Paragon Lost

by Dave Duncan

  “Does it always smell this bad?” he gasped.

  “You get used to it,” she said bitterly. “We should wait here a moment to let our eyes adjust.”

  “You mean they’ll stop watering?”

  “You’re going to get your boots wet, too, sir. The tide’s in.”

  He muttered under his breath.

  “The water isn’t so bad, Beau says, it’s what floats in it.”

  “I’m going to—” Intrepid chuckled. “I was about to say I was going to raise a stink over this, but I’ll need to find a better metaphor.”

  She decided she approved of Sir Intrepid. He must know he would never get the prison stench out of that expensive outfit.

  The rusty gate at the bottom stood open. This, the lower-most dungeon, was a windowless cave lit by a single candle, and although it had space enough to hold a dozen inmates chained to its stout bronze staples, there was barely air for one. At the moment it contained only Beau, sitting cross-legged on his bed above the ankle-deep tidal seepage. He must have heard the voices on the stair and his eyes were very well adjusted.

  “Welcome, brother,” he said. “I suggest you stay where you are.”

  Isabelle didn’t. She went splashing over to him, and the two newcomers followed her. Beau kissed her with heavily stubbled lips. She sat on the bed and cuddled close to him. He stank like overripe pig dung. The links of his chain rattled as he put an arm around her.

  “Can I offer you some refreshment, Master?” he inquired. “Fresh slugs on wet toast? Ah, brother Arkell?”

  Lackwit just stood, did not look down at him.

  “Hopeless?”

  “Well…” Sir Intrepid sighed. “Not quite. I think he’s still inside there somewhere. That gibberish he spouts is all real stuff—he’s quoting books from the library. We almost had him once. Master Armorer had made a replica of his sword and he recognized it. His face lit up—then he seemed to realize it wasn’t the real thing and faded away again.”

  “You didn’t try a reversion ritual on him?”

  “Faugh! That thing does more harm than good.”

  “Oh? That isn’t what you teach the seniors, brother.”

  “Seniors have enough to worry about,” Intrepid said breezily. “If we told ’em the whole truth, they’d never sleep at all.” He sat on a corner of the bed. “The last reversion ritual to work perfectly was almost fifty years ago. Also, it needs the original sword. Even the King releasing a guardsman must use the actual sword that bound him. Until we recover the real Reason, we’re stymied.”

  “It’s somewhere in Skyrria,” Beau said, in a not-joking voice. “The King could ask for it back as part of the settlement.”

  “Settlement?” Intrepid snorted. “Horse-trading! What you should be worrying about is what’s going to be sold in the opposite direction. The Guard scuttlebutt is that the Czar wants your head, with you still attached so he can arrange the separation personally.”

  Beau shrugged. “I’d heard that.”

  Isabelle had not. The Baron visited his prisoner regularly and Intrepid would certainly have called on Lord Bandale before seeking her out.

  Typically, Beau diverted the talk away from himself. “How do you explain that Human Compass trick Arkell does?”

  “Now, that is fascinating!” Intrepid said with professional enthusiasm. “If we could reproduce that effect, every sailor on the seven seas would give his left arm for it. Ask him the way to anywhere and he’ll point. He doesn’t even need to have been there! It’s spiritual, no doubt about it. It even works on people. I came into the bailey and asked him where Belle was and he pointed. What did you make of it? You used to ask the most sensible questions in conjuration class.”

  “That’s very meager flattery, brother, but since our binding involves every one of the eight elements, I assume that when it was broken by his ward’s death, some of the elementals failed to escape and he was left with relict conjuration?”

  Intrepid made a grumpy noise. “I was hoping to write a monograph on that. Yes, you’re right. There’s residual spirituality there. If we could banish it, we might cure him. If we ever do cure him, he’ll lose the knack. The problem is knowing what elementals could produce the effect! Earth and fire, maybe? I’m going to take him over to the College and let the—”

  Lackwit said, “No.”

  “Death and fire!” Intrepid exclaimed.

  “What did you say, brother Arkell?” Beau asked, but received no answer. “Seems like you’re right, Master,” he said excitedly. “He is still in there somewhere! And if your precious conjurers of the College want to examine him, they can flapping well come here, to the Bastion. You want to stay with us, Lackwit?”

  No reply.

  “I’ll look after him,” Isabelle said.

  Beau conveyed his thanks with a squeeze, rattling chain. “I have another question for a brilliant conjurer, brother Intrepid. The Czar has some truly gigantic dogs. Superstitious Skyrrians believe these beasts are men transformed by witchcraft. Since Skyrrian conjuration is reputed to be primitive compared to ours, I didn’t believe that tale at first. But Igor set a couple of them on Oak, who managed to kill one; apparently it started to change back as it was dying. Possible?”

  Master of Rituals pondered for a moment. “It would be very hard to assemble a transformation as complicated as that and make it stable. Witchcraft is a primitive form of conjuration, lacking the subtle layering of spirituality. I’d guess they cut corners in balancing diametric complements and failed to differentiate applications.” He piled on more long words. Isabelle rapidly lost track, but Beau continued to nod.

  “So you wouldn’t dare try it?”

  “You mean apart from the ethics, I hope?” the conjurer muttered. “It would be an interesting challenge, but it would be very vulnerable to counter-spelling. I’ll think about it. Just a theoretical problem, I hope?”

  “You imagine I intend to return to Skyrria voluntarily?”

  “No, nor otherwise!” Intrepid stood up. “First, I am going to go and have another chat with brother Bandale. I hear you refuse to answer any questions at all now?”

  “While they keep me down here I do.”

  “Even so, this is no way to treat a brother Blade, no matter how mad he made his sovereign lord the king.”

  Yes, Isabelle definitely approved of Master of Rituals— clever, fastidious, self-assured. If he was as influential as he seemed to think he was, better things might start to happen.

  “Bandale’s done as much as he could,” Beau protested. “He had to obey the royal commands, but he provided a bed to keep me off the damp spot on the floor, he supplies candles, and my tether is ten times the length it need be. I could be much less comfortable.”

  His visitor used a vulgar expression and apologized to Isabelle for it. “Well, I assure you this talk of handing you over to the Czar is mere marsh bubbles. When Grand Master hears about that, he’ll rattle Ironhall to the foundations. You’ve made a lot of enemies and you may never see your sword again, lad, but the Order will not stand for one of its own being served up to some foreign tyrant as a sacrificial lamb.”

  Beau said, “Thank you. And if I sign the statement they want me to sign, naming the man who did kill the Czarevich, will the Order stand behind brother Arkell as staunchly?”

  Intrepid glanced at Lackwit. “Even more so.”

  “Thank you again.”

  Yet Intrepid had hesitated and Beau sounded skeptical. They spoke bravely, but the Czar had a son to avenge and three dozen Chivian hostages to bargain with.

  Either Beau’s stubbornness or Intrepid’s influence worked a fast miracle. The following day the prisoner was moved to better quarters, above ground. He was locked in there, but let out to exercise. Isabelle was allowed to visit him and, better still, allowed to sleep with him. Prison was rarely as good as that, Beau said, as if speaking from experience. She was excluded when inquisitors came to interview him. He would never say later what they had discu
ssed, merely pointing out with his invariant good cheer that he still had all his teeth.

  Rumors flowed to and fro. Princess Tasha had arrived in Grandon. The King, it was whispered, was very taken with his bride. Plans for the royal wedding were being rushed ahead. Less certainly, Lady Gwendolyn might have left court, and a special ambassador had perhaps been sent by fast ship to Skyrria to negotiate return of hostages and delivery of wedding presents.

  • 9 •

  The end, when it came, was surprisingly sudden. A week after Sir Intrepid’s visit, early on a sunny-showery Fourthmoon morning, Isabelle headed across the bailey to her own quarters in the Sable Tower, having just been released from Beau’s cell. The hucksters were erecting their stalls with all the usual territorial squabbling; clangs from the armory and the thumping of dies in the mint showed that the Bastion itself was already at work on the King’s business. She saw two men-at-arms with their tall pikes approaching, then Baron Bandale, whose escort they were.

  He greeted her with a flourish of hat and a brilliant smile. “I am on my way to discharge a prisoner. Would you care to accompany me, Lady Beaumont?”

  Of course she would. She almost jumped in the air. “He’s free to go?”

  “Not merely free to go. He’s to get out of town and stay out. All charges are stayed.”

  It was the thirty-fifth day of her marriage and now their life could begin. She headed back toward the River Tower with Bandale.

  “The news is not all good, I’m afraid. Beau is expelled from the Blades. That is least he could expect, after his insolence to the King.”

  “I suppose so.” But it would break his heart.

  The Constable lowered his voice so his escort would not hear. “The rumors are that Princess Tasha’s testimony before the inquisitors cleared him of all suspicion.”

  “Well, I should hope so! Do you imagine I ever doubted him?” Isabelle had, of course, just a little. The Skyrrian minx was a very beautiful child and had very much been available. Eager, in fact. Tail up and nose twitching.

  “Others did doubt, mistress, but the midwives have certified that she is a virgin—I merely repeat unseemly rumor, of course.”

  “And she is not expected to remain one for long?”

  Bandale chuckled. “Not if I know my sovereign lord. He is rarely patient. Nor forgiving. I am to give you money to leave Grandon. Beau will remain out of sight from now on, if he is wise.”

  Her husband was clever but possibly not always wise, she thought. “You and Lady Dian have been extremely kind, my lord. I don’t think Beau realizes all you have done for both of us. He will never accept open charity. May I ask—since I know he will—where this money came from?”

  “It was provided with my instructions. I think it must be his own, wages due to him.”

  “Then it comes from Lady Wassail?”

  “Lady Wassail,” Bandale said with obvious amusement, “has applied for royal permission to marry one of her knights, a lad about a third of her former husband’s age. Rumor—my, but those tongues work hard!—rumor suggests the matter is fairly urgent. I don’t think Beau need worry about Lady Wassail.”

  A moment later, as they climbed the stairs to the cell, Bandale added gently, “If I may offer some friendly advice, Lady Beaumont, the wind sets fair for Isilond. He has friends there who will offer him honorable employment.”

  And few friends in Chivial.

  Less than an hour later, Isabelle found herself strolling on her husband’s arm along the alleyways of Grandon, following close on the heels of the shambling Lackwit and a boy pushing a barrow. The barrow bore all their worldly possessions, most of which were the gowns Beau had bought for her in Laville. He owned almost nothing, not even a sword.

  “Pick a country,” she said. “Anywhere but Skyrria.”

  He sighed. “Not yet, love. I still have some unfinished business.”

  “Not Lady Wassail, I hope?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “The friends I left behind in Kiensk.”

  “You had no choice! Others may call it betrayal, but your ward—”

  “I call it betrayal. At least it feels like betrayal. I want to be sure they will be safely returned. If Igor offers Athelgar a choice of Tasha’s wedding treasure or his own people back, which will he choose?”

  The alley was crowded. “Beau, you shouldn’t talk like that!”

  “It is folly,” he agreed. “Igor will never dream of giving up the treasure. But if the wolf can track the dog back to the sheepfold, can the dog just curl up and sleep at the shepherd’s fireside?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He banished the topic with one of his damsel-destroying smiles. “I hoped if I couldn’t be a swordsman I might make a poet. Love, I promised you fine gowns and some small jewels. I still do, but you will need to be patient. Don’t worry! A Blade, even a disgraced Blade, can always find employment. I can be some noble lord’s castellan, or I can teach fencing. You will never starve.”

  “So we are not going to leap on a stagecoach and race for the nearest port?” She had many sisters who ought to be shown such a husband.

  “Not yet. See here? This is Gossips’ Corner, well named. We’ll take a room while I look around for employment. Ears here hear everything worth hearing.”

  Isabelle was overwhelmingly unimpressed by the sight of the tavern and repelled by its smell, but she could stand anything for a day or two. “As long as it won’t be for long,” she said.

  VII

  The Stolen Blade

  • 1 •

  “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 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?”

  She sat down. “Beau, what are you raving about?”

  “The Queen, my dearest. Tasha is, as even you must know, very high in royal favor now. She is with prince, or perchance with princess, and several months farther along than you are. You may compare symptoms with her and reminisce about the old days in Laville. The need for haste is manifest.”

  “Beaumont! If you do not explain this instant what—”

  Beau opened the door to display Mistress Snider, eavesdropping flagrante delicto.

  Unabashed, the old hag snapped, “There you are! Lolling about when I need that sauce made! Ned, you get your lazy carcass out to the stable this instant. The stage is in and all those horses—”

  “Look after the horses yourself, mistress.” Beau offered Isabelle a hand. “Broiled with a light strawberry glaze would be best, I’d think. My wife and I just left your service. We shall also quit your rat-ridden attic by tomorrow at the latest. Come, darling.”

  “Oh no, you don
’t!” the old hag screeched. “There’s notice owing.”

  “You just received it. Begone and cause no trouble.”

  “You can’t threaten me!” She was turning heads in the taproom, audible even over the carpenters’ hammering.

  “You are the easiest person in Grandon to threaten,” Beau said cheerfully. “If Belle and I turn king’s evidence about what goes on in Gossips’ Corner, the Watch will triple its price for turning blind eyes. I’ll thank you for a sheet of paper, ink, a decent quill, and some wax right away. Run upstairs, darling, and put on your best gown. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  Isabelle’s most favorite gown was one of blue and green velvet. She had worn it only once, on the day she had arrived in Grandon, the day she was presented to His Majesty in the Bastion. Since then it had lain in lavender at the bottom of the chest. Could she fit into it now?

  Just. Breathing was going to be a problem. She had barely sat down to brush her hair when she heard Beau coming. Swordsmen needed good legs and he could run up all five flights without puffing. He took the brush from her hand and replaced it with a sealed letter addressed in a bizarre script.

  Then he began brushing her hair with the long, powerful strokes he knew she enjoyed. “In the cause of righteousness and justice, my love, you go to Greymere and hand that to the Queen. If the guards will not admit you, you insist the matter is urgent and you will wait for an answer. Not a woman in a million has hair as thick as this.”

  “How do you know? And if she sends a lady-in-waiting?”

  “She won’t, I’m sure. The Czar sent none of her Skyrrian friends to join her, so she’s the only person in the palace who can speak the language. She will send for you.”

  “Then I scratch her eyes out or she scratches mine?”

  “Neither. But you must be very careful not to seem to threaten her or imply that she is involved in any wrongdoing.”

  “And why,” Isabelle demanded through clenched teeth, “would I do that?”

  “Because of what Durendal said, of course!” Beau could be the world’s most maddening tease sometimes. “Think back, dear. Lord Roland told us Valiant and Hazard arrived at Ironhall soon after the fake Osric and his Blade rode away. He was hinting that they passed on the road—that’s a safe guess on Starkmoor. Now Hazard is the biggest blabbermouth in the Royal Guard, which says a lot, so he would most certainly have commented to Grand Master. ‘I thought he sailed home a week ago,’ is what Hazard would have said, and, ‘What’s the Pirate’s Son doing giving that one a Blade?’ Now do you see the need for haste? Valiant and Hazard had a job to do in Nythia, but it won’t take them much more than a week or two. The instant Hazard draws breath here in Grandon, the story will be everywhere, trumpeted from rooftops.”