Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  “Law? Law? Who cares about law? I only read law books at Ironhall because there weren’t any others worth reading.”

  “I doubt we’ll be there long enough. I’m appointing you our geographer. I want to know the best route and how long it will take us. And dangers, of course, and—”

  “What?” Arkell howled. “He’s finally told you where we’re going?”

  Beau’s grin flashed like silver. “No, I just reviewed the evidence and applied logic.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Nothing you don’t know, brother, cross my eyes and hope to die.”

  Beau was superhuman with a sword and as fine a leader as any man could ask for. Solid, dependable Oak was the anchor, the brawn of the team. That left Arkell to do the thinking. If Beau could work it out, he certainly could.

  “Will you tell me if I get it right?”

  “Don’t know what’s right, son. I’ll tell you if you get where I am.” Beau rose in his stirrups to stare up ahead, where the heralds were disappearing around a copse. “Road inspection. Be right back.” He dug in heels and shot forward.

  What had changed since they left Grandon? Arkell drew his brain from its scabbard. Well, the promising little duchess in Fitain had been hastily married off to an elderly cousin—nudge, wink. Warm cloaks and gloves had been added to their kits at the last minute. The Weasel had crossed the Straits to Isilond and was heading to Laville; that ruled out a lot of destinations.

  By the time Beau came trotting back along the line, paused for a chat with Oak, and then returned to Arkell, the expert was ready.

  “I’ll start at the cradle end,” he announced, “because he likes young ones. Sirenea of Garto—she’s too young even for Athelgar; won’t be bearing for five years yet. The King of Thergy’s daughters likewise, and the King of Gevily’s. We’re heading in the wrong direction for those, anyway. Same’s true of the girl in Skyrria…Why are you leering, brother Beaumont?”

  You couldn’t trust Beau’s face, though. He had it as well trained as his sword arm.

  “Me? Leering? Do continue your fascinating discourse, Sir Arkell.”

  Skyrria? All the way to Skyrria? “Princess Tasha,” Arkell said. “The Czar’s cousin. Fifteen, nubile, and sumptuous, the toast of the steppes. Very strictly reared, virginity guaranteed.”

  “I can hear the royal drool dripping. Do mention the recent increase in trade…Chivian wool for Skyrrian furs, Chivian tin for Skyrrian gold. That’s important.”

  And the politics would fit… “Leader!” Arkell said crossly. “In case you weren’t watching, we have come to Isilond. To get to Skyrria this way, we’d have to march all the way across Fitain and Dolorth and other great empty spaces on the map. It would kill the Walrus. You go to Skyrria from Chivial on a ship, Leader. With sails. A long and dangerous voyage, granted, around Cape Seileen and the Amuels Cliffs, only passable in summer, but that’s the way it is done.”

  Beaumont said, “Ship?”

  Arkell groaned.

  Numbskull!

  “Unless,” he admitted, “you have two Baelish thegns for brothers. Not to mention all sorts of childhood friends who are pirates, too.” Baelish longships traded to Skyrria, and it would certainly be keeping up a family tradition to steal Athelgar’s fiancée. To a Bael ship-lord that would be an irresistible prank.

  “Good man. The university will be proud to have you.”

  “I’ll see if I can get into the pastry classes,” Arkell said, disgusted. “At this rate we’ll die of old age before we get home.”

  Beau nodded—frowning, joke over. “Quite likely. Brother, I fear that we have fallen into an epochal, almighty royal bungle!”

  Arkell’s day was suddenly not sunny any more. This was real, not just one of Ironhall’s bloodcurdling case histories. Few of those had happy endings. “Bungle? How bad?”

  “It’s a rook’s nest. Vicious warned me it might be. The King was so obsessed with keeping the business secret that he planned it all with Wassail and took no counsel from people with any real experience. They did it on horseback, riding in the woods so they could not be overheard! Athelgar’s a Bael! He doesn’t comprehend land travel. Wassail’s a farmer and won’t argue with him anyway. Obviously neither of them had the slightest idea how far it is to Kiensk.”

  Arkell didn’t either, except that Skyrria was on the other side of Eurania. “Long!” he said vaguely. “And hard. We’ll have to detour around deathtraps. Fitain’s a swamp of semi-independent baronies and Dolorth an outlaw’s paradise, with no governance at all.”

  Beau grinned mirthlessly at the prospect. “If you have any helpful suggestions, speak up.”

  Arkell thought for a while and then said, “Let’s just go home and tell the King he’s an idiot.”

  • 4 •

  The Chivian Embassy—Lord Haywick’s residence—was dark and silent. The ancient porter snored softly on his chair by the front door, and sometimes rafters creaked uneasily as they settled in the night chill. Only in the high-ceilinged kitchen was there life and a little light, where a great brick oven crackled up a recent charge of logs.

  At a bench nearby, a skivvy was making the day’s bread, mixing dough, kneading it, letting it rise, punching it down, over and over. She would have a score or so loaves ready to eat before the roosters roused the city and the day shift took over and made more. The household ate a hundred loaves a day.

  She jumped. “Oh!”

  “Be not alarmed!” a man’s voice said quickly. “I am one of the Chivians who arrived yesterday.” He moved forward, stopping when she could see him clearly. “That I scared you is regrettable. I mean no harm, I swear.”

  His livery was dark and outlandish; the hilt of his sword flickered stars. He looked too young to be a swordsman, but that might be because he was short and fair-faced, hair shining gold. He was old enough to be dangerous, certainly.

  “What are you doing here?” She was angry at having shown fear.

  “Guarding. One of us keeps watch all night. I felt hungry, so I came down to scrounge. My name is Beaumont. What’s yours?”

  “Isabelle.”

  “Belle and Beau! This is a most fortunate fit.”

  There was something strange about the way he talked, but she liked the lilt of his voice. Maybe a voice mattered more in the dark.

  “Why do Isilondians hide their most beautiful women in dark—”

  “Stop! My lord, I am on duty and an honest woman. You keep your sweet words to yourself.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t do anything else. I’m spelled to be loyal to the Conte de Wassail and can do nothing that may harm his interests. I cannot run around attacking helpless servant girls. Not that I think for a moment that a cook is harmless when she has a knife within reach. Here, let me help.” He stepped forward, rolling up his sleeves.

  “Keep away!” She snatched up the knife and backed away. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  It was quite obvious what he was doing. He pushed the dough with the heels of his hands, lifted the flattened part, folded it over. Again. Over and over.

  “You’ve done that before, monseigneur!” she said uncertainly, amazed to see a gentleman working like a drudge.

  “Not for a long time.” He grinned impishly. “I’d forgotten what hard work it is. And I am not a seigneur. I am not even a real chevalier. My friends call me Beau, which is most appropriate. Why don’t you start the next batch?”

  His hands were bigger than hers, and stronger. He was skilled. Intrigued but still frightened, she took up the next bowl, checked the yeast, and began to mix flour in with her wooden spoon.

  “Tell me about yourself, Belle.”

  “What is to tell? My family is poor. My father died, my mother is old, and I am the last of many. And you?” she asked shyly.

  “Nothing to tell, either. My father died years ago and my half-brothers locked me up in a kennel. Just escaped last month. This could stand now.”

  He set the dough to rise beside th
e others, then took the bowl from her to finish the hard mixing. She fetched an earlier loaf and punched it down to knead again.

  “I will have all my work done so soon that Mistress Gontier will give me twice as much to do tomorrow!”

  “Then I will help you again tomorrow.” He flashed his little-boy smile. “Is it not nice to have company?”

  It was if you trusted the company, smile or not. “Of course, my—”

  “Beau.”

  “Messire Beaumont!” She thumped the dough hard. “Chief Cook Gontier would dismiss me if she knew you were here.”

  “Why? I am very cheap labor for her.”

  “I should not encourage you.” Her mother had especially warned her against beautiful men.

  “You haven’t so far. When are you off-duty?”

  “Never! I know what rich young men want when they come lurking around a working girl while she is alone. Please, monseigneur! I need the job and the money. My mother cannot work now. Please do not get me in trouble.”

  To her shame, she wondered what she would say if he offered her money—a lot of money, of course. A very great lot of money.

  “I will get you in no sort of trouble, Belle. Would you walk with me later? I need to learn my way around the city. Will you show me? Name the streets, point out important places?”

  She imagined herself strolling along the avenue on the arm of a very handsome, golden-haired swordsman…running into someone she knew? Should she laugh or cry?

  “Never time off! I work and sleep, no more. Once every three weeks I go home to Deuflamme to visit my mother. I’m an honest girl. I know all about swordsmen. Mistress Gontier warned us. You all think you can do as you like with women.”

  “Absolutely. I flutter my lashes at them like this and they collapse at my feet.” He blinked idiotically at her until she laughed. “I would offer you money to be my guide, but you would suspect me of terrible things. Please, just this morning, as soon as it’s light, go for a walk with me? No dark corners, I promise.”

  To refuse might provoke him to anger, to accept would start something she must not start. “I’ll see.”

  “It was you who almost took out Hercule’s eye?”

  “Who dared say that?” Truly, this swordsman was a wagonload of surprises.

  “Several people. He tried to kiss you in the laundry. I ask a lot of questions.”

  He began asking more of them, while still kneading the dough with deft, hard thrusts of his hands. How many people lived in this house usually? How many extra had Monseigneur Haywick hired recently? Who went in and out by the back door at night? Many, many more. Twice he broke off as if listening, then darted out of the room, going like a cat, silent and fast. Each time he came back laughing, to say it had been only someone using a chamber pot. She had heard nothing.

  But suddenly all the bread was rising and she had no more work to do for a while. She began to tidy up, then remembered.

  “You said you were hungry. What would you like?”

  “Anything.”

  His jerkin was streaked with flour. She reached out a hand to brush it, and remembered just in time who she was, who he was.

  “No, I can make you something.” She looked away as she added, “Let me? I never get to do any proper cooking here, just bread.”

  “An omelette, please.”

  She took down a pan and set it on the bricks. “How many eggs?” She turned toward the larder.

  “Twelve.”

  She hung the pan back in its place and took a bigger one. “That’s a very big omelette.”

  He shrugged happily. “This is spring, so there are eggs. When there are eggs, I eat eggs.”

  She returned with twelve eggs in her apron. “What else do you want in it? Cheese? Shallots?”

  “You don’t tell me how to kill people, Belle, and I don’t tell you how to make omelettes.”

  She was shocked to realize that she was smiling.

  • 5 •

  Lord Wassail did not approve of Laville. No city should be so big and so…unpredictable. Most of it was comfortably traditional, like Grandon—poky alleys winding between high buildings, all tight-packed inside ancient walls. That was how a city should be, but whole sections of Laville had been ripped down, or burned up, and replaced with gigantic baroque palaces and open paved areas like gaps in an aging set of teeth.

  Not that he was able to concentrate on the scenery much as he was being driven to the elementary. Every jolt of the coach rekindled the fires in his foot. The colic was flaring up much more often these days, too. He could only hope the foreigner conjurers would know what they were doing.

  When he arrived at the elementary, he did not approve of that, either. Elementaries should be small and intimate, dim and mysterious, suitable for the solemn invocation of spirits. This one was vast and bright, with every wall carved in fancy curlicues, tinted with gilt and enamel—and all eight walls were the same, so far as he could see, except for the one with the door. Ornate tiling on the floor almost obscured the octogram itself. How were simple elementals to know where to go?

  Four stout porters lifted his carrying chair from the coach to bear him in. White-gowned conjurers fussed around. They insisted on removing his cloak, jerkin, and doublet and laying ears on his chest.

  “Gout!” he roared. “In my toe! That is not where I keep my toe.”

  “The toe has some gout,” the ancient chief healer agreed, “but it is the enlargements of the heart that give concern.”

  “Bah. Colic. Fancy foreign wine doesn’t agree with me.”

  “To treat the gout one must oppose the heat spirits with those of the water, yes? But the heart requires the heat and the water elementals and the time elementals, and a strong revocation of the death elementals.” They went into the usual mumbled conference, with much rolling and unrolling of scrolls.

  The mousy Blade, Arkell, was standing against one wall. Wassail waved him over.

  “Where’s Commander Beaumont?”

  “I do not know, my lord.”

  “Sir Oak?”

  The kid squirmed. “I believe they are together, my lord, but I’m not sure where.”

  “Hmmph! I have instructions for Beaumont. I’m to wait upon His Highness at the palace tonight.”

  The boy smiled, comfortable again. “Leader has already warned us. We look forward to the honor of attending you, my lord.”

  Beaumont had been present yesterday when the herald delivered the summons—standing in a corner playing statue, but obviously his ears had been working like well-whipped churls. “I have not informed him officially. I will not have you Blades eavesdropping and gossiping about what you overhear!”

  The boy raised his shaven chin defiantly, exposing a lumpy neck. “Blades never gossip about their wards’ business, my lord! He told Sir Oak and myself so that we could be prepared, looking our best. None of us would ever mention your plans to outsiders.”

  Wassail grunted. The conjurers were still arguing. Had they never seen a gouty toe before?

  “When I leave here, I will visit Sir Dixon at the camp.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  “But I pay for three flame-and-death swordsmen, not just one doe-eyed boy. What sort of protection are you, mm?”

  The doe eyes tried to look wild-boarish. “A Blade. Whoever they are, they must kill me to get to you.”

  “Wouldn’t take much. Why isn’t Commander Beaumont here?”

  “I honestly do not know, my lord.”

  With that Wassail had to be content.

  Seeing the conjurers moving to their places, about to begin, Arkell beat a hasty retreat out of the octogram, over to the wall, but that was still too close for him. Long before they rose to full chant, armies of goose bumps were racing up and down his skin as if he was buried in an anthill. He was sensitive to spirituality. At his binding he’d been twitching so hard that Wassail had almost missed his heart and killed him.

  He wished the spirits of chance had g
iven him an easier ward than the Weasel, and yet the old monster had some admirable qualities. Neither his fanatical loyalty to his King nor his courage in the face of pain and ill health ever wavered.

  Where were the others? When Arkell had returned to the embassy house at dawn—after a memorable and expensive night off—he had found Oak on watch. Oak had said Beau had discovered the most beautiful girl in Isilond in the kitchen and taken her for a stroll. Good chance to him!

  But…

  But the Weasel was on the King’s business in a foreign city and his Blades were very green. Prudence would dictate that at least two of them, if not all three, should be in attendance on him whenever he was out of the house. If Prudence didn’t, Grand Master certainly would. Arkell suspected the venerable Lord Roland would come close to mayhem if he knew what Beaumont was doing…or not doing, rather. Lord Weasel was obviously of the same opinion.

  It wasn’t Arkell’s fault that he didn’t look fierce! He was good by Ironhall standards, and that meant stupendous by anyone else’s.

  He shivered and shivered, wishing the conjuration would end.

  When it did, Lord Wassail began bellowing for his boot. He then called Hagfield—who had brought the boot but no sock—every sort of idiot known to four languages and ordered him to give up a sock of his own. Leaving the man to pay for the cure, the Walrus stormed outside to be heaved up on a horse. Arkell barely had time to spring onto his own mount before they were off, just the two of them.

  Wassail rarely went slower than full gallop, even in the sweaty congestion of a city like Laville. He had no interest in sightseeing, but Arkell was fascinated by the dramatic new government buildings and aristocratic mansions—stone edifices poking up through the old timber and thatch like a child’s adult teeth growing in. Pigs and chickens still scavenged, of course, and the streets badly needed a good downpour to clean away the garbage, but Laville was a more impressive city than Grandon. The poor had migrated outside the gates, and the poorest of all lived in hovels a full league from the walls.

  The meadow provided for the Chivian’s camp lay beyond even them. There Sir Dixon had set up a military-style camp with the precious wagons in the center—no ambassador traveled without sumptuous gifts to distribute. The banneret was almost as old as the Walrus, but otherwise as different as possible. A laconic strip of well-used leather, he had lost an eye campaigning in Wylderland a generation ago. In the Blades’ opinion, which had not been solicited, he was long past his best and chronically lacking in imagination.