by Dave Duncan
“Who?” he demanded as he strode across the entrance hall to the library. He knew hundreds of Blades, but by no means all of them.
“Beaumont, my lord.”
Returning without his ward? Bad, bad news!
Lindsay knocked before opening the door to the dark-paneled, leather-scented chamber. Hedgebury had furnished the library with a set of massive Cumber chairs and used it as a reception room. With a spasm of shock, he saw that one of those chairs had become a throne. A flaxen-haired boy sat on it, flanked by the equally blond Beaumont, and a heavily bearded Arkell. All three wore travelers’ garments, shabby but not shameful.
“Fetch my wife! And get rid of those Gelmouth pests any way you can. Think of an excuse.”
“Bad family news.” Lindsay closed the door on him.
Turning to the youth, Beaumont spoke in an unfamiliar, guttural tongue. Even had he not caught his own name, Hedgebury would have known who was being presented, who was receiving. He doubled over in a full court bow, advanced, and then knelt to his Queen.
She smiled stiffly and offered fingers to be kissed. “I am very happy to meet you, Lord Hedgebury. I have yet to meet a Chivian I did not like.” She spoke Isilondian with what Lavillians would disparagingly call a pays d’en haut accent.
“And you will never meet one you do not enchant at first glance, Your Majesty. My house is graced by your presence—technically this embassy is part of Chivial, so it is my great honor to welcome you to your new homeland.”
She was just a child, but perhaps the combination of male costume and smooth face exaggerated her youth. The King favored nymphs.
As Hedgebury rose and stepped back, he took a second look at Beaumont and blurted out, “Death, man! What happened?” In less than a year he had aged ten. Then— “Brother Arkell?” That gaping, vacant grin was even worse.
Arkell said, “Whatsoever was at the common law and is not ousted or taken away by any statute remains.”
Death and perdition! Understandably, the dullard was not wearing a sword. Hedgebury shuddered, looked at Beaumont and again saw more than he wanted to see. Obviously Wassail was dead. There had been a third Blade…Beech? Oak. And what of Sir Dixon and all the rest? What of Lady Gwendolyn, swooping around Grandon as the King’s mistress? He thrust that thought aside.
He wished Agnes would hurry. It would be more proper to have another lady present. Belatedly he registered the significance of the male clothing. Who had chaperoned the King’s wife all the way across Eurania? Why not send for Baroness Gelmouth to start spreading the scandal right away?
“Your Majesty has had a difficult journey, I fear.”
“I would never have made it without Sir Beaumont.” She smiled at the man in question.
Even an ambassador could be at a loss for words. Hedgebury wanted to scream, Don’t look at him like that! Incognito, starry-eyed, juvenile queens were not mentioned in the protocol manual he had studied before taking up his posting. The child was brittle as crystal, understandably, shimmering with nervousness.
Beaumont seemed at ease. “Her Majesty has agreed that a few days’ rest in Laville would be restorative and also tactful.” He flashed a glint of the boyish amusement Hedgebury recalled from last year’s brief acquaintance. Then he had been considerably impressed by Beaumont, even prepared to believe his reputation might not be too much exaggerated. But Grand Master’s glowing predictions would carry no weight in the face of this disaster.
“Of course my wife and I would be deeply honored if Her Grace would deign to make this house her home while we await word from Grandon. His Majesty will wish to…finalize preparations for Her Grace’s reception.” Dump Lady Gwendolyn, for instance. Oh, spirits! why did Athelgar have to indulge in a stupid infatuation now? Also get Beaumont out of sight so the bride did not simper adoringly at him all the time. Brother, what have you done?
“Your kindness is overwhelming, Your Excellency.” The Queen’s childish enjoyment of royal honors was endearing. The Court would fall at her feet—and rip her to shreds the moment she turned her back.
Agnes swept in. She appraised the situation at a glance and performed all the necessary court folderol without a moment’s hesitation. Then she threw away the rule book.
“How absolutely appalling! Your Grace must be just dying for a proper toilette…your poor hands…garments…coiffeur…my daughter and I will be so happy to assist…”
Agnes could be fierce as the pard or gentle as turtledoves and now she was turtling. The terrified child queen melted visibly. Her lip trembled. Tears sprang into the cornflower-blue eyes. In moments she was swept away to feminine care and gentle company.
Two Blades bowed the women out and a third babbled nonsense. The door closed. In the serene silence, Hedgebury drew a deep breath.
Beaumont’s smile was deadly as a rapier. “Do you sense a burden being dumped, brother?”
“I sense a lot of work and woe. Pray be seated, both of you.”
Beau sat and pointed at the nearest chair. “Sit, Lackwit.”
“They which are for the direction speak fearfully and tenderly,” Arkell told a bookshelf.
“Oh, spirits!” Hedgebury said. “Your ward died?”
“Completely. Lackwit, sit!”
The imbecile flopped down on the floor.
“How can you call him that?” Hedgebury snapped, more strongly than he had intended.
“I have to call it something and it is not Arkell.”
Hedgebury had met bereaved Blades before. Most either recovered in an hour or never did, although there were always exceptions. Some lived out their days in chains; others turned into toadstools.
“Does he have any flashes of rationality?”
“A few,” Beaumont said. “He has a party trick that saved our necks a few times. Lackwit, which way is Trienne?”
The halfwit pointed at the fireplace, but his eyes stayed dull. He was drooling.
“He asks about his sword sometimes. He called her Reason.” There was no reaction. “He lost her in his frenzy. He was using another when he came at me and I never found his. I brought Oak’s Sorrow, though.”
“When Sorrow goes home to Ironhall,” Hedgebury said, “see that Arkell goes with it. Master of Rituals can sometimes find a way through the grief. A replica of Reason, for example.” Was that a momentary flicker of life in the dead eyes? “Can I offer you refreshments, brother?”
“Kind of you. May we attend to business first?”
“Gladly. What do I tell the King?”
Beaumont produced papers. “This is a list of people we left behind, and a partial list of the wedding gifts, although I doubt if those will ever reappear. And my report. I respectfully suggest you seal it as soon as you have read it. It is combustible.”
“There is no need for me to read it at all.” Much safer not to know.
“You are a member of the Privy Council, brother,” his visitor said softly, “as I recall. I do wish you would read it.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“If you feel it will help,” Hedgebury said resignedly. He was in a swamp and sinking.
“You have heard no recent news from Skyrria?”
“None.” He felt he should add, Should I have? “The Regent is unaware of Queen Tasha’s presence in Isilond?” That was certainly an ambassadorial problem.
Beau smiled thinly. “As far as I am aware, he is unaware. The only persons who knew who the boy Timofei was are she and me. Lackwit doesn’t speak. Even Czar Igor cannot be certain she still lives.”
“But why did you not wait in Kiensk until spring? I was informed that this was your ward’s intention.”
“There were problems.” Beaumont’s eyes implied much more than he was saying. “Right after the proxy marriage, we made a dash for the border, eight of us. Complications ensued. A massacre, to be specific. We three were the only survivors.”
“It takes two to massacre. Who were the other team?”
“
As I mention in my report, the light was very poor, but one of them bore a strong resemblance to the Czarevich Fedor. I expect the Czar will inform us when he writes.”
“Spirits of mercy!” The Ambassador wondered why the odious report did not just burst into flames in his hand. If the Czar’s response included a declaration of war, the fragile diplomacy Hedgebury and the Regent had been working on all winter would collapse instantly. Eurania would burst into flames. “Was this crazy flight your idea or your ward’s?”
Beau shrugged. “No matter now.”
Everything mattered now, from war drums down to the slimiest gutter scandal. Apparently the future Queen of Chivial had been traveling unchaperoned in the company of two Blades, men with the worst possible reputation as debauchers of women.
“What sort of person is she?” Hedgebury asked. “I mean how will she stand up…?”
“She’s a child. Skyrrians wrap their women in lamb’s wool and store them in jewel cases, princesses especially. Her brother did let her ride horses and drive sleds, which most men would regard as scandalous. Of course,” Beaumont added with a gleam of mockery, “recent experience has broadened her mind considerably. She’s tough, but still very immature.”
Hiding his anger, His Excellency rose and stalked over to the bell rope. The potential for disaster was sickening. Would Athelgar accept a bride whose reputation was so tattered? He would be a laughingstock.
Lindsay answered the summons, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Arkell on the floor.
Hedgebury said, “Sir Beaumont, you will eat something?”
“Are the hens laying here yet?”
“I have no idea. Have we any eggs, Sir Footman?”
Lindsay smiled politely. “I think we do.”
“Then I should love an omelette, and Lackwit eats anything you put in his mouth. But first…My lord, is Isabelle still here?” He looked at his host with childlike appeal.
Hedgebury chuckled. “The fair Isabelle? We promoted her to pastry cook soon after you left—not immediately, of course, but soon. And, oh, those flans!”
“The tartes!” Lindsay sighed.
“Then my wife took her on as ladies’ maid.”
“Criminal! Unforgivable!”
“But apparently she works equal miracles with needles and lace and curling irons. She is probably upstairs right now, assisting Her Majesty. As far as I am aware, you were not replaced in her affections.”
Lindsay made a diplomatic throat-clearing noise. He had discovered the inestimable Isabelle for himself a few days after his arrival last spring and had been so badly bitten that Hedgebury had explained the Beaumont connection to him.
“Today is her day off, my lord. She goes to visit her mother. Somewhere east of here, I think.”
“Deuflamme!” Beaumont spoke the name like an oath. “The stage came through there this morning. If I’d known…! Pray hold the eggs, my lord, and lend me a horse.”
“She will be back here tomorrow evening.”
“Too late. Two horses?”
Reluctantly Lindsay said, “We’ll look after Sir Arkell for you.”
“Would you, brother? That would be a great favor.” Beaumont’s smile showed that he knew what the others were thinking. “You must remember to take him to the privy and remind him what to do there, but he does it. And spoonfeed him. I will be back by dark, I promise.”
“We’ll mother him,” Hedgebury said. “Choose a mount. The hostler will honor that sword.”
“You are most kind, brothers. By your leave, my lord…I must to Deuflamme.” Beaumont hastened from the room.
The thump of the door was followed by a heavy silence.
Lindsay stared in disgust at the halfwit on the rug.
“Suppose we’ll ever see him again?”
The Ambassador sighed. “Not if he has any sense.” Beaumont had done his duty by his ward and even by Arkell. He must have acquired at least some of Wassail’s considerable expense funds. Whether he still wanted the girl or not, she provided a wonderful excuse to liberate a good horse and vanish off the face of the earth. “He would be utterly crazy to stay within the King’s grasp. Give Arkell to Jacques and tip him well.” Hedgebury sat down to read the dread report.
• 5 •
Deuflamme was not so much a wide place in the road as a shallow place in the river—a gravel ford for vehicles, stepping stones for people. Road and river together divided the village into four, and the red-tiled, white-walled cottages faded away at the edges into hedges and vineyards. The wine shop also sold bread and some other essentials—salt, oil, and spices—and even a few luxuries like candles. Wagons and coaches went through Deuflamme several times a day. Add the usual dogs, cats, children, and chickens, and it was a pleasant enough place to be from. It might even be an adequate habitation if you found slug racing a thrill, but Isabelle came home now only to see her mother and rarely a visiting brother or sister. All her childhood friends had vanished into Laville or matrimony or both.
Their parents, regrettably, were mostly still present. Walking across to the wine shop for a bottle of the ordinary, she was accosted by Madame Despreaux and Madame Duchâtel. Madame Despreaux was less fat than Madame Duchâtel, but had more mustache. They greeted Isabelle warmly so they could recount all the magnificent husbands and wives Alice and Maude and Blanche and Louis had acquired—one each, and of opposite sex in every case. Maitre This, a tailor’s apprentice and Maitre That, senior assistant gamekeeper to the Minister of Fisheries! The good ladies rhapsodized over the numerous grandchildren produced already.
They wanted to know why Isabelle was not married and if she were a kept woman in the wicked city and what her prospects were and the torturers of the Sewer could not have improved on their interrogation. She tried in vain to insert a retort beginning, “Madame the Contesse was saying just yesterday…”although she knew her mother must have worn the Contesse Hedgebury threadbare by now.
A man on a white horse came galloping by, heading for the ford.
He swept past, then clattered to a halt so suddenly that his horse reared, clawing the sky with its hooves, and the ladies turned to stare in astonishment.
A voice shouted from on high, “Isabelle! Are you married?”
“Beau!”
His boots hit the dirt almost at her toes. “Are you married?”
The horse snorted.
“No!” Oh, Beau, Beau returned at last…
“Are you betrothed?”
The worthy old hags were watching openmouthed. A gentleman! On a white stallion!! With a sword!!!
“No.”
“You are now!” Beau embraced her, and kissed her. And kissed her. And kissed, kissed, kissed her, on and on, hard and passionately, deep and sweet and hot, squeezing all the breath out of her, kiss, kiss, kiss. It was a totally shocking, shameful thing to do in public in the middle of the highway in the middle of the afternoon, but to resist in front of Madame Duchâtel and Madame Despreaux was not to be considered. Besides, after the first petrifying shock Isabelle had no desire to struggle at all, only to return the kiss with a worthy passion of her own.
“Oh!” she said faintly when he moved his lips back a finger-width. “I won. I didn’t have to ask!” If he let go she would collapse in a heap.
“Ask now!” His eyes shone like stars right in front of hers.
“In a moment.”
He removed one arm. “I did promise you jewels, didn’t I? I left the ring back in Laville. It is of gold, although I think not very good gold, and it has a stone, a jade, so big. But I did bring this.” He lifted a rope of pink beads from his pocket, like a very long, shimmering earthworm. “I bought this for you in Kiensk, but it comes from much farther away, from the farthest ends of the world. It is coral.”
He had to take his other arm away so he could fasten the necklace around her neck. She did not fall down, but she did not feel so happy as she had done while he held her.
“It is gorgeous!” she said, although she could
barely see it now. “I dreamed of you every night you were gone. Kiss me again!”
That one was even more shameful. He practically made love to her standing in the road, right there in front of the outraged mesdames, and she did not care one olive pit.
“We shall be married tomorrow,” he said.
“Before witnesses of quality?”
“The Conte and Contesse of Hedgebury, Messires Lindsay and Arkell. And royalty, but royalty prefers to remain incognito.” He knew why she had asked. He knew she would accept a stuffed duck as a witness now.
She was about to ask about Lord Wassail and stopped in time. Behind the silver eyes lurked shadow, and she sensed that this was not the Beau she had known last year. This one had a sharper edge. This one would not have waited for an invitation to kiss her; this one would have slid her into bed the first night they met.
“You promise I will be married before royalty?”
“I swear it! Tomorrow.”
“Oh, Beau! What am I thinking of? I must present these good ladies…Madame Despreaux…Messire Beaumont, a Sabreur of the King of Chivial…” He bowed low to each of them. They were crushed. How sweet! How inexpressibly sweet!
“If the good ladies will excuse us, we must go and discuss the arrangements with your mother.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “that would be wise.”
Half Deuflamme had emerged to watch them walk to her mother’s cottage, leading the horse. Best of all, she had never told her mother about him.
“Didn’t fool me,” her mother said with a sniff, reaching for her cane. “I knew there was someone! Tomorrow in Laville? I see you do not believe in long betrothals, monseigneur de Beaumont. I will go and see if Louis can take me there in his cart.”
Beau opened his mouth and Isabelle kicked his ankle.
He did not say one more word until the door of the cottage closed.
“How long will she be?” he murmured, untying Isabelle’s head scarf.
“All day. She has to tell everybody.” She fumbled with his cloak. “I am not practiced at this.”