by Dave Duncan
The Blades gathered around the prisoner, freed him from the chair, and two of them hustled him away, still gagged.
“He will escape out the window, of course,” said Beaumont’s hatefully cheerful voice. “Is that agreeable to you? It does seem to be the simplest solution, unless you want him as witness at Haywick’s treason trial.”
“He should die a traitor’s death!”
“Possibly,” the boy agreed, “but how can you do it here in Isilond? I frightened him with tales of torture, but I was bluffing. I cannot break the law without jeopardizing my ward. You could summon inquisitors from Chivial, but they will lie to you if he truly is in the Dark Chamber’s pay. Let him go.”
Wassail was past caring. He needed a bucket of ale and his pillow. “He really confessed to all you say?”
“He spoke at length, graphically, biographically, and autobiographically. His handwriting is evidence.”
Wassail shuddered. A wise man is just a fool who has learned from his mistakes—so his father had told him, long ago. If he were a wise man, he would have stayed home at Wasburgh to look after the lambing. “You are right, lad. This was good work, and I must learn to trust you.”
“Thank you. We aim to please—Ironhall motto. Ah, Sir Oak! Did you get anything to eat at the palace? Tstk! How inhospitable of them! Well, if you will see his lordship safely into bed, Arkell and I will pay a quick visit to the kitchens and relieve you most soon. By your leave, my lord?”
As the two of them hurried along the corridor, Arkell said, “You saw Merrysock use the golden key on the document chest?”
“This is true.”
“He then copied out several documents?”
“Still true.”
“So where were you while he did all this?”
“Where do you think I was?”
“Behind the bed curtains, probably. You left a smear of mud on the windowsill where you came in.”
Beau just chuckled.
Had he been there in his place, Arkell mused, he would have interrupted the thief before he read all the secrets. But then they would not have had the handwritten evidence. He was not thinking clearly—Blades could dispense with sleep, but not with rest, and he ached with weariness and hunger. He needed food and a few hours alone with a good book.
“Did you learn anything interesting?”
“Not much,” Beau admitted. “It seems we’re to cross the Skyrrian border at somewhere called Dvonograd, and the Czar’s troops will escort us to Kiensk from there. Getting to and from Dvonograd safely is the problem. Wassail must have thought horses grow on trees…Oh, yes…Remember Grand Master wondered why Athelgar couldn’t assign Wassail more Blades? Seems the Czar limited Wassail’s train to ten armed men within the country and three in High Town, whatever that is.”
“The Czar is reputed to be crazy.”
“Aren’t we all? How was the skirmish at the palace?”
“Bizarre. D’Auberoche and Sire de Roget plan to wait upon you here at noon. And I think the three lovelies standing beside them were included in their invitation.”
“If they all want lessons, they’ll have to take turns, won’t they?” Beau said, unruffled. King Athelgar was not the only secrecy addict in the forest.
“Could you have beaten de Roget in the qualifying round if you hadn’t watched him fight Cedric earlier?” They passed under a sconce then, and Arkell intercepted an amused glance from his companion.
“It would have been trickier. As it was, it was tricky enough.”
In a reasonably even match, it helped to know your opponent’s style. That was why the Guard coached the candidates whenever the King went to Ironhall—the inmates knew one another’s quirks too well. But Arkell had never heard of a feat like this.
“You feigned de Roget’s style for Oak? You spent all day being de Roget, remembering every ploy and gambit, every parry and riposte he used in those two matches, and imprinting Oak with the correct response in every case, over and over and over. You turned him into a de Roget expert. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“You never know until you try,” Beau said cheerfully. But he had known. He had stage-managed the whole episode. For years he had been Ironhall’s teacher of last resort. When a junior mangled his lunge or knotted his footwork, the masters would turn him over to Candidate Beaumont, because he had endless patience and an incredibly swift eye. Yet to recall every stroke of two fencing bouts that had been held weeks ago was pure miracle, even for him.
He reached for the handle of the kitchen door. “Watch your manners in here, brother.” His voice lacked its usual banter.
Only one lantern burned in the steamy, airless, dark, and only one hearth glowed. In that patch of light, a girl was kneading bread. She heard the door, looked around, and for the merest instant her eyes lit up at the sight of Beau. Then she turned her face away and went on with her work. But that glimpse had been enough to give Arkell a pang of jealousy. Any man dreamed of having such a girl send him such a look.
The men wound their way to her, between tables, bins, and barrels.
“This is the Countess Isabelle,” Beau said. “Your Grace, may I present my flunky, Messire Arkell the Insignificant?”
She shot an appraising glance at them both. Her eyes were black as coal, as was the hair tied behind her head, and both of them gleamed in the lantern light. “Go away! You will get me in trouble.”
“Alas, Messire Arkell is in very poor health, my love.”
The next flashing glance was directed at Arkell alone, but it held no interest. He was a pale moon next to Beau’s sun.
“He looks sturdy enough.”
“No. If he as much as smiles at you, he will die instantly. What do you think of my future wife, brother?”
For a moment her hands fell still, then resumed their work.
“Oak called her the most beautiful woman in Isilond,” Arkell said. “He meant Eurania, didn’t he?”
“Flattery will get you skewered,” Beau said, but he looked pleased.
“Away with you both!” she shouted. “I know all about swordsmen and their sugary words. You will ruin me, get me in trouble!”
In the heat of the kitchen she was wearing only a thin cotton sheath, and as she lifted and stretched the dough, it both moved and clung, moved and clung, sketching the body within—teasing, maddening, intoxicating. She was not tall, but full-breasted, with strength in the round, smooth arms. Her face was flushed, her skin shone. Food? Rest? Who cared for those?
Beau pulled up his sleeves. “We are both famished, dearest. Truly, we have not eaten all day. Arkell, you know how to do this?” He edged Isabelle aside and took control of the dough.
“I used to watch my sisters, and I wield a spoon like a saber.”
“Another omelette?” she asked.
“For me, certainly. Your omelettes are why I am going to marry you. Arkell?”
“Anything at all, mistress. Feed me or I will eat this dough raw.”
“Stop giving me titles!” She clattered a pan angrily down on the hob. “You men all think I am just a slut you can take and enjoy and leave with the baby.” She stalked off into the shadows.
“I haven’t kissed her yet,” Beau told Arkell, loud enough for her to hear. “I haven’t even touched her hand. I promised not to until she asks. That’s fair, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say it demonstrates fantastic strength of will,” Arkell agreed. Guard legend insisted that a bound Blade could take any woman he wanted, and Beau was no run-of-the-mill Blade. Nor was he a prude, for he had tied a longstanding record in the Guard’s traditional rite-of-passage welcome to Grandon. Obviously he was just enjoying the sport, playing the fish on the line, knowing she was his whenever he wanted her.
• 9 •
Wassail was aware that his normal morning disposition would shame a constipated boar, and this morning he felt even worse than usual. The Merrysock traitor had vanished in the night. Beaumont deflected roars of complaint by sayi
ng blandly he thought his lordship had agreed that this would be for the best. Vague recollections of having given that consent brought no comfort.
“He should be hung in pieces around Chivial!”
“Granted, but how could we get him there? You lack power of high justice here, my lord. Would you ask His Highness to deliver him in chains to the quay? You would have to explain why.”
Unthinkable.
But Haywick would not escape so easily. Even if he were not guilty of selling state secrets directly, he should have uncovered his secretary’s treason long ago. The King must be advised. The Weasel must weasel again, it was his duty.
Which was why Wassail was wasting what was left of the morning vainly wrestling with the problem of writing a report. Quills were no more his weapons than battleaxes. Hoes, now, or pruning shears— He was too old for this mission, and giving in to the King’s entreaties had been no true loyalty.
He could order Dinwiddie to write the report, but Dinwiddie had no discretion. He would also take three weeks and produce something in five colors with illuminated capitals.
It is with deepest regret that I must inform Your Grace…
The black-haired boy was on watch, standing near the window, sometimes peering down at whatever was creating that infuriating clatter in courtyard; sometimes just standing, smirking at nothing. There were times when the young oaf’s vacuous good humor verged on the imbecilic.
“What is so flaming funny?” Wassail roared.
The Blade jumped and almost drew his sword in reflex.
“My lord?”
“Why are you smirking like that?”
“Oh.” He smirked again. “His Highness gave me a fortune in gold last night. I was spending it, as you might say. Dreaming.”
“Spending it on what?” Wassail growled, realizing that a single purse of gold might be enough to change a man’s life if it was the only one he had or was ever likely to.
“Buying a boat, my lord. I am of sailor stock. I can buy a boat and hire a lad or two. I’ll be a rich man in the village.”
“After I’m dead, of course.”
The Blade’s face turned bright red and then sickly pale. He licked his lips and did not reply. Feeling a curious mixture of sour satisfaction and outright shame, Wassail started on yet another sheet of parchment.
Clink…clink…
The accursed Blades were practicing again. They never missed a day. The weather was glorious and much too hot to order the casement closed. I regret to announce that I have uncovered darkest treason in Your Majesty’s…
But he hadn’t. Beaumont had. “Sporting false honors,” his father would have called that. Clink…clink…I sadly report to Your Clink… With a bellow of frustrated fury, Wassail slammed a fist on the table. Ink leaped out of the inkwell, splattering the fine leather top and the stack of parchment.
Oak limped over to the bell rope to summon a servant. He paused, screwing up his face. “May I offer a suggestion, my lord?”
“What?” Wassail had ink on his fingers and his hose as well.
“Sir Arkell is very good at writing. He knows big lawyer words. He’d be happy to write for you.”
“He would?” Wassail said incredulously. “Happy to?” The kid was no namby clerk. He’d sat for a sword through the heart.
“Well, you could ask him, my lord.”
Not order. Ask.
“Call him, then.”
The other Blades arrived all flushed and sweaty, Beaumont having come along to see what their ward wanted. Arkell beamed at the request.
“Glad to be of assistance, my lord.” He promptly sat down at the table and set to work with the penknife, shaping quills.
The Commander raised no objection. “You want some sharpening now, brother?” he asked Oak.
“I pass. I can’t move after yesterday.”
“Softie. Leave you to it, then. By your leave, my lord.” Beaumont departed.
“You wish to dictate to me or have me draft a text for your approval?” asked Arkell.
“Oh, write it. Tell everything that happened here last night. Exactly. Give Beaumont his due. Explain why we had to let the traitor run away. Recommend that Lord Haywick be recalled to answer questions before inquisitors.”
“Then may I begin by writing a report to you from Sir Beaumont, my lord, which he can sign and you notarize, so that His Majesty may depose it as evidence if he wishes? Then a covering letter from yourself?”
“Whatever you think best,” Wassail said stiffly, aware that the other kid was smirking wider than ever.
Arkell muttered, “My lord,” reaching for a sheet of parchment. He adjusted his sword so the hilt was out of the way of his arm and began. He wrote at high speed, quill racing across the page, depositing line after line in a clear, scholar’s hand. Lots of big words, too. Once in a while he would chuckle to himself. It seemed but moments before he completed the first page and set it aside to dry. He took a fresh parchment and a fresh quill from the tray.
Wassail sifted sand on the finished sheet. He had just begun to read it when Arkell yelled an oath and leaped from his stool. He hurled the door open and disappeared along the corridor with his sword already drawn. Oak had dived for the window to see. Only then did Wassail register the familiar clatter.
Clink…clink…
Oak straightened up and gave his bewildered ward a sheepish smile. “False alarm.”
“What? Who?”
“Some Sabreurs came to call on Leader. Call on not out. They’re only playing.”
A few minutes later Arkell returned, equally abashed. He sat down and carried on with his report as if nothing had happened. Down in the courtyard the racket continued intermittently.
By the time Wassail finished reading the three-page report— which was word-perfect and in fair copy on the first draft— Arkell had written half of another sheet. He sat back to massage his writing hand.
“Your letter to His Majesty, my lord…may I mention the Regent’s remarks about Gevily?”
“What re— What about them?” Wassail vaguely recalled that country being mentioned during dinner.
“His Highness said he was concerned that Gevily is offering too much support to Thergy.” Arkell waited for reaction, then hurriedly said, “If Gevily’s traditional foe, Skyrria, were to rattle some sabers on the border, that would give the Thergians reason to distrust their Gevilian allies’ support. Similarly, Skyrria can threaten Narthania, which will relieve its pressure on the Fitanish princes, so they can join in the Thergian partition, if it happens. He was implying that Isilond welcomes the new alliance between Chivial and Skyrria, my lord.”
The devil he was! Wassail shrugged. “Might not hurt. Proves that the accursed spy has told them where we’re bound.”
What to say about his mission? That was the problem. He had grossly miscalculated the logistics. It would take him months to find enough horses, if he ever could, and the only alternative was to ask the Regent for help, a move that required Athelgar’s permission. Add at least two weeks for that to arrive. Add a replacement for Master Merrysock to do the actual negotiating at the clerical level. Add the Skyrrian winter—
Beaumont’s odious smile returned. He closed the door. “My lord, Commander D’Auberoche had to depart to meet a pressing engagement, but four of his finest Sabreurs are still here—the Marquis Vaanen, Lords Estienne, Ferniot, and Roget. They beg leave to pay their respects to your lordship.”
“What for?” What was the insolent pest up to now?
“A courtesy, my lord!” He sounded hurt. He looked hurt. “They claim to have heard of your efforts yesterday to acquire horses, which is a reasonable excuse not to admit that they have always known your purpose and destination, or at least the Regent has. He must have given permission for this, although his name has not been mentioned. The four Sabreurs are all of the bluest possible blood, sons of great landowning families. They graciously offer to assemble whatever livestock you require, up to a thousand head, and
put it at your disposal for the summer. They will also supply squires and custrels who can tend them and wield a lance should danger threaten. After all, they must protect their families’ property! I believe this generous offer will solve your transportation problems at a stroke, my lord.”
Wassail saw his own stunned disbelief reflected on the other two faces, so this was entirely Beaumont’s plot. Whatever it was.
“It’s impossible!”
“It’s very generous, my lord.” His eyes were wide with innocence, mother’s milk wet on his chin. “There is no campaign planned this year, so the men and horses would in effect be idle, and this will be a valuable exercise to keep up their skills.”
“At what cost?”
The Blade shook his head. “None at all.”
On the surface it was the most perfect solution imaginable—the resources of the Isilondian crown put at his disposal without the need for any embarrassing official requests. But there had to be more to it than that.
“It’s a trap! I don’t trust free cheese in dark corners.”
“My lord would question the honor of four of the most powerful and venerated families in Eurania? The Vaanens trace their descent from Varine the Bald, and de Roget’s ancestors—”
Arkell’s stool hit the floor with a startling crash. He was on his feet, white-faced and furious; and shouting. “Those four precious Sabreurs will accompany us, of course?”
“Of course.”
“Traitor!”
Beaumont raised flaxen eyebrows in mock surprise. “Merely a higher loyalty, brother,” he said softly.
• 10 •
“You insult me!” Isabelle said. “I hate you!”
She sat on the slopes of Montmoulin, gazing down at the evening shadows on Laville, the city sprawled around its winding river. It was an evening late in Fifthmoon, one of those breathless, perfect moments with wildflowers and butterflies and one evening star. The grass already bore the summer scent of hay; the only sounds were distant cows bellowing to be milked and sometimes sniggers from other couples nearby.