by Dave Duncan
Bowman gave him an especially lugubrious look. “You think His Majesty would approve it? He doesn’t even like to change his socks these days.”
“No, I don’t suppose he would, but…Never mind.”
“Yes. Well, my lord, I will very gladly provide you with an escort. When?”
“An hour before dawn. We’ll be back for the festivities.”
The Blade sighed. “I doubt if you’ll miss much if you aren’t. Nothing more?” He began to lurch upright.
“Not for me. Anything I can do for you?”
Bowman sagged back again quickly, as if he had been hoping for such a question. His voice dropped to a confidential murmur. “Well…it isn’t really any of my business, my lord, nor of yours either, and I know you’ll pardon my presumption saying so, but I know that Grand Master has seniors stacked up to the roof. I just thought, if you get a chance to sort of drop a word to the King, maybe? We could use some young blood in the Guard; but even if he doesn’t want to go there himself just now, he might assign them to others, perhaps?”
Durendal shrugged. It certainly was not his business, because he was government and the Order was in the King’s personal prerogative. Ambrose was very touchy about that distinction. “I’ll see what I can do. You don’t have to tell me that he doesn’t answer his mail.”
At first light, Durendal rode out of the gates on Destrier, in the company of three boys. They would be furious if they knew he thought of them as that, but their ages combined would not exceed his by much. Their names were Foray, Lewmoss, and Terror, and they were all glad of a chance to seem useful. He noted that they were well mounted and all had good seats, which meant that Bowman had sent his best horsemen—probably with strict orders to prevent any repetition of the embarrassing incident that had marred the Chancellor’s last journey to Falconsrest, when a certain geriatric Chancellor had shown certain young Blades his heels. Well, he would see how he and Destrier felt on the way back.
A miserable wind moaned under a dreary sky, once in a while throwing snowflakes just to warn that it had plenty in hand. Falconsrest was an all-day ride from Grandon, but they could stay overnight at Stairtown if the weather turned worse. Going two by two, his guards took turns riding at his side, courteously wheedling tales of the past from him, flattering him by asking about the Monster War or even the Nythia campaign—none of which ancient history could possibly be of any interest to them.
They were all hoping that Commander Dragon would let them stay on at Falconsrest, relieving three of the dozen or so men he kept there. Durendal found this ambition amusing, because there was absolutely nothing in those wild hills that should attract spirited young men in the middle of winter. It was their binding talking. They pined at being kept away from their ward. When Foray even had the audacity to ask why the King had shut himself up in such a burrow over Long Night, Lord Roland sternly suggested he ask the King himself. The answer, alas, was that he hated people watching him die.
He questioned them about recent news from Ironhall. They would not realize that it was none of his business; as a knight of the Order, he was expected to be interested. They confirmed what Bowman had said about a surfeit of seniors waiting for assignment.
Between chats, he pondered the unfamiliar future that lay beyond the King’s death. For the first time, he would be free to do what he wanted. Travel, probably, because Kate wanted to travel. He had friends and correspondents all over Eurania now, and standing invitations to visit. He would be a private citizen, but a famous one, welcome in a dozen great cities. Thanks to Ambrose, he was rich. It would seem very strange.
He led the way into the valley as the winter afternoon faded out in despair. The group of thatched buildings cowering under the snow-covered hills was commonly known as the village, although it consisted entirely of overflow accommodation. The lodge on the rock that loomed almost directly above it was the palace proper, but it had only four rooms. There was something bizarre about the court of Chivial sheltering in sheds.
While he shed his cloak and stamped snow off his boots, he was greeted by Commander Dragon, who was a beefy, thickset man by Blade standards, with a luxurious black beard and a swarthy complexion that made him seem older than his twenty-eight years. In complete contrast to his deputy, Dragon had no sense of humor at all. He was a plodder who would never question an order or think for himself, which was precisely why the King liked him.
“Much the same, my lord,” he said before Durendal could ask the inevitable first question. “I’ll send someone to tell him you’re here. A posset to warm you now?”
“Add some hot bran mash for my horse and I will be in your debt till the sun burns out. Although I think that may have happened already.”
“It will be back,” Dragon assured him solemnly.
Shack or not, the barn-sized room was bright and hot. Some amateur musicians were screeching out dance music. Strips of colored muslin added a seasonal gaiety above the long tables at which people were guzzling great slabs of pork, while the rest of the hog sputtered and sparked on a spit. Durendal’s insides rumbled imploringly for attention.
Sternly telling them to wait their turn, he sent for the royal physicians and conjurers. They would not commit themselves on their patient’s condition, perhaps deterred by the law that declared imagining the King’s death to be high treason. They certainly offered no hope. He looked around the ring of haggard, tight-shut faces and resisted the temptation to try a royal bellow on them.
“I trust you will give me as much warning as you can of any change you foresee in His Majesty’s condition?”
They nodded in noncommittal silence. He went off to eat. Just when he was about to start on a high-piled platter, a Blade with snow on his eyebrows appeared to inform him that the King would receive him at once. On his way out he had to pass Foray, Terror, and Lewmoss, all chewing vigorously with grease running into their beards. He hoped they choked on their stupid grins.
As he was donning his damp cloak at the door, Dragon appeared again, glancing around furtively.
“My lord?”
“Leader?”
“If you get the chance to drop a word to His Majesty…I know he listens to you, my lord.”
“Sometimes he does. What can I do for you?”
“The Guard, my lord.” The Commander was whispering, which was very unlike him. “I’ve got twenty men I want to release, you see. They’re all well past due. I’ve mentioned this, but…well, he won’t even discuss it with me. It would be a nice Long Night present for them, I thought.”
Durendal sighed. “Yes, it would. I’ll see what I can do.”
Obviously Ambrose was neglecting his precious Blades, and that was a very bad sign. Was he incapable of making decisions or merely clinging to the past, the old familiar faces?
Huddled against the snow, the Chancellor rode a dogged little mountain pony up the steep track to the lodge. Where the village had been festive, the lodge was dreary as a tomb, although it was crammed full of men. To cross the guardroom he had to pick his way along a narrow path through a clutter of bedding and baggage, passing half a dozen Blades playing a morose game of dice by the light of a single candle. The stairs took him up to another dormitory, which was little brighter and so congested with men that it was hard to believe they would all find room to lie down later. They seemed to be grouped into three snarly arguments. He wondered who they all were: cooks, hostlers, valets, doctors, nurses, secretaries? He had seen no women, but he had not looked into the kitchen, which probably also served as a communal bathhouse and another bedroom. People swarmed on a king like bees on a queen—there might well be tailors, musicians, falconers, vintners, or even architects and poet laureates in attendance at Falconsrest. Every one of them would fight for the right to live in the squalor of the lodge rather than the relative comfort of the village, just to prove that he was of the indispensable elite. This is what happened when monarchs tried to escape.
At least the King’s bedroom was not stuff
ed like a fish barrel. It held a few chests and a great four poster, whose faded purple draperies rippled in drafts that rattled the shutters and baffled the best efforts of a roaring fire. The other rooms had reeked of bodies and overworked garderobes, but here those stinks were overwhelmed by the rancid stench of the suppurating ulcer that was killing Ambrose IV. He sprawled back on heaped pillows, a face of melted tallow above an enormous heap of furs. Were those just shadows under his shadows under his eyes or mildew?
He had outlived four wives and his son; he had never seen his grandsons. After a reign of thirty-nine years, his realm had shrunk to this windy kennel, and every gasping breath was a noisy effort. Durendal knelt to him.
His voice rasped disturbingly. “Get up, fool! Can’t see you down there. Sorry…drag you all this way…such weather.”
“It is a pleasure to get some exercise, Your Majesty. They tell me that your health is improving.”
“Told you…all I needed was a rest!” The King glared defiantly. He was still not yet admitting anything.
With extreme annoyance, Durendal noted the odious Kromman standing inside the closed door, almost invisible in his midnight robes. He was stooped now, a sinister cadaverous scarecrow, but the fish eyes still held their sharklike menace.
“What’s this I hear,” the King wheezed, “about you steeplechasing, beating my Guard?” The question showed, and was intended to show, that he had other sources 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 pay much attention to that legal nicety. Worse, 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 shrew
d 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.
3
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.