by Dave Duncan
blondes ... all simpering and puckering red
lips at me. "Fresh towels, Waeps
Thegn." "Your wash water, Waeps Thegn."
"Some iced wine, Waeps Thegn?"' You are a
pimp, Radgar Aeleding! You think you can
distract me by throwing girls at me?"
There was enough truth there to warm Radgar's cheeks,
but not enough to make him feel truly guilty. "I
didn't mean to be a pimp! I hadn't learned
then what happens when a king expresses
a wish. I just said I hoped my dear friend Wasp
would feel happier soon. Everyone in earshot
assumed that meant I would shower treasure on
anyone who could make you smile. Next time I
rode over here, I found the place swarming with
daughters, sisters, cousins. ... Take whatever
comes your way, I'd say."
Wasp struggled off the couch and stood up. His
left sleeve dangled pathetically empty. "I
told you. I just want to be left alone, with
nobody in sight or sound. If I'd wanted
to swarm I'd have called myself Bee, not Wasp.
You want to please me? Go away!" He turned
as if to leave.
Radgar sat back on the dewy grass and
leaned his arms on his knees. "I was going to ask
you to be my drhytguma."
Wasp went rigid. "Your what?"
"Bridesman ... like best man."
That won a reaction almost like the old Wasp, the
missing Wasp. He swung around, eyes wide.
"You! Married? That's pretty fast work,
isn't it?"
Radgar shrugged. "Politics. When the first
foering goes against Chivial, I'll have
to lead it. Have to prove I'm my father's son. The
witan all agree I ought to sire an heir before
then. In fact they more or less told me they
won't let me go until I do."
Obviously intrigued, Wasp said, "Does
she have a name? Where did you find her?"
"Her name's Culfre, eldest daughter of the
late Earl Ae`edelno`ed, so she's a
Nyrping. It's a good match--she has two younger
brothers who will be the first royally born contenders
I'll have to worry about, but they're less likely
to challenge if their sister is queen. May not
work, but that's the theory. I'm told she's very
sweet-natured and a real looker."
They would tell him that if she had three eyes
and a beard. The prospect was almost as scary as
having to fight another firedrake. Two days
to go ...
Wasp said, "Hmm." Then he pulled a
face, a very cynical expression. "How does
the Lady Culfre feel about being a political
pawn and broodmare? One foal right away,
please! Have you thought to ask her?"
This time Radgar felt his face turn brick
red. A king must learn to be more
impassive. "Yes, I have. Ceolmund and I
picked her out as the most suitable candidate and I
wrote her a private, personal letter,
explaining the situation and asking if she would be
interested. I stressed that it was entirely her
decision and if she did not like the terms, then nothing
more need ever be said."
"And?"
"Her fourteen-year-old brother wrote back
that his sister would be honored to marry the King, and he
consented to the match, subject to suitable terms
... and so on."
For a moment Wasp looked ready to grin. "So
her mother reads her mail? Women don't get much
say in such matters in Chivial, either. Your mother
could have told you that. No, I won't be your best
man. Put me in a crowd now and I'd go
screaming mad. Ask Aylwin. He's the best
man around."
"Not so, Wasp," Radgar said quietly.
"You're the finest man I know." Besides, anything
a king did had political repercussions.
Aylwin and his father were uppity enough already.
Wasp bit his lip, his eyes glistened.
"Half man!" He turned his back. "Go
away, please," he whispered. "Oh, please!"
"In a moment. There's something else I must
ask you. I'm sorry, I've tried to ignore
it and ... Well, I must know. When I stabbed the
firedrake, just that one time in the hall, a great
chunk of it fell off."
Wasp waited, not looking around, not speaking.
Radgar took a deep breath and asked it.
"Is that why your arm--?"
"No. I told you. You hurt us, yes. I
very nearly lost control of them when you did that. If
they'd broken loose, we'd have ... they'd have
wrecked the hall and ... It would have been a
massacre. Our--I mean my arm came after,
when the spell was broken. The water wasn't quite
deep enough, that's all. My arm was left
exposed. I got off lighter than Fyrlaf.
Now, please, please, can I be alone? Come
back in a year. Maybe then I'll know who I
am."
Radgar sighed and stood up. Whatever the
horrors of the firedrake enchantment, it had
burned away Wasp's binding. He was a free
man, no longer a Blade.
"Of course. Just one more thing. I
tracked down the ship lord who sacked
Haybridge and slaughtered your family."
He waited, staring at Wasp's back, but
Wasp just stood there.
"He knew about the treaty. He was on his first
foering with his own ship, so I suppose he--
He knew, he disobeyed the royal command,
Wasp. You want him put on trial, I'll
do it. His werod were just following orders, but
he'll be found guilty and enthralled. If you
want, I'll give him to you then and you can do
anything you--"
"Do whatever you want," Wasp said hoarsely.
"Go away."
"I'll cut his head off, then. Oh, Wasp!
I can't give you back your arm, but I can give
you flaming near anything else in the world you can dream
of. I want you as my advisor, my trusted
companion--as my fencing partner, so I can keep
up my skills and no blustering Bael earl will
ever dare challenge me. My friend, I owe you my
life, although no Blade ever saved his ward
by anything remotely like the means you used. It cost
you. I'm sorry. I'm grateful. Anything you
ever want, just ask."
"Right!" Wasp roared. He spun around,
stumbled, flailed his arm, and recovered his balance.
"Stop the war!"
"What?" Anything except that, Radgar thought.
"Stop the war. Is that so hard to understand?"
Wasp's face had gone from pale to scarlet. His
eyes were fever bright. "You're going to start the
horrors all over again--foering, you call
it? I call it rape, theft, murder, slaving,
bestiality. I saw it happen at Haybridge
and it marred my life. It cost me everyone I
held dear." Shouting, he advanced, and Radgar
stepped back, almost tripping over a tree
root. "You think that's why I agreed to be your
Blade, you barbarian Bael--so you could start the
war al
l over again?"
Radgar just stared at him.
After a moment Wasp crumpled. He looked
away, mumbling, "Sorry, Your Majesty.
Mustn't speak like that to a king."
Radgar went forward and hugged him. Wasp
tried to break loose, but the King was stronger and had
two good arms.
"I had to do it, my waspish friend. Stop
squirming! It was the only way I could
get the throne. Will you hold still!"
"No! Let me go. Please! Please!"
"No I won't. Listen! I'm
three-quarters Chivian by blood and I'd been
living in Chivial for years. Half the earls
thought I was a Chivian spy and the other half were
worried about losing their bribe money."
Wasp had stopped struggling, but he was shivering.
"You didn't just call for war! You swore your
precious blood feud against Ambrose himself.
You expect Chivial to hand over its king in
chains? The war you're starting won't ever end. It
can't. If you want to show your gratitude, King
Radgar, then give me that--call off your war!
Start right there!" He stopped, choking and gasping.
"I can't. Maybe I made a mistake, but
there is no way I can undo it now. We all
make mistakes, Wasp. Sometimes the
consequences are terrible. Remember Dad's
motto about the she-wolf? We all of us forget the
she-wolf sometimes. Look at Gerard of
Waygarth, drawing his sword against an army of
Baels--and think of everything that followed. My father
thought he could steal the throne by stealing a wife.
Well he did, but he got a lot more than he
expected. Crown Prince Ambrose talked his
father into starting a war and it turned on him. My father
trusted my uncle and died of it. Yorick thought
he could sell a prince like a cask of stolen
wine. And you? You insisted on being bound as my
Blade. I warned you then that I was a Bael.
You wouldn't listen. Did you think I was just a
rabbit in disguise? You destroyed the firedrake
and saved my life. I'm very grateful for what you
did, but I'm still a Bael. This war is your
she-wolf."
"You're saying it's my fault?"
"No, because that would mean that you owe me now, and that
isn't true. Do you regret saving me?"
Wasp seemed to think for a moment, then he
sighed. He leaned his head against Radgar's
shoulder and awkwardly returned the hug,
one-armed. "No, you big monster, I don't
regret it one bit. I owed you that, remember?
I'd do it again, even if I knew you'd go and
start another war." He sniffled. "I'll be
honored to be best man at your wedding."
Radgar laughed and squeezed him even harder.
"And best friend evermore?"
"And still best friend, always."
"And you don't mind me throwing girls at you?"
"I'll try to get used to it," Wasp said.
AFTERMATH
It
So war came again. Chivians called it the
Second Baelish War, but to the Baels it was
always Radgar's War; and the thegns soon swore that
he was an even better fighter than his father before
him. Ironhall had not taught him
siegecraft, logistics, or strategy, but he
had witan aplenty to help him with those. What he
had learned in his lonely exile on Starkmoor was
how his opponents thought, and no military skill
is better rewarded. Perhaps King Ambrose
guessed as much, because the story of their meeting and how
the lost atheling had found refuge in his cousin's
realm was totally suppressed, the darkest and
deepest of all state secrets.
Years passed. Chivial bled. Chivial
burned. Its commerce wilted. Lord high
admirals came and went, earls marshal rose and
fell, yet Radgar Aeleding was always where they were
not. Lacking the manpower to conquer the country, he
could still strike far inland, looting, slaving, and
sacking. Even the Baels grew bored of war and
sick of slaughter, yet it seemed that
no one knew how to end the pain.
Spry, trim, and clean-shaven, mijnheer
Vanderzwaard seemed younger than his twenty-eight
winters, yet he was one of the most respected and
envied burghers in Drachveld. He owned a
mansion in town, an extensive estate on the
Willow Canal just outside the city, and shares in
many profitable enterprises. His aristocratic young
wife had already given him a son and a daughter and
was still renowned for her beauty. Her wit, charm, and
skills as a hostess made the Vanderzwaards
bright lights in the younger set of society and
frequent guests at the palace. Their marriage
was reputed to be one of fairy-tale happiness.
One fine morning in the late summer of 368,
mijnheer Vanderzwaard had his men row him into town
in his launch and then walked along Cowrie
Street, heart of the financial district.
Nimbly dodging hawkers, delivery boys,
drays and wagons, carriages and carts, he
came at last to his place of business. Its
discreet entrance was identified only by two
unobtrusive brass plates. The first said:
CONSUL-GENERAL OF BAELMARK
and the other, even smaller:
HOUSE OF VANDERZWAARD
MARITIME ACTUARIES
Through this unassuming portal flowed gold in
tidal-wave quantities. Hardly a ship that
flew the flag of Chivial or had business in
Chivian waters did not avail itself of the
services of Vanderzwaard, either here or with its
branches in Fitain, Isilond, and Gevily.
The House of Vanderzwaard specialized in
warranty against a single peril, one that other
brokers of maritime insurance were happy to shun
entirely--Baelish piracy. Mijnheer
Vanderzwaard's methods were unorthodox. He
never asked for particulars of the vessel or its
cargo. He merely sold pieces of parchment that
would, when shown to a Baelish ship lord, cause the
man to sigh, salute, and sail away. The
Baelish blockade of Chivial was now so tight
that almost no cargo entered or left that country without
safe-conduct from the House of Vanderzwaard.
Would-be blockade runners ended in Baelish
hands, with their cargo and craft confiscated
and their crews bound for the slave markets. The
value of a Vanderzwaard passport was measured in
bushels of gold.
Whistling cheerfully he came, garbed in the
height of fashion, which this year involved ruffs like
cartwheels, flowerpot hats with brims even
wider, voluminous and elaborate doublets and
knickerbockers. His entire outfit today was white
with gold beading; long dark tresses hung
loose down his back. His fashionably gloved
left hand clutched the scabbard of his rapier
stiffly, but he swung his right arm nimbly enough and that
hand was bare. An elegant ge
ntleman was
mijnheer Vanderzwaard, but he was a swordsman
first.
Arriving at the consulate, he trotted up the
steps, turned the handle, and strode forward into a
dim anteroom smelling of ink, candles,
polish, and leather. It held about two dozen
comfortable chairs, some well-stocked bookshelves,
and an oaken writing desk. Here Hans, his
industrious and ingenious bookkeeper, spent long
days standing at his desk, tallying incredible numbers
in a great ledger and shuffling callers in and out of the
mijnheer's chamber. He also embezzled money
for the benefit of his parents and sisters at an
incredible rate, apparently unaware that his
employer knew very well what was going on and had
so far been content to watch in amused silence. There
was lots more where that came from.
It was only as the heavy door thumped shut at
his back that mijnheer Vanderzwaard sensed anything
wrong and by then it was too late, because two of the
intruders were already behind him with swords drawn. A
third was holding a dagger at Hans's throat.
Blades! With a mental scream of fury at being
suckered so easily, Vanderzwaard whipped out his
rapier and leaped, landing with his back to the
bookcases.
He had always known that the Order neither forgot
nor forgave, and the murder of Sir Janvier must
remain as unfinished business in its annals.
Evidently that account was about to be closed. He
could have had very little hope against even one Blade
nowadays, and three were a certain death squad.
"How do you work?" he snarled. "All together or
one at a time?"
"I so sorry, mijnheer Wesp," said one
by the door. "Did we startle you?"
Flames and death, it was Bullwhip!
He had put on weight and his face looked more like
a pudding than ever. The other was Victor, still as
blond--pale and skinny as a victim of the coughing
sickness. They would both be full knights by now,
released from their binding--available to take on a
little unfinished business, no doubt. Hungry and
desperate, quite possibly. In their Ironhall
days he had been able to thrash either of them with one hand
behind his back, but now his left arm wasn't behind his
back, it was eleven years gone and although grueling
practice had taught him how to fight again with a
prosthesis in its place for balance, he could never
hope to achieve his old Ironhall standard.
Then Wasp looked at the third man and sheathed