by Dave Duncan
reading a book of poetry with his long legs
stretched out. Wasp, who was always being accused of
fidgeting, prattling, and making his bed squeak in
the night, was absolutely determined that this time he
would show no impatience whatsoever. None. He
had his hands behind his head so they couldn't tremble and
he was concentrating on not moving a single muscle.
Not a blink! Like Raider. Trouble was that all the
pressure seemed to be rolling into his stomach and
he was fairly sure he was about to explode and
sick up.
Not that his fake calm was going to deceive anyone after
that farce he had staged when Spender announced the
King was coming--leaping up to look out the window and then
screaming like a kid! A dumb kid! What
sort of swordsman made a fool of himself like
that? And his voice cracking! Oh flames! It
was two years since his voice changed. It
didn't have to put him through that again. Not now,
please not now, with the King in the school.
Bullwhip, Mallory, Raider, Wasp,
Herrick, Fitzroy ... Herrick and
Fitzroy wanted to lynch him at once. So
did all six men in the second seniors' dorm
next door, and some others might be talked into it.
All of them shaved or wore beards. Some of them
had hair on their chests, too--Herrick without his
shirt looked like one of the stable cats. But the King
would not bind a mere boy, so Wasp stood between
them and the Royal Guard.
Soon the summons would come. At the very least it
would be a call for Prime and Second to report
to Grand Master, but after seven months the King would
certainly harvest more than one. However many he
wanted, Grand Master would summon them and one more.
That was the way it was done. Last week
Wolfbiter as Prime and Bullwhip as
Second. This week ... What Wasp feared
most was a summons for four: Bullwhip,
Mallory, Raider, and Wasp. Three to be
bound and Wasp to remain behind.
Then he would be Prime! Oh, flames!
Mother confessor to a hundred candidates.
"Prime, why can't I move up to the
beansprouts' table?" "Prime, my neighbor
snores. ..." "Prime, why can't I keep
my hands off myself in bed?" And this Prime was
only a boy. The seniors would eat him raw.
Death! The sopranos would eat him raw. He
would be like that King of Fitain Sir Spender had
described, with barons and burghers and peasants
all after his blood at the same time.
He couldn't possibly need to go pee again,
could he? At least he didn't wet the bed now,
as he had for the first few nights after the fire, but
he still woke up choking and sobbing, dreaming he was
back in the burning dormitory, flailing around
unable to see or breathe in the smoke, alone and
deserted, or even all bundled up in a
blanket, being carried out by a stumbling, cursing
Raider. It had been a fiendishly close
call, true, but what sort of swordsman
wept in bed? And so often it got all mixed up
with that other fire, the one he had almost managed
to forget. ...
Raider closed his book and laid it down.
"The time has come, soldiers of fortune. I'd like
to tell you all that I've enjoyed knowing you and I'm
proud to have been your friend. May the spirits of
chance grant you all the success you have earned."
After a moment's puzzled silence, Mallory
said, "I'm sure we all feel the same about
you, dread warrior, but surely we can storm the
palace together?"
"No."
"We six!" Fitzroy protested. "The King
will take at least all of us here, even if he
doesn't--"
"No." Raider grinned but offered no
explanation.
"What do you mean?" Wasp cried, and again
heard that stupid squeak. Once a man's
voice had changed it was not supposed to change
back!
"Yes, what do you know?" Bullwhip was glaring
as if his honor as Prime was being threatened, but the
others were frowning too. If Wasp had spoken as
Raider had, then everyone would have assumed he was just
jackassing around, but Raider's pronouncements
always carried conviction.
He smiled at each of them in turn, last and
longest at Wasp. "I can't tell you how I
know, but I do. For me this is good-bye. So
good-bye. Good chance to you all."
Any further argument was blocked by a soft tap
on the door. Bullwhip reached it in one bound from
a sitting start, almost flattening Mallory, who
was there before him. Between them they hauled it open
to reveal the Brat dithering outside and about twenty
juniors goggling in the background.
"Message for People-people-people-prime!" The kid had
not stammered yesterday.
"Well? Let's hear it!"
The Brat dropped to his knees and bent his
face to the floor--the sopranos had him well
trained already.
"Never mind groveling," Bullwhip said, more
gently. "We know why you're here. How many of us
does Grand Master want to see?"
The Brat looked up and licked his lips.
"From-from-from-from-four, honored sir."
Wasp's world shriveled up and died.
"You heard him," Bullwhip said harshly.
"Let's go. Second. Raider. Wasp?
Yes, Wasp." He sounded surprised, as if
he couldn't believe Little Peach-face was so
senior. "The rest of you kiddies can go back
to fencing."
Wasp croaked, "Ready," and lurched
to his feet. His stomach writhed and then steadied.
It was probably waiting to do its atrocity
until it could shame him in front of the King.
With the Brat trotting to keep up with those he was
supposed to be leading, they marched across to First
House and into the oldest part of that oldest building.
The corridors were dingy and dark, still clammy with
winter's chill. Halfway along the library
corridor, they came on two Blades waiting
at the bottom of a narrow staircase--Sir
Hoare and Sir Janvier. Those stairs led up
to the Flea Room, which was where Grand Master
interviewed applicants. It was also where seniors
met their future wards, so for most Blades it
marked the beginning and the end of life in Ironhall.
Yet Raider claimed that he had never seen it and
Wasp remembered only dropping in a dead
faint at Grand Master's feet.
"Brat, you can run and help the cooks,"
Hoare said cheerfully. "Tell them you're ready
to start skinning the horse now. Prime!
Congratulations!" He offered a hand. They all
knew Hoare. His scathing humor was much admired
and quoted for weeks after his visits. "The
Guard's been waiting for you for too long and that is
not your fault. The same applies to you,
Secon
d."
The candidates mumbled thanks for the compliments and
moved on to be greeted by Janvier, who had been
Prime before Wolfbiter.
"So you're Raider?" Hoare appraised
Raider. "You're not quite as tall as the Big
Man, but close. Congratulations on being
called."
"Thank you. And congratulations on your own
promotion, Deputy."
Only now Wasp noticed the narrow silver
baldric. Everyone but Raider had missed it.
"Thanks. It's about time they got someone
competent," Hoare said. "And you're Wasp.
Tough luck, candidate. Next time we'll ...
Huh?"
Janvier was ignoring Raider's offered hand,
staring up at his face with a puzzled expression.
"Trouble, brother?" Hoare asked. His hand
slid to his sword hilt.
For a moment there was silence and the dingy corridor
seemed to fill with menace.
"Something," Janvier muttered. "It's
very faint."
Raider spread out his hands, showing that they were not
near his sword. Very softly he said, "I can't
see how I can be a danger to Good King
Ambrose. I strongly suspect he is a
danger to me, so perhaps that's what your talent is
detecting, Sir Janvier."
"How do you know about his talent?" snapped
Hoare.
"Snake told me about it when he was here last
week." Raider's eyes never left
Janvier's face.
"What talent?" Bullwhip demanded. He was
ignored.
"Make up your mind, Janvier." Raider's
gentle manners went only so far, as everyone
knew. "If you want to try and kill me,
I'll enjoy making a sieve of you. If you'd rather
do it with fists, I'll be happy to reset your
face the way I did last time. Otherwise stand
aside, because I have business with the King."
Janvier did nothing. He seemed to be
paralyzed.
"Brother, why don't we carry on now?"
Hoare said. "We can mention your doubts to Leader
and Grand Master before the binding tomorrow."
Reluctantly Janvier stepped back, still
watching Raider.
"Fists for preference!" Raider looked
to Hoare. "I think I know what's rankling him
and it's no danger to His Majesty. Can we
move on? I have to dye my hair tonight."
Hoare grinned. "I'm the joker here,
candidate. Off with the swords, lads. Stand 'em
up in the corner here and collect them when you
leave. Remember, it's Grand Master who's
summoned you. You go to him. When he presents you,
you turn your back, drop your hose, and bend
over. Anyone want to practice that now?"
"I'll do it and say you said to!" Bullwhip
snarled.
"Me? I told you to kneel and kiss the
royal fingers. Don't lick them, even if they
do have gravy on them. Any questions?"
"Will he be hiding behind the door like Durendal
was?"
"No," Hoare said patiently. "They only
play that trick with commoners. Otherwise you'd have
your backs to the King and that isn't proper. Spirits,
cheer up! You all look scared shoeless.
You're supposed to be swordsmen, not
milkmaids. This is what you've all been working
for all these years! Stick your chins out and swagger.
He's a growly fat old bastard, but he's a
fiery good king too, and we're all lucky to be
able to serve him. Ready?"
"And I don't get asked, do I?" Wasp
said.
"Not unless somebody drops dead. You get
to stay home and be Prime, you lucky lad. Come
along, kiddies."
The Flea Room was small and cold, with two
unshuttered windows and an empty fireplace.
Dusk had arrived there already, for outside the
westward sky was turning pink over the moors and
stars shone in the east. As the four candidates formed
themselves into a line facing Grand Master, Hoare
closed the door with himself on the inside of it. The
King was watching from the corner--large and menacing, but
smiling and presently officially invisible. The
man lurking inconspicuously at the far end was
Commander Montpurse.
"You summoned us, Grand Master?" Bullwhip
said hoarsely.
Grand Master's swansdown hair rippled as
he nodded. "Yes, Prime. His Majesty has
need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
This was the ritual. They had all heard tell
of it a hundred times, but Wasp had been
included so he would know exactly how it was done and
could carry word back to the next crop and thus
to generations yet unborn. Everything in Ironhall
was ritual, tradition, ancient custom.
"I am ready, Grand Master."
The old man smiled approvingly and turned
to bow, acknowledging the royal presence. "Your
Majesty, I have the honor to present Prime
Candidate Bullwhip."
Now everyone could take notice of the King.
Wasp had never seen him close, only across
half the length of the hall. He was very large. In
his voluminous garments he made everyone else
present seem small, even Raider. The
plume on his hat almost touched the ceiling.
Bullwhip made a full court bow, then walked
forward and knelt to the sovereign.
"Glad to have you, Prime," he boomed.
"Grand Master speaks very highly of your skill
with the saber."
Bullwhip mumbled something appropriately
modest and was permitted to kiss the royal fingers,
rise, bow, step back into line.
"Candidate Mallory," Grand Master
bleated, "His Majesty has need of a
Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
"I am ready, Grand Master."
One more and then Wasp could go away and begin his
ordeal as the Runt Who Wasn't Good Enough.
He wouldn't have his friend Raider around to complain to.
He would have no friends in Ironhall. Nothing was more
certain than that. In a week or so some vapid
aristocratic nobody would turn up with a warrant
from the King to claim him and turn him into a lap
dog. That was what they did with failures--palmed
them off on worthless courtiers who needed a
bodyguard like a third ear.
The King had been well cued. "A fine
rapier man, I hear, to balance a saber one.
Welcome to our service, candidate."
Mallory returned to Bullwhip's side.
"Candidate Raider, His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
Raider said, "No, Grand Master. I
regret to say that I cannot."
That was not part of the tradition.
The King put his fists on his hips and seemed
to swell until he filled the room. Grand
Master's face turned as white as his hair.
Everyone stared at Raider as if doubting their
ears. There was no ritual for this, obviously.
There might not even be a precedent--had any
candida
te ever refused his sovereign? A
private binding, maybe. That might be understandable,
although Wasp had never heard even a whisper of
any refusals, so they must be extremely rare
in the three-century history of the Order. And
to refuse the King!
Why? After all these years of hard work and
effort? Any candidate was free to leave at any
time. They were all told that on the day they were
admitted, but they were also warned that they would walk out
empty-handed, wearing nothing but a peasant's
smock. Wasp had known many to disappear. But
to give up after five years, at the last possible
instant, in front of the King himself ...
An astonishingly long silence.
"If I may have your leave to withdraw, Grand
Master," Raider said quietly, "and an
escort past the Blades on the gate, then I
will leave Ironhall at once." He was
easily the calmest man present. He had not
been surprised, of course. This was what he had
been hinting at back in the dorm.
Grand Master made a choking sound. "You
certainly will!" He was not having much luck with his
first harvesting.
"Wait!" The King stepped forward until he
was right in front of Raider, almost nose to nose.
He was not much taller, but taller he was, and
bulky enough to make the boy look like a fishing
pole. "Radgar!" he barked.
Raider flinched. It must be years since he
had needed to look up to anyone, but that did not
explain the flinch. Whatever the charge, he was
obviously guilty. "Your Majesty?"
"Raider--Radgar! That's why you hung on
to that stupid name, isn't it?" The King smiled,
if every satisfied display of teeth must be classed
as a smile. "I want to hear more about this. We shall
talk with you later, young man. Stand over there.
Carry on, Grand Master." King Ambrose
spun around and stomped back to his place in the
rapidly darkening corner.
"Carry on, sire?"
"That's why you have Second, isn't it?
Isn't it?"
Grand Master made a visible effort to gather his
wits. "Ah, yes, of course." He looked
doubtfully at Wasp.
Eek! Wasp had become the center of
attention. Of course technically Second must
become Prime Candidate as soon as Prime
accepted binding--or refused it. And so on down
the line. That meant that he was now ... Eek!
Eek! Eek!
"Candidate Wasp." Grand Master pulled a
face as if the name tasted bad. "His Majesty