by Dave Duncan
waist. Hengest screamed and fell back with his arm
streaming blood. He fell back too far and
vanished overboard, the sweep he had dropped
clattering on the barrels. Frecful managed
to draw and Geste skewered him, faster than a
whip. Wulfwer, seeing his target now alongside
him, instinctively tried to bring his sweep up and
around to defend himself, but Radgar leaped, hurling
himself at the blade. Wulfwer, with his hands too
close together to resist the leverage, found himself
unexpectedly overpowered. The sweep swung in
his grasp until the far end caught against a stay
and then Radgar had even more advantage. The
pole took Wulfwer under the chin, the side of the
ship behind the knees. Now his height worked against
him, so he and the sweep went over together. Radgar
staggered and almost followed.
He didn't though. The coaster went on her
way bearing Geste and Radgar. Two thegns were
gone to the lobsters and Frecful's
corpse lay in the waist.
WASP
VI
Candles were guttering; the fire had burned down
to glowing ash. Still, the two Blades stood like
obelisks at the doors, untiring and ever
vigilant, while King Ambrose had slumped
to a monumental heap in Grand Master's chair, his
foxy little eyes shadowed by his hat. Clearly
Raider's tale was almost done.
"So I killed my cousin," he said
placidly, "and without a word of regret! I'd
hope any normal boy would have hysterics and
fits of contrition under those circumstances, but by that
time I was incapable of feeling anything except
ghoulish satisfaction that a slip of a lad like me
could discontinue such a hulk. I didn't even
suggest we go back and look for him. It would have
done no good. If the cold didn't get him right
away, the Cweornstanas reefs did. There were
no other ships close."
Wasp wondered how any thirteen-year-old
could have survived what Raider had
endured that night. He knew he couldn't--not even
now, when he was more or less a grown man. He
was also a very hungry man, and a worried one.
The King grunted, the first sound he had made in
some time. "Commander! Send for Grand Master. Also
Archives and Rituals." As Montpurse
passed the order out through the door, the royal frown
returned to Raider. "You have not explained why you
came to Chivial."
"Sir Geste made that decision, sire. I
went down into the poky little cabin to find some
clothes. I fell on the bunk and slept until
dark. Nature will have her due. I couldn't take
any more. When I reappeared, Geste was still
holding the tiller. He said, "I'm assuming you
can sail this tub to Chivial, Youngling. I've
kept it pointing southeast all day."
"At that age I would promise anything. In
light winds she was easy to handle." Raider
shrugged. "I didn't tell him she wasn't
rigged for the high seas and heavy weather would sink us.
Of course I asked why we were going to Chivial
and he told me what he'd worked out. I trusted
him ... I had to, but he was a proved friend and
all I had left. We couldn't go back
to Twigeport, he said--not with a stolen boat and
blood on the deck, three men missing. Quite apart
from that, I knew my father had been murdered, so I
had a blood debt to call when I grew up,
and the killers, whoever they were, would want to act
first. So Twigeport was out and that meant I
couldn't go and ask help from Lord Candlefen, even
if I wanted to.
"Nor could I risk Waro`edburh, because while
Uncle Cynewulf was in charge there he would
certainly have questions to ask about his son. When the
fyrd deposed him, his successor might decide
to tidy up any atheling problems left around.
"The key was my mother, Geste said. He'd
heard the crowds around the house moaning that both the
King and Queen had died, but he stressed that we
couldn't be sure about Mom, since I hadn't
seen her body, only Dad's. If she had
survived, being widowed she might well decide
to return to Chivial with her brother. Even if
she didn't, I had more family in Chivial
than I did in Baelmark and fewer potential
enemies. He promised he would look after me
for a few weeks, until we learned the outcome
--whether the treaty held, who succeeded
my father as king and earl, what had happened to my
mother, and so on. I did not have an automatic
claim to the throne like a Chivian prince would, but
I was the last of the Catterings and that would make me
an important token in Baelish politics
when I was old enough to be counted throne-worthy. The
trick would be to live that long. So we were
Chivial bound.
"Food was a concern, and the water keg was almost
empty. Fortunately the luxury imports in the
bow included some edibles like olives and nuts--and
also fine white wines. Our course may not have
been the straightest, but we made it to Chivial."
A faint smile touched the royal lips at that
point, the first sign of approval King
Ambrose had shown all night. Shifting his
position on the hard settle, Raider crossed
his legs. He must not be aware he was doing so, for
such informality was gross presumption. Being
allowed to sit at all in the King's presence was a
signal honor.
"The war was officially still on, but I kept my
hair out of sight and we had no trouble. Geste
raised cash by selling some of our pirated cargo just
like an honest trader, and we worked our way around the
coast to Prail. We didn't meet any
Baelish pirates, which I was secretly hoping
we would, boys being boys.
"In Prail he rented a couple of horses
and we rode here to Ironhall. It would be a
perfect hiding place for me, he said, while he
went to court to pick up the news. Of course the
idea of hiding among the Blades appealed to a
brash thirteen-year-old. We came in through that
door there, but I was sent out while he spoke with
Grand Master. He may or may not have told the
truth, but the story we had made up said I was
an orphan from Westerth, because that was the accent I
had picked up from my mother. Grand Master tested
my agility and accepted me into the school.
"Geste's argument had been that, if the worst
came to the worst, I would receive five years'
superb training, and with that I would be able to make my
way in the world, but he promised he would return
for me." Raider shrugged. "He never did. He
sent one brief letter saying that both my parents had
died, my uncle had not been deposed yet, and
he would let me know as soon as he had more news.
He never did. After five years, it seems
unlikely that he will now." He paused
as if waiting for a comment from the King, but none came.
"The peace treaty was announced in the hall and
then fog closed in on Baelmark. It seems
to be of no interest in peacetime. I think it was
mentioned only twice in our political
classes." Raider asked wistfully, "My
uncle still rules?"
Ambrose nodded. "My sources claim
he's ruling well. Someone tried a challenge not
long after your father's death, but the moot backed your
uncle handily. He's secure, it seems. The
land is at peace."
"Only one challenge? I misjudged him.
But if he had not had talent, Father would not have
tolerated him. That's my story, sire."
Silence. Wasp, too, had lost his family
in a fire, but he had not seen his father with his throat
cut. He had not walked through the furnace and had
the clothes burned off his body. A prince being the
Brat ... that explained some of the stories of how
Raider had won his name--stories that could be
laughed at now but would not have seemed funny when he
was fighting a dozen fights a day, waging a
one-man war.
"A remarkable tale," the King admitted.
"You are a remarkable young man--Cousin."
"Thank you, sire."
Good for Raider! He was in, accepted,
royalty, one of the nobility. What would he do
now? Go home and hope to succeed his uncle?
Try to discover who had murdered his parents? He
had mentioned blood feuds more than once.
Never mind. What was going to happen to Wasp,
who had affronted his king and now would never be Sir
Wasp? The laughable thing was that he'd thought he could
be a help to Raider in whatever he was planning
to do. He had never dreamed that Raider's fortune
lay in savage Baelmark. Realistically, what
earthly use would a kid with a rapier be there, among
the barbarians? Would he even have the courage
to draw it? Blades had no problem with courage
because their binding drove them, but Wasp was never going
to be bound. Even if King Ambrose let him go
rather than throwing him in jail, in Baelmark he would
be a liability, a foreigner, no help
to Raider at all, probably too scared to stand
up to any angry Bael. ...
"Rodney Candlefen died last winter," the
King said.
"I heard that, sire. I only
really met him that one time, very briefly." And
thought very little of him--in his time of troubles, Raider
had not sought help from his Chivian relatives.
"His son succeeded to the title, I heard.
Rupert. About my age?"
"Mm. You must be about twelfth in line for the
throne," King Ambrose mused. "Not that
Parliament would ever allow a Bael to succeed."
"Er ... yes, sire." Raider had been about
to say something else. He would have calculated where
he stood in the succession--the royal family being
a topic in political classes--but whether he
put himself at tenth or fifteenth, one did not
contradict monarchs, especially not on that most
delicate of topics.
"Candlefen must be informed that his cousin has
returned to life." Ambrose scowled at this
upstart relative of his. "And so must King
Cynewulf. We do not wish to jeopardize our
good relations with Baelmark."
That barely veiled threat caused Raider's
legs to uncross. "Of course not, sire. I will
certainly be guided by Your Majesty." He had
to say something like that. Prince or not, he was as much
in the King's power as Wasp was. "I have no
illusions that I would be considered throne-worthy.
Not yet, perhaps never."
"H'm?" His Majesty seemed skeptical.
"But you do not intend to renounce all ambitions
... No matter. You are our relative and
potentially a future ruler of a nation with whom we
are bound by treaty. Those are two reasons why we
shall extend you our friendship. And your tale of
hardship has won our sympathy."
"Your Majesty is most--"
"Yes. Nevertheless your reappearance must be
announced with tact. As you said earlier, if you
turn up at court with that conjuration of yours, you will
scare all the White Sisters out of their
wimples." The little amber beads of eyes turned
to gaze at Wasp, as if their owner had just
recalled his existence and was not convinced it was really
necessary.
His skin crawled. And the King went on talking
to Raider while continuing to stare at Wasp, no
doubt trying to devise a suitably ghastly
fate for him.
"This Geste ... I sent no Blades
to Baelmark with Candlefen. I just wonder whether the
man was even more of an imposter than--"
Knuckles tapped on the door. With a grunt
the King heaved himself to his feet; the two youngsters
leapt up. In came the masters who had been
summoned, almost tumbling in, as if they had just
been wakened. They would not have dared go to bed before the
King did, so perhaps they had fallen asleep wherever
they had been waiting. Master of Rituals was still
buttoning his jerkin and Grand Master running fingers
through his flyaway white hair. They lined up and
bowed raggedly to the King. Under less trying
circumstances, Wasp would have found their performance
comical.
"Ah, Grand Master," the monarch boomed,
"sorry-disturb-you-this-time-of-night. ... I have
listened to Candidate, um, Raider's explanation
and agreed that owing to some very exceptional--
extremely exceptional--circumstances, his
refusal to pursue a career with the Order can be
justified."
Grand Master's face twisted in an
expression somewhere between relief and amazement. "I
am indeed happy to--"
"Q. One point requires clarification."
Ambrose's authority filled the room like a
whirlwind. "He claims that he was brought
to Ironhall and recommended to Grand Master by a
Blade calling himself Sir Geste. Neither
Commander Montpurse nor I can recall any
Sir Geste in the Order."
He had made the statement a question. He had also
indicated quite clearly how he wanted it answered.
Grand Master raked his hair again. "I do not
recall the name. Nor my predecessor commenting
..." His voice trailed away as he and everyone
else turned to Master of Archives.
Master of Archives had not been in his post very
long, either. He was a tall, spare man of about
forty with ink stains on his fingers, already developing
the stoop and bemused, shortsighted look that went
with the job. He wilted under the King's frown.
"We keep no records at all of the
candidates' previous circumstances, Your
Majesty. Um, forbidden by th
e, um, Charter ...
nor the names of who bring them. Geste? Not
familiar ... I shall of course make a search.
Approximately how old?"
"I am sure if he existed you would
remember, Master. I fear the man is fated
to remain a mystery." Ambrose did not seem
displeased. No one remained who could shed
light on the unknown Sir Geste. The previous
Grand Master, Master of Archives, and Lord
Candlefen were all dead. "He must have been an
imposter."
Wasp wondered how an imposter could have known every
detail of the ambassador's instructions. Those were
major state secrets.
"He bore a cat's-eye sword," Raider
said softly. "He looked like a Blade."
"He's dead, then!" That royal glare was
reputed to flake plaster off walls.
But Raider was royal too, and he had donned
his stubborn expression. "The original owner of the
sword may well be, of course, but the sword
itself was called Fancy and it has not been
Returned in my time here."
Then it seemed a winter wind rippled through the
room, raising eyebrows and pursing lips.
Eventually even Wasp worked out what Raider was
hinting. By custom, on the day a Blade was to be
bound he chose a name for the sword he would receive.
Master Armorer inscribed the name on it for him, and
almost certainly Master Armorer also saw that the name
was entered in the archives, along with the date and the name
of his ward. Those records were supposedly
secret, but could they have remained secret for five
years from a determined young man like Raider? It
would take very few minutes to skim back to the
appropriate years and hunt down a sword
named Fancy. He might know a lot more about
Geste than he had revealed.
"No matter!" barked the King and turned his
fearsome attention on Wasp again. "How much of his
story had he told you?"
"Not-not-none, sire!"
"Hmm?"
"Not a word, sire," Raider murmured.
The royal lips pursed. "Hmm? Then perhaps
you are not quite such a fool as I took you for, Will of
Haybridge. It does seem your friend may have
need of a trusty swordsman or two, as you
guessed. I am inclined to give you a second
chance. I also want to keep your mouth shut. So,
Candidate Wasp, for the last time: His
Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready
to serve?"
Joy! "Yes! Oh, yes, Your
Majesty!" Wasp fell on his knees.