The Gilded Chain

by Dave Duncan

  Having delivered himself of that profound homily, Lord Roland promptly got lost. When the clouds turned brighter before the slow winter dawn, he managed to find a road that he thought was the one he wanted. He had to leave the trail before it reached the outer gate, for there would be a guard there. Then he had to find a way through the patchy woods that cloaked the hills, navigating by instinct and hoping to come out somewhere near the lodge. He got lost again. Curse Byless for not being available as a guide!

  The sun was glinting between the clouds and the horizon when he reined in at the edge of the trees above the little cup-shaped valley. Below him, the lodge stood on a spur that protruded like a ship’s prow from the steep hill-side—a small stone house and a wooden shed for horses. The royal standard still flew from the flagpole. Down on the flats, the village slept on, showing no signs of life.

  He said, “Too late. If they did it, they’ve done it already.”

  “We can wait and see if they bring out a body…remains of a body.”

  “I’m not sure what they’ll do with it. The bones are too valuable to throw away.”

  Growing steadily more chilled by the wind, they waited to see what might happen. Soon a carriage and two outriders emerged from the village and crept slowly up the steep trail to the lodge. A man came out to wait for it, then scrambled inside. It turned and went back down, then headed off along the road to the outside world.

  “I would almost swear that was Kromman,” Durendal said. “Wearing black?”

  “He moved like a young man, my lord. I’ve only seen the Secretary once.”

  Was the new Chancellor commuting to Grandon every day? If he was now a Samarinda immortal, then he would seem roughly his proper age by the time he arrived at Greymere. He might be able to spend two or three hours on business there and depart before he became too old to manage the journey. Would it be possible to ambush him on his return?

  Down in the village, people were stirring, tending livestock, heading to the mess for breakfast. Then half a dozen men came out of the lodge and went into the stable shed.

  “My lord, we should leave. They may have spotted us.”

  “I think I agree with that cautious remark,” Durendal said, turning Gadfly’s head.

  Infuriatingly, clouds hid the sun so effectively that he managed to get lost again, or at least became uncertain how far from the palace they were. When they emerged from the trees onto the road, he said, “I’m not sure we’re outside the gate.”

  “Nor I, sir.”

  “Let’s take it gently, in case we have to make a sudden detour.”

  They rode at a slow trot along the narrow trail, which wound through woods, roughly following a noisy, rain-swollen stream. Quarrel studied the ground with youthfully sharp eyes.

  “Horses have come along here since the carriage did, my lord. There are hoofprints on top of the wheel marks.”

  “Relief for the guard on the gate?”

  “Possibly. Or those six may have gotten ahead of us. You suppose they’ve gone hunting another victim?”

  “Don’t even talk about it! It makes me ill!”

  In a few moments the road emerged from the dense wood to cross an old clearing, now overgrown with thick thorns and scrub, impenetrable to man or horse. The trail was barely wide enough for two abreast.

  “I think I know this spot,” Durendal said. “We’re outside. Another couple of miles and we’ll be into farmland near Stairtown.”

  They rode across the clearing, back into pine woods, around a corner, and came almost face-to-face with six mounted men, lined up in two rows of three.

  Dragon bellowed, “Halt in the King’s name!” and spurred his horse forward. The others came close behind.

  “Ride!” Quarrel yelled, wheeling Destrier.

  Durendal copied. A second later he decided that they had made the wrong decision and should have tried to bull their way through, but by then they were into a chase and it was too late. They were heading back to Falconsrest. Through the clearing again, then pine woods…Hooves thundered, mud sprayed. Quarrel was struggling to hold the black in so that Gadfly could keep up. Durendal glanced behind and saw that four of the pursuers were gaining, two lagging behind.

  “Turn at the next corner!” he yelled. “We’ll double back.”

  But the next corner was too late. Straight ahead was the guardhouse. Three more Blades had heard the approaching hooves and were mounting—on the near side of the gate. Nine Blades were not good odds. The trees rushed past, the gate raced toward him.

  “Over it!” he shouted. He thumped his heels against Gadfly’s ribs with little effect, while Destrier shot forward like an arrow. The guards were drawing their swords, their mounts shying away from the great stallion charging them. Quarrel had drawn Reason, but there were two horses converging on him and he had a gate ahead. Confused voices shouted, “Spirits, it’s Paragon!” “Take them alive.” “I know that horse.” “Stop them!” Quarrel parried one man’s sword, trying to dodge a stroke from the other and gather his horse for the jump all at the same time. Destrier flashed a bite at one of the horses, then the beat of his hooves ended as he took to the air. Oh, beautiful!

  Again Dragon bellowed, “Take them alive!”

  Ignore the swords, then. Close on Destrier’s tail, Durendal gathered his reins, sat down tight, dug in his heels, and whispered, “Do it, Gadfly!” He knew she couldn’t, though. Even he could not put her over that gate.

  She tried her best. She might even have succeeded, had not one of the guard’s mounts cannoned into her as she took off. She clipped the top rail and pitched. He saw trees whirled against the clouds and filthy black mud coming up and nothing more.

  9

  The chant was familiar. So was the scent of fresh-cut greenery. Yes, this was a conjuration for healing wounds, the one the Guard used and Ironhall used. And—Uh!—the surge of spirits was painfully intense. The last time he’d felt it this strong was when he’d broken his leg fooling around on the armory roof with Byless and Felix.

  There must have been an accident. He was lying on a straw pallet in the center of the octogram. He was the one being enchanted…might explain why he hurt, although not why hurt in so many places…couldn’t have been fighting…unless chopped to pieces. Not falling off roofs again, surely? He peered up blearily at a dim plank ceiling and a whole army of men, swaying like trees above him, far too many. Bare stone walls, chimney, underside of a wooden stair. Things were coming and going.

  The conjuration ended. Two round, pink, identical faces peered closely into his eyes. Fingers pried. A voice complained fussily.

  “Well, that’s the best we can do for him here. I think he’ll be all right in a day or so. How many fingers am I holding up, my lord?”

  Eight fingers waved in front of Durendal’s eyes. The question did not feel as if it had been directed at him, so he did not interrupt the conversation.

  “Can you speak?” asked the two faces.

  Stupid question.

  The faces went away. The sixteen or so men all looked down from an enormous height. He ought not to lie here or he’d get stepped on. Too much effort not to.

  “Let him rest for an hour or two,” the petulant voice said. “Then we may try again. I really do not understand what has gone wrong with this octogram. The balance of elements is very wrong, very strange. It was all right last week, I know it was.” It grew confidential. “It is perhaps just as well that His Majesty has chosen to discontinue the treatments here. I do think you should bring in a conjurer to attempt a realignment. Now, you said there was another patient?”

  “A sword wound, Doctor. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Durendal felt strong hands lift his pallet and bear it away. His annoyance at this impiety turned to interest as he noted corn mills, chopping blocks, water butts—two of everything. Shelves, bins. Two door lintels, even. Another room, just as cold. Being set down again…

  “I don’t think he’s faking,” said a new voice, “
but don’t take your eyes off him for a second. Just remember who he is. Even half dead, he’s still a match for any of you lubberly lot.”

  Someone draped another blanket over him. Chair legs scraped on flagstones. Soon the chanting began again, farther away.

  The mists cleared, swirled again, cleared again. He was in the guardroom of the lodge at Falconsrest—lying on the floor, not as close to the fireplace as he would like and about as far as possible from the outside door. There were four Blades with him, two sitting, two standing—guarding him, of course. He wasn’t going to be making any breaks for a while yet, though. Left wrist hurt. Face hurt—mouth and left eye. Ribs aching. Could have been much worse; the old man not too fragile yet. Vision still blurry, so better to keep eyes shut, listen to the sounds of conjuration drifting in from the kitchen. Quarrel being repaired, too? Two heads better than one. Time to think of escape when they were both mobile. Have to do it before breakfast time tomorrow.

  He could drift off to sleep if he tried…

  “Well, he’s young,” said the prissy voice. The doctor had come into the guardroom. The chanting was over. “He’ll make up most of the blood loss within a couple of hours. Plenty to drink, plenty of red meat, and he’ll be a tiger again in a week. Now, I’ll just take a quick look at His Majesty and—”

  “His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed.” That was Bowman’s voice. Where was Commander Dragon? When had Bowman left Greymere?

  The doctor made a sound of distress, although a hushed and subdued one, because the King’s room was directly overhead. “But, Sir Bowman, it’s over a week since he accepted any medical assistance or advice at all! The dressing on his leg—”

  “You saw him last night, Doctor.”

  “Only, er, socially. I admit that his appearance was extremely encouraging, but—”

  “And the way he threw you all out of the room was almost like old times, wasn’t it? Well, he plans to go down and sup at the village tonight. I expect you can thrust all the medicine and conjuration you want on him then.”

  “Thrust?”

  “Manner of speaking. Thank you for your help, Doctor. Now Sir Torquil will see you safely—”

  “Ah, I shall just have another look at Lord Roland first.”

  Fuzzy or not so fuzzy, Durendal knew he could not fake coma to a doctor. He opened his eyes and smiled. “Much better, thank you. Is it permissible for me to sit up now?”

  “My, what a quick recovery!” muttered one of the watchers.

  “He always was quick,” said another, equally sarcastic.

  The doctor beamed and knelt down to investigate pulse rate and pupil size and other phenomena. “Do as much as you feel able, but don’t force it. You had a very nasty tumble, my lord. You remember?”

  “I fell off a horse?”

  “You did indeed. How many fingers?”

  “I assume three, although I can see about four and a half.”

  The plump man chuckled politely at the lordly wit. “Vision still a bit blurred? Rest today, and we’ll see how we are feeling tomorrow.”

  One or both of them might be feeling very dead tomorrow. Obviously the doctor—his face was familiar but his name was still at large—was not in on the plot. His life might be hanging by a fine thread at this very moment, depending on what instructions had been given to Sir Torquil.

  As if he had read those thoughts exactly, Bowman spoke from somewhere overhead. “Lord Roland will confirm for you, Doctor, that his presence here at Falconsrest just now is a confidential matter.”

  “Yes, indeed,” Durendal said. “His Majesty is most anxious that it not be known. Could cause a great deal of trouble at this juncture.”

  “Certainly could,” Bowman agreed.

  The medic scrambled to his feet while spewing out protestations that of course he understood perfectly and had never doubted what the Commander had told him and as a court physician he had always observed the strictest discretion—blah, blah, blah. He was hustled away by Sir Torquil. The room brightened and then dimmed as the door opened and closed. A gust of cold air swirled smoke and flames in the fireplace.

  The ensuing silence felt ominous. Boards creaked upstairs, and logs crackled on the hearth. The wind rattled a window somewhere.

  “Flaming idiot, that one,” Bowman said.

  Sparing his left arm, Durendal heaved himself up to a sitting position. The room lurched sickeningly and then steadied. He saw tables, chairs, a couple of chests, but all the bedding that had cluttered the guardroom on his previous visits had disappeared, other than the pallet he was sitting on. Inevitably everyone except the conspirators would have been banished from the lodge. The King and the Blades would be living here now, probably Kromman, not likely anyone else.

  He peered disbelievingly around the circle of faces—six young men staring back at him as if they wanted his funeral to be the next item on the agenda. Fire! These were Blades! These were Ironhall boys, like him, brothers. Never before had he seen the King’s defenders from the outside, as it were, and the revelation was chilling. As enemies, these youngsters were terrifying. For the first time since childhood he was without a sword, and he had fallen into a den of lion cubs.

  Bowman was in charge. When and why had he been brought from Greymere? His presence was unwelcome news, because he was a lot more subtle than Dragon. Any swordsman who moved as if he had spastic palsy and cracked jokes with the solemnity of a professional mourner was certainly paradoxical and probably capable of being deliberately devious. Durendal had always rated Bowman far ahead of the Commander. Bowman was saying nothing, waiting for him to speak first.

  If his head would stop spinning, he might try a bluff…think up some reason why he had come to Falconsrest, ask after His Majesty’s health…. It wouldn’t work; they would merely wait for the inquisitor to return. So let them say something. He waited.

  Before anyone said anything, the door from the kitchen was flung open and a young man came hurtling into the room as if he had been thrown out of a tavern by a squad of bouncers. His doublet and britches were blackened by dried blood from his chest to his knees. He tripped over a chair and for a moment seemed to hang there, arms out flung, chalky face twisted in terror, then he sprawled on the floor with a scream of agony. He curled himself up in a whimpering knot. He was the second casualty, the second patient to be enchanted. But he was not Quarrel.

  Two more Blades followed him in. “Where do you want this scum, sir?” asked one of them, closing the door. Inexplicably, all the burning anger in the room, which a moment earlier had been directed at Durendal, was now aimed at the boy on the floor.

  He wailed into his knees, “Why didn’t you let me die!”

  “Because you’ll keep better this way till the Fat Man’s ready for you!” said the other, preparing a kick at his back.

  Before he could deliver, Bowman snapped, “That’ll do, Spinnaker!”

  “Just tenderizing the meat, sir!”

  “I said that’ll do! Get upstairs, Lyon. And you,” he told Durendal. “You’ll be safer up there.”

  Safer for whom?

  One question was now answered—Ambrose was not in the lodge, or no one would be talking about the Fat Man.

  Another remained: Where was Quarrel?

  Durendal made a performance of struggling to his knees, then to his feet, although this required no great dramatic ability. The young Sir Lyon took even longer and could not manage to straighten at all, keeping his arms wrapped around his belly. He was obviously still in terrible pain. The onlookers made no effort to help either of them. Side by side, they hobbled toward the stair.

  That cloak draped over that chair…

  That was Quarrel’s cloak. Durendal had helped him choose it and had spooned out an absurd number of gold crowns to pay for it, because Quarrel had displayed both a grandiose taste in clothes and very exalted ideas of what the Lord Chancellor’s Blade ought to wear. He had, admittedly, looked exceedingly good in it all. But now that costly, sable-trimme
d cloak was a mud-splattered, blood-soaked discarded ruin, so the urgent question was answered. It should have been obvious that no one could treat a Blade’s ward as Durendal was being treated unless the Blade was finally, definitely, permanently…dead.

  10

  Like the guardroom, the dormitory had been tidied since Durendal had last seen it. Although a Blade rarely slept, he shared other men’s need for a place of his own—to store his kit, to be alone, to take a woman. Only the King could be alone in the lodge at Falconsrest, but each Blade had a token bedroll, sixteen of them laid out in neat military rows, filling the room. Sir Lyon hobbled over to one that must be his, as far from the fireplace as any. He lay down painfully and turned his face to the wall.

  Durendal crouched close to the smoking embers on the hearth, looking up expectantly at Bowman, who had followed them upstairs and now stood awkwardly slumped against the door frame, deceptively boyish despite his fringe of sandy beard and habitually morose expression.

  “What’s for breakfast tomorrow?” asked the uninvited visitor.

  Bowman’s gaze wandered briefly in the direction of Lyon and then back again. “Whoever was on that horse of yours—Martin’s gone to bring him in.”

  “You mean he escaped?”

  The Deputy Commander cocked a tawny eyebrow. “We heard you bound a Blade a few days ago.”

  Who must therefore have been his lone companion. “Name of Quarrel. Good kid.”

  “Well, then.”

  Well, then he’s dead. Escaping wasn’t something Blades ever tried to do. “How?”

  Bowman’s shoulders twitched in an uncoordinated shrug.

  “Flames, man!” Durendal shouted. “What happened?”

  “Torquil got him as he jumped. The horse ran away with him. He must have bled to death right after—he was leaving a trail a foot wide. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  What they would do with him did not need to be asked. The Guard’s overriding concern now must be to find a fresh body every morning. Durendal fought a tide of nausea. Oh, Quarrel!