by Dave Duncan
has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
Another silence ...
Wasp wanted to look at Raider and see if
he could offer any hints, even just a nod or a
head shake, but Raider had been removed from
view. Whatever was Raider planning? He had
nothing: no money, no home, no relatives.
All he had ever said about his family was that both his
parents had died in a fire. That was something
they shared, because so had Wasp's. A peasant's
smock and nothing else. He did have his
Ironhall training. Any nobleman needing a
household guard or a fencing instructor would
jump at a chance to hire an Ironhall man.
So why let King Ambrose drive a nail through
your heart and serve him body and soul for ten years
or more? Looked at in that light, Raider had
made a very logical decision. Ungrateful,
larcenous, and rapacious, perhaps, but he could leave
at any time. Those had been the terms offered.
Wasp's hesitation was becoming obvious. The
King was glaring. Grand Master was glaring.
"Wasp!" Raider shouted from somewhere in the
background. "Don't be a fool! Don't do
it!"
Why not? They could go together.
"No, Grand Master. I am afraid I
cannot."
Blades did not approve of upstart sword
brats who insulted their liege lord. Hoare
cracked no jokes now, and Montpurse's
fair face was dark with anger. They removed
ex-Candidate Wasp from the royal presence,
jostled him along to the guardroom, and pushed him
into a corner with his face to the stonework. He was
told to stay there and say nothing. He was aware that
Raider had been similarly placed in the
opposite corner, because Raider tried to speak and
then cried out when someone struck him. After that there was
silence.
King Ambrose was not an absolute despot.
Unlike monarchs of less enlightened lands, he
must observe the law and truckle to Parliament
to some extent. But if he chose to throw two friendless
Ironhall orphans into the rankest dungeon in
Grandon Bastion and leave them there to die of old
age, who would call him to account?
As time dragged by, one thing became more and more
certain--Raider had not acted on the spur of the
moment. More than anyone else Wasp knew, he
always kept his head and thought things through. Having
decided to refuse binding, he would have counted on
at least a few hours' grace to make his
escape, because the King's visits were normally known
in advance. He had not intended to provoke a
confrontation. But he had, and then
dumb-kid Wasp had jumped in and turned it
into a conspiracy. They had insulted their king.
Enraged their king.
Guards came and went, for this was the Blades'
own room at Ironhall. Words were spoken--not
many, but enough to inform Wasp that a dozen astonished
seniors had been summoned to the Flea Room and
eleven had agreed enthusiastically that they were ready
to serve. The King was now dining in the hall.
Bullwhip and Mallory had been sworn
to silence. If refusals were treated as state
secrets, they might not be so rare after all.
Perhaps they buried the bodies on the moor.
Long after sunset the miscreants were fetched
to Grand Master's study, which Wasp had not seen
since his far-off days as the Brat. The King
stood in front of the fireplace, showing no
evidence that dinner had improved his mood. Behind
him logs crackled cheerfully on the hearth and
candle flames danced atop silver candlesticks
on the mantel.
The prisoners were stood by the window, facing the
King but on the far side of the book-littered table.
Janvier was already guarding the outer door, and when
everyone else had departed, Montpurse took
up position before the inner one. That was all, just
five of them, no Grand Master, no witnesses.
Would the Guard commit murder on the King's
orders?
Wasp had not had a chance to exchange as much as
a wink with Raider since this catastrophe began.
Raider must have reasons, or at least some
plans, so when the King finished his glowering and started
asking questions Wasp would have to take his cue from him.
The King cheated--he began with Wasp. "When
is your birthweek?"
"First quarter of Fourthmoon, Your
Majesty." His voice sounded very small, even
to him.
"What year?"
There was going to be a problem here. "Um,
340, sire."
The King had very tiny eyes, and at that news they
seemed to shrink even smaller. "You aren't even
seventeen yet! How old were you when you were
admitted?"
Gulp. "Eleven, Your Majesty."
"And how old did you say you were?"
Wasp whispered, "Thirteen ...
sire."
"So you gained admittance under false
pretenses! For five years you have eaten my
food, slept under my roof, worn my clothes,
taken lessons from my instructors, and now you
think you and your friend can just walk away without paying a
copper mite?"
There was no answer to that. Wasp hung his head.
"Look at me, thief!" roared the King.
Wasp raised his chin. As he had come
to Ironhall, so was he leaving. He was back
to being the Brat again. Raider had not kept all the
torment from him then, and Raider could do nothing at
all for him now. No one could shield him from a
bullying monarch with a phalanx of enthralled
swordsmen eager to satisfy his whims.
"What's your real name?"
Something rattled its chain, wanting out. "I
don't remember!"
Raider cleared his throat in quiet warning.
King Ambrose raised a fist. "Well,
boy, you had better start remembering, because
I'll get the truth out of you by whatever means it
takes. I can have inquisitors here before dawn, and
you can't lie to them. I can have you put to the Question. I
can have you tortured. Or I can do it the easy
way. Commander Montpurse, if I ask for
three or four volunteers to interrogate this
suspect, what sort of response will I
get?"
"Enthusiastic, sire. Blades don't like
ingrates and renegades."
"Some men never recover their health after that sort
of experience--you understand, boy?"
"Yes, sire."
"Then what's your name and where did you come from?"
Even then the resentment straining at its chain
made him delay a moment before he answered, just
to watch the King's anger mount. "W. My father was
Kemp of Haybridge by Norcaster."
"And what happened to him?"
Not fair! Everyone knew that admittance
to Ironhall was a fresh start, that a man would
never be as
ked for his old name or details of his
old life. The slate was wiped clean. Even the
law said that, the charter. But the King was the King.
"The Baels got him," Wasp muttered. His
father, his mother, his brothers, and a few older
relatives. It had been the last raid of the war
--in fact the war had been officially
ended and all Chivial celebrating with dancing and
bonfires, but one Baelish ship had either not yet
heard the news or had chosen not to listen. The King
was waiting for details. "The squire rallied
everyone into the big house, but the Baels burned
it." Wasp had been out in the hills, gathering the
cows for the evening milking. He had seen the glow of the
fire in the dusk. ... The raiders had come for the
cattle and looked for the herd boy. He had hidden
in a badger's sett, wriggling in feet first,
terrified the badger might start chewing his toes but
more terrified of the two-legged monsters hunting him
above ground. In the morning they had gone, but there
had been nothing of Haybridge left, nothing at
all. ... "I had nowhere to go, no one to turn
to. I walked here. I lied to Grand Master because
I didn't want to starve to death out on the
moor."
The King's fat lips moved in and out as he
considered this answer. "And tonight? Why did you
refuse to be bound?"
Now Wasp could look up at Raider for
help. But Raider was ignoring him, staring
glumly at the King.
"My friend needs me."
"Why?"
"I ... I'm a better swordsman than
he is."
"And why does he need a swordsman?"
"Er ... I don't know."
The questions flashed like rapiers. The answers
grew more and more pathetic until Wasp was reduced
to repeating, "He saved my life!" over and over
and the King shook his head in exasperation. "Grand
Master certainly nailed you in the gold. You're
an idiot child, Will of Haybridge! A
brainless, headstrong, immature brat!"
Wasp's anger had all gone. He just hoped
he wasn't going to weep. Anything but that!
"Yes, sire."
"You've thrown away everything and you don't even
know what you chose instead. What's your name,
Bael?"
The switch came without warning, but Raider
smiled as if he had expected it. He glanced
over the audience--Montpurse, Janvier,
Wasp--and shrugged.
"You guessed who I am, Uncle."
Wasp jerked out of his misery and took a hard
look at that familiar bony face with its
invisible eyebrows and lashes, brilliant green
eyes. Same man as always. Uncle? Had
Raider simply gone insane? Had the King? Was
that what all this was about--craziness? Raider had
always denied being a Bael. How could he be the
King's nephew if he was really one of those
monsters? Aha! Wait a moment! Wasp
recalled a dim memory of Master of
Protocol mentioning some obscure and disgraceful
connection. ...
The King scowled. "Why did you refuse
binding?"
"Because binding would kill me. I am already
enchanted."
Montpurse's sword flashed into his hand.
Raider eyed him warily. "The conjuration cannot
harm anyone else. If His Majesty wishes,
I can demonstrate its effects."
"Sir Janvier?" growled the King.
Janvier seemed more puzzled than worried.
"He does feel like a threat to you, sire, but
only vaguely. ..."
Ambrose dismissed this diagnosis with a
snort. "Show us."
"Yes, sire," Raider said calmly.
"Commander, I must remove my doublet."
Montpurse took a step closer, still
clutching Talon, and Janvier drew his sword
also. They watched like cats as the prisoner
stripped off his jerkin and then his doublet. Moving
deliberately, he rolled up his right shirt
sleeve, exposing an arm like any ordinary arm--
somewhat slender for a swordsman's perhaps, but a quite
respectable pale-skinned and boyishly hairless
forearm. "Now, Commander, if you would fetch me one
of those candles?"
The King himself grabbed a candlestick from the
mantel and stood it on the table. Raider drew
a deep breath, set his teeth, and put his arm in
the flame.
The King muttered an oath, but otherwise
everyone just stared in disbelief. Obviously it
hurt. Sweat streamed down Raider's face and
his lips curled back in a rictus of pain. His
arm trembled with the effort of will needed to hold it
steady, but there was no visible change where the flesh
should be blistering, turning black, smoking.
"That will do!" said the King sharply.
Raider snatched his hand away and wiped his
forehead. He held out his arm to confirm that
there was no mark on the skin. Now that the ordeal was
over, he was trying not to smile at the King's
obvious shock. Montpurse, resting a finger
over the candle, winced and drew it back
instantly. Raider rolled down his sleeve.
King Ambrose scoffed, but he had been
shaken. "A clever parlor trick! What does
it prove? Are all Baels immune to fire?"
Again Raider did not deny the insult. "No,
sire. But a massive enchantment like mine will
deflect any other conjuration, or at least
distort the balance of the elements in it. I'm sure
that's why Master of Rituals could not stop my
growth. If you thrust the sword through my heart I
will die. Besides, how would the sniffers at court
react to me?" He smiled ruefully at
Wasp. "I also showed you that my companion's
loyalty is misplaced. Yes, I carried him
out of West House, but I was in no danger. When
my clothes burned, it hurt but did me no
harm. I should not have claimed to be a hero when I
wasn't, friend. I am sorry."
Ridiculous! "You didn't claim anything,"
Wasp protested. "What would have happened if
you'd been half a minute later? What if
we'd been still inside when the roof came down?
I'd have died under tons of blazing timbers.
What would you have done?"
"I'd probably have used a lot of bad
language."
"Silence!" roared the King. "Any more insolence
and I will have the Guard lay the rod on your
backs, both of you. You can do tricks with a candle,
boy, but you still have to convince me you're the lost
atheling."
Raider raised his brows in impudent
surprise. "Gea! Ic wille mine
oe`edelu gecy`edan, poet ic eom miceles
cynnes. ..." * The King's glare made
even his cocksureness falter at that point. "I
will tell you of my noble kin, Uncle, for it is
true that you have granted me hospitality for the last
five years and a guest's duties--"
* Yea! I wish my nobil
ity made
known, that I am from great kinfolk. ...
"An uninvited guest! A freeloader, a
thief!"
"Ah! Well, that depends."
Wasp wondered what the two Blades were
making of this. He did not dare look.
He did not dare look anywhere except at a
king who seemed very close to explosion. Never had
he felt admiration for anyone more than he felt
for Raider now. In an impossibly unfair
contest he had brushed aside the King's attack
and drawn ahead on points. Not that it could ever be
a fair match, for the King could break it off at
any point and summon the inquisitors. His
talk of a beating was no bluff, either.
"Depends on what?"
"On what orders Sir Geste had and who
issued them."
The royal eyes narrowed. "Geste? Who's
he?"
"A former Blade, Your Grace. He was the
one who brought me to Ironhall."
"Don't recall any Geste in the Order.
Do you, Commander?"
"No, sire," Montpurse said. "Shall I
send for Master of Archives?"
"Perhaps later, when we have finally extracted the
explanation we are still waiting for."
Raider bowed. "Gladly I will give it,
sire. But my friend and I have been kept on our
feet for about three hours now. I very much need
to relieve myself. A drink and a bite of food
would be a generous gesture."
The King scowled at Montpurse. "Send for
some water and a piss pot." As the Commander was
passing the word to someone outside the door, the King
sank into the big leather chair. He pointed at the
oaken settle opposite. "Sit there and
explain how you got here."
The command did not specifically include
Wasp, but there was room for two on the bench and no
one objected when he squeezed in beside Raider.
"How I Got Here?" Raider said
thoughtfully. "I suppose the greatest blame should
be laid on Gerard of Waygarth. A nice enough
young man, I understand, yet sadly misguided.
He was of no real importance in himself, but back
in 337, during your father's--"
"Never mind him! You need not go that far back."
Wasp felt peeved. Why would the King not let
Raider tell the whole story? What could have
happened twenty years ago that he still wanted
kept secret?
AELED
II
The story Raider wanted to tell would have
gone something like this. ...
Ambleport was a town of about a thousand souls on
the southwest coast of Chivial. It thrived on