instructions about
a few matters, sire. The Nythian rebels
are the most urgent, as they are due to be hanged
in three days. A royal pardon at Long
Night is--"
"Hang 'em."
"Two of them are only boys, sire,
thirteen and--"
"Hang 'em!"
Very rarely in his twenty years as chancellor,
Durendal had gone so far as to kneel and offer
Ambrose the golden chain. There were some places
even loyalty could not go and hanging children ought to be
one of them; but his resolution failed when he
looked at the dying despot. Even if the King
had no pity for those rebel brats,
Durendal felt pity for him and could not desert his
liege lord now.
"Yes, sire. Next item. The Exchequer
requests approval of this warrant."
He held out the paper, but Kromman moved in
like a stalking cat to take it. He placed it on
a writing board and extended it to the King, offering a
quill. Ambrose signed without looking, a
wandering scrawl. The Secretary removed the
board and withdrew to the shadows. How much influence
had the former inquisitor gained over the invalid?
At least the privy signet was still on the royal
finger.
After that, the King listened to the problems in silence
broken only by his labored breathing. Each time
he waited for the Chancellor's recommendation, then
nodded. Kromman obtained his signature and
took it away to seal.
With rising distress, Durendal pressed on.
At first they had been teacher and pupil, then a
team--a quarrelsome but effective team--for almost
twenty years. Now he made the decisions and the
King approved them. Chivial was ruled by an aging
chancellor, which was not good enough. He wanted
to retire and enjoy a little of the private life he
had never known, but he could not abandon his post now.
It was hard not to curse or weep.
At the end, he bowed. "There is nothing else
of great moment, sire. The rest can wait until
your return. Er, Parliament? It is summoned
to convene in three weeks, sire. Do you wish
to postpone--"
The King barked, "No!" and was convulsed
by coughing. When he recovered, he just glared.
"Then your speech, sire ...?"
"Send me ... draft, what you need."
He would never be well enough to journey back
to Grandon and address Parliament, but obviously
that was not to be said.
Alas, the good old days! In his first ten years
as chancellor, Durendal had spoiled
Ambrose, letting him rule as an autocrat.
Squandering the wealth of the elementaries with mad
abandon, he had needed no taxes and brooked no
interference with his own will. When he had at last been
forced to summon Parliament again, he had run
into ten years' backlog of complaint. It hadn't
ended yet. Each Parliament seemed worse than
its predecessor.
"That's everything, then, sire." One
last paper. "Oh ... It is not urgent, but you
still need a new sheriff for Appleshire. I was
wondering if you would consent to appoint Sir
Bowman. He would--"
"Who?"
"The deputy commander."
The King recognized his slip and reacted with
anger. "You keep your meddling fingers off my
Guard, you hear?"
"Of course, sire, I was merely--"
"None of your business! I'll see to, all
that when ... get back."
"No, sire. I realize."
The invalid made a feeble effort to heave himself
higher on the pillows and then sank back with a
groan. "Did ... daughter reply ... your
letters?"
"No, sire."
"Did ... tell her I'm sick?"
That question could kill a man coming and going. No would
mean that Durendal had not done enough to convince the
Princess. Yes would contradict the King's
official policy. Any hint of dying was
treasonous. "I did mention that your health was
causing some concern, sire."
"Just want see them. Did ... tell her so?
One at a time, if won't trust me."
Durendal sighed. "I have sent every message and
messenger I can think of. I have even dispatched an
artist, with a plea that he may be allowed to sketch
the princes. I haven't heard from him yet, but you
must make allowances for the weather at this time of year,
sire. No ships are crossing. Why not let
Secretary Kromman try writing to her and see
if he has any more luck?" He had nothing
to lose by making this suggestion, because it was certain
Kromman would have tried already, with or without
permission. Princess Malinda's feelings
toward Lord Chancellor Roland need not be mentioned.
A tremor of the old anger shook the King's
moribund mass. "Take hostages. Seize
Baelish ambassador, merchants ..."
"You don't mean that."
"Cockscomb!" Color showed now on the
pale butter cheeks. "Upstart peasant! Think
you can run kingdom, when ... can't even manage
one stiff-neck slut? Willful biddy!"
That was hardly fair when they were discussing his
daughter, who was also the wife of a foreign ruler.
There was much more to the Princess problem
than her personal spite. Parliament had always
detested the idea of a barbarian Bael succeeding
to the throne of Chivial, even if the marriage
treaty did stipulate that Malinda would reign
in her own right and her husband would be no more than
consort. Parliament had grave doubts that a
notorious pirate chief like King Radgar would
Parliament was going to be grievously concerned,
meaning mutinous, if the King was too ill
to address it in person while his heir was far
away on those barren rocks. There would be talk
of a regency, moves to tamper with the succession,
delegations sent hither and thither. Time was running
out for the part-time ruler--but Ambrose was shrewd enough
to know all that.
"I have done my best, sire. I am sure that
your grandsons will turn up to visit you in the
spring, when the sailing improves."
The King turned his head away. What
spring?
"My business is complete, my liege. I
humbly beg leave to withdraw."
Ambrose did not look around, but after a moment
he muttered, "Have safe ... ride home."
Durendal lifted the pudgy hand to his lips.
It was as cold as the winter hills beyond the
shutters. "I won't go above a canter. You know
I never do."
There was no reply.
Kromman held the door open for the
Chancellor. Their eyes met as Durendal went
by, and he saw a gleam of triumph that twitched
his old fighting dander. Was that odious intestinal
worm gloating because the King was about to die and then
Lord Roland would no longer be chancellor? Very
likely! He probably considered himself so
indispensable that the new Queen would have to retain him
in her service. Good luck to her! And to him--they
deserved each other.
Of course the King's death would also free
Durendal from his pledge of good conduct. He still
owed vengeance to Wolfbiter, but over the years his
anger had faded to sad resignation, a private
fantasy to amuse himself when the Secretary was being
particularly obnoxious. Justice belonged to the
King, and by failing to act against Kromman, the King
had effectively pardoned him. Durendal had
sworn his oath as a young and footloose
bachelor, a vagabond newly returned from
wild lands where blood feuds were common as fleas.
Now he was a husband, a father and grandfather, and a
respected elder statesman with rich estates, not
a man who would throw away his life and destroy his
family's happiness to so little real purpose.
Must he admit that he was just too old? That he
no longer had the juice in him to be an
executioner? No, the slug just wasn't worth the
scandal now.
Three days after Long Night, the courier's
bag that carried routine business back and forth between
the King at Falconsrest and the scriveners of the
Privy Purse at Greymere produced a
warrant assigning a Blade to Lord Roland--a
standard form bearing the King's signet and
signature, with the recipient's name inserted in the
King's hand. It was promptly sent along the
hall to Durendal, who puzzled over it for an
hour, wondering not only why the King had sent it but
also why it had not come to him directly. A
companion bag had brought him other documents.
It might be a simple error. Ambrose's
illness had not dulled his wits so far, but if he
had decided to clear the backlog of seniors at
Ironhall by distributing them to ministers and
courtiers, as he sometimes did, then perhaps he had
inadvertently written the wrong name. An
inquiry to Privy Purse brought the response
that it had been the only assignment received.
Other routine papers the King had dealt with showed
no signs of mental confusion. Eventually
Durendal took the riddle home to show Kate,
and they argued over it into the night. The most
plausible explanation they could devise was that the
King was at last preparing to die and knew that his
chancellor's reign would end as soon as the new
Queen could lay her hands on a pen and a stick of
sealing wax. Durendal had inevitably made
enemies in serving his sovereign; how could he
refuse such a farewell gift? Eventually
Kate persuaded him he must accept.
The next morning she left to visit their
daughter and he set off for Ironhall. He
did not call at the palace to obtain an
escort--partly because it would have taken him out of his
way and partly because he had still not
definitely decided to go through with the binding. If he
changed his mind, he would not want the Guard to know
about the warrant. He went alone, confident that his
swordsmanship was still capable of dealing with any
reasonable peril.
Besides, Deputy Commander Bowman was still being
difficult about what had happened to Lord Roland's
last escort.
At noon, when Durendal reached the moors,
he was almost ready to turn back, but some deep
stubbornness drove him on. After all, he could
visit Ironhall without ever mentioning the warrant.
By the time he reached the doors, night was falling and
he knew that he was going to go ahead with the binding.
Whatever the King's motives, he was still the King,
and a lifetime of obedience was not to be set aside
now. It did seem a shabby trick to play on
some eager youngster, though.
The current Grand Master was Parsewood,
whom he had known only briefly before starting his
trip to Samarinda, but who had distinguished himself in
the Old Blades during the Monster War.
Having never married, he had settled down at
Ironhall to end his days in teaching; the Order had
elected him its chief three years ago. He was
depressingly grizzled and had lost most of his
teeth, but he greeted the Chancellor with
enthusiasm and a very welcome mug of hot mulled
ale to drive away the winter chill. He must be
curious to know why Lord Roland was being assigned a
Blade now, after twenty years as chancellor, but
he did not ask. They settled on either side of the
fireplace in his private chamber.
"Prime? Name of Quarrel. Rapier man."
He shrugged. "Nothing exceptional, nothing
to worry about. He'll never take the Cup, but a
good, sound lad. Very charming. He shines there. Will
break a few hearts, I'm sure, but that's the
legend, yes?" Grand Master sighed
nostalgically.
If there was nothing exceptional about Candidate
Quarrel, then he could not hold the key to the
King's strange decision. "Can he ride?"
"Like a centaur."
That did not sound as if the King was just trying
to put an end to steeplechasing, which had been one of
Durendal's wilder theories.
"He doesn't compare with Foray, Terror, or
Lewmoss, of course," Grand Master said in an
odd tone. "Superb equestrians,
all of them."
"What are you implying?"
"Story is that you wrecked half the Guard.
I heard three broken legs, one collarbone,
&nb
sp; and a severe concussion. Assorted ribs."
"An unfortunate accident! The hedge hid the
ditch completely, but that black of mine has
feet like a cat. I shouted back to warn them, but
I was too late. That's all. I was
extremely lucky."
Grand Master leered and took a drink.
Annoyed that such embarrassing tales were going
around, Durendal said stuffily, "I'm told you
have a surfeit of seniors just now."
"Officially twelve. More, really. It could have
been worse, but we cut back enrollment about
five years ago, when the King's health began
to, er, cause concern. Lately we've picked
up again. Why are you smirking?"
"That was not a smirk, Grand Master.
Chancellors never smirk. That was quasiregal
approval you detected. I was just thinking how
well His Majesty is served--hundreds or
thousands of people all quietly doing their best
to promote his interests."
"His? The Crown's. When they think we're
not listening, the seniors refer to themselves as the
Queen's men."
"This is not a frown," Durendal said, "it's
a quasiregal caution against imagining the King's
death."
"Well, he is over seventy," Grand
Master protested, adding, "brother," as a
precaution. "How is his health, hmm?"
"Not as good as he would like, frankly. His leg
bothers him a bit. Still sharp as a den of foxes,
though."
"We'll all be the Queen's men one day, I
expect. The bindings translate, because we
swore allegiance to him and his heirs. You will
give the seniors a few pointers with the foils
tomorrow, won't you?"
"Me?" Durendal laughed. "Grand Master,
my wind is hopeless these days! I'm slower than
a spring thaw."
"But your technique, man! Ten minutes
watching your wrist will do 'em more good than a
month's practice."
Oh, flattery! "If you insist. But not for
very long, especially on an empty
stomach."
"Knew I could count on you." Grand Master
chuckled. "They have their own name for you, you know? They
call you "Paragon.""
Paragon? Horrors! Didn't they realize
what politics did to a man? Paragon was
obscene! Durendal opened his mouth to call the
whole thing off, but Grand Master was already on his
feet.
"Ready to meet your Blade now?"
Suppressing his doubts, Durendal consented.
They went to the chilly little flea room, and in a