Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  Lord Roland had won a point and was enjoying it. He knew how to charm. She returned his smile, acknowledging that few people could fence words with Beau and win.

  Beau, quite unabashed, moved Isabelle’s glass a little closer to her and took a sip from his own. “Forgery?”

  “Of course.”

  “But why?”

  “That is the question. As you probably know, Lady Beaumont, Ironhall boys always leave in the same order in which they were admitted. There are good reasons for this, but it can cause difficulty, especially now, when we train fewer boys than we used to. I send regular reports to the Commander of the Royal Guard, advising him how many we have ready for binding. Sir Vicious, in turn, advises His Majesty. Two or three times a year, the King comes to Ironhall and harvests the next batch. He cannot delegate that duty; it must be his hand on the sword that binds them.”

  Isabelle suppressed a shiver, thinking of the deadly white scar over Beau’s heart.

  “Of course the King may also assign Blades to other persons.” Lord Roland regarded her darkly. “You will not remember the Thencaster Plot, but one of its more distressing results was that some Blades were put in impossible conflicts of loyalty. Many went insane when their wards turned traitor. Others died fighting against their king. Ever since then, His Majesty has been reluctant to gift Blades to others. The Royal Guard absorbs almost our entire output nowadays; that is why we admit so few. But the King has not completely given up assigning private Blades.”

  Like Beau. She nodded.

  “Consequently,” Grand Master continued, “I had no reason to be suspicious a few days ago when a man rode into Ironhall with a warrant from the King. He gave his name as Sir Osric Oswaldson. I was mildly surprised that I had never heard of him, nor had Master of Protocol, but he dropped hints of a secret mission and the King wishing him to have a Blade guardian.”

  “Is that usual, my lord?”

  Lord Roland smiled. “No, but possible. It happened to me, about half a century ago.”

  And Beau, who was positively leering. He hated mysteries he had not created himself.

  “I was unhappy that the warrant required me to bind only one Blade, because His Majesty knows my concerns about that and has never ignored them before. But kings do as they please.”

  “Osric,” Beau said. “Baelish name. Was he a Bael?”

  “He could be. His hair was more sandy than red, but it did have a reddish tinge and he was the right age to be one of Athelgar’s childhood friends. He volunteered no personal information and brought no attendants who might have gossiped in the kitchens. The King sent most of his cronies home after the Thencaster Affair, but he could well have chosen one for some confidential mission. It all made sense.”

  When his audience did not comment, Lord Roland continued. “I gave him my usual lecture on the care and upkeep of Blades. In all good faith I summoned Prime and introduced him to his ward-to-be. Swithin? Remember him?”

  Beau nodded. “Gangly lad, with a shock of black hair? Always looked surprised, as if his eyebrows had been stuck on too high.”

  “He has a nasty surprise coming to him now, if he hasn’t had it already. He was late developing, but he turned out very well, excellent man, wonderful on a horse. I like to keep one of the best to be Prime so that no one thinks he’s a reject. The following night he was bound.”

  Beau drummed fingers on the table. “I suppose…the oath is part of the binding. There’s no question that the conjuration would work if the ward used a false name?”

  “If it hadn’t, Swithin would have died. And if it was possible to bind by proxy, the King would not come to Ironhall. No, it’s whose hand holds the sword that counts.”

  “Osric knew how to wield a sword?”

  “No,” Grand Master said. “I doubt if he’d ever touched one before, but he got the point in Swithin’s heart, which is all that matters. Before dawn they rode off over the moor together, Aragon succeeded as Prime, and Ironhall carried on as it always does.”

  “But?” Isabelle prompted in the silence.

  Grand Master scowled. “A few hours later a couple of guardsmen came by. Sir Valiant and Sir Hazard—you remember them, Beau? They were on their way to Nythia to inspect renovations at a royal hunting lodge, so of course they dropped in at Ironhall. Hazard mentioned that the King had gone off to Avonglade for a week’s hunting and would be back on the ninth. That’s today.”

  “Loose lips!” Beau said scornfully. “Does dear King Athelgar not keep his movements secret?”

  Roland shrugged. “He tries to. He keeps everything secret. He’s said to keep secrets from himself. But if he had gone for a week, then he must have left on the first or second…”

  Beau emptied his goblet and pulled a face. “So you retrieved Osric’s warrant from the archives and took another look.”

  Grand Master produced a paper and passed it across. Isabelle leaned against Beau’s shoulder to study it. It was a common octavo sheet, printed in heavy black type, with a few gaps where additions had been inserted in a hasty scrawl.

  We, Athelgar, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, Lord of the Three Seas, Fount of Justice, &c. to our trusty Durendal, Earl Roland of Waterby, Companion of the White Star, &c., Grand Master of our Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades: Greeting! We do request and require that you cause the most senior one Candidates to be bound as Companions in the aforesaid Order by its Secret and Ancient Rituals to serve our Royal Intents by defending our well-beloved Osric Oswaldson, Bart against all Perils and Persons Whatsoever for as long as he shall live.

  Done by our hand at our Palace of Greymere this 3rd Day of Eighthmoon in this 13th year of our Reign.

  Athelgar

  As a warrant for a man’s life it was singularly unimpressive, not unlike Beau’s handbill. He took that up also, as if to compare them.

  “You said His Majesty was not in Grandon on the third,” Isabelle said. “He made a mistake on the date?”

  “Kings are very careful over dates, Lady Beaumont,” Grand Master said. A former chancellor would know that. “A wrong date on a royal signature could have grave consequences.”

  “Then he postdated the warrant.”

  Beau’s smile was more catlike than ever. “What possible reason can a king ever have for postdating anything, love?”

  She had no answer to that.

  “So you suspected a forgery,” Beau said. “Is it conjured? You had a White Sister sniff it?”

  “No need,” Roland growled. “The writing is a purely secular forgery. The seal may be a conjurement. I can’t tell the seal from the real thing—it’s only the royal signet, of course, not even the privy seal, but that is standard. The hand is not the King’s. A good copy, good enough to fool me at first sight, but when I compared it with others, I could see the discrepancies.”

  The old man spoke calmly, but he must be seething. A long lifetime of public service would end in ridicule. The King might impose a cover-up, but that would not save Grand Master from the royal wrath.

  Beau smiled. Neither man spoke.

  “I don’t understand,” Isabelle said. “How can the imposter hope to get away with this? A Blade is not a silver dish to be fenced or hocked. A Blade has a tongue. He talks.”

  “If a man can be hanged for stealing a sheep,” Lord Roland inquired acidly, “will the penalty for stealing one of the King’s Blades be less?”

  She should have seen that.

  “So the loot will not testify against the looter,” Beau said. “I’m not sure if a Blade’s binding prevents him from pounding his ward to mush in a non-fatal sort of way. Were I Swithin, I should be inclined to try.”

  A private Blade was bound until death. Only the Guard could be dubbed knights and released.

  “A Blade is not invisible,” Beau continued. “Dress a Blade in rags and he does not lose his…”

  “Arrogance,” Isabelle murmured helpfully.

  His knee nudged hers under the table.
“Distinctive poise. And our friend Osric can never go anywhere without taking his ill-gotten guardian along. He can never risk visiting Grandon, certainly.”

  “He’s gone abroad, then,” she said. “Back to Baelmark.”

  Roland shrugged. “Or anywhere in Eurania.”

  “And you cannot even hazard a guess who he was?” Beau asked.

  “I had never seen him before.”

  “So why bring your gaffe to me?”

  They were playing word games again, feinting at meanings. Of course they must know each other very well, so they could jump the gaps, but there was also danger looming. Kidnapping a Blade was certainly crime enough to involve the Dark Chamber. Since no lie could deceive inquisitors, conversations must be deniable.

  “What can Beau do about it?” Isabelle demanded. “What can anyone do? Swithin will die before he will desert his ward. If you catch Osric and lock him up, you’ll have to lock up Swithin, too. If you chop off his head, Swithin will go insane, won’t he?”

  “This could be more serious than that,” Beau muttered.

  “Much more!” Roland said.

  “What can Beau do, though?” Isabelle repeated.

  The two men stared at each other as if they were now communicating without any words at all. They still did not answer her question.

  Lord Roland rose. “Swithin has been kidnapped! Tricked into dedicating his existence to safeguarding a thief! His entire life has been stolen from him. I want that boy found and compensated. Somehow. I cannot imagine how. And in secret. I think you are the man to do it for me, Beaumont. I will provide expenses.” The wash-leather bag he tossed down landed with a metallic thud that shook the heavy table.

  Beau jumped up. “I will not take your—”

  “You will need a good sword.” Lord Roland was not only taller, he was louder. “Fortunately, I have one I can lend you.” He reached down and produced a sword in a battered, well-used scabbard—it must have been lying on the bench beside him all the time. He laid it on the table, as if raising the stakes in a wager.

  Beau stared, shocked into silence; the wind-burn flush on his face fading to pallor.

  Even Isabelle knew that hilt, with the silver cage around the leather-bound grip, but the pommel was wrong. The cat’s-eye cabochon that had once gleamed there had been replaced with a simple white stone, like a pebble off a beach. She leaned across the table to draw the blade just far enough to expose the name inscribed on the ricasso: Just Desert.

  Beau licked his lips, then said hoarsely, “I will not take your gold, my lord!”

  Isabelle was seized by a potent urge to kick him or shake him. They needed that gold! Desperately! It would buy them passage back to Isilond, or provide a start of a decent life here in Chivial. She had a baby coming. Beau was being wilful again, crazy-proud again, ruining everything again, just as he had when he defied the King. She forced down her anger, clenching her fists. Loyalty! Trust him!

  Grand Master said, “Sir Beaumont—”

  “No!” His voice was soft, his smile hard. “I do not need your charity.”

  “You need someone’s!”

  “No! I refuse. I was expelled from the Blades in disgrace. They miss no chance to show their contempt for what I did. I won’t wipe their noses for them. Take your gold, and your warrant, too.” He thrust purse and paper back at the frowning Roland. “Good chance to you, my lord. You can find your own way out.”

  Lord Roland bowed stiffly and stalked away, cloak swirling.

  But the sword still lay on the table.

  • 3 •

  Isabelle opened her mouth to start asking questions and Beau kissed it. He might still not be the best swordsman in the world, because in the two years since he won the King’s Cup he had been deprived of the intense daily practice that experts needed to keep up their skills. She never doubted that he was the world’s best kisser.

  He was far stronger than he looked, and she could do nothing but cooperate. Her swelling breasts spread against his hard chest and her belly could just still fit in the concave curve of his. When the world spun at a crazy angle and her knees buckled, he lowered her carefully to sit on the bench. She was giddy and breathless. He was flushed.

  Only then did he take up the sword.

  “Why didn’t you accept his gold?” she asked bitterly.

  “Because I will have nothing to do with treason.”

  “Treason?” She thought of the horrible things they did to traitors.

  “Tampering with the King’s Blades could certainly be construed as treason.” His eyes flickered a steely warning, and she remembered the cryptic hints that there might be more to the crime than Roland and he had said. “Sooner or later the inquisitors will bay.” He peered along the blade.

  The first time he proposed to her, he had warned her that a Blade’s ward must always come first, promising she would always be second. He had lied, although unwittingly. Just Desert had been second. He had always spoken of his sword as female, she. She was a schiavona sword, two-edged, tapered, basket hilt—not a large, clumsy weapon, but neat, like him. Also deadly, like him. The only time Isabelle had ever seen tears in his eyes was when they took her away. And now she was back. Roland had known the one coin that would buy her husband for whatever his real purpose was.

  “It’s yours, isn’t it?” She was still breathless.

  “Oh, no.” He smiled thinly. “His Majesty ordered mine destroyed, remember? But Master Armorer keeps records of every sword he makes, so Roland could have ordered a replica. He would pay for it himself, too.”

  She could see the nicks on the edge, many of which tallied men’s lives. This was the original Just Desert, the one he had slaughtered with on the ghastly Skyrrian quest. The King had been defied. Roland had not destroyed the sword as commanded, but if the Dark Chamber asked, Isabelle could say, “I hardly know one sword from another. My husband told me it was a replica.”

  She hugged herself and the child she carried. “What was he after? You believe this absurd story of a stolen Blade? You think there’s any way you can find him, this Swithin? Wherever he is? Why did you turn down Roland’s money? Where could you even start? How could you possibly find Osric, when that won’t even be his real name?”

  “I know his real name. So does Grand Master.”

  “What!?” Isabelle cried. “Don’t give me shocks like that! It’s bad for the baby.”

  “I said I know who ‘Osric’ is,” Beau repeated, “and so does Lord Roland. The problem will be catching him in time. The warrant was dated the third. Assume Osric rode posthaste from Grandon to Ironhall—”

  “How do you know he was ever in Grandon?”

  Beau grinned approvingly. “He was, but what I mean is that the date had to seem reasonable to Grand Master. The warrant is addressed to him, but it’s a royal command to the bearer, too—if the King gives you a commission like that, you do not drop it in a drawer and forget about it! You move. You act! So Osric probably arrived at Ironhall late on the fourth or on the fifth. The binding ritual begins with a daylong fast, so the actual binding could not have been done before midnight on the fifth or sixth. He and Swithin left early on the sixth or seventh; Valiant and Hazard arrived later, probably around noon. Today’s the ninth, so old Durendal did very well to get here in just two days. Well for his age, I mean. But where are Osric and Swithin?”

  She was lost in this labyrinth. “What are you going to do?”

  Beau’s laugh showed all his teeth. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”

  “Me? You are out of your mind.”

  “No, love.” He slid Just Desert back in her scabbard. “You are going to put on your best bonnet and head over to the palace. I wonder if the King is back from Avonglade yet?”

  II

  The Ironhall Road

  • 1 •

  “Terrible thing, old age,” Andy said. He heaved himself into the roan’s saddle like a miller loading meal sacks. “I’ll see you on the right way. Hate for
you to get lost.”

  “Sir, honor may require satisfaction for that remark.” Aided by a groom’s hand-up, Durendal swung himself into the gray’s saddle with (in his opinion) considerably more grace. His son was an ungainly horseman, although a proficient one.

  The sky was bright, awaiting its lord the sun like a court gathered to greet a monarch. Hooves stamped in the stable yard mire; breath smoked. The children still slept, but Maud and many of the servants had come out to exchange last farewells, and whinnies from the stalls sounded like old Destrier bidding good chance to his lifelong friend. The two riders headed for the gate.

  Neither spoke until they emerged from the trees at the top of the rise, where they could look back at the big house sheltering in its hollow, amid its own woods and fields and orchards. For Durendal Ivywalls was full of bittersweet memories of Kate, of his days of power, of happiness with grandchildren she had never seen.

  The road snaked back into the trees again.

  “I’m glad you found the right sword today, Father. Yesterday, when you put on the wrong one and then lost it, you worried me.”

  Andy’s nosiness worried Durendal, although it should not surprise him—as a child Andy had pried into everything. As a young man he had gained renown as an explorer.

  The Blades’ Grand Master was skating on paper-thin ice in the Swithin affair. That nasty little atrocity was not just about the theft of his reputation or a boy’s freedom; it had the potential to shake the Kingdom of Chivial to its foundations or even plunge half Eurania into war. For himself, Durendal did not care—he was old enough to do his duty as he saw it without counting the cost—but he was determined to keep his family out of harm’s way. Earthquakes splattered innocent bystanders with falling masonry, and no one would be safe if accusations of treason started flying. Against the inquisitors’ ability to detect falsehood, ignorance was the only defense. So how to answer his son’s query?