by Dave Duncan
Wassail dismounted to speak with him, which was a tactical error, because a man with no manners was safer on horseback. Although he was still not revealing his destination to anyone, he had realized that he was never going to get there with teams of oxen. Yesterday he had ordered Dixon to obtain horses and mount everyone and everything. Apparently he expected to find this already done.
“Mounts hard to find, my lord, good ones.” The old soldier was almost as laconic as Commander Vicious.
Wassail’s setting-sun face always waxed larger and redder at the least hint of defiance. “I wouldn’t pay you if it was easy!”
“Lot of the men can’t ride.”
“They can learn!”
“Who can?” bellowed a crusty old man-at-arms behind him. The camp had gathered around to listen. Shouts of agreement began boiling into riot. Pikemen and archers had not been hired to ride horses, and what about their women and children? No one had mentioned the far ends of the earth. Even the other knights protested the change, without quite explaining why—possibly because riffraff were harder to look down upon if they were mounted. Soon Arkell thought it wise to draw his sword and step closer to his ward. The sight of sunlight flashing on Reason calmed the babble and made the hecklers back away, like ripples on a pond. He realized that he was actually being a Blade, facing danger, doing what he had been training for all these years.
Ignoring the aborted protests, Wassail announced he would investigate nearby stud farms in person. He clambered back on his horse and set off at a gallop with Dixon, plus of course Arkell. As the banneret had implied, the only mounts offered for sale were hacks discarded by livery stables. Any decent stock belonged to the Conte de This or Chevalier de That.
Some hours later—tired, filthy, hot, and evil-tempered— King Athelgar’s envoy returned to the embassy and learned that several visitors had come looking for him and not waited. Beau and Oak were still missing
Furious, the Walrus settled down in a small dining room to eat and drink. He was joined in both by Pursuivant Dinwiddie and in the drinking by their nominal host, Lord Ambassador Haywick. The Pursuivant was a gangly young man who wore eyeglasses all the time, even in public. They, and a total lack of chin, made him resemble an excitable cod. Haywick was as pasty as unrisen dough, too young for his responsibilities and too old for his permanent air of sulk. Lacking an invitation to sit, Arkell stood in a corner and salivated.
When a visitor arrived to see the Weasel, he ordered his companions out of the room. Haywick and Pursuivant went meekly. Arkell refused and had to endure a furious tirade from his ward; he still refused. The same thing happened repeatedly during the afternoon. A courier dressed as a merchant brought dispatches from Grandon, and two genuine merchants delivered items of jewelry fit for a queen. Two more callers were old personal friends, who cackled to his lordship in a north-Chivian dialect that totally defeated the conjurers’ gift of tongues. The most intriguing were anonymous characters who just delivered letters, which Wassail read and stuffed in a pocket.
Neither Beau nor Oak had appeared when the time came to prepare for the Regent’s reception. Arkell was in a cold sweat, Wassail a seething fury.
“This is not the service I was promised, boy! Special permission, the Ambassador negotiated—special permission for me to bring three armed men into the Regent’s presence. That is no small honor, a sign of respect to our noble King. I will turn up with only one, and a weedy stripling into the bargain. What sort of insult is that? If I had my way I would run you all off—after a good whipping apiece, I might add—but I realize that I cannot. I certainly do not intend to squander His Majesty’s bullion on you so that you can go off carousing or wenching when you ought to be on duty!”
“I cannot believe they are doing that, my lord,” Arkell said loyally. “I only hope that they have not fallen victim to foul play.” He kept thinking of the sinister de Roget, who had been so shamed by Beau.
“If they did,” the Walrus roared, “then they weren’t much good to start with, were they? We’ll talk about pay again in five years, boy.”
With that he stomped off to his chamber. Arkell followed. He grabbed his own kit on the way and changed in the same room as his ward, who continued to growl and bark at him without stop.
• 6 •
The narrow alley between the house and the mews was crammed with horses and people. Sir Dixon and his knights had arrived to escort the Walrus to the palace in style, and the band was attempting to line up to lead the parade. Paulet struggled to keep Lord Haywick vertical on a very miry, slithery surface when all the horses seemed perversely intent on backing into him. Hagfield trod at Wassail’s heels, still making adjustments to his lordship’s attire, Pursuivant Dinwiddie in his tabard was flapping codlike as always, and Percy and Kimberley were resplendent in their footman livery. Master Merrysock had come to see everyone off.
To Arkell’s unbounded relief, Beau and Oak were there also, both out of breath as if they had been running. He had no chance to question them before Wassail let rip, making horses twist their ears and hands widen their eyes.
When his ward paused for breath, Beau responded with a look of dismay. “I am distressed that you are dissatisfied, my lord. In what way did Sir Arkell fail in his duties?”
Wassail made incoherent noises, but he was not the first man to be caught off-balance by Beaumont. He could neither complain that he had been murdered in his senior guard’s absence nor accuse him of not being available for the audience, because he was obviously available now, if somewhat sweaty and rumpled.
“You are the one who failed. In future you will not be absent without my express permission or there will be a new leader! It is time to go.” He lumbered over to the waiting carriage.
Arkell said, “Where—”
Beau cut him off with a wink. “You ride behind his lordship. Oak will go in front.” Then he disappeared into the melee, and that was the last Arkell saw of him until the procession was under way, clattering along echoing streets so narrow that pedestrians had to flatten themselves against the walls, shouting protests.
Beau brought his horse alongside Arkell’s and said, “What trouble did you get into today?”
“Me? Trouble?” Arkell reported on the day’s non-events.
Beau’s eyes twinkled like silver spoons. “Good. Enjoy yourself at the palace. Oak has the sash.”
“What? Where are you—”
Leader turned his horse into a side alley and was gone.
“Where is Commander Beaumont now?”
Arkell had read about men’s faces turning purple but had never seen it happen before. Fortunately, the Walrus was Oak’s problem now, not his. The parade had reached the palace right at sunset, as agreed. Heralds and trumpeters stood ready, the honor guard awaited. Among the pillars at the top of the steps lingered a dozen or so young men in the gold and purple livery of the Household Sabreurs, complete with flamboyant purple cloaks and gold-hilted swords.
Watching.
Even the imperturbable Oak seemed to wilt slightly in the sunshine of his ward’s wrath. “Leader said to tell my…your lordship that he thought his presence might be con…construed as provocation.”
Wassail already had his mouth open. He closed it and then said, with a trace less belligerence, “Provocation? Of who? Why?”
“The King’s Cup, Your Excellency. The Regent sent the champion of Isilond to compete—the Conte de Roget, a relative of his. He met Sir Beaumont in the qualifying round, my lord, and lost.” Oak’s honest, simple face registered unadulterated sincerity.
This time the Weasel’s mouth opened and closed several times as if he were debating with himself the merits of various responses open to him. In the end he just pocketed his anger for later use; spinning around and charging up the steps without a word.
His Blades hastened after him. Flashing a sideways grin, Arkell received no quiet smile of success in return. In fact, were it not an oxymoronic notion, he might have thought that Oak was worr
ied—Oak, who had cracked jokes when his leg was bent like a dog’s and only a tourniquet was keeping him from bleeding to death. Perhaps he was just overwhelmed at being acting leader for the first time.
They were in for a long night of boring pomp and protocol, but nothing worse than that. Except famine. Arkell had not eaten all day.
The royal palace was adequately spectacular and opulent. The pomp was everything he had feared. And yet… He could not put a finger on what bothered him.
The two peers followed the heralds, Wassail keeping a firm grip on Haywick’s elbow. Arkell walked behind his ward’s left shoulder with Oak’s uneven tread going dib-dab, dib-dab on his right. The knights clanked along behind. By halls and stairs, gilt and marble, frescoes and mosaics, they paraded to an audience hall where flocks of butterfly and peacock courtiers flanked a center aisle running clear to the throne. Trumpets sounded again. Soft hands applauded the distinguished visitors.
Arkell’s sense of wrongness clenched to a fist. This was all froth, he reminded himself. Everything of importance had been agreed months ago between Master Merrysock and some Isilondian flunky. Wassail had been promised safe conduct. Chivial and Isilond were on good terms at the moment, ganging up on Thergy in every way short of open war. Nothing could go wrong.
Yet something was not right.
The Duc de Brienne, Regent of Isilond, nested on the throne in a splendorous plumage of furs, silks, and jewels. Head thrust forward like a vulture’s, scaly hands resting on the head of an ivory cane, he smiled amber teeth in a face of leather. De Brienne enjoyed a reputation for duplicity noteworthy even by the standards of wicked uncles. No one seriously expected the infant King ever to come into his inheritance.
A guard of a dozen Sabreurs stood around the throne, but in relaxed, informal stance to show their importance. Three were big men and two had scars; none had both. Possibly de Roget had been banished from court in disgrace, but Arkell assumed there were more Sabreurs in the offing. Determined not to gawk at the scenery like a hayseed, he risked one quick glance around and identified the wrongness: there was not one woman present. What sort of boy games did that portend?
Oak was chewing his lip, which was understandable. Arkell was fidgety, too, seeing so many swordsmen close to his ward.
To everyone’s relief, His Excellency Ambassador Lord Haywick managed to carry off his part in the ceremony without disgracing himself or his King. He presented the visitor by the correct name. There was much bowing, advancing a few paces, bowing again. Credentials were offered and accepted. Wassail conveyed Athelgar’s best wishes and a companionship in the White Star; in return he was inducted into the Order of the Silver Rose.
The nonsense ended with him two steps down from the throne and his Blades still at floor level, ignored. Even in Grandon, Blades were invisible at court functions. Dixon and his knights had halted much farther back and been submerged in the shifting tide of courtiers.
His Excellency was most welcome, said the Regent.
His Highness was exceedingly gracious, said the Ambassador-at-Large.
The Regent trusted that King Athelgar continued to be favored by the spirits?
The Ambassador was awed by the beauteous land of Isilond.
If there was anything at all that His Excellency needed…
Wassail needed a thousand first-class horses, both mounts and sumpters, with handlers and tack. He could probably get by on a couple of hundred if he must, but this was neither time nor place for real problems. This was froth and glitter time, sweet-talking time. That monstrous mass of fat and gristle, who normally seemed to lack the least idea of courtesy, could behave like a studied diplomat when he wished. Obsessed by rank, he was obsequious to his betters and rude as a hog to anyone else.
The small talk ended abruptly. The Regent changed tone. “And those are two of the celebrated King’s Blades, are they?”
Arkell felt a cold draft on his neck. He thought the whole hall straightened up, as if every man had been waiting for this. The Sabreurs beside the throne adjusted the hang of their swords.
They also adjusted their smiles to convey maximum contempt. The widest possible gulf divided them from the King of Chivial’s Blades, who were scofflaws and gutter trash. The Sabreurs were sons of great houses, whose forebears had borne arms for at least four generations.
Wassail’s pudding face reddened. “They are but flunkies, Your Highness. Nimble and skillful, but not gentlemen.”
“But unbeatable at the noble science? We heard that one of your own men claims to be champion of all Eurania.” The vulture peered around in search of riper carrion. “Where is our cousin of Roget?”
A man emerged from the sidelines to make a leg and sweep the floor with his plumed hat. He wore the Sabreur gold and purple, bore a white scar across his right cheek, and was both larger and younger than Arkell had expected.
So the quarry was now in sight, and it was neither Lord Wassail nor his Blades, at least not yet. The hunt was hot on the trail of the Conte de Roget, who had disgraced himself, his Order, his country, his family, his uncle…What penalty must he pay? Why were there no women present?
“Ah, yes,” the Regent said. “Which one of these two boys gave you lessons in Grandon, nephew?”
“A youth named Beaumont, Your Highness. He is not here.”
“My Lord Ambassador?”
Where other men might have cowered in embarrassment, Wassail swelled like a bullfrog. “Highness, my King honored me with three Blades, but I brought only two this evening.”
The Duc pouted as if some slight jape he had planned had gone astray. Had he wanted a rematch?
“Stay out,” Oak whispered.
Arkell turned his head to say, “What?” and watched in horror as his companion lurched forward a couple of steps. His voice burst forth much louder than necessary.
“If the noble lord wants another lesson, I’ll be happy to give it to him.”
The constant insectile buzz of the court stopped. Arkell wished he could just faint, or wake up and find he was dreaming. To hear such words from Oak—gentle, good-humored Oak? What was the crazy man doing? This was lese majesty, sacrilege, casus belli…it would take years just to read the indictment. If the Regent didn’t hang them, Athelgar would. Lord Wassail was purple again, about to have a heart attack. Before he could speak—
“So?” said the Regent. “Another Beaumont, are you?”
Oak thundered ahead. “As a Blade, I’m trash, Your Grace. I’ve got a game leg. But I could handle him.”
De Roget’s scar had disappeared in his pallor. His hand curled onto the hilt of his sword. “Your Highness will allow—”
“No!” The Regent was smiling again. “Peace, Lord Ambassador! You cannot, Cousin!—you cannot call him out. He is not a gentleman. Commandant!”
“Your Highness?” The Sabreur nearest the throne advanced a pace. He was stocky and older than the others, but still trim; he sported more gilt than they, plus an enormous white mustache. He could be none but the legendary D’Auberoche, who had turned back the Verouke rebels and had once reached the finals of the King’s Cup, the only non-Chivian ever to advance so far.
“Your Highness!” Wassail did not know whether to cringe or bluster. “I deeply regret this infamous behavior. King Athelgar will certainly hear of it, and on his behalf…I wish to offer…most humble…”
De Brienne was shaking his head. “No, no. We shall witness this celebrated Chivian style of fencing. D’Auberoche…What do you say we let the insolent yokel make good on his offer, mm? To entertain this noble gathering. A sparring bout, a few passes? You would officiate?”
Oak had ordered Arkell to stay out. Oak excelled only with heavy metal—the man was a real dragon with broadsword and buckler, for example. But de Roget had made fish bait of Cedric, according to Hazard, and Cedric had given Arkell some memorable bruises at Ironhall last month. There was no question that the ranking was: Beau, de Roget, Cedric, then a wide gap to Arkell, and Oak lower yet. T
his was to be human sacrifice.
Beau must have ordered it, but why, for spirits’ sake? The humiliation he had inflicted on de Roget in that unexpected qualifying-round defeat could not be undone by giving the Sabreur a chance to thrash a cripple, however much the spectators might enjoy such a performance. Beau would not do that to a friend anyway.
The sneers on the rest of the Sabreurs needed no translation. They said that this was what happened if you gave swords to guttersnipes.
“I should be honored to officiate, Your Grace,” D’Auberoche announced, predictably.
Whatever was going on, de Roget could not be faking his white-lipped fury. “As Your Highness observes, I cannot demand satisfaction from a hobbling churl. But Chivians hold a ward responsible for his Blade’s actions. With your gracious permission, I will demand satisfaction of His Excellency, and accept his champion in his place.”
“And I gladly waive diplomatic immunity, Your Highness,” the Walrus barked. “No one will be happier than I to see the noble Sire administer a lesson to this buffoon who shames my colors.”
All Arkell’s Blade instincts screamed warnings. What were the rules here?
“Ingenious,” the Regent admitted, “but we cannot sully our hospitality by allowing challenges to ambassadors.”
“If Your Highness and my lord of Roget would consent,” D’Auberoche suggested in tones as monumental as Grand Master’s, “we could designate this encounter a prize fight, in which men of disparate estate may meet without respect to rank.”
“Excellent, my dear Commandant! You agree, de Roget? A prize match. Set the terms, Commandant.”