by Dave Duncan
“That would certainly have saved me from listening to a lot of boring speeches.”
A throaty chuckle. “Ah, but you wouldn’t have liked the price! I wouldn’t pay the price. Kromman’s price was always your head—old man.” The youthful king made an effort to bring one fat pink foot inside the basin with him and gave up. “Here, you wash ’em!” Throwing the soapy flannel at Scofflaw, he leaned back, sending more torrents into the guardroom. “I wouldn’t buy. Hope you appreciate that, my lord. Ten years! But Kromman trapped me in the end. I was dying last time you were here, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. He couldn’t bear to think of the country falling apart. That mad daughter of mine has no following except Baelish barbarians and Chivial would never stand for them. Don’t know why I listened to you when you talked me into sending her off to live with those savages on their seagull-infested rocks. There was going to be civil war after me. Kromman could see that. He wouldn’t let the country suffer.”
Ambrose heaved his bulk out of the basin with a display of youthful agility, swamping the floor again and also Scofflaw, who had not been expecting the move. The valet rushed for towels.
“Master Kromman has always been loyal to Your Majesty,” Durendal admitted, lacking any way to deal with the King’s readjustment of facts.
“Yes, he has. He told the Blades how they could save my life, right here at Falconsrest. It was fortunate that we had an octogram here, already seasoned, and none of those snoopy sniffers in the house.” The King peered at his audience to see if he was being believed.
“And who was the first victim?”
Ambrose leered with a full set of shiny white teeth. “A murderer. A highwayman who robbed and slaughtered travelers. He was hanged at Stairtown right after Long Night. The Commander and his men rode over and cut him down. Does this trouble your conscience, Lord Roland?”
Durendal shook his head—it didn’t if it was true. But what about Ned, the simpleton? Why were Blades going mad and killing themselves? “I suppose they made Kromman try it first?”
“Oh, of course! When they saw what it did for him, they slipped a taste of it to me. I knew what had happened right away. Not that shirt, you idiot!”
So Kromman really was one of the reborn! He had seemed more sprightly than usual on the night he came to collect the chancellor’s chain. Durendal had noticed but assumed that it was just because he was having fun.
The rest was all lies. None of it could have happened unless the court had come to Falconsrest, which had certainly been Ambrose’s decision. Dragon was a stolid plodder—loyal as any Blade, but bereft of imagination. He would never have obeyed any order from Kromman until he had cleared it with the King. On his lonely deathbed, Ambrose IV had sold his soul and agreed to pay his secretary’s price. Now he was lying about it.
“So what happens now, Your Majesty? You have a new chancellor.”
“Not those hose, blockhead! Yes, I do.” The King winked. “But not for long, mm? At the moment, Master Kromman is in Grandon, suppressing the White Sisters. Once we’ve disposed of them, we can move court back to Greymere without creating ripples. We don’t need him anymore, do we? The Blades know the ritual. The only possible source of trouble is Parliament, and Parliament won’t ever tolerate Kromman. You, they will. Even the Commons trust you.”
So it was double-cross time. Durendal knew he ought to be pleased and wondered why he felt so ill.
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you sent me that warrant, sire.”
The King just grunted, but his piggy eyes flashed warning. He was afraid of the listeners. And that was why he had not simply written Durendal a letter—because he had been prevented. By accepting the rejuvenation ritual, he had put himself in Kromman’s power. When the Blades had seen the monster their ward had become, they had feared that the people would find out and rise up to tear him limb from limb. Kromman would have played on those fears, and the King had found himself a prisoner of his own guard at Falconsrest. It was obvious.
How had the wily old fox managed to dispatch even the warrant? Because those warrants were standard forms and every Blade knew what they looked like. So the royal rogue must have filled it out and handed it very innocently to one of the juniors, perhaps even young Sir Lyon, who would not think to question an assignment when there were so many seniors waiting at Ironhall. “Forgot this—just drop it in the mailbag, will you?” So it had slipped by Kromman and the Guard. Very simple and very cunning!
It had not quite worked. Instead of hammering horseshoes all the way out to Falconsrest to demand an explanation, Durendal had accepted the warrant at face value. But now he was here anyway. The only difference was a dead boy, stiffening somewhere out there in the bushes.
“The other jerkin!” the King snapped. “An immortal monarch and an immortal chancellor. Yes, you also, my lord. People don’t like upset and uncertainty. I’ve been king, and a good king, for as long as almost anyone remembers.” He considered Durendal carefully. “Don’t worry about it. One mouthful will change your mind. I will see that you swallow that mouthful—whether you want to or not.” He guffawed. “Tomorrow we may try a little fencing, Sir Durendal! What do you say to that, mm?”
3
A wounded man, covered with blood, riding across Chivial on a bleak winter’s day should have been stopped by now, or even robbed of his horse and thrown into a ditch to die. He should have fallen off a thousand times, for the world came and went behind black clouds. He kept waking to find Destrier had languished into a weary walk, so he would kick him into a canter again. Oh, his stiffening shoulder hurt! He wasn’t even sure of the way, but Destrier seemed to know it. Faster, faster!
He was roused by a whinny, then an answer and dogs barking. Stupid horse was pacing into a barnyard. The idiot, carrion brute had scented a mare or just wanted company. Quarrel tried to sit up and take charge, but the black fog swirled closer and drums beat in his head. Thatched buildings seemed familiar—Destrier had headed back to the only warm stall he knew within reach, the last place he’d been given oats, The Broken Sword.
“No! No! No!” Quarrel kicked and tugged on the reins to turn him. Losing his balance, he slid neatly off the stallion’s back and fell into the waiting arms of the innkeeper himself, Master Twain.
He was seated by a fire, wrapped like a parcel in blankets, drinking something very hot with soup and brandy in it, and being told to finish his story. His arm had been trussed in an old enchanted bandage that had belonged to the Guard once, very long ago, but ought to have some power remaining, Sir Byless said. Sir Byless kept shouting at the pregnant woman, who shouted back, and the younger man, who was twice his size, and the children, who were wailing in terror.
“Father, you’re crazy!” the younger man said. “He’s bled dry; he’s in terrible pain. He’s in shock and doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Put him to bed and get a healer here right away and he may just possibly have a chance. Let him back on that horse and he won’t go a mile. You’re going to kill him!”
Sir Byless threw a platter at him—which he dodged—and yelled at him to get the mounts ready and yelled at his daughter to warm those clothes before the lad put them on and yelled at the brats to shut up. He kicked a dog out of the way, making it yowl to frighten the children even more. The boy was a Blade, he screamed, tough as steel. More soup, wool socks. Keep talking, lad.
Could this twitching, slobbering old wreck really have been a Blade once upon a time? Durendal’s own Second? Paragon had said so, and Byless himself had confirmed it—do anything for Lord Roland, he said, and bugger the rest of them. He had tufts of white hair sticking out everywhere. His eyes rolled and he slobbered and he was never still, never quiet. Keep talking, lad! His clothes were a rummage of mismatched patches, far from clean, far short of his bony wrists and ankles.
Quarrel swallowed, burning his throat. His head seemed to be spinning faster and faster; it must fall off soon. He was so weak he kept weeping. �
�Did I tell you they’re going to eat him?”
“Aye, that you did. Doesn’t surprise me. Nothing would surprise me about that gang of brutes. Or that fat criminal who runs them. Bring the lad more soup, I say! Makes up the blood he lost. Let me get those boots off.” He hurled the empty brandy bottle at the younger man, who dodged it as if he had had much practice. “Thomas Peeson, you will do as you’re told or you will get your hulking carcass out of my house and take all your ugly spawn with you! Now saddle up the gelding for me and Sir Quarrel’s black and be quick about it. We leave in three minutes or I take the horsewhip to you.”
4
Bowman spent the afternoon down in the village—talking, listening, and frequently confirming that, yes, His Majesty’s health was much improved, and yes, he did intend to come down there that evening and eat a meal in court. Yesterday’s summoning of the doctors and their subsequent dismissal before they had a chance to examine their patient had been a master stroke, a brilliant preparation for the grand reappearance. Rumors of the miraculous recovery would have spread as far as Grandon already. Tomorrow there would be bells ringing. Kromman had orchestrated it all.
Still, this evening’s visit would need very careful supervision. First, the King must be restrained from making his entry too early, while he was still visibly too young. Secondly, he would have to be hustled away before he became too obviously old. Kromman had suggested keeping him in as small a room as possible and circulating the audience through, but Ambrose never took kindly to being managed. Tonight he would be his own worst danger—he would glory in all the praise and attention and want to stay on till dawn. People would certainly notice when his hair and teeth began falling out.
Toward sunset, the deputy commander returned to the lodge and went in search of Dragon. Doubtless the Commander would be a solid performer at massacre and mayhem. He was a stickler for detail and never argued with the King, but when it came to subtlety he couldn’t draw his sword without gelding himself. That was why Secretary Kromman had brought Bowman out from Grandon to take charge here. He had not believed a word of the story until the following sunrise, when he had seen three fading geriatrics transformed into kids again. The King, Kromman, and the valet—just three so far, but if the King had rewarded a mere sock washer with eternal youth, then he would certainly confer it on a faithful bodyguard when the need arose.
Dragon was in the dormitory, staring morosely into the fire. Half a dozen other Blades sprawled around the room, not talking, not playing dice, just brooding. It was not good enough. They were all bound by oath and conjuration to preserve their ward. They had always known, every one of them, that this might involve killing. Why should they suffer from scruples now?
Paragon lay stretched out near the fire, apparently asleep—which in itself was a chilling demonstration that old age had not blunted his nerve yet, for he must be aware of his peril. His wits were still sharp enough. He was Danger Number One at the moment.
Bowman caught Dragon’s eye and beckoned with a nod of his head. Frowning, the Commander rose and followed. Bowman clattered down the stairs to the guardroom, but that was under the King’s chamber. All the walls and ceilings had more gaps than picket fences—there was nowhere safe to talk in the lodge. He went outside in the twilight and then around the corner, out of the wind.
“What by the eight is eating you?” Dragon demanded grumpily.
“They didn’t find the kid’s body, did they?”
“No.”
“So who do we serve up tomorrow?”
The Commander tugged at his beard. “Lyon, I suppose. Poxy little coward. It’s what he wanted.”
“What does the Fat Man say?”
Dragon winced and glanced at the nearest window, which was safely closed. “He says Kromman.”
Bowman had expected that. “Why?”
“Says he’s getting too big for his britches. Says Paragon’s the better man and he can’t keep both of them any longer or they’ll tear the place down between them. At each other’s throats, he says. He needs Paragon to handle Parliament, he thinks.”
“He’s a fool.”
Dragon did not argue. He pulled his cloak tighter around him and stared at the moon sailing through the silver clouds. Lights were twinkling in the village, where the great feast for His Majesty was being prepared.
Bowman said, “Durendal doesn’t approve of the new arrangement.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“But you got no choice. Nor I. He does.”
“He won’t when we feed him the meat. King says that’ll change his mind.”
“But will it? King has a blind spot when it comes to Paragon. Maybe you do, too?”
Dragon turned quickly, showing anger. “What are you implying?”
“Would you die for a cause?”
“Die for my ward if I have to.”
“Yes, but for a cause? A moral principle? Never mind. I don’t care if you would or not. I don’t know if I would. But I think Durendal would. Even if he discovers he’s twenty again and can go on becoming twenty again every sunrise for a thousand years—he’ll give all that up if he has to, won’t he? If he thinks it’s wrong? Why do the kids all call him Paragon?”
“Same reason I do, I suppose.” Dragon did not understand rhetorical questions.
“So let’s play it safe. Who do we serve up tomorrow?”
After a long pause, the Commander said, “Paragon.”
“I’ll see to it.” Bowman turned to go.
Dragon shouted, “Not yet! Wait and make sure Kromman gets back safely.”
“Right,” said Bowman. “Good idea.” The Secretary would want to watch, anyway.
5
Marie began having hysterics again, and Cook slapped her face again. Quarrel had been carried in by Master Caplin and Pardon the hostler, and was now lying on a couch by candlelight with Cook holding a mug of something to his lips. It tasted like scorched milk. Mad Sir Byless had collapsed in a chair near the fireplace, all wet rags and tufts of white hair and slobber.
“We’ve sent for a healer, Sir Quarrel,” the fat steward said. “Pardon’s gone to fetch a healer.”
Panic deadened the awful pain of weariness for a moment. “No! Tell him, need horses. Paragon in danger.” He saw the blank looks, fought for strength to explain again. “Told you—Durendal. His lordship. Got to rescue him. Need the book. Just came for the book. Go on.” He drank again, greedily. The doublet Sir Byless had given him was so stiff with blood that it crackled with his every move.
“Stop Pardon!” Caplin said, sending Gwen running. “Go where, Sir Quarrel?”
“Ironhall. Take them the book. Rescue Paragon.” He grabbed the steward’s soft arm and squeezed. “He’ll die! Got to rescue him!”
“He’s out of his mind!” Cook protested. “And that other one…” She scowled at the prostrate Sir Byless. “Go on? Tonight? Blathers! They’re neither of them fit to go another step.”
“I’m sure Sir Quarrel will,” Caplin said. “He’s a Blade, has no choice. We don’t have a coach, lad. I can borrow one, but it may take time.”
“No time. Need horse.”
“It’ll kill him!” Marie screamed.
Caplin told her to be silent and bring the first-aid box. “Pardon, saddle two horses. Is your friend going on with you, Sir Quarrel?”
Byless lifted his head and rolled his eyes in every direction. “Course I’m going with him!” he screeched hoarsely. “Just a tick weary. Got any brandy? I’m sure my old friend Durendal keeps some good brandy handy!”
“Sir Byless,” Quarrel explained, although he thought he must have done so already. “Was Par—his lordship’s Second at Ironhall.”
Caplin seemed to conjure a bottle of brandy out of the air. He handed it to the visitor without even suggesting a glass. Byless tipped it to his mouth.
“We have a conjurement for wounds, Sir Quarrel, but you’ve lost a great deal of blood. Never seen anyone so white. Cook, some hot broth, please�
��quickly! What book? Gwen, bandages, clean clothes.”
They lifted him back into a saddle—Twosocks, this time, not Destrier. Sir Byless managed to mount Patches with some help from Pardon. Quarrel took the reins in his good hand and led the way out of the yard.
6
As Dragon and Bowman headed back inside, Durendal quietly closed the window. He had heard few of the actual words, but the mood had been obvious—and so had the intended victim. He was in more danger from the Guard now than he was from either the King or Kromman. He went back to the hearth. None of the Blades showed any interest in his actions as long as he stayed away from the stair and the King’s bedroom. Dragon returned, looking windswept and chilled.
About ten minutes later, Scofflaw appeared and approached Durendal in a crabwise shuffle, wearing an expression of extreme alarm. He had lost his youth, and wisps of loose hair on his shoulders suggested that he was rapidly going bald under his hat. Also, his stoop and wrinkles were starting to return. He opened and closed his mouth a few times.
“The King wants me?”
Eager nod. The valet turned and shuffled off again, while still contriving to watch Durendal and make sure he was coming. The faithful half-wit had given his king lifelong devotion, so now his life had been extended indefinitely. A new order of chivalry—the Cannibal Companions.
Durendal followed. Most of his aches and scrapes had gone now, banished by the healing; but he felt badly off balance, missing the weight of the sword he had borne for thirty-seven years. He went into the King’s room and closed the door behind him. Scofflaw was already down on his rug in the corner like a spaniel.
All afternoon, Ambrose had been rummaging through papers that Kromman had brought from Greymere the previous day, probably just to keep him occupied. Every hour or so, the King had sent for his previous chancellor to question something. Now he was standing in the brightness below a chandelier of a score of candles, reading a sheet of parchment. He had aged uncannily since morning—hair and beard gray, breath wheezing. His ulcer had not reappeared, though.