The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  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, 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 few minutes the Brat opened the door for Prime and Second. It was all horribly reminiscent of that first sight of Wolfbiter, half a life-time ago.

  Within Blade limits, Quarrel was tall, much taller than Wolfbiter, but equally dark, lithe like a rapier himself. Second was a stocky, broad-shouldered redhead, probably a slasher—Candidate Hereward. Babes, both of them. Had they even been born the last time Durendal came to Ironhall?

  The ritual words were spoken. The boys turned, and Candidate Quarrel had his first sight of the old man who would claim his absolute allegiance—shock, horror, and dismay. Durendal knew that he had made a mistake, but it was too late to back out. The poor kid was stuck with him now.

  The embarrassing moment passed as soon as the antiquated visitor was named, when Prime made a very fast recovery, feigning wild enthusiasm. “Incredible honor…never dreamed…admired here in Ironhall beyond any other…” He was wasted as a swordsman. He should have gone on the stage.

  4

  The following night, Quarrel was bound. On the third night after that, Kromman came to Greymere with the king’s writ…

  “Her ladyship returned this afternoon, my lord.” Caplin lifted the cloak from Durendal’s shoulders. Candlelight from the chandelier glistened on the steward’s shiny scalp and the bunched cheeks of his smile. “An uneventful journey, she said. She is in the library. May I take that for you, Sir Quarrel?”

  “No worry.” Quarrel tossed his cloak over a chair, Ironhall fashion.

  It would not be tolerated there for long in Caplin’s demesne. His standards were much narrower than his person, which almost rivaled the King’s in width and depth, if not in height. A jewel, was Caplin—about twenty million carats. He had shed his smile as he noted the absence of the gold chain. “Her ladyship has already dined, my lord. You did say you would be remaining at the palace tonight.”

  “A welcome change of plan. Have Pardon attend to the horses and see that the coachman and the lackeys are suitably boarded—can’t send them back tonight. Tell Churpen I want to clean up and change, please. Then I will second Sir Quarrel at one of those celebrated banquets you call snacks. I think he can last another half hour before he dies of starvation.”

  His Blade flashed a winsome grin. “I estimate just short of forty-two minutes, my
lord.”

  “Come and meet my good lady.”

  Durendal led the way through to the library, his favorite room, scented by leather bindings and wood smoke. A pine fire crackled merrily on the slate hearth and rows of books smiled down from tall shelves.

  He braced himself to break the tidings and did not have to. She missed the chain instantly and hurried to him, her eyes hunting out all the implications before he could even open his mouth. Her hair had never lost its golden shine and was well served by the current fad for small bonnets. On the other hand, her figure was too delicate for the tight bodices worn with the newfangled farthingale, which favored the voluptuous. Tonight she was rustling voluminous skirts of a fiery red that would have shocked her five years ago, but such was fashion. Inside the shifting styles the basic woman never changed—although tonight she did look a little fatigued by her journey.

  He did not try to tell her what had happened, just hugged her in silence. Then he murmured, “Natrina and the children are well?”

  “Yes.” Kate loosened her embrace just enough to look him in the face. “Was this your idea or his?”

  “His.”

  “And who replaces you?”

  “Kromman.”

  “That wretch?”

  He released her with a quick frown of warning. “Dearest, let me present my honored guardian, Sir Quarrel. Lady Kate.”

  She rewarded the Blade’s bow with a bob and a flawless smile. “I have already heard of Sir Quarrel! I came home to find all the female staff staggering around and bumping into things because their eyes were full of stars. Now I see why. You are very welcome indeed, Sir Quarrel. I am sure the service around here will improve dramatically.”

  Whatever the boy might have been up to with the maids during the last two nights, he could not possibly have any more experience of women than that; yet he took the teasing with an easy smile, like a seasoned gallant. “And I see that their extraordinary tales of their mistress’s beauty were not exaggerated at all.”

  Kate’s laugh was still pure birdsong. “What an outrageous untruth! Sir Blade, you should be ashamed of yourself. But I thank you for it.” She rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Now tell me about your binding. My husband’s arm has not lost its skill, I hope?”

  “He skewered me like the expert he has always been, my lady—all over before I even knew it. It is a tremendous honor to be bound to the greatest swordsman of the century.”

  “And an even greater one to be married to him, I assure you! Now show me your sword.”

  Beaming, he drew and went down on one knee to proffer it as if he were pledging it to her. Kate took it. She found the point of balance, then held it correctly in a rapier grip, one finger over the quillon.

  “You are a point man, Sir Quarrel!”

  “Few are as versatile as his lordship, ma’am.”

  “She is wonderfully light. What is she called?”

  “Reason, my lady.”

  Durendal had not thought to ask that and Quarrel was glowing like a candle flame because Kate had. She had stolen his heart as she could steal any man’s. His lordship could almost feel jealous—not because he doubted her love, but because he knew he could not charm a woman as she was enchanting this boy.

  “A valiant name for a noble sword,” she said, returning it. “May Reason win all your arguments, Sir Quarrel!”

  “We’ll go and change, dear. I asked Caplin to prepare a snack for us.”

  Kate concurred at once. As he turned to the door, he caught her eye and saw she was not smiling anymore. She understood the problems.

  Quarrel, only three days bound, was still in what Montpurse had called the bathroom phase. (Why did he keep thinking of Montpurse tonight?) To spare him unnecessary anguish, Durendal left the door open while he bathed. While Churpen dressed him, he stood where his Blade could see him from the tub, and then waited for him to dress in turn—wondering with amusement whether Quarrel would run after him naked if he tried to leave. Together they returned to the library, where a modest feast for six was laid out on a portable table. Kate sat by the fire working at her spinning wheel under the candlelight. She was never idle.

  “I must drink to my release and retirement,” Durendal announced. “You will have a glass, Kate? No? Sir Quarrel?”

  “Just one, my lord. As you warned me, that seems to be my limit.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Kate said without looking up. It was unlike her to be impatient.

  “Kromman brought a warrant from the King. I took off my chain, throttled him with it, and came home.”

  “I wish I could believe you.” She rose and came over to him. “The warrant was genuine, of course?”

  He stared up at her in blank astonishment. “Absolutely no question. Signed and sealed.”

  “Seals can be stolen. The signature?”

  “The King’s. I have seen it a million times. Very firm.”

  She removed the knife from his fingers. She lifted his hand to lay it against her cheek. She kissed it. Then she spun around and went back to her place by the fire. What on earth?

  “Kate?”

  She started the wheel turning again. “You have a serious problem, husband dear. You will have to leave the country, of course.”

  He glanced at his companion. Quarrel was chewing lustily but missing nothing.

  “Cannot this wait until we have finished our meal, dearest?”

  “I’m not sure it can, if Kromman is involved. You may gamble your own life—you always have. But a few days ago you accepted a Blade. You must not throw him away so lightly.”

  Quarrel said, “My purpose is only to serve, my lady. I am of no other consequence.”

  “Rot. If the King’s men come to arrest my husband, what will you do?”

  “Kate!”

  “Die, I suppose,” Quarrel said quietly.

  “Exactly. Has he explained to you why he accepted a Blade from the King now, after twenty years of managing without one?”

  The boy’s dark eyes looked from one to the other of them appraisingly, and for a terrible moment he was Wolfbiter—Wolfbiter almost thirty years dead, Wolfbiter who would be over fifty now had he lived.

  “No, my lady. Just that it was His Majesty’s decision.”

  Durendal refilled his glass angrily. Why was Kate in such an overwhelming rush? He had entirely lost his appetite, but he must allow Quarrel to satisfy his. He could feel quite nostalgic watching the way the boy put away food, although there wasn’t a pennyworth of fat on him.

  “Rubbish!” Kate said. She would not be diverted when she was in this mood. “He has refused the offer many times before. Is that not so, my dear?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “So five days ago the King honors you by assigning you a Blade and today he fires you. I think you owe your companion an explanation.”

  “I wish I had one.” Durendal swirled the red wine in his goblet, studying the play of light through the crystal. He forced himself to look up and meet Quarrel’s questioning stare, painfully reminiscent of another boy’s, long ago…. “The King is dying.”

  He watched color drain from the peach-bloom cheeks. No, Quarrel was not Wolfbiter. He never would be. But he was a brave and dedicated young man, decent and likable and in deadly peril through no fault of his own—only because a useless old man had accepted him as a gift out of stupid sentimentality. Quarrel took life less seriously than Wolfbiter ever had or ever would have, but that did not mean he was any less worthy. He would do his duty as stubbornly. If necessary, he would die as bravely, perhaps even more bravely, for he would regret the need more.

  “Soon?” the boy asked.

  “Soon. He’s over seventy. He’s been grossly over-weight for most of his life. Sometimes he can hardly breathe now. He has an oozing ulcer on his leg, can’t walk. A month or two, no longer.”

  Quarrel began to eat again. Life must go on. “Surely healers can be found for a king, my lord?”

  “They have done all
they can. Time and death yield little to conjuring. He would have died five years ago without the healers.”

  “Princess Malinda?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, she is in good health.” If Durendal was not to eat more, he may as well talk. “You are surprised that I am not sure? Well, the Princess is no friend of mine, Sir Quarrel.” He twirled his wineglass. “Nor of her father’s. King Ambrose has his virtues, but being a fond parent was never one of them. She was as self-willed as he is and she never forgave the callous way he discarded her mother. I earned her dislike when I was still Commander.”

  “You don’t need to tell that story, Durendal,” Kate said flatly.

  “I think I do.” Hearing a few of the sleazy things a chancellor did in the course of twenty years’ service might cool Quarrel’s incandescent hero worship. “When Malinda reached adolescence—I was still Commander—her father suggested deeding her some Blades of her own. I looked into the historical precedents and argued strongly against it. It seemed that letting an unmarried damsel bind a twenty-year-old swordsman was not merely asking for trouble but virtually insisting on it. I do not believe she was promiscuous by nature, but she was young and she was surrounded at all times by dashing young guardsmen.”

  Quarrel smirked knowingly with his mouth full.

  “There are two ways of losing your head over a woman, Sir Quarrel, and we are discussing the permanent way.”

  Quarrel sobered instantly, mumbling an apology.

  “I chose her escorts carefully and made sure every man jack of them knew about certain obscure methods of committing treason. The Princess fell head over heels for two or three of them—in succession, I mean, not simultaneously. They reported to me when the fire got too hot for them, and I transferred them to other duties.”