by Dave Duncan
I've been a good king so far."
"A very fine one, sire."
"And that crazy daughter of mine knows nothing!
She's been shut away for twenty years on those
islands, breeding barbarians. She's not capable of
running a civilized kingdom. Everything will go
to pieces." He waited for an answer. Not
getting one, he turned his full royal scowl
on his former chancellor. "Well? You deny it?"
"She may make mistakes at first. So did
you. Isn't she entitled to her turn, just as you
were?"
The King's face darkened. "Not now we have a
better alternative. Now a good king can continue
to be a good king forever. What troubles you? You think
I'm planning to hunt down innocent people and
slaughter my loyal subjects? Nonsense!
Felons, convicts--that's the answer!
Kromman estimates that more than two thousand men
are hanged in Chivial every year. What you will do,
my lord, is explain to Parliament that we have a
new conjuration to turn their bones into gold. The
corpses will henceforth belong to the crown. Simple,
yes? You won't need to mention rejuvenation yet.
That can leak out gradually. I think the Commons will
be pleased to hear that their beloved prince is about
to abolish taxation altogether, don't you?"
"I expect they'll be happy for a year or
two." Durendal thought of that cellar in
Samarinda. "After that your gold will be as common as
sewage and worth less."
"Bah! Details! The country will benefit.
If it's that pretty wife of yours who's
worrying you, then we can include her. What other
persnickety complaints have you got?"
"Two, sire. First, mortal men won't
take kindly to being ruled by an immortal. I
don't think the country will stand for it."
"The country can eat dirt. What's the
second?"
"Change, sire. Variety. New blood.
Anything can go on too long. People go stale, even
kings. Even kings who eat human flesh."
"Spirits! I could have your head for that!"
"Then take it. I would sooner die than
watch Chivial wither under a permanent tyranny."
Durendal could imagine what the listeners in the
garderobe would make of that remark.
The King dropped his voice to a needling
whisper. "Well I shan't give you that
pleasure! At dawn you will be reborn too and
then we'll see how you feel about life and death.
You've been a good chancellor, I admit--best
I ever had--and you can damned well go on being a
good chancellor till the sun cools. Get out of
here!"
Durendal went back out to the dormitory. The
King thought rejuvenation would change his mind and
restore his loyalty. He hoped it wouldn't.
He did not think Kromman and the Guard would
give either of them the chance to find out.
The last many hours were a blank. He had been
riding in a daze, letting Byless find the road,
letting Twosocks follow Patches. Poor
brutes were staggering, but they had come
to Ironhall now. The lights were out. Of course.
It was after midnight.
Quarrel roused himself. He was freezing, ice
to the core. "That window. Throw rocks." He was
too weak to sit straight in the saddle. He was
one agony from top to toe and the world was going up and
down, up and down. Twosocks had come to a stop,
head down in exhaustion.
"Think I don't know the seniors' nursery?"
Byless mumbled.
He fell flat on the ground when he dismounted,
and he needed four attempts to hit a casement.
Glass shattered. A moment later a face
appeared--Bloodhand's unfortunately, but then
Hereward was there beside him.
"Quarrel," Quarrel said. "Need the
Queen's men. Rescue Paragon."
Somehow they carried him into the dormitory without
waking any of the masters, the servants, the
knights, or even the juniors; and they laid him
on a bed. They reluctantly let Byless
accompany him, goggling at the idea that this
filthy, staggering scarecrow had been Second
to Paragon, as if Paragon hadn't needed a
Second like any other Blade. Byless flopped
down on the nearest bed and was asleep at once.
A dozen of them gathered around in the candlelight,
most of them half naked, rubbing their eyes and
stretching. Someone fetched a few fuzzies who
ought to be seniors but were being held back.
Quarrel flogged his brain awake to explain as
much as he must: the King locked away in
Falconsrest, Samarinda, the book,
Paragon's secret mission before they were born--which
everyone had heard of but knew nothing about--
Wolfbiter likewise ... terrible conjuration,
eating human flesh, evil Kromman, the King
changed into a monster, dispossess the Queen,
rescue Paragon. His voice would die away in
a croak, and they'd give him another drink and
he would go on. A couple of them read rapidly
through the book.
"He's raving," Crystal said.
"He didn't cut his shoulder himself," said
Hereward, red brows clenched down in a frown.
Another voice. "Paragon's book confirms
what he's saying."
"Paragon must have needed a Blade for something,
after all these years." That was Crystal,
who was Second now.
"He's an old man," Willow suggested.
"He beat you at rapiers, didn't he?"
Passington next. "If we try anything like
this, they'll fart the lot of us."
"Queen's men," Quarrel whispered.
"Won't ever be a Queen."
"You left your ward in a fight?" That was
Bloodhand, who was a dog's backside.
He explained again about Destrier bolting and him
being wounded and Paragon thrown and Dragon wanting
him alive. And eating human flesh.
"Got go," he said, heaving himself upright. The
room spun and would not steady. "You come or not, I
got be there a' dawn." He had been dreaming--
they weren't companions like him, just kids. They
hadn't had the sword through the heart, the final
forging. But they were all he had or could have had, because
they weren't bound to the King and all other Blades
were.
"I'll come with you," Hereward announced, "for
Paragon. Anyone else wants to come, stay
close. The rest go back to the wall there."
One or two began to move away. Then they
shuffled closer again. All of them. The Queen's
men. Quarrel wept with impatience while they
dragged on clothes and slung on their swords and
planned how they would break into the stables.
Falconsrest was hours and hours away and the night
was flying.
The King's coach arrived an hour or so before
midnight to transport him down to the village.
Most of the Blades went with him, but three
remained behind to guard Lord Roland and the despised
Lyon. Durendal slept, making up for two
sleepless nights. The weather turned stormy,
rattling the casements and blowing smoke from the
fireplace.
The King's return seemed to fill the whole
lodge with noisy men, laughing and joking.
Obviously the public appearance had been a
great success.
Dragon and Bowman helped the aging monarch
up the stairs. His bulk was as great as ever, yet
softer and flabbier now. His head was bald, his
white beard wispy, and he had trouble walking,
even while leaning on the Commander's
shoulder. At a guess, he was the equivalent of
about eighty. He paused to catch his breath at the
top of the stairs, rasping like a water mill.
"Chancellor Kromman back yet?"
"No, Your Majesty." Bowman shouted, as
if the King were now hard of hearing.
"He's late! Send some men out to look for
him."
"It's a nasty night, sire. I expect
that's slowed him."
The antiquated monarch mumbled toothlessly.
"What time is it?"
"About three hours until dawn, sire."
"Get the octogram ready. I need some
sleep first, but remember to wake me in plenty of
time."
"So's we can carry you down as usual?"
muttered a resentful voice in the shadows, but the
King did not hear. He lurched into his chamber,
leaning on the doorjamb as he went through.
Dragon followed, closing the door.
"What does he look like by dawn?"
Durendal inquired of the dim room.
"Like a dead pig," someone said.
In a while the Commander came out of the other
room, having presumably tucked His Majesty
into bed. He disappeared downstairs. Half a
dozen men remained, sitting around the dormitory,
exchanging comments on the night's events. They were
vastly more cheerful than they had been all day,
confident that the deception had been successful and
might continue to be so in future. Gradually they
fell silent, waiting for dawn and the daily
conjuration. Young Sir Lyon cowered alone in a
corner, ignored and terrified. The pump
squeaked in the kitchen below as men attended to their
toilet.
Durendal wandered over to the fire and stacked more
logs on it. The watchers watched, but none
objected. He had slept on his problem and found
an answer--not a very satisfying one, but one that his
conscience would accept.
Even now, he could not kill the King outright.
After a lifetime of service, that was an impossible
thought. But he could block another rejuvenation--he
was certain he could bring himself to do that much, and he
knew how to achieve it. He might be choosing a
particularly horrible death for himself, but he was going
to die anyway, as soon as Kromman
returned.
The conjuration was evil. True, the use of
convicted felons was more acceptable than the
Samarinda swordsman lottery. A hanged
man had no use for his corpse, and the rotting
bodies that dangled from gibbets all over
Chivial were disgusting eyesores. True,
Ambrose was a fine ruler and might continue
to rule well for many years--unless immortality
changed him. It had changed Everman. Equally
true, his daughter was an unknown quantity.
Durendal bore no especial love for
Princess Malinda, nor any great personal
loyalty either.
So why did he feel he must play traitor
now and destroy his king? Who was he to oppose this
grand scheme? Was he wrong to think it wrong?
No, for he had one advantage no one else
had--he had seen the evil in full flower in
Samarinda. He wished he could discuss it with
Kate and benefit from her practical common
sense, but he was sure she would agree with him.
Kate could not even tolerate healing, so it was not
surprising that the rejuvenation conjurement repelled
her so strongly. In a strangely perverted
sense, that was another advantage he had. He
could not be tempted by rebirth when she could not share
it.
No, the answer lay in something Grand Master
had said to him when he went back to Ironhall:
"We'll all be the Queen's men one day, I
expect. The bindings translate, because we
swore allegiance to him and his heirs."
Several times in his life, Durendal had
sworn to be true to Ambrose IV, his heirs
and successors. That Ambrose was dead. The
person who inhabited his body was someone else,
an imposter who looked like Ambrose, talked like
Ambrose, and wore the crown that ought now
to descend to the Princess and eventually one of her
sons. This was slippery huckster talk, not the
sort of creed a former Blade should follow, but his
conscience needed a crutch.
The fire was starting to crackle and blaze
brighter. Then a thumping of hooves and a rattling
...
"The spider's back," a Blade muttered.
Durendal rose. All eyes turned on
him, but the prisoner walked away from the stair and the
royal bedchamber, over to a window. He peered
out. The carriage he had seen depart that
morning squeaked to a stop below him, its two
lamps casting a bleary light through blowing snow--the
ground was coated white already. A couple of
Blades emerged from the lodge to greet it. They
opened its door and pulled down the steps.
Kromman would be as old as the King, now. He
would probably have to be carried in. No.
Surprisingly, the black-clad figure was coming
out by himself, teetering unsteadily and not using his left
arm. He kept his head down, hardly showing his
milk-white face between his collar and his hat. He
reached the ground, staggered, and recovered, pushing
away an offer of help. A man in Guard
livery appeared behind him.
The two outriders had dismounted. Three
footmen leaped down from the back of the coach, the
driver and another from the bench. The King's men
shouted and reached for their swords, and the newcomers
jumped them, bearing them to the ground. More passengers
sprang out of the coach, others were emerging on the far
side and running around. Several raced for the door
of the lodge.
Whatever was going on, that was not Kromman who
had arrived, and obviously it was time for Durendal
to make his move. He took three swift
strides to the fireplace and grabbed up the tongs.
He lifted a glowing log and hurled it across the
room to land in a cascade of sparks. Then
another. Blades leaped up with howls of fury and
shock. Another, another ... A sword came
flashing toward him and he parried it with the tongs:
Clang!
"Stop him!"
"Never mind him--help me here!" shouted
another.
"Fire!" roared another.
Bedding was bursting into flames all over the
room, spewing smoke and a reek of burning
feathers. Men dived on the blazes, trying to smother
them with blankets, but Torquil and Martin drew
and lunged at Durendal. He parried them both,
tongs in one hand and poker in the other, standing at
bay with the fireplace at his back. Clang!
Clang! This was going to be it--once he might
have had a chance against two, but not these days. Not
unarmed. Clang! How many strokes could he
survive?
"Leave me, you fools!" he shouted at them.
"Save the King!"
His assailants were too intent on
vengeance to listen. Clang!--close one. Then
Lyon smothered Martin from behind with a blanket over his
head, dragging him down to the floor. Startled,
Torquil let his attention waver; Durendal
cracked the poker down on his sword hand and heard
bones break. Torquil screamed.
"Thanks, lad!" Durendal raised his
voice. "Everyone save the King!"
Coughing, spluttering, frantic Blades were
trying to stuff burning quilts and mattresses out
through the windows. The wind blew flames back in
their faces. But Bowman had hurled open the
door to the King's room and disappeared inside.
Others followed.
Durendal stumbled, choking, to the stair. Lyon
dived ahead of him, making his escape. They went
down the precipice in a slithering rush and ended
on the guardroom floor. Half a dozen more
Blades were trying to fight their way out through the
invaders, but there was room for only two at a time
in the doorway. Whoever the newcomers were, they
had efficiently caught the Royal Guard with their
pants down--literally so in a couple of cases
--and bottled them up in the lodge.
"Fire!" Durendal scrambled painfully
to his feet. He wanted only to make the
octogram unusable, not burn anyone to death.
"The lodge is on fire! Save the King!"
The Blades spun around and ran past him, up
the stairs, all except the pair battling in the
entrance.
"Put up your swords!" he roared. "In the
King's name, put up your swords, all of you!
Stand aside and let me deal with them."
The defenders stepped back, and he took their
place, peering through the whirling snowflakes at a
dozen unknown and inexplicable swordsmen.
Their leader shouted, "Come out with your hands up!"