Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands

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