THE GILDED CHAIN
       A Tale of the King's Blades

                   by
            DAVE DUNCAN


        BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

               FANTASY

   "Just the sort of marvelous yarn that lured me
 into reading fantasy and sf."
     ANNE McCAFFREY

   DAVE DUNCAN is an award-winning
 author whose fantasy trilogy, The Seventh
 Sword, is considered a sword-and-sorcery
 classic. A former geologist, his numerous
 novels include Strings, Hero, the popular
 tetrologies A Man of his Word and A
 Handful of Men, and the remarkable, critically
 acclaimed fantasy trilogy The Great
 Game.

   As unwanted, rebellious boys, they find
 refuge in Ironhall ... Years later they
 emerge as the finest swordsmen in the realm--

          THE KING'S BLADES

   A magical ritual of a sword through the heart
 binds each to his ward--if not the king himself,
 then to whomever else the monarch designates--with
 absolute loyalty. And the greatest Blade of
 them all was--and is--Sir Durendal.
   But a lifelong dream of protecting his beloved
 liege from enemies, traitors, and monsters is
 dashed to bits when Durendal is bonded till
 death to an effete noble fop at his king's orders.
 Yet Destiny has many strange and inscrutable
 plans for the young knight--for a mission, a contest,
 and, perhaps, a treasure await him in a faraway
 land. But he soon finds himself enmeshed in treason
 and foul intrigues, compelled to betray the king he
 had hoped to serve. The Blades have ways
 to protect their own, but death and madness haunt the
 path to salvation--and few ever return unscathed.

   "Classy ... irresistible ... a handsomely
 crafted commentary on honor and betrayal ...
 Duncan's people are marvelously believable, his
 landscapes deliciously exotic, his
 swordplay breathtaking."
     Publishers Weekly (starred
     Review)


 www.eosbooks.com

            DAVE DUNCAN

   "Dave Duncan writes one excellent
 book after another."
     Locus

   "He explores heroism, betrayal, and
 sacrifice, all within the context of breakneck
 adventure ... But in a Dave Duncan
 story, "rollicking" should not be mistaken for
 "insubstantial.""
     Calgary Herald

          THE GILDED CHAIN
           A TALE OF THE
            KING'S BLADES

   "A truly great story ... Duncan is a
 true master of his craft ... [He] has a
 rare talent with words and uses them to his
 advantage ... Buy this book, you won't

 regret it."
     SF Site

   "Fast-paced ... Sharp humor and
 swashbuckling action add charm and vigor to this
 fantasy adventure."
     Library Journal

   "Good characters; fine plotting; a lean and supple
 narrative."
     Kirkus Reviews

   "A rollicking and clever tale of adventure,
 loyalty, and derring-do set against a briskly
 sketched landscape of court politics and
 intrigue ... The quirky plot never quite goes
 where expected. Though this story stands well alone,
 it would serve nicely as the foundation for other tales
 of the King's Blades. If so, I want to be
 there."
     SFREVU




          Other Avon Books by
             Dave Duncan

     THE GREAT GAME
 PAST IMPERATIVE
 PRESENT TENSE
 FUTURE INDEFINITE

     THE KING'S BLADES
 LORD OF THE FIRE LANDS

     AND IN HARDCOVER
 SKY OF SWORDS

   This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
 places, and incidents either are the product of the
 author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
 Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
 organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
 entirely coincidental.














          This book is dedicated with
         all my love to my grandson
          Brendan Andrew Press
          in the hope that one day he
           will find pleasure in it




































                CONTENTS

 Part Page

              VOLUME I

 Prologue ......................... 1

 1 Harvest ......................... 8
 2 Nutting ....................... 103
 3 Everman ....................... 162

             VOLUME II

 3 Everman (continued) .............. 215
 4 Wolfbiter .................... 233
 5 Montpurse ................... 356

             VOLUME III

 5 Montpurse (continued) .......... 431
 6 Kate ........................ 469
 7 Quarrel ...................... 569

 Epilogue ....................... 641










   This braille edition contains the entire text of the
 print edition except illustrations.













           THE GILDED CHAIN

               Prologue

   Grand Master looked even older than the
 Squire, but he had a hard trimness that age had
 not softened, as if he would still be deadly with that
 sword he wore. There was a ferocity in his gaze
 that the boy had never seen before in any man's; so
 he forced himself not to flinch when those terrible gray
 eyes turned on him, meeting the stare as
 impassively as he could, determined not to show any
 sign of the tumult in his belly. While the two
 men discussed him, he stood in silence, clutching
 his cap in both hands. He had never seen the
 Squire be so most-wondrous polite to anyone
 before, fawning at Grand Master the way the goose
 wife did to him.
   The boy had expected the famous Ironhall
 to look like a castle, but it was just a cluster of
 buildings all alone on barren Starkmoor,
 black stone walls and black slate roofs. The
 inside was even bleaker: bare walls, plank
 floor, wooden ceiling; a cold wind sighing in
 one unglazed, barred window and out another. Two
 big chairs, a table, a shelf of books, a
 grate so clean that it was hard to believe any
 fire had ever burned there--no prison cell could
 be grimmer. If this was Grand Master's room,
 how did the boys live?
   "Vicious!" the Squire said. "Intractable.
 Don't suppose even you can make a man out of
 such trash." He had been telling everything--the
 boy's entire life from his shameful birth out of
 wedlock fourteen years ago to last week's
 attempt to run away and the subsequent whipping,
 with not one prank or misdeed overlooked. That was
 no way to sell a horse. After that catalogue
 of wickedness there could be no chance at all of his being
 accepted. He was going to be sent home
 to Dimpleshire most-wondrous fast.
   Grand Master drained his wine and replaced the
 goblet on the table. "You will withdraw, please,
 while I speak with the lad."
   The boy watched uneasily as the Squire
 rose, bowed low, and departed. What was the use of
 prolonging the matter? Why not throw them both out and
 be done with it? The iron-studded door thudded shut.
   He was not invited to take the vacant chair.
 He met the gaze of the terrible gray eyes and
 steeled himself not to twitch, fidget, or
 even swallow. After several long minutes, Grand
 Master said, "Why did you steal the pony?"
   "It's mine. My mom gave it to me before she
 ... long time ago."
   The old man smiled grimly. "If it was
 only this high, couldn't you have walked faster on your
 own two feet?"
   The boy shrugged. "They'd always caught me on
 foot. Thought it might confuse the dogs."
   "Worth a try," Grand Master admitted.
 He reached his left hand into his doublet and brought out
 a bag. It clinked. Now what? "You don't
 get to keep this money--I take it back. Put
 your cap on the table."
   The boy obeyed suspiciously.
   "Go back to where you were standing. Catch!"
   The boy caught the coin. Most-wondrous!
   "Can you throw it into your cap? Good. Ready?"
 Another coin.
   The boy caught it and tossed it beside the first. The
 next throw went wider. Then higher, so he had
 to jump--and there was another coming already and he was throwing
 and catching at the same time. Soon he was going in
 four directions at once, grabbing and throwing with
 both hands.
   The barrage stopped. He had put every one in the
 cap.
   "That was impressive. Very impressive!"
   "Thank you, my lord." It wasn't bad.
 Kids' stuff, though.
   "Call me Grand Master. Your grandfather was
 certainly correct when he said you were agile. But
 he did tell me one untruth, didn't he,
 although he uttered no deliberate falsehoods?
 What is the real story?"
   The boy resisted a need to lick his lips.
 Would he rather be thought wicked or stupid? The old
 man must be using some sort of conjurement to detect
 lies, so stupid it would have to be.
   "The girl, Grand Master. That one was not me."
   The old man nodded. "I guessed that from your
 reaction. The rest don't matter--only signs
 of a spirit caged. Violence against women is
 otherwise. Yet you took the punishment without
 protest? Why?"
   Because I am stupid! "He's a serf's son.
 They'd have hanged him. She was only scared, not
 real hurt."
   "And suppose the next time he does rape
 someone? Won't that be your fault?"
   "I don't think he's truly evil,
 Grand--"
   "Answer my question."
   The boy thought for a moment. "Yes."
   "Do you regret your decision now?"
   "No, Grand Master."
   "Why not?"
   "Because I don't think he's truly evil,
 Grand Master."
   "You have confidence in your own judgment. Good.
 Well, the choice is yours--not mine, not your
 grandfather's. Yours. If you wish to stay, I
 accept you. If you do not, then I shall tell your
 grandfather that I refused you. I warn you that you will be
 embarking on a whole new life, a life of
 complete obedience. It will be made a hard life,
 deliberately, for we have no use for the soft. For the
 first few weeks you will not even possess a name; you
 will be only the Brat, the lowest of the low. You will be
 free to leave at any time--and many do--but what
 happens to you then will be no concern of ours. You will
 walk out of the gate with nothing and never return.
   "On the other hand, if you survive your
 training, you will have achieved a position of some
 honor in society. You will very likely live at
 court, one of a very select brotherhood, the finest
 swordsmen in the known world. Again, you will be embarking
 on a life of complete obedience. You will serve
 your King or whomever else he decrees. You will
 have no say in the matter. Indeed, this decision you
 take now is in a sense the last decision you will
 ever make of your own free will."
   And the first one, too. The boy had not expected
 to be offered a choice.
   Grand Master said, "Have you any questions?"
   "Who picks my new name?"
   "You do, usually from the list of former Blades,
 although other names are sometimes accepted."
   That was fairer than he had expected. If he
 left, he would never know whether he could have been
 man enough. Being the Brat in Ironhall could not
 be much worse than being a bastard son in a
 family with very little money and no social
 importance. The alternative was to be
 apprenticed to some craftsman or merchant, a
 nobody evermore. He would not be the Brat for
 long. "I wish to stay, Grand Master."
   "Don't be too hasty. There are many things you
 do not know. Ask more questions or just think about it. You can
 have five minutes."
   "No, Grand Master. I wish to stay."
   "To make such a decision lightly can be taken
 as a sign of folly."
   "I have confidence in my own judgment, Grand
 Master."
   The dread eyes narrowed. "If you were already a
 candidate, that remark would be treated as insolence."
   The only safe answer to that was, "I understand,
 Grand Master."
   The old man nodded. "Very well. You are
 accepted. Brat, go and tell the man waiting
 outside that he may go now."












                HARVEST
                   I



   "Treason," Kromman whispered. He
 repeated the word, mouthing it as if he found the taste
 pleasing: "Treason! Your treachery is uncovered
 at last. Evidence has been laid before the
 King." He smiled and licked his wizened lips.
   Human wood-louse!
   Roland considered drawing his sword and sliding it
 into Kromman until the blade would go no farther,
 then taking it out again--by another route, for variety.
 That would be an act of public service he should have
 performed a lifetime ago, but it would create a
 serious scandal. Word would flash across all
 Eurania that the King of Chivial's private
 secretary had been murdered by his lord
 chancellor, sending courtiers of a dozen capitals
 into fits of hysterical giggles. Lord Roland must
 behave himself. It was a pleasing fantasy, though.
   Meanwhile, the winter night was falling. He still
 had work piled up like snowdrifts, a dozen
 petitioners waiting to see him, and no time to waste
 on this black-robed human fungus.
   Patience! "As you well know, Master
 Secretary, such rumors go around every couple of
 years--rumors about me, about you, about many of the
 King's ministers." Ambrose probably started
 most of the stories himself, but if his chancellor said so
 to Kromman, Kromman would tattle back
 to him. "His Majesty has more sense than
 to listen to slander. Now, have you brought some business for
 me?"
   "No, Lord Chancellor. No more business for
 you." Kromman was not hiding his enjoyment; he was
 up to something. Even in his youth, as a Dark
 Chamber inquisitor, he had been repugnant
 --spying and snooping, prying and plotting,
 maligning anyone he could not destroy. Now, with
 age-yellowed eyes and hair trailing like
 cobwebs from under his black biretta, he had
 all the appeal of a corpse washed up on a
 beach. Some days he looked even worse. Even
 the King, who had few scruples, referred to him
 in private as rat poison. What secret
 joy was he savoring now?
   Roland stood up. He had always been taller
 and trimmer than this grubby ink slinger, and the years
 had not changed that. "I won't send for the Watch.
 I'll throw you out myself. I have no time for
 games."
   "Nor I. The games are over at last."
 Kromman slithered a letter onto the desk with all
 the glee of a small boy waiting for his mother to open
 a gift he has wrapped for her. Definitely
 up to something!
   Over by the door, Quarrel looked up from his
 book with a puzzled expression. No voices had
 been raised yet, but his Blade instincts were
 detecting trouble.
   Roland's face had given away nothing for
 thirty years and would not start doing so now.
 Impassively he took up the packet, noting
 that it was addressed personally to Earl Roland of
 Waterby, Companion of the White Star, Knight
 of the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King's
 Blades, et cetera, and closed with the privy
 seal, yet it bore no mention of his high office.
 That odd combination warned him what he was going to find
 even before he lifted the wax with a deft twist of his
 knife and crackled the parchment open. The
 ornately lettered message was terse to the point of
 brutality:

 is therefore commanded to divest ... will absent himself
 from business of our Privy Council ... will
 hold himself available to answer certain grave
 matters. ...

   Dismissal!
   His first reaction was sweet relief that he could
 now throw down all his worries and go home
 to Ivywalls and the wife whom he had never been
 allowed time enough to love as she deserved. His
 second thought was that Kromman, here designated
 his successor, was an unthinkable choice, totally
 incapable of handling the work.
   He looked up blandly, while his mind raced
 through this deadly jungle that had suddenly sprung
 up around him. He should not be surprised, of
 course. Ambrose IV tired of ministers just as
 he tired of mistresses or favorite
 courtiers. The King grew weary and sought new
 beginnings. He would hope to shed some of his current
 unpopularity by blaming his own mistakes on the
 man who had faithfully carried out his policies.
 Loyalty was better to receive than to give.
   With the silent grace of an archer drawing a
 longbow, Quarrel rose to his feet. For most
 of the last two days, the poor kid had been
 slouched on the couch by the door, leafing through a book
 of romantic verse, bored out of his mind. He
 would have registered that the latest visitor was unarmed
 when he entered and then lost interest in him. Now he
 had sensed something amiss.
   "Your treason is uncovered!" Kromman said
 again, gloating.
   Roland shrugged. "No treason. Whatever
 forgeries you have concocted, Master Kromman, they
 will not withstand proper examination."
   "We shall see."
   They stared at each other for a moment, lifelong
 foes harnessed too long together in service to the
 same master. Roland could never consider himself
 guilty of treason under any reasonable definition
 of the word; but treason was a slippery concept, a
 mire he had seen trap many others--
 Bluefield, Centham, Montpurse.
 Especially Montpurse. He had organized
 Montpurse's destruction himself. To be dragged
 down by the odious Kromman would be excessive
 irony, though. That would hurt more than the
 headsman's ax.
   Again he found himself contemplating murder
 and this time he was not altogether joking with himself; this might be
 his last chance to slay the vermin. Alas, the
 revenge he should have taken years ago would now be
 seen as an admission of guilt, so he would die
 also and leave Kromman as posthumous winner of
 their long feud. Better to stay alive and fight,
 face down the deceit and hope to win, however
 unlikely that might be--Kromman was very sure
 of himself.
   Meanwhile, the dusty files on the desk and the
 garrulous petitioners in the waiting room could
 equally be forgotten. Lord Roland could walk away
 from them all with a clear conscience and head home a
 day earlier than he had planned. Tomorrow would be
 soon enough to start worrying about treason and a trial
 and the almost inevitable death sentence.
   "Long live the King," he said calmly. He
 walked around the desk, lifting the weighty chain from
 his shoulders. "This is not gold, by the way, only
 gilt. Chancery knows that, so don't try accusing
 me of embezzlement."
   With a leer of triumph, Kromman bent his
 head to receive the chain. It rattled around his feet like
 a golden snake as Roland released it.
   "Put it around your neck yourself, Master
 Kromman, or have the King do it. The writ does
 not require me to bestow it."
   "Oh, we shall teach you humbler ways soon!"
   "I doubt it." Then Roland recalled the wording
 of the warrant and the authority it granted to his
 successor. "Or are you contemplating immediate action
 against my person?"
   The new chancellor's amber-toothed smile was
 answer in itself. "Indeed, I shall now have the
 pleasure of completing a task I was prevented from
 completing many years ago." Meaning he had a
 squad of men-at-arms waiting in the anteroom
 to escort the prisoner to a dungeon in the
 Bastion, probably in chains. What sweet
 triumph that would be for him!
   But he was still unaware that there was a third person
 present. He had come scurrying in with his mincing,
 pigeon-toed walk and gone right by the witness beside the
 door, too impatient to notice his victim's
 guardian. As quiet as mist, Quarrel had
 crossed the room to stand at the inquisitor's
 back--tall and supple and deadly as a spanned
 crossbow. He could be Lord Roland's twin
 brother, born forty years too late.
   For the first time Roland looked directly
 at him. "Have you met Master Kromman, the
 King's secretary?"
   "I have not had that honor, my lord."
   Kromman twisted around with a gasp.
   "It is no honor. He plans to have me
 arrested. What say you to that?"
   Quarrel smiled at this sudden improvement
 to his day. "I say not so, my lord." One hand
 rested on his sword. He could draw faster than
 a whip crack.
   "I thought you might. This is Sir Quarrel,
 Chancellor. I deeply regret that I shall be
 unable to accept your gracious invitation
 voluntarily. I hope you brought adequate
 forces?"
   Kromman's jaw hung open. Quarrel's
 hose and doublet had been outrageously
 expensive, his jerkin and plumed hat even more so,
 but they could be matched on a score of young dandies
 around the court. It was not his athlete's grace or
 his darkly sinister good looks that proclaimed him
 unmistakably as a Blade, nor yet his
 sword, for his hand concealed the distinctive pommel.
 Perhaps it was his bearing. There could be no doubt that
 even if he were one against an army, he would litter
 the floor with bodies before he let anyone lay a
 hand on his ward.
   Kromman had a problem he had not
 anticipated.
   "Where did you get him?" he squeaked.
   "On Starkmoor, of course." Roland should have
 guessed that something unexpected would happen right after
 he went back to Ironhall. Every visit he had
 ever made to that gloomy keep had marked a turning
 point in his life.



   As Durendal raised his wineglass to his
 lips, loud booing broke out at the far end of the
 hall, which could only mean that the Brat had come
 in. An immediate cheer announced that he had been
 tripped up already. The kid scrambled to his
 feet in a shower of crusts and chop bones, and was
 promptly tripped again. He had a long way
 to go, because he was not past the sopranos' table yet
 and must still run the gauntlet of the beansprouts, the
 beardless, and the fuzzies before he reached the
 seniors. Undoubtedly Grand Master had sent
 him to summon Prime and Second to a
 binding, and it was his misfortune that they happened to be
 at dinner.
   It was a rough game, but some of the games were even
 worse; and everyone started out as the Brat.
 Durendal had endured that ordeal longer than
 most, beginning right after the supremely joyous
 moment when he had been able to tell his grandfather to go
 back to Dimpleshire and stay there. Spirits! Had
 that been five years ago? It was hard to believe
 that he was Second now and the Brat was heading for
 him. Most-wondrous!
   He glanced at the high table to confirm that Grand
 Master's throne remained unoccupied. Master of
 Horse and Master of Rapiers caught his eye and
 smiled knowingly. Nothing but a binding would be keeping
 the old man away on Ironhall's most
 important night of the year, the Feast of
 Durendal, the legendary founder whose name Second
 himself had assumed in a mad act of defiance.
 Tonight the seniors were allowed wine. Soon the
 Litany of Heroes would be read out and speeches
 made. For Grand Master to be absent required
 something epic afoot. Possibly the King himself
 had arrived.
   Durendal had been Second for less than a
 week. He had not expected to make the leap
 to Prime just yet. He glanced at Harvest beside
 him, but Harvest was arguing so intently with Everman
 that he had not even noticed the disturbance.
   Five years, and soon it would be over--
 possibly as soon as tomorrow night, if the King
 wanted more than one Blade. Manhood in
 place of adolescence; farewell to Ironhall.
 Feeling his mind strangely concentrated by this sudden
 nostalgia--and possibly also by the wine, he
 realized--he scanned the great hall, as if
 to fix it more tightly in his memory.
   Servants hastened back and forth from the kitchens,
 striving unsuccessfully to keep platters heaped
 against the onslaught of voracious young
 appetites. Candlelight flickered on scores
 of fresh faces at the long tables and reflected
 on the famous sky of swords overhead--a
 hundred chains slung from wall to wall, with a
 sword dangling from almost every link, more than five
 thousand blades. Visitors and newcomers
 notoriously lost their appetites when offered their
 first meal in the hall, especially when it was
 accompanied by vivid descriptions of what would
 happen if just one of those ancient chains
 should break. Residents soon learned to ignore
 the threat. The oldest of those swords had been up
 there for centuries and would probably remain there
 for a long time yet. The oldest of them all hung
 alone in a place of honor on the wall behind
 Grand Master's throne, and that was Nightfall, the
 sword of the first Durendal, which had been found so
 inexplicably broken after his death.
   Soup sprayed over the Brat as he passed the
 beansprouts' table.
   There were seventy-three candidates in
 Ironhall at the moment. Second was
 responsible for keeping them all in line, so he
 had that number branded on his heart. There ought to be
 a hundred or so, but there was a new King on the
 throne. In his first year Ambrose had replaced
 more than a score of his father's aging Blades.
 He had slowed the pace a little since then, but
 lately he had been gifting Blades to his
 favorites. The candidates considered that
 Ambrose IV was being profligate with his
 precious swordsmen, although they were hardly
 unbiased observers. How many did he want
 tonight? Harvest was Prime, and candidates
 invariably left Ironhall in the same order
 they had entered.
   The Brat arrived at last, panting and well
 spattered with gravy and fragments of salad. He
 stared in dismay at Harvest's back, hesitant
 to interrupt the awesomely exalted Prime while
 he was talking; but all the seniors except
 Durendal were still arguing at the tops of their
 voices, blissfully unaware of the drama. The
 hall hushed as the audience realized what was
 happening and waited in amused suspense. The
 distant sopranos had climbed up on their
 benches to watch.
   Young Byless was in full throat. "And I say
 that we're the most deadly collection of
 swordsmen in all Eurania.!" He
 apparently meant the seniors, including himself. This
 was certainly the first time in his life he had ever
 tasted wine, and it showed. "We'd be a match for a
 whole regiment of the King of Isilond's
 Household Sabreurs. We ought to send them a
 challenge."
   "Shinbones!" said Harvest. "We'd be
 massacred!"
   Byless turned an unsteady gaze on him.
 "What if we were? We'd have created a
 legend."
   "Besides," said Felix, "I think they're a
 lot more deadly." He gestured over his shoulder
 at the tables behind him.
   He was making better sense. That was where the
 masters and other knights sat, those Blades who
 had played out their game and retired to teach another
 generation. There were bald heads and liver spots and
 missing teeth there. Some were truly ancient, but not
 one of them was fat, senile, or even stooped; and
 by and large they were all still functional. Blades
 might rust, but they did not rot. Among them were
 some unfamiliar faces, visitors enjoying the
 nostalgia of a Durendal Night. Knights who
 had completed their stint in the Royal Guard might
 be anything from doorkeepers for rich merchants
 to senior ministers of the Crown. The only one
 Durendal recognized there tonight was Grand
 Wizard, head of the Royal College of
 Conjurers. They were all having as much trouble as the
 juniors in suppressing their laughter.
   Red-faced, Byless drained his glass and went
 on the offensive with a loud burp. "Urk! Them?
 They're old! There isn't one of them under
 thirty."
   Durendal decided it was time to stop his friends
 making fools of themselves. He scowled at the
 Brat, who was a smartish nipper and had been
 Brat long enough to know that the current Second was
 no danger to him.
   "Miserable lowlife!" he shouted.
 "Bottom-feeding, snot-nosed, festering slug,
 you dare to creep in here and mar the merriment of your
 betters?"
   The Brat shot him a wary glance. Harvest
 looked around, gaped in horror for a moment, and then
 made a fast recovery. "Scum! Bed-wetting
 troglodyte!" He swung a blow at the
 Brat's head, but it was well signaled and
 failed to make contact.
   The Brat sprawled realistically to the floor
 and groveled appropriately. When he had been
 Brat, Durendal had found groveling the hardest
 duty required of him. He had learned, of
 course--oh yes, he had learned! The hall
 whooped in approval. They had all been there
 once, every one of them, down on the floor, butt
 of all Ironhall.
   "Honored and glorious Prime!" the kid
 squeaked. "Most noble, most illustrious
 Second, Grand Master sent me to summon you!"
   "Liar!" Harvest boomed, tipping his
 wineglass over the lad. "Get out of here, you
 human pestilence. Go and tell Grand Master
 to eat horse dung."
   The Brat sprang to his feet and fled,
 running the gauntlet of flying food and extended
 feet again. The knights joined in the laughter as
 if they had not witnessed such scenes a thousand times
 before.
   Tumult died away to an excited murmur.
   "That was good," Durendal said.
 ""Bed-wetting troglodyte" was good!"
   Prime tried to hide his apprehension and
 failed miserably. "You suppose there might be
 something in what he said?"
   "It's your blood, brother," Durendal
 declared confidently.
   It would not be his blood, not tonight. Only
 Prime was going to be bound, or Grand Master would
 have summoned more than two. They rose together, bowed
 to high table together, and headed side by side to the
 door. An ominous hush settled over the hall.
   Most-wondrous!



   Durendal closed the heavy door silently and
 went to stand beside Prime, carefully not looking at
 the other chair.
   "You sent for us, Grand Master?" Harvest's
 voice warbled slightly, although he was rigid as a
 pike, staring straight at the bookshelves.
   "I did, Prime. His Majesty has need
 of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
   Candles flickered. Durendal had not been in
 this chamber since the day he caught the coins,
 five years ago, yet he could see no change.
 The grate had never been touched by flame, the
 same stuffing was still trying to escape from the chairs,
 and even the wine on the table was the same deep red.
 Of course Grand Master's eyebrows were thicker
 and whiter, his neck more scraggly, but Durendal
 had watched those changes coming day by day. He himself
 had changed far more. He was as tall now as Grand
 Master.
   He remembered how, that epic first day, he had
 gone to report to this same Harvest and seen his
 face light up with ecstasy. Three months
 later, Durendal himself had reacted the
 same way when his own replacement had appeared.
 Three months of hell--and yet those three
 months had been nothing compared to what had followed
 right after, when the ex-Brat had insisted on taking
 the sacred name of Durendal. Master of Archives
 had warned him what would happen if he defied a
 tradition hallowed by three hundred years'
 observance. Well, they hadn't broken him. He
 had survived, struggled to be worthy of the great
 name, won the grudging respect of the masters and his
 peers. And he was worthy--the best of them all.
 By tomorrow night he would be Prime and Byless
 Second. Byless wouldn't be able to handle the
 juniors.
   Not Durendal's problem.
   What was his problem was Harvest's appalling
 silence. He must have been expecting the question, because
 he had been Second when Pendering was called.
 What choice did he have? Did any man ever
 refuse? Presumably he still had the choice
 all candidates had, the dismal election of walking
 out of the gate forever; but to contemplate surrender after
 so many years of effort--it was unthinkable, surely?
   The only sound in the room was a faint
 crackling as Grand Master crumpled a sheet of
 parchment in his massive fist. The wax of the royal
 signet broke off in fragments. After five
 years of learning to read Grand Master's moods,
 Durendal knew that now they were proclaiming
 hurricane! Enforced absence from the feast might
 explain some storminess, but not so much.
   Harvest spoke at last, almost inaudibly.
 "I am ready, Grand Master."
   Soon Durendal would be saying those words. And
 who would be sitting in the second chair?
   Who was there now? He had not looked. The edge
 of his eye hinted it was seeing a youngish man, too
 young to be the King himself.
   "My lord," Grand Master said, "I have the
 honor to present Prime Candidate Harvest,
 who will serve you as your Blade."
   As the two young men turned to him, the anonymous
 noble drawled, "The other one looks much more
 impressive. Do I have a choice?"
   "You do not!" barked Grand Master, color
 pouring into his craggy face. "The King himself
 takes whoever is Prime."
   "Oh, so sorry! Didn't mean to twist your
 dewlaps, Grand Master." He smiled
 vacuously. He was a weedy, soft-faced
 man in his early twenties, a courtier to the
 core, resplendent in crimson and vermilion
 silks trimmed with fur and gold chain. If the
 white cloak was truly ermine, it must be worth a
 fortune. His fairish beard came to a needle
 point and his mustache was a work of art. A fop.
 Who?
   "Prime, this is the Marquis of Nutting, your
 future ward."
   "Ward?" The Marquis sniggered. "You make
 me sound like a debutante, Grand Master.
 Ward indeed!"
   Harvest bowed, his face ashen as he
 contemplated a lifetime guarding ... whom? Not the
 King himself, not his heir, not a prince of the blood,
 not an ambassador traveling in exotic lands,
 not an important landowner out on the marches, not a
 senior minister, nor even--at worst--the head of
 one of the great conjuring orders. Here was no ward
 worth dying for, just a court dandy, a parasite.
 Trash.
   Seniors spent more time studying politics than
 anything else except fencing. Wasn't the
 Marquis of Nutting the brother of the Countess
 Mornicade, the King's latest mistress? If
 so, then six months ago he had been the
 Honorable Tab Nillway, a younger son of a
 penniless baronet, and his only claim
 to importance was that he had been expelled from the
 same womb as one of the greatest beauties of the
 age. No report reaching Ironhall had ever
 hinted that he might have talent or ability.
   "I am deeply honored to be assigned to your
 lordship," Harvest said hoarsely, but the spirits did
 not strike him dead for perjury.
   Grand Master's displeasure was now explained.
 One of his precious charges was being thrown away
 to no purpose. Nutting was not important enough to have
 enemies, even at court. No man of honor
 would lower his standards enough to call out an upstart pimp
 --certainly not one who had a Blade prepared
 to die for him. But Grand Master had no choice.
 The King's will was paramount.
   "We shall hold the binding tomorrow midnight,
 Prime," the old man snapped. "Make the
 arrangements, Second."
   "Yes, Grand Master."
   "Tomorrow?" protested the Marquis querulously.
 "There's a ball at court tomorrow. Can't we just
 run through the rigmarole quickly now and be
 done with it?"
   Grand Master's face was already dangerously
 inflamed, and that remark made the veins swell
 even more. "Not unless you wish to kill a man, my
 lord. You have to learn your part in the ritual. Both
 you and Prime must be purified by ritual and
 fasting."
   Nutting curled his lip. "Fasting? How
 barbaric!"
   "Binding is a major conjuration. You will be in
 some danger yourself."
   If the plan was to frighten the court parasite
 into withdrawing, it failed miserably. He merely
 muttered, "Oh, I'm sure you exaggerate."
   Grand Master gave the two candidates a
 curt nod of dismissal. They bowed in unison and
 left.



   Harvest clattered quickly down the stairs and
 strode off along a corridor that led to nowhere
 except the library. Durendal, with his longer
 legs, had no trouble keeping up with him. If the
 man wanted to be alone, he could say so; but if
 he needed support, then who else should offer it but
 Second?
   The glow of a lamp appeared ahead as someone
 approached the corner. Harvest muttered an oath
 and moved into a window embrasure. Leaning on the
 stone sill, he thrust his face against the bars, as
 if trying to fill his lungs with fresh air.
   "You go back to the hall, Second.
 Take--" His voice cracked. "Sit in my
 chair. So they'll know."
   Durendal thumped a hand on his shoulder. "You
 forget that I have to fast also. Look on the bright
 side, warrior!" You can always cut your throat,
 which is what I would do. "You might have been gifted
 to some tinpot princeling in the Northern Isles.
 As it is, you'll live at court, romancing
 all the beautiful maidens. What a sinecure--
 wenching, dancing, hunting, and not a worry!"
   "An ornament?"
   "A long, quiet life is better than a
 short--"
   "No, it isn't. Never! Five years
 I've slaved here, and I'm being wasted.
 Utterly wasted!"
   This was so obviously true that
 Durendal found himself at a loss. He turned
 hopefully to the lamp approaching and saw that it was
 being carried by Sir Aragon, who was even older
 than Grand Master. He contributed nothing
 to Ironhall these days except a glorious
 reputation, for he had been Blade to the great
 Shoulrack who had pacified Nythia for
 Ambrose III. He was reputed to have been the
 general's brains as well as his personal sword
 and shield.
   "Leave me," Harvest howled to the sky. "For
 spirits' sake, Second, leave me, go away, and
 let me weep like a crazy woman. Like that
 dissolute, useless namby who is going to own my
 soul."
   Durendal stepped back. Aragon came
 shuffling closer with his lamp in one hand, a cane in
 the other, and a thick book under his arm. He was
 frail, but he had not lost his wits. He took
 in the situation at a glance.
   "Bad news, lad?"
   When Harvest did not answer, Durendal said,
 "Prime is a little shocked, sir. He has
 been assigned to the Marquis of Nutting."
   "Who, by the eight, is he?"
   "The brother of the King's current mistress."
   The old man pulled a hideous face, all
 wrinkles and yellow stumps of teeth. "I trust
 you are not implying that a private Blade is in
 some way inferior to a member of the Royal
 Guard, Candidate?"
   Huddled in his cloak of misery, Harvest
 mumbled, "No, sir."
   "It is a rare honor. There are a hundred
 Blades in the Royal Guard all going mad with
 boredom, but a private Blade has his work
 cut out for him, a lifetime of devotion and
 service. I congratulate you, my boy."
 Propping his cane against the wall, he held out a
 gnarled claw that would never again draw the sword
 hanging at his side.
   "Congratulate?" Harvest shouted, swinging around
 but ignoring the proffered hand. Two red lines
 framing his face showed where he had been leaning on
 the bars. "Nutting is a nothing, a bag of
 dung! What need has he for a Blade?"
   "The King must think he has need, Candidate!
 Do you presume to overrule your King? Do you know
 things that he doesn't?"
   Nice try, Durendal thought, but it
 wouldn't console him, were he in poor Harvest's
 half-boots.
   Prime shuddered and made an effort to control
 himself, although he was obviously close to tears now.
 "The King knows what he is doing! Grand
 Master's told him I'm not good enough for the Royal
 Guard, so he's palming me off on a worthless
 buffoon, a panderer. He isn't even a genuine
 noble."
   Aragon's shock seemed genuine enough. "You
 are raving, Prime, and you know it! Neither Grand
 Master nor anyone else ever passes judgment
 on the candidates like that. Anyone who fails
 to measure up is thrown out long before he becomes
 a senior--you know that, too. I am well aware
 that you can't fence like Durendal here. Who can? That
 does not mean that all the rest of us are useless!
 The reason the King always takes the first in line is
 because even a below-average Blade is fields
 ahead of any other swordsman anywhere. It
 doesn't matter how you rank in Ironhall,
 you're first-class by the world's standards. Now stop
 making a fool of yourself." The rheumy eyes
 glanced briefly at Durendal. "If Grand
 Master were to hear of this exhibition, he might
 indeed change the assignment--but he would do it
 by striking you off the roll completely!"
   Then Durendal would have to take his place, but
 he was more concerned for his friend than he was for himself--or
 hoped he was. Harvest's trouble was that he
 wasn't quite ripe. He did not have his emotions under
 adult control yet. He needed to do some more growing
 up.
   He had twenty-four hours to do it.
   Durendal said, "You're an Ironhall
 Blade, the deadliest human weapon ever
 devised--loyal, fearless, and incorruptible.
 How long since anyone died in a binding, Sir
 Aragon?"
   "Before my time. Sixty years ago, at
 least."
   "There you are. You're not afraid, are you?"
   Harvest flinched. "Curse you, no! I'm not
 a coward!"
   "It's beginning to look like it."
   "No!"
   "Well, that's all right, then." Durendal
 laid a friendly but powerful arm around Prime's
 shoulders and propelled him bodily along the
 corridor.
   Aragon stared after them wistfully.



   The secret, sacred heart of Ironhall was
 the Forge, a vast and echoing crypt watered by its
 own spring. The eight hearths around the walls--
 each with its own bellows, anvil, and stone trough
 --were where the magnificent cat's-eye swords
 were made; but the focus of power was the coffinlike
 slab of iron in the center, for there the human
 Blades were tempered. Puberty alone would have
 transformed the boys into men, but few of them would have
 become the superb swordsmen who graduated. The
 King's Blades were all stamped with the same die
 --lean, well-muscled athletes. When Harvest
 had stopped growing too soon, conjuration had
 coaxed his body into another effort. When
 Durendal had been in danger of growing too
 big, then he in turn had lain on the anvil
 while Master of Rituals invoked the
 appropriate spirits to come to his aid. The final
 drama, the binding of a Blade to his ward, must
 inevitably be consummated among the fires of the
 Forge.
   On the day of a binding, the echoing cavern was
 relinquished to the participants, who were required
 to meditate there, starting before dawn. By the end of a very
 long day, Durendal was still not sure he had
 succeeded, because meditating wasn't something he'd ever
 tried before; but if boredom was the measure of
 success, he had done splendidly. Harvest
 sat and chewed his fingernails to the elbow, while the
 Marquis paced, fretted, and whined about hunger.
 Once Master Armorer came in and asked
 Harvest what he wanted to name his sword.
 Harvest muttered, "Haven't decided." The
 man shrugged and went away.
   At sunset Master of Rituals appeared and
 ordered the three of them to strip and bathe in four of the
 eight troughs, in a particular order. After poking
 a finger in the icy spring water, the Marquis
 squawked and refused so vehemently that a pathetic
 smile briefly warmed Harvest's pale face.
 Alas, offered alternatives of calling off the
 binding or being forcibly stripped and dunked by four
 smiths, Nutting decided to cooperate; but he
 must have set a record for the shortest bathing on
 record.

   Close to midnight, the knights and the rest of the
 candidates filed in to begin the ritual.

   Bright flames frolicked in the hearths, but the
 shadows of six score men and boys made the
 crypt dark and creepy. As the chanting soared
 amid strange acoustics and the metallic beat of
 hammers, Durendal sensed the spirits gathering. Some
 spirituality always lingered there, for any forge sustained
 all four of the manifest elements--earth from the
 ore, fire from the hearths, air from the bellows,
 water from the quenching troughs. Of the virtual
 elements, the swords attracted spirits of death and
 chance, while time and love were essential
 ingredients of loyalty. Binding was a very potent
 and complex conjuration.
   His fast had left him vaguely light-headed,
 yet he was buoyed up by the surging powers. Hard
 to believe after so long that his life in Ironhall
 was almost over. Soon he, also, would be bound and
 stride out into the world behind his ward, whoever that might
 be. He could not possibly draw a shorter
 straw than poor Harvest had.
   The procedure was very familiar. He had first
 played a role in a binding on his third day in
 Ironhall, because one part of the ritual was
 assigned to the Brat. As the spirits of chance had
 caused him to remain the Brat so long, he had
 assisted no less than eight Blades at their
 bindings, which might be a record, although a petty
 one to be proud of.
   Now he had emerged from the chorus to play a
 major role once again, gathered with the other
 participants inside the octogram. The locations
 were obligatory: Prime stood at death point,
 directly across from his future ward at love and
 flanked by Second at earth and Byless, the next
 most senior candidate, at air. Chance point was
 always given to the Brat. The three who performed
 most of the conjuration took the remaining points--
 Master of Rituals as Invoker at fire,
 Master of Archives as Dispenser at water, and
 Grand Master as Arbiter at time.
   Dispenser chanted the banishment of death, casting
 grain across the octogram, grain being a symbol
 of life. Banishing all death spirits when there was a
 sword present was an impossibility, of
 course; and the element of chance was fickle
 by definition. When he had completed that second
 revocation, Invoker began summoning spirits
 of the required elements. The onlookers joined in
 the triumphant dedication song of the Order, a
 paean to brotherhood and service that made the
 Forge throb like a great heart. Although the chamber was
 stiflingly hot, Durendal felt the hair rise
 on the back of his neck.
   Grand Master went forward to scatter a handful of
 gold coins on the anvil. He peered at their
 distribution and seemed satisfied that they hinted at
 no bizarre improbabilities afoot. As he
 gathered them up again, he nodded to the Brat, who
 strutted forward to play his small role. So fast
 was the King calling for Blades now that this Brat
 had done it three times already. He was still a long
 way behind Durendal's record, if it was a
 record. Piping out the dedication in his reedy
 soprano, the boy laid the cat's-eye sword
 on the anvil. Harvest had never touched or even
 seen that sword before, but the skilled armorers of
 Ironhall had wrought it to be a perfect fit for
 his hand, his arm, and his favored style.
   Everything was going as it should, yet Durendal was
 worried by the two principals. Neither seemed quite
 right, somehow. Most Primes approached their
 binding with a glow of excitement and fulfillment, but
 Harvest looked miserable and unsure. The
 Marquis's air of contemptuous bored amusement
 might be an acceptable affectation at court but was
 no way to approach a dangerous elementary
 ritual. He still seemed to expect some meaningless
 fakery.
   Master of Rituals nodded to Byless, who
 stepped over to remove Prime's shirt for him.
 Only a week ago, Durendal had done that for
 Pendering. If Harvest was a borderline
 Blade, young Byless needed at least a year's
 training yet. Surely Grand Master must soon
 advise the King that the supply of ready
 candidates was running out? And in that case, if they
 wanted to keep at least one in reserve for
 emergencies, how long might Durendal have
 to wait for his own call?
   Prime turned. Durendal went to him,
 smiling cheerfully and trying to ignore the pale
 lips and eyes stretched too wide. Oh, let
 that only be an illusion of the firelight! He
 put a thumb on Harvest's hairless chest
 to locate the base of the sternum, although all the
 bones were clearly visible. He made a mark with a
 piece of charcoal directly over the
 heart. He went back to his place at earth
 point.
   Harvest stepped forward and took up the sword,
 barely sparing it a glance. He jumped up on the
 anvil and raised the blade in salute as he
 swore the oath--to defend Nutting against all
 foes, to serve him until death, to give his own
 life for his ward's if need be. Words that should have
 rung through the Forge like glorious trumpet notes
 came out as a mumble. Durendal disliked what he
 saw on Grand Master's face.
   Prime sprang down and knelt before the
 Marquis to offer the sword--which Nutting accepted
 with an air of bored indifference--and then backed
 away and sat on the anvil. The Marquis
 followed to aim the point of the sword at the
 smudge of charcoal. This was the culmination of the
 ritual, but even now he seemed to be expecting
 some sort of trickery. Durendal and Byless
 closed in to assist. Harvest took several deep
 breaths, raised his arms. Durendal took a
 firm grip on one and Byless on the other, together
 holding him steady for the thrust. The Marquis
 hesitated, glancing around at Grand Master as
 if suddenly realizing that what he had been told
 must happen was not some elaborate joke or
 fake.
   "Do it, man! Don't torture him!" Grand
 Master snarled.
   The Marquis shrugged and spoke his three words
 of ritual: "Serve or die!" He poked the
 sword into Harvest's chest.
   No matter how good the conjuration, that must hurt.
 All Blades admitted that the binding had hurt,
 although briefly. In this case, the prospective
 ward did not strike very forcefully, for the point
 failed to emerge from Harvest's back, and yet the
 spurt of blood was much heavier than usual.
 With a faint moan, Harvest let his head droop.
 He did not wrench back at the friends supporting
 him, which was what Pendering had done the previous
 week. Instead he pulled forward, causing them
 to stagger off balance. He pulled harder and harder,
 as if he was trying to double over. What was the fool
 playing at? Had he fainted? Durendal and
 Byless resisted, took the strain, then stared at
 each other in horror as the awful truth dawned.
 Three knights ran forward to help them lower the
 body to the floor. Nutting screamed shrilly and
 dropped the sword.
   The conjuration had failed.
   Now it was Second's turn to try.



   The candidates were warned early in their training that
 binding could kill, and there were even records of
 Second dying as well. The conjurers blamed such
 failures on mistakes in the ritual, but
 Durendal had witnessed a hundred bindings now and
 was certain he would have noticed any deviation from
 standard procedure. He assumed the problem had
 been lack of will. Harvest had been reluctant
 to serve, Nutting skeptical and indifferent.
 Harvest had distrusted his own ability, while
 Nutting had wanted a Blade as a plume in his
 hat to flaunt around the court, not as a vital
 defender. Two unenthusiastic principals had
 combined to create disaster.
   Durendal's first concern was to look at the wound.
 The charcoal mark he had made had been blotted
 out by the blood, but the hole in poor Harvest was
 exactly where it should be, so the error had not been
 his.
   Then, while knights and seniors milled around,
 removing the body and making ready for the next
 attempt, he headed for the Marquis, who was down
 on his knees near the door, miserably retching
 between frantic protestations that he could not
 possibly go through all that again. Grand Master and
 Master of Rituals stood over him, blocking
 any further effort to flee, lecturing him before he
 had even recovered his wits.
   "With so many spirits assembled, we have raised the
 potential to levels where discharge of the elemental
 forces--"
   That sort of talk wouldn't work on a
 pseudo-aristocratic pimp.
   "Excuse me." Durendal elbowed the two
 knights aside in a way he would not have believed
 possible even five minutes ago. Detecting the
 preliminary intake of breath that would become a
 roar from Grand Master, he said, "This is my
 problem!" He hoisted the Marquis to his feet
 by his padded jerkin, spun him around, and steadied
 him before he toppled over.
   Nutting rolled his eyes in honor when he
 saw who was manhandling him. Even in the ruddy
 light of the Forge, his cheeks were green. "No! Not
 you, too! I can't, you hear? I can't.
 The sight of blood nauseates me." His boots
 scrabbled on the rock, but he did not go anywhere
 with Durendal holding him.
   "You prefer to die?"
   "Argk! Will-what do you mean?"
   "You killed one of our brothers. You expect
 to walk out of here alive?"
   The aristocratic vapidity made a croaking
 noise. Master of Rituals opened his mouth
 to protest, and Durendal aimed a cow kick at
 his shin.
   "You only thought you needed a Blade
 yesterday, my lord. You most certainly need one
 tonight. Without a Blade you can't possibly leave
 Ironhall alive. Do you want me or not?"
   "Leave him, Prime--we'll let the
 juniors have some sport with him." Grand Master
 had caught on. Master of Rituals, who had
 not, looked as if he were about to have a seizure.
   "Please?" whimpered the Marquis. "I need
 protection! I'm no good with a sword."
   "Come then, my lord." Durendal hustled him
 through the crowd of sullen watchers to a trough where
 water trickled endlessly from the rocky wall.
 "Rinse your mouth, drink, compose yourself." He
 gestured at the onlookers--the dismayed and the enraged
 --waving for them to leave. He ducked Nutting's
 head, pulled it up, and wiped the splutters
 away with his sleeve. By that time the others had moved
 more or less out of earshot. He put his nose very
 close to Nutting's.
   "Now listen, my lord! Listen well. The King
 wants you to have a Blade and now I am Prime.
 My name is Durendal, in case you've
 forgotten, a name revered for more than three hundred
 years. I chose it so I would have to live up to it
 and I did. I am the best to come through Ironhall
 in a generation. If you want me, I am yours."
   The Marquis nodded vigorously.
   "I would rather see you die to avenge poor
 Harvest," Durendal said truthfully, "but I
 won't feel like that after I'm bound. I can get you
 out alive if I have to fight our way out, and
 probably not even Grand Master could say as
 much." He wondered if he was flying too high
 now, but Nutting seemed to be believing every word of this
 rubbish.
   "What went wrong?" he moaned.
   "Mostly Harvest wasn't quite ready. I
 am." Was this human chicken even capable
 of playing his part in the ritual? He was shaking like
 a broom out a window. "And you did not strike
 hard enough."
   "What?"
   "You didn't strike as if you meant it, my
 lord. Next time--when you put the sword in my
 heart--remember you are fighting to save your own
 life. Ram it all the way through, you hear? That's
 how the King does it. Push till the point comes
 out of my back."
   Nutting moaned and began to retch again.



   Somehow love point seemed inappropriate
 for the still-sniveling Marquis, but he was back there.
 Now Durendal stood opposite, at death.
 He was flanked by Byless and Gotherton. He
 wondered if they would be strong enough to restrain him when
 his reflexes took over, and if a man could cut
 himself to shreds from the inside out. The singing was over.
 The Brat had trilled the dedication, whey-faced
 and staring at Prime with owlish eyes, as he laid
 another sword on the anvil.
   Master of Rituals had invoked the spirits, and
 either he had summoned far more than before or else
 Durendal was just more attuned to them. He sensed the
 haunted chamber quivering with power. Spirituality
 fizzed in his blood. Strange lights dancing
 over the stonework made every shadow numinous. His hand
 itched to take up the superb weapon gleaming on the
 anvil.
   The Marquis had shrunk till he looked like
 a shivering, cowed child compared to the awesome Grand
 Master. Could a real man serve such a craven
 nothing all his life without going crazy? Could
 Durendal endure to be only an ornament, as
 poor Harvest had put it? Yes, by the spirits! This
 was what he had aimed for, worked for, struggled
 for--to be one of the King's Blades. If his ward
 was useless in himself, then he would still have the finest
 protector in all Chivial. Perhaps a man
 might make something out of that worthless human rag
 if he tried hard enough, or perhaps the King had some
 secret, dangerous mission in mind for him. With
 real luck, there would be a war, when a young noble would
 be expected to raise a regiment and his Blade
 could go into battle at his side.
   The invocation ended. At last it was his move, his
 moment, his triumph--five years he had
 worked for this! He turned to summon Gotherton
 forward, felt Gotherton's fingers shake as he
 unbuttoned the shirt. He winked and almost laughed
 aloud at the disbelief he saw flood over the
 boyish face. In that oppressive heat, it was a
 relief to shed the garment, to flex his shoulders, and
 spin around. He winked at Byless also when he
 came, and this time was rewarded with a stare of open
 admiration. Why were they all so worried? Things
 only went wrong once every hundred years or so.
 He was not poor Harvest! He was the second
 Durendal, come into his destiny. He felt the
 thumb press on his chest, the cool touch of
 charcoal.
   Now for that sword! His sword. Oh,
 bliss! It floated in his hand. Blue starlight
 gleamed and danced along the blade and a bar of gold
 fire burned in the cat's eye cabochon on the
 pommel. He wanted to whirl it, caress it with a
 strop until it would cut falling gossamer,
 hold it in sunlight and admire the damask--but
 those luxuries must wait. He sprang up
 onto the anvil.
   "My lord Marquis of Nutting!" The echoes
 rumbled and rolled--wonderful! "Upon my soul,
 I, Durendal, candidate in the Loyal and
 Ancient Order of the King's Blades, do
 irrevocably swear in the presence of these my
 brethren that I will evermore defend you against all
 foes, setting my own life as nothing to shield you
 from peril, reserving only my fealty to our lord the
 King. To bind me to this oath, I bid you plunge
 this my sword into my heart that I may die if
 I swear falsely or, being true, may live
 by the power of the spirits here assembled to serve you until
 in time I die again."
   Then down to the floor and down on one knee.
   Sallow and trembling, the Marquis accepted the
 sword, seeming ready to drop it at any moment.
 Durendal rose and stepped back until he
 felt the anvil against his calves. He sat.
   Grand Master pulled the Marquis forward. He
 needed both hands to raise the sword this time. It
 wavered, flashing firelight, and the point made
 uncertain circles around the target--idiot! It
 would do no good if it missed Durendal's heart,
 no good at all. He waited until the
 terrified noble looked up enough to meet his eyes.
 Then he smiled encouragingly and raised his arms.
 Byless and Gotherton pulled them back,
 bracing them against their waists. He must try not
 to thrash too hard when the shock came. He
 waited. He could hear Nutting's teeth chatter.
   "Do it now!" he said. He was about to add, "Do
 it right!" but the Marquis shrieked, "Serve or
 die" and thrust the sword. Either he remembered
 Durendal's instructions or he lost his footing,
 for he stumbled forward and the steel razored instantly
 through muscle, ribs, heart, lung, more ribs, and
 out into the space beyond. The guard thudded against
 Durendal's chest.
   It did hurt. He had expected pain at the
 wound, but his whole body exploded with it. Through that
 furnace of agony he became aware of two
 terrified eyes staring into his. He wanted
 to say, "You must take it out again quickly, my lord,"
 but speaking with a sword through his chest proved
 difficult.
   Grand Master hauled Nutting back bodily.
 Fortunately he remembered to take the sword with
 him.
   Durendal looked down to watch the wound heal.
 The trickle of blood was astonishingly small,
 but then it always was--a heart could not pump when it
 had a nail through it. He felt the healing, a
 tickling sensation right through to his back, and also a
 huge surge of power and excitement and pride.
 Byless and Gotherton had released him. The Forge
 thundered with cheers, which seemed like an unnecessary commotion,
 although he'd always cheered for others in the past. A
 binding was routine, nothing to it.
   He was a Blade, a companion in the Order.
 People would address him as Sir Durendal, although that
 was only a courtesy title.
   "You didn't need us!" Gotherton gasped.
 "You barely twitched!"
   They could be thanked later, and the Brat, the
 armorers, and all the others. First things first. He
 rose and went to recover his sword before the
 glazed-looking Marquis dropped her. Now he
 could inspect her properly. She was a
 hand-and-a-half sword with a straight blade, about
 a yard long, the longest he could wear at his belt
 without tripping. She was single-edged for two-thirds
 of her length, double-edged near the point. He
 admired the grace of the fluted quillons, the
 delicate sweep of the knuckle guard, the finger
 ring for when he wanted to use her as a rapier, the
 fire of the cat's-eye pommel that gave her her
 balance, which of course was perfect, neither
 too far forward for thrusting nor so far back that he
 would not be able to slash. The armorers had created a
 perfect all-around weapon for a swordsman of
 unusual versatility. Had they laid her among
 a hundred others, he would have picked her out as
 his. He admired his own heart's blood on
 her, then slipped her through the loop on his belt.
 He would name her Harvest--a good name for a sword,
 a tribute to a friend who'd been treated badly
 by chance.
   Byless was fussing, trying to help him into his
 shirt, Grand Master was congratulating him, while
 he was still trying to think of all the people he must thank
 before ...
   Suddenly his attention was caught by the Marquis,
 that green-faced, shivering pimp in the background.
 How strange! It was as if that
 pseudo-aristocratic ninny was the only
 illuminated thing in the room, with everyone and everything
 else in darkness. Nobody, nothing else
 mattered. The turd was still a turd,
 unfortunately--the binding had not changed that--but now
 he was obviously an important turd. He
 must be looked after and kept safe.
   Most-wondrous!
   Sir Durendal walked over to his ward and
 nodded respectfully. "At your service now,
 my lord," he said. "When do we ride?"



   The Marquis did not ride, he traveled
 by coach--but that came later, in the morning. First
 there was the customary small-hours dinner in the
 hall, when the new Blade and his ward sat with the
 knights, when juniors went quietly to sleep
 with their heads among the dishes, when men made
 foolish speeches. Harvest's death should have
 cooled the merriment this time, but it did not seem
 to.
   "We were all so sorry for him," Master of
 Archives explained. "Two weeks is
 average. I only had to endure a couple of
 days of it myself. But here, this poor little fellow--"
 The hall guffawed in unison. "--th
 unfortunate mite had been the Brat for three
 whole months! And he really wasn't good at it.
 He couldn't grovel. He cringed badly. His
 whining was just appalling. But, finally, at long last,
 something crawled in the door, something that
 Grand Master could in reasonably good conscience
 accept. No, I don't mean Candidate
 Byless; he came later. So the Brat was
 allowed back into the human race. He came
 to see me to choose a name. "No," I said,
 "you can't have that one. It's special." And he
 said, "But you said ...""
   And so on. If it kept the children happy,
 Sir Durendal could smile tolerantly. It
 had been the sopranos who had hung that name on
 him and he had turned the tables on them by keeping
 it.
   Master of Rapiers was next to rise up on his
 hind legs. "... not true that he could beat me
 on his second day in Ironhall. Absolute
 nonsense! It was the third day."
   More howls of mirth. It had been two years,
 and three before Durendal had been able to do it
 consistently. He sipped his wine--and almost choked.
   "What in the name of the evils is this piss?" he
 whispered.
   Master of Sabers chuckled as if he had been
 waiting for that. "It's an excellent vintage."
 Other faces were smiling.
   "It tastes like--"
   "Yes, but only because you're on duty,
 Blade. One glass is your limit now."
   Durendal glanced at his ward, who was pouring the
 stuff down his throat like a dairymaid washing out
 a churn. He looked at the amused Grand
 Master on his throne and then at all the other
 grins.
   "When am I off duty?"
   "Probably about forty years from now," said
 Master of Horse.

   The Marquis's coach bore his arms in
 cobalt enamel and gold: azure, two
 squirrels adorsed or. It had padded leather
 seating, was drawn by eight matched grays, and
 represented a splendid example of the benefits
 to be gained by being brother of a woman the King
 wanted in bed--Olinda Nillway, now
 Countess Mornicade, the greatest beauty of the
 age. Gossips whispered that she had enhanced her
 natural charms with conjuration, but they could not
 explain how she might have smuggled an enchantment
 into court without the sniffers detecting it. Not only
 a great beauty, she was also a shrewd
 negotiator, who had won titles and
 estates for all her relatives. A couple of
 her uncles served the King as minor officials.
 Her brother was controller of naval provisions and
 made weevils seem wholesome.
   Two hours after leaving Ironhall,
 Durendal had not raised his opinion of his ward
 at all. The man wrapped in ermine was a
 small-minded, vainglorious nonentity. His
 gossip was pointless, his humor spiteful, and his
 general conversation utterly lacking in tact.
 "Can't you grow a beard yet?"
   "Never tried." But he'd been shaving every day
 since he ate at the beansprouts' table. His chin
 grew stubble like marble-cutters' grit.
   "Try. That's an order. His Majesty sets
 the standard for the court, and at the moment it is
 mustache and full beard."
   Yesterday, while wondering what to meditate
 upon, Durendal had decided to let his beard grow
 in. Now, clearly, he would have to keep shaving it
 off.
   "Is your hair naturally wavy, or do you
 curl it?"
   Spirits preserve me! Curl it?
   "I asked you a question, boy."
   "I heard it."
   Nutting fell silent, looking puzzled. He
 could not remain silent long. Soon he laughingly
 mentioned that a Blade had been his sister's idea.
 "She persuaded the King to make out the warrant and
 gave it to me at my birthday banquet last
 week--such a lovely surprise!"
   Up until then Durendal had hardly
 spoken, being intent on viewing the world he had not
 seen since he was fourteen, but at that news he
 felt a sort of high-pitched twang, like a string
 snapping on a lute.
   "My lord, I am not your servant. I am the
 King's. He has decreed that I shall serve him
 by defending you to the death, so that is what I shall do.
 How I do it is entirely up to me. I don't
 need to pander to your whims. I am a Blade, not a
 gift from a harlot to a pimp."
   Nutting's jaw dropped. "You can't speak
 to me like that!" he screeched.
   "Yes, I can. I won't do it in public
 unless you provoke me."
   "I will have you flogged!"
   Durendal chuckled. "Try. I'll bet you
 I drop six of them before they lay a hand
 on me." Three for certain and why not six?
   "I'll report you to ... to ..."
   "Yes?"
   "To the King!"
   "He can bring me to heel, I admit. But I
 shall be with you when you tattle, because from now on I am
 always going to be with you. I advise you not to have too
 many other witnesses."
   The rest of the journey was more peaceful.

   Still the coach continued to bounce and rattle through
 fields and pasture, with no sign of Grandon.
 Just as Durendal realized it was not going to the
 capital at all, a bend in the road revealed
 gates ahead and a high stone wall that stretched
 almost out of sight. Over it showed glimpses of
 fine trees, gable roofs, innumerable tall
 chimney pots. A Blade should be a
 saturnine, silent, menacing sort of person, but
 there would be time enough for that later. Not today.
   "This's the palace?"
   "Oldmart Palace." The Marquis shrugged.
 "It's better than most. Newer, for one thing."
   "The King's in residence?" Flames and
 steel! He was babbling like a child. Why else would
 they be going there?
   His lordship curled his shapely mustache in a
 sneer--he had been complaining again of the grand ball
 he had missed last night. "Today he's hosting a
 reception for the Isilond ambassador. It will be
 a very august affair."
   A man could relax, then. He would not be
 invited to ... but where the Marquis went, his
 Blade went. Mustn't ask. Didn't have to.
   "Of course," said the turd, "correct
 protocol requires a new Blade arriving
 at court to be presented to His Majesty as
 soon as possible. I imagine even the Lord
 Herald will not object if I change first. Can't
 do much about you, though. It is regrettable that you have
 nothing decent to wear."
   Durendal glanced down at the smart new
 hose, doublet, and jerkin Ironhall had
 provided for his departure, much as a merchant
 might package an expensive purchase leaving
 his premises. "These are the finest garments I've
 ever worn, my lord."
   "Bah! Rags! Disgusting. Those slashed
 sleeves went out two years ago. As my
 Blade, you will have to be suitably
 arrayed, but we can't help that today."
   "If I may presume, my lord ... you could
 take me into town, dress me, and present me
 tomorrow."
   "No! It must be today."
   Obviously the Marquis could not wait
 to flaunt his new symbol of greatness before the
 court. Durendal sank back on the bench in
 silence.

   An hour or so later, he followed his ward
 down marble steps and out into the palace grounds.
 Ironhall had taught him the basic skills
 he would need for court--protocol, deportment,
 etiquette, and even how to tread a reasonable
 minuet or gavotte. This was all real, so why
 did he feel like a child playing make-believe?
 He surveyed acres of lawns and flower beds and
 little ornamental lakes, all divided
 by waist-high hedges and paved paths, with striped
 marquees and bright flags in the distance.
 Orchestras played under the trees. It was
 grandiose and fairy-tale, but it was real. The
 weight at his side was Harvest, a real sword,
 his own personal sword.
   His eyes picked out other Blades right away,
 the distinctive blue and silver livery with a royal
 lion emblem over the heart, the uniform of the
 Royal Guard, which he would give all his teeth
 to belong to and now never would. Soon he was close enough
 to recognize some of those who had been ahead of him
 in the school and others who had accompanied the King
 on his visits there. Two of the former noticed him
 and beamed a welcome from a distance. They must know the
 man he was warding. Would he have to live with their pity
 all his life?
   There were also men-at-arms holding pikes, wearing
 helmets and breastplates, probably secular,
 although he must never assume that a possible
 opponent was not spiritually enhanced. There seemed to be
 more servants than courtiers. The women in white,
 wearing high white conical hats trimmed with
 muslin--those must be the White Sisters, the
 sniffers.
   Nutting plunged straight ahead through the throng
 of silks and satins, jewels and ermine, ruffs and
 gold. He smiled and waved and cried out
 greetings to those he deemed worthy of his notice.
 Heads turned, which was the whole idea. Had he
 no shame, no sense of rightness? Had he
 never heard of subtlety? The better Durendal
 came to know him, the worse he seemed.
   As the Marquis led his Blade through a gap in
 the final hedge, entering onto the lawn where the
 royal party stood, he brushed past two
 men-at-arms, undoubtedly without seeing them. Even
 Durendal assumed they were ceremonial, for they were
 chatting earnestly with a sniffer, but suddenly she
 shouted, "You--stop!" and there was an emergency.
   The men-at-arms began to level their pikes
 to challenge, but Durendal had already thrust the
 Marquis aside, drawn Harvest, and was just about
 to spit the first man through the eye when the woman
 screamed.
   "No! Stop! Stop! It's all right!"
   He managed to halt the sword about an inch from
 its target and retain his balance too. Which was good.
   The sniffer waved both hands at the guards, who
 had not finished reacting to her original shout. "I
 made a mistake."
   Fortunately there was no one else close enough
 to have noticed. Even more fortunately, the woman
 had retracted her challenge extremely quickly.
 Now came reaction, analysis, reproach--he
 had erred. He had been too quick. There had been
 no threat to Nutting, only to him, but he had almost
 slain two of the King's men-at-arms on the King's
 lawn.
   "My lady, your mistake was nearly
 fatal!" He slid Harvest back into her
 scabbard, noting with unworthy pleasure that his
 potential opponents had both turned almost as
 white as the stupid woman's antique clothing.
   She was about thirty, old enough not to make such
 dangerous errors. Her face was pleasantly
 plump, the scarlet blush of embarrassment
 intriguing. The towering hennin made her seem much
 taller than she actually was.
   The Marquis had begun to splutter
 predictably. "What is the meaning of this
 outrage?" He kept trying to dodge around
 Durendal, and Durendal kept moving in front
 of him.
   "My lord, I apologize!" she said. "Your
 Blade is very recently bound, my lord?"
   "What of it? Confound it, boy, get out of my
 way!"
   "The smell of the Forge on him is very strong,
 my lord."
   The Marquis flustered like a mad
 duck. "That's no excuse! Don't you know who
 I am? You dare accuse me of practicing
 conjuration, and against His Majesty at that? You almost
 provoked a major scandal, sister!"
   "I was merely doing my duty, my lord, and
 what I almost provoked was a lot worse than
 scandal."
   Good for her! She was not going to take any
 nonsense from the turd, even if she had made
 unpleasant allegations about Durendal. She
 nodded stiffly to him. "My apologies to you also,
 sir knight."
   He bowed. "Mine to you for startling you, sister."
   "I shall complain to Mother Superior!" Nutting
 snapped. "Now come along, Blade, and let us
 have no more embarrassing scenes."
   He strode off huffily. Durendal risked
 a wink at the sniffer and followed his ward.
   He had seen the King often at Ironhall,
 although to the King he would have been just one of dozens of
 faces. He would not have known the Queen from any
 other well-dressed lady in the land. He took
 note of her features, realizing that they were
 singularly nondescript and someday he might
 meet her by chance in a hallway. Godeleva was
 a slender woman, but she might not have seemed so
 frail and colorless had she not been standing next
 her vibrant, domineering husband. In eight
 years of marriage, she had not yet brought a
 baby to term, which might explain her air of
 worry and sorrow.
   But the King ... Ambrose IV was
 thirty-four and had reigned for two years already.
 He was taller than any other man around him,
 monolithic in his sumptuous attire of fur and
 brocade and jewels, blazing brighter than the
 rosebushes behind him. His hair was tawny, the
 cropped fringe of beard closer to red. He
 broke off what he was saying to frown at the
 Marquis's brash intrusion.
   Nutting could bow gracefully, give him that.
 But he did not wait to be acknowledged.
   "My liege, I have the great honor of
 presenting the Blade Your Majesty so generously
 assigned to me. Sir Durendal has--"
   "Sir Who?" The royal bellow could be heard
 all the way to the hollyhocks. Every head turned.
   The Marquis blinked. "Durendal, sire."
   Ambrose IV stared at the young man kneeling
 before him. "Stand up!"
   Durendal rose.
   "Well!" The famous amber eyes raked him
 up and down. "Durendal, hmmm? A
 descendant?"
   "No, Your Majesty. Just an admirer."
   "We all are. Welcome to court, Sir
 Durendal."
   "Thank you, sire."
   "Very impressive! I don't believe," the
 King said loudly, "that I intended to be quite so
 generous."
   Amid the thunderstorm of laughter, the Marquis
 turned redder than the geraniums. A royal
 jest like that one would linger around the court for days, like
 a bad smell.



   The Marquis, surprisingly, had a marquise
 he had not thought to mention. She was even younger than
 Durendal--although not younger than he was feeling
 by then, which was about seven. She was another gift from the
 King, having been a ward in chancery, but her
 husband seemed genuinely fond of her. She was very
 pretty, impeccably well mannered, incapable
 of rational thought. Her family tree was as
 tangled as a briar patch and blighted by inbreeding;
 and her only serious interest was clothing.
   In the Marquis's absence, his establishment had
 been moved to a vast new suite in the main wing
 of the palace. He preened at this additional
 evidence of royal favor, ignoring his wife's
 complaints that the servants were laughing at her for not
 having enough gowns to fill all the closet space.
 She told her husband's Blade to stand there. And
 there. And there. Look at the window. Perfect.
 When company called, would he please lean against the
 mantel with his left profile to the door. She
 assumed she was giving an order, so he did not
 need to answer the question.
   He thought he could detect invisible hands at
 work on his behalf, though, because the new quarters had
 obviously been designed with security in mind,
 having but a single entrance and windows accessible
 only to bats. Any midnight intruder must
 pass through the outer rooms, where he would be. The
 servants were billeted elsewhere. There were ropes
 available in case of fire. What else need
 he worry about?
   Two things. The first was that no assassin
 in the world had the slightest interest in harming Tab
 Nillway, Marquis of Nutting. The second
 was that Durendal knew that and could no more stop himself
 behaving like a real Blade with a real ward than a
 sheepdog could resist herding sheep.
   Fortunately on this, his first night on the job,
 his ward announced that he was incredibly exhausted
 by the hardships of his visit to Ironhall and was
 going to bed early. The Marquise went with him;
 valet and maid departed. Durendal locked and
 barred the door, checked every cranny for concealed
 murderers, and then settled into a comfortable chair in
 the outermost salon. There he chewed over his
 problem while he stropped Harvest into the sharpest
 sword in the known world.
   As he had not been warned of all the side
 effects of a binding conjuration, he must be expected
 to work them out for himself. He already knew he could not
 drink more than one glass of wine. Now, after two
 nights without sleep, he felt as fresh as a
 new-laid egg. Bizarre! Blades were
 normally assigned in pairs or larger groups,
 and he should have realized that sooner. He was all
 alone, but he already knew that he could not bear to let
 the unspeakable Marquis out of his sight. How were the
 two of them going to stand each other for the next thirty
 or forty years? How was he ever going to take
 exercise, make friends, and even enjoy a little
 romance?
   He must have advice. The logical source was
 the Royal Guard, but how could he consult them?
 Even now, when his ward was as safe as he could ever
 be, Durendal could not walk out and leave him, not
 if that door had a hundred locks on it.
 During the day, he would be in constant attendance.
   He was going to go crazy.
   An hour later, when the tap came, he had
 guessed the answer. Even so, he had Harvest in
 his hand as he opened the door a crack on the chain
 and peeked out. There were two of them, and one of them was
 Hoare, who had left Ironhall only two
 months ago. The other was Montpurse himself.
   "You're late," he said brashly and let them
 in.
   They were both typical Blades--lean,
 chiseled men who studied the world intently and moved
 like cats--but Hoare had not yet lost his
 distinctive juvenile nonchalance, an insouciance
 that gave him a permanent air of knowing some
 secret joke. He was about a month
 into an ill-advised beard, much fairer than his
 hair. Montpurse was clean shaven, with hair like
 flax and eyes the blue of buttermilk. His
 babyish complexion made him seem ten years
 younger than his companion, but he must be in his middle
 twenties now. Was it an advantage to be always
 underestimated? Did it amuse the King to have a
 permanent adolescent in charge of his Guard?
   "Brother Durendal, Leader," Hoare said,
 cuing Durendal to call him "brother" and
 Montpurse "Leader." Hands were clasped.
   "I'd never have forgotten that name," Montpurse
 said. "You must have been after my time."
   "Yes, Leader." Not quite, but Durendal would not
 say so.
   Then the mist-blue eyes lit up. "No! You
 were the Brat! You gave me my sword!"
   "And you came and thanked me afterward. You have no
 idea what that meant to me!"
   "Yes, I do," Montpurse said firmly.
 "Now, you must have questions."
   Durendal remembered his manners and bade his
 visitors be seated. He apologized for not
 having refreshments handy.
   Montpurse settled onto a chair like a
 falling leaf. "You can get anything you want
 by pulling that bell rope. Don't bother now,
 though."
   "First question, then. How do I guard a man
 twenty-four hours a day?"
   For a moment the Commander reflected Hoare's
 secret smile. "You can't. You'll find that the
 urgency wears off in a couple of weeks. As you
 learn the ropes you gain confidence. You stay out of the
 bathroom, is how we describe it. In the
 Guard, of course, we take turns; and whenever
 your ward is in the palace we can spell you off
 also." He cut off Durendal's thanks.
 "No, we do it for any single. We regard it as
 part of our job. There are far too many of us just
 to guard the King, and it would be no advantage to him
 to have crazy Blades running around."
   Durendal had guessed right, which was satisfying.
 "Do I ever sleep?"
   This time the smile was broader. "You may doze
 in a chair for an hour or so, but you'll waken every
 time a spider sneezes. One gets used to it.
 Take up a hobby--study law, finance, or
 foreign tongues. Helps to pass the time. Even
 Blades age, you know. You can't be a
 crack swordsman forever."
   Durendal thanked him again. There was something
 exhilarating in this frank, brotherly talk with
 two men he had admired for so long. Hoare had
 been part hero, part friend, permanently ahead of him
 although Durendal had been the better fencer for
 years. All the candidates worshiped
 Montpurse in absentia for his legendary
 swordsmanship and meteoric rise in the King's
 service.
   "Is there any reason I don't know why the
 Marquis needs a Blade?"
   Awkward pause.
   "Not that I am aware of," Montpurse
 admitted reluctantly. "The King will refuse
 the Countess nothing. But don't feel slighted.
 Look on the sunny side--your assignment will
 stretch you to the limit. We guard the King, but
 there's a hundred of us. Most of the time we're
 bored silly."
   That was Sir Aragon's Rationalization to Comfort
 Unfortunate Colleagues.
   Hoare leered. "Tell him about women!"
   "You tell him, you lecherous young beast."
   "I hope one of you will," Durendal said
 frankly. They knew how innocent he was.
 They'd been there.
   "Oh, they're overrated. They always drift
 off to sleep."
   Montpurse rolled his eyes in disbelief.
 "You wear them out, you mean. That's part of the legend,
 Durendal, one of the best parts."
   "I'll find you a good tutor," Hoare said
 thoughtfully. "Let's see ... Blondie?
 Ayne? Rose? Ah, yes ... married to a
 royal courier, so she gets lonely and won't
 chatter or start dreaming of permanent arrangements
 ... bonny, bouncy, eager ..."
   "He knows a hundred like that," his commander said
 scornfully. "I won't let him play
 tricks on you."
   Durendal gulped and said, "That's kind of you."
   "Now, how about leaving our philandering friend here
 to guard your gate and coming for a stroll with me?"
   Every muscle tensed in alarm. "Not tonight, if you
 don't mind. I'd love to, but it just feels a
 little soon, if you understand?" He could see that they
 had expected that response and were trying not to laugh
 at him. But he couldn't! No matter what they
 thought of him, he just couldn't.
   "I give you my oath, Blade to brother,"
 Hoare said, keeping his face as solemn as it could
 ever be, "that I will guard your ward until you
 return."
   "It's very kind of you, but ..."
   Montpurse chuckled and stood up. "The King
 wants you."
   "What?"
   "You heard. The King wants to speak with you.
 Coming?"
   That made a difference! He was a King's
 Blade. "Yes, of course. Um, I'd
 better shave first."
   "You'll only nick yourself," Montpurse
 said. "Come! We don't keep him waiting."
   There could be no more argument. Although Durendal
 heard the bolts and chains closing behind him, he still
 felt unsettled as he headed off along the
 corridor with Montpurse.
   "Like ants walking all over you, isn't it?"
 the Commander said. "But it does wear off, I
 promise you. Or you get used to it."
   They clattered down a long flight of marble
 stairs. The palace had fallen silent; the
 corridors were dim as the candles burned low.
   "I'm a King's Blade bound to a subject.
 How does divided loyalty work?"
   "Your binding is to the Marquis. He's first, the
 King second. If they ever come into conflict, you will
 have a serious problem."
   That seemed like a good cue for a very tricky question,
 and the middle of a huge, deserted hallway a good
 place to ask it. "Why would the King give a
 valuable property like a Blade to a man who
 has no enemies?"
   "I thought I told you that."
   "Tell me again."
   "Are you questioning the royal prerogative?"
 Montpurse opened an inconspicuous door
 to reveal narrow fieldstone stairs leading
 downward.
   "I would not want to think my sovereign was a
 fool, Leader."
   The Commander closed the door behind them and then
 caught his companion's arm in a steely grip.
 "What do you mean by that?" The pale eyes were
 ice-blue now.
   Durendal realized that he was being held under a
 lamp, where his face was clearly visible. How had
 he managed to stumble into quicksand so soon?
 "If the King had doubts about a man's loyalty
 --perhaps not now, but his loyalty in future--
 well, conspiracy would be very difficult with a
 Blade around, wouldn't it? And he would make a
 good touchstone. If he suddenly goes insane,
 investigate."
   Hard stare. "Oh, come, Brother Durendal!
 You don't suspect your little marquis of
 treasonous ambitions?"
   "No, not at all. But His Majesty couldn't
 plant Blades only on the doubtful, could he?
 He would have to spread some dummies around too."
   A longer stare. Faint sounds of male
 laughter came drifting up from the cellar. "I do
 hope you won't spread such crazy notions around,
 brother."
   Spirits! That meant yes! "No, Leader. I
 won't mention them again."
   Without seeming to move a muscle,
 Montpurse shed about ten years and was a boy again.
 "Good. Now, one thing more. If His Majesty should
 choose to try a little fencing with you--about three times
 in four, understand?"
   "No."
   "Any less than that and he gets
 suspicious. Any more and he may be a little
 resentful. It is foolish to upset the mighty,
 brother." He led the way downstairs.
   Puzzled, Durendal followed.



   The cellar was rank with odors of ale and
 sweat, plus the eye-watering stench of whale oil
 from lamps hanging low overhead. There were no
 chairs or tables, only a row of barrels and a
 basket containing drinking horns. Of the thirty men
 standing around laughing and chattering, at least
 twenty-five were Blades in the blue-and-silver
 livery of the Guard. The rest were almost certainly
 Blades of other loyalties or just out of uniform
 --all but one, the largest man present, who was the
 center of attention. Judging by the relaxed din,
 Blades off duty had no problem drinking their
 fill and this was their private haunt.
   The King completed a story that sent his listeners
 into peals of mirth. What a king! After only two
 years on the throne, already he had reformed the tax
 system, ended the Isilond War, and gone a long
 way to master the great landowners who had so
 defied his father. Yet here he was, one of the
 greatest monarchs in all Eurania, roistering with
 his Blades as if he were one of them, making them
 laugh and--much more important--bellowing with
 laughter himself when they responded. This was the man
 Durendal had been created to serve, not that
 wretched Marquis of Nothing now snoring away
 upstairs.
   Ambrose swung around to stare over heads at
 the newcomers. Although his face was flushed at the
 moment and sequined with sweat, the gold eyes were
 clear and steady. Durendal offered a
 three-quarter bow that he judged appropriate
 to a first personal audience set in an informal
 atmosphere.
   "I have heard some impressive tales, Sir
 Durendal," the King boomed.
   "Your Majesty is most gracious."
   "Only when I want to be!" He glanced at
 his companions to trigger another laugh. Then he
 frowned. "What happened to Harvest?"
   The room stilled instantly. It also seemed
 to grow much colder, in spite of the stuffiness.
   "I am not qualified to judge, sire." That
 was not good enough. The King knew that. "But, if you
 are asking for my opinion, I believe he was not
 ready. He lacked confidence in himself."
   The royal brows frowned. "Come over here."
   He led Durendal to a dark corner. Backs
 turned and the rest of the room became very noisy again.
 Nothing was less visible than a monarch
 incognito, but the King's personality at close
 quarters was an experience akin to being trapped in a
 cave by a bear. It was a long time since
 Durendal had needed to look up to anyone.
   "It was unfortunate."
   "Yes, sire." Oh, yes, yes, yes! But
 a man should mourn a lost friend for the friend's sake, not
 for what that death had cost him personally.
   "Who's next? Give me your assessment of the
 next six."
   That would be tattling. Officially even Grand
 Master did not pass such information on to the King,
 although no one believed that. Conflicting loyalties
 howled in Durendal's mind--loyalty
 to Ironhall, to the men who had trained him, to his
 friends there. But the Order was the King's, and a
 companion's fealty was to the sovereign.
   "My liege. Candidate Byless is Prime
 now, excellent all-round material, but
 he's only seventeen--"
   "He lied about his age?"
   Byless told tales about a sheriff after him and
 Grand Master rescuing him from a hangman's
 noose, but no one believed them. "I expect
 so, sire. He needs at least another year--
 better two." Three would be better yet, but who
 would dare say so to this impatient King?
 "Candidate Gotherton is very sound, probably
 better at thinking than he can ever be at fencing, but
 not at all below standard. Candidate Everman is a
 year older than me. He's superb.
 Candidate--"
   "Tell me about Everman." The King listened
 intently as Durendal raved about Everman. Then
 he said, "Is he as good as you?"
   Trapped! A man should fall on his sword.
   "Not yet."
   "Will he ever be?"
   "Close, I'd say."
   The King smiled, showing he was aware of the
 feelings he had provoked. "Good answers,
 Blade! The ancients taught us: Know thyself!
 I admire a man who can assess his own worth.
 I also appreciate honesty. It is a quality
 rulers treasure above all others--except
 loyalty, of course, and I can buy that. Grand
 Master agrees that Everman is exceptional, but
 he still ranks him well below you."
   Durendal's mouth opened and closed a few
 times. He could feel himself blushing like a child. He
 had never dreamed that the King followed the progress
 of the school so closely. "Your Majesty is very
 kind."
   The King pouted. "No I'm not, I'm
 ruthless. I have to be. Just now I have an urgent
 need for a first-rate Blade. I wanted you."
   Blood and steel! Harvest's death had thrown
 Durendal away on the turd, and the King's
 reaction at hearing his name today had not meant what
 he thought it did.
   "Byless and Gotherton--can they endure binding?
 Would they snuff out like Harvest?"
   Durendal held two friends' lives in his hands
 and wanted to scream. He took time to think about his
 answer. Mouth dry, he said cautiously,
 "Sire, they're good men. I think they'll do
 it."
   The King smiled. His breath reeked of ale and
 garlic. "Well spoken. Repeat this
 conversation to no one, ever. Now, I've heard so
 much about your ability with a sword ... I'm not
 without merit myself, you know."
   This night was going straight down and accelerating.
 Oh, to be back on Starkmoor! Even to be the
 Brat again would be better than this.
   "Your Majesty's prowess is legendary, but
 I am supposed to be an expert. I hope you
 will not humiliate me in public, sire."
   "Well, let's see about that! Fair match,
 now--honesty, remember? No pandering to my
 feelings. Sir Larson! Where are the foils?
 Rapiers, I think. The rapier is my weapon.
 Even I would hesitate to try this brawny lad
 with a broadsword. What do you think?"
   A Blade Durendal did not know had already
 produced foils and masks, apparently from
 nowhere. "I am sure Your Majesty would
 massacre him with a broadsword."
   The King guffawed. "Be a shame to end his
 career so soon, yes?"
   Willing hands helped Durendal out of his
 jerkin, doublet, and shirt as the audience cleared
 back to the walls. Obviously this reeking cellar
 had a long history of Blades, ale, and
 fencing. Fair match? Did the King always order
 what he really wanted? How could he possibly
 hope to make a showing against a Blade?
 Montpurse's baby face was shooting more
 warnings.
   Aha! The new boy was being hazed, of
 course, and the King was in on the joke. Perhaps hazing
 was a tradition for all greenies, but the bright new
 star who could thrash all the fencing masters at
 Ironhall would be an irresistible target. The
 famous expert was going to flounder against a mere
 amateur and would never hear the end of it.
   No, he wasn't! If His Majesty had
 ordered a fair match, then a fair match he
 must have. A man could never go wrong obeying his king.
 Surely very few monarchs would shed their dignity so
 willingly just to play childish games with a band of
 guards. But it was with this kind of understanding that a great
 man inspired unquestioning loyalty among his
 followers.
   Stripped to the waist, the contestants raised
 foils in salute. Durendal scuffed his feet
 in the sawdust to test the footing.
   "On guard!" cried Ambrose IV, King
 of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of
 Nythia, Lord of the Three Seas, Fount of
 Justice, and so on, who was large and sweaty, with
 too much fat under his skin and a pelt of tawny
 hair outside it. The most famous face in the
 kingdom was hidden behind the chain mesh of a mask.
   Right foot forward, left arm up, the King
 advanced and lunged like a three-legged cow.
 Deciding to play along for a moment or two,
 Durendal parried, riposted well wide of the
 mark, parried again, and almost struck the King
 by accident on the next lunge. The man was slower
 than a watched pot. He was trying to use the
 Ironhall style and he didn't know Lily from
 Swan. Parry at Willow, riposte
 to Rainbow. It was a ballet of tortoises.
 Enough.
   "A touch!"
   "Ha!" said His Majesty in a tone that sounded
 convincingly like displeasure. "It was indeed. Well,
 good luck is a valuable attribute in a
 Blade. Let us see how you fare on the next
 pass, Sir Durendal."
   Durendal went to Swan again.
   "Have at you!" cried the monarch.
   Eagle, Butterfly--"Another touch ...
 sire."
   The King growled realistically, but he must be
 grinning hugely behind the mask. Montpurse
 made frantic gestures in the background. If
 the victim had not seen through this jape, he would be
 getting very worried about now.
   "Again, sire?"
   "Again!"
   Better spin this one out, just for good manners.
 Eggbeater. Stickleback. Oh flames!
 Cockroach. He hadn't really meant to do that quite
 so soon. The King uttered another growl and
 swished his foil up and down a few times as if
 he were truly surprised and angry at the way the
 match was going. He was a marvelous actor. They
 all were. Peering through his mask, Durendal could
 not see one surreptitious smile in the room.
   Three-nothing so far. Three times out of four,
 Montpurse had said, so the next pass would show
 them that their pigeon had smelled the cuckoo. ...
   "By the spirits of fire, my liege, the lad is
 on form!" shouted a voice somewhere.
   The note of desperation in that voice was so
 amazingly realistic that it froze Durendal's
 sweat. Fire and death! Had he
 misunderstood? Did the King really think he could
 fence worth a pot of spit? Surely men like
 Montpurse would not prostitute their honor
 by indulging his crazy fancies?
   This had to be a joke!
   Didn't it?
   Suddenly his new apprehension switched
 to anger. If this was a prank, then it was in stinking
 bad taste. If it wasn't, then he had already
 shown the King up as a deluded buffoon, which was
 probably high treason, and Montpurse as a
 bootlicker, which meant that all the generous aid
 promised to the newcomer would fail to appear.
   "Now, by death!" Snarling, the monarch charged his
 foe, and Durendal poked him on the belly.
 Four out of four.
   "Again!" roared the King, and the button of
 Durendal's foil flicked him again in exactly
 the same place.
   The royal chest was turning red, as if all the
 hair might start smoking soon. "By the dark,
 I'll not quit till I have laid steel on this
 whelp! On guard again, sirrah!" That was a
 threat. This was no friendly test of swordsmanship,
 it was rank intimidation.
   "It is spirituality, Your Majesty!" shouted
 one of the onlookers. "He is too fresh from the
 Forge for any man to beat him."
   Ambrose ignored that ingenious invention. He
 took eight hits before he admitted defeat and
 hauled off his mask. Inflamed and incandescently
 furious, he glared around the room as if searching
 for the least trace of a smile. The King was a
 stumblebum swordsman, and the Royal Guard were a
 gang of sycophants.
   Durendal saluted and removed his own mask.
 "Permission to withdraw, Your--"
   "No! Put that on again, boy! Montpurse,
 let us see how you can fare against this superman."
   Sending Durendal a look that should have melted his
 bones, the Commander began to strip. Of course there
 could only be one ending to the coming match--he would have
 to lose almost as dramatically as his King had lost.
 Anything else would be a public admission that he
 was a liar and a toady.
   The new Blade could win at fencing, but he had
 lost a lot of powerful friends on his first night at
 court.




   The next day it was the Marquis's turn again.
 He called in the tailors. His wife assisted
 the discussion with the air of a child given a new doll
 to dress. Durendal stood patiently while they
 draped swatches over him, trying to match his
 hair and eyes. When bidden, he went off and
 returned in various absurd apparels. And when
 the final decision on cut and color had been
 made, he said, "No."
   "What do you mean no?" Nutting snapped.
   "I will not wear that, my lord."
   "You are under oath to serve me!"
   "Yes, my lord. I have also been enchanted
 to serve you. But you do not buy a bulldog and harness
 it to a plow. You set it on bulls. My
 purpose is not to look pretty but to defend you,
 and I cannot fight in those garments."
   "Bah! You will never be required to fight. You
 know that."
   "Yes, my lord. Sadly, I do know that. But
 the conjurement does not, and it will not let me
 swaddle myself in a gabardine mattress cover."
   "Insolence!" snapped the Marquise.
 "Don't let him talk back to you like that,
 dearest."
   "I will follow you naked, my lord, before I wear
 that tabard." Seeing that defiance was going to be
 stalemate, Durendal added, "May I
 presume to advise?"
   "What?" Nutting growled.
   "Something more like the livery of the Royal Guard.
 It is serviceable and appealing."
   The turd considered the suggestion, tugging his little
 beard. "You know, that idea has merit! My
 colors are blue and gold. Dearest, why
 don't we specify exactly the same design
 but with gold instead of silver?"
   The Marquise clapped her hands. "Why, he
 will look beautiful in that, my dear!"
   Fire and death! Durendal had been
 talking about the cut, not the heraldry. The Royal
 Guard would have a hundred apoplectic fits.

   Montpurse was furious enough already, as Hoare
 reported that evening--but Durendal knew that from the
 tongue-lashing he had received the previous night,
 after the King's departure. He thought he would carry
 the scars to his grave.
   But the Commander was not a vindictive man,
 Hoare said. His offer of help still stood, which was why
 Hoare had appeared at the Nutting suite after
 midnight in the company of a beautiful child named
 Kitty. He departed quite soon, but she remained.
   Durendal discovered that she was not a child, and she was
 beautiful in ways and places he had hitherto
 only imagined.

   Later in that first memorable week, things began
 to improve. Even the black glares that greeted
 the appearance of the Marquis's Blade in his new
 livery came to a sudden end. The Guard's
 acceptance of the upstart was promoted by the King himself.
   It happened at the Birthday Reception.
 Blades at official functions, like the
 frescoes on the ceilings, were invariably
 present and universally ignored. Thus
 Durendal stood by the wall on the far side of the
 hall and watched as the Nuttings waited in line
 to pay their respects to the monarch. The other
 Blades present, both royal and private,
 had gathered in small clumps; but he was alone and
 likely to remain so.
   The Queen was not there. Rumor whispered that she
 was with child again. The Countess was in evidence, but she
 could not stand at the King's side on such an
 occasion. He was attended on the dais only
 by Commander Montpurse, Lord Chancellor
 Bluefield, the forbidding Grand Inquisitor, and
 an imposing matron in white robes and hennin,
 who must surely be Mother Superior of the
 Companionship of White Sisters.
   There were other sniffers present, of course.
 About the end of the first dull hour, Durendal
 observed the Sister who had accosted him on his first
 day at court, standing by herself not far from him. He
 eased unobtrusively in her direction; but before
 he reached her, she looked around, frowning. He
 strolled the rest of the way quite openly and bowed to her,
 bidding her good morrow.
   Her response was barely civil. "What do
 you want?" She eyed the golden squirrel over
 his heart with distaste, which meant they had at least one
 thing in common.
   "I came for reassurance that I no longer
 reek of the Forge quite so strongly, Sister."
   "We resent being referred to as sniffers, young
 man. Your question is both vulgar and insulting."
   It was she who had begun the talk of
 sniffing by accusing him of having a bad smell.
   "I beg pardon, then. I give offense through
 ignorance, being but a new-forged Blade, fresh from
 the coals. How does one detect a
 conjurement?"
   "The sensation is indescribable. At the moment
 I feel as if I am required to sing a very
 difficult song and you are standing beside me humming
 another one loudly in the wrong key. Does that
 make matters clearer?"
   Somewhat. He tried one more smile,
 probably a rather desperate one. "And what will you
 do if you detect the handiwork of an evil conjurer,
 Sister?"
   "Call on the King's Blades, of course."
 She tossed her head so sharply that no secular
 power should have been able to keep her tall hat from
 falling off, but it didn't. She stalked away.
   A quick glance around the hall told him that
 Blades and White Sisters nowhere stood together,
 so he had learned something new by offending someone
 else. He went back to watching his ward's
 progress, a process duller than breeding
 oak trees.
   When, at long last, it was the turn of the
 Marquise to curtsey and the Marquis to kiss the
 royal hand, he prepared to move with a sense of
 relief, although he knew that he was merely about
 to exchange this ordeal for another, even longer one
 in the banquet hall. Then the King looked up.
 The bright amber eyes scanned the room and fixed
 on Durendal as if they were measuring him for a
 coffin--one that came up to his shoulders might be
 adequate.
   The King beckoned.
   Blood and steel! Was this the end? Exile to some
 hyperborean desert? Durendal hastened across
 miles of oak floor, conscious that heralds and
 pages were heading to block him and stopping as they
 intercepted gestures telling them there had been a
 change of plan. He arrived at the dais
 unchallenged and contorted himself in a full court
 bow.
   "I have a question, Sir Durendal!"
   The Nuttings turned back to see what was going
 on.
   "My liege?"
   The King pouted dangerously. "After our little
 fencing match the other evening ... did you by any
 chance have a further exchange with Commander
 Montpurse?"
   Flames and death!
   If Montpurse had a weakness, it was that his
 babyish complexion could color very easily, and
 now it colored very much. The King ought to be able
 to feel the heat of it on the back of his neck.
   "Yes, sire," Durendal said. "We did
 try a few more passes."
   For about an hour, with both rapiers and sabers,
 withand without shields or parrying daggers.
   "And who won that time?"
   "He did, Your Majesty." Not by very much,
 though.
   "Indeed? Isn't that very peculiar, considering that
 you had given him such a drubbing earlier? He fared
 no better against you than I did."
   "Um, well, these things can happen, sire."
   "Can they?" The King turned to look at the
 Commander. Then back at Durendal. Very slowly,
 the royal beard twisted around a grin.
 Abruptly Ambrose IV burst into enormous
 bellows of laughter, startling the whole court.
 He slapped his great thighs in mirth; tears ran
 down his cheeks. He thumped Montpurse's
 shoulder, and Montpurse blistered Durendal with
 another of his bone-melting glares.
   Still unable to find words, the King waved
 dismissal. Durendal bowed lower than an
 Alkozzi and beat a hasty departure, more or
 less dragging the startled Marquis with him. And
 then, of course, he had to explain, which meant
 admitting that he had delegated his
 responsibility, shamed the King, antagonized
 the Guard, and launched a scandal, for now the story
 must come out. The Marquise became almost
 hysterical and insisted that her husband dismiss his
 errant servant. She refused to believe that he
 could not be dismissed.
   The worst part of being a Blade, Durendal
 decided, was that he could not simply disappear down
 a rabbit bole when necessary. Perhaps other Blades,
 lacking his genius for causing trouble, never felt the
 need.
   The reception ended at last and the court sat
 down to eat the King's health at a
 twelve-course banquet. Blades stood around
 the walls again, but this time Durendal attached himself
 to a group of them. They were civil to him, no more.
 They made little jokes about men who wore gold
 uniforms, although they were careful not to make
 them about squirrels or upstart pimps who
 invented such uniforms, because that sort of talk might
 trigger Durendal's still-tender binding. They came
 and went, visiting a buffet in the next room.
 Since none of them offered to spell him and he was
 determined not to ask for relief, he did not
 expect to eat at all.
   Montpurse drifted into the group, acknowledging
 the problem Blade with a curt nod.
   About two minutes after that, a diminutive
 page appeared in front of Durendal, bowed,
 handed him a box of polished rosewood bearing the
 royal arms, and departed.
   "You have your lunch delivered?" Montpurse
 stepped closer to see. The others gathered around.
   "I don't know anything about this!"
   "Then you'll have to open it, won't you?"
   Anything but that! But he had no choice. He
 opened it. On the red velvet lining lay a
 sword breaker of antique Jindalian design
 --a dagger with deep notches along one side.
 Its hilt and quillons were inlaid with gold,
 malachite, and what appeared to be real lapis
 lazuli. At a guess, it was worth a duke's
 castle and change. The card bore a brief
 message:

   For him who broke the King's sword,
       A.

   "Flames and death!" Durendal slammed the
 lid before anyone could steal the contents. He hugged
 the treasure to his chest in both arms and stared at
 his companions with a sense of panic.
   Montpurse's pale eyes were twinkling.
 "Been robbing the crown jewels, have you?"
   "No! No, no! I don't understand. What do
 I do?"
   "You wear it, you flaming idiot. If the King
 is watching, as I expect he is, then you bow
 now."
   He was, his grin visible right across the hall.
 Durendal bowed.
   "Right. Then--here, let me help."
 Montpurse hung the marvel on Durendal's
 belt over his right thigh and said, "Oh, that's very
 nice! I'm jealous. What do you think, lads?"





   A few days after that, an excited Byless
 turned up at court, bound to Lord Chancellor
 Bluefield, who already had two Blades. Then
 Gotherton was reported to be in Grandon,
 assigned to Grand Wizard of the Royal
 College of Conjurers, who had three and ought to have
 less need of them than anyone in the kingdom.
   Although the Guard had numerous well-informed but
 ill-defined sources, there were some secrets it could
 not penetrate. When word came that Candidate
 Everman had been bound to a certain Jaque
 Polydin, gentleman, no amount of prying could
 discover anything at all about him, except that
 Blade and ward together had vanished off the face
 of the earth the following day. Even Montpurse
 claimed to have been kept in ignorance. Men
 whispered longingly about high adventure and secret
 agents traveling in foreign lands.
   Durendal wanted to scream with frustration and
 wring his ward's neck. His self-control
 prevented the first and his binding the second.


   It became official: The Queen was with child. The
 King showered wealth on every elementary order that could
 provide her with appropriate charms,
 amulets, and enchantments.

   Over the next couple of months, Durendal
 adapted to his strange double life in court.
 By day he was bored to insanity, following the
 Marquis from party to ball to reception to salon
 to dinner, and almost to bed. All suggestions that his
 lordship should take up riding or hawking or fencing
 or anything at all interesting fell on deaf
 ears. Besides, such pastimes would all incur a
 slight element of danger, and thus the binding
 conjurement impeded Durendal's efforts
 to promote them. He tended to stutter and develop
 a headache.
   Boredom was not the worst of it, though.
 Nutting's official duties for the navy occupied
 about ten minutes a week, when he signed the
 documents that his staff prepared and brought to him.
 Unofficially he ran a thriving business of his
 own. Much of it was dealt with through clandestine
 correspondence--letters he burned as soon as he
 had read them--but some of it required
 face-to-face negotiations. During those
 meetings with various savory or unsavory
 persons, he would order his Blade to stand at the
 far end of the room, so he could not eavesdrop. The
 details did not matter. Durendal was soon
 able to work out that his lordship was taking kickbacks on
 contracts, accepting bribes to overlook
 defects in the supplies delivered for the
 unfortunate sailors, and selling access to the
 King himself by passing petitions on to his sister.
 It was all nauseating, but there was nothing Durendal
 could do about it. He could never endanger his ward in
 any way at all.
   By night he flew free. One of the Guard would
 relieve him as the palace went to sleep, so he
 could join the others in their revels. Two horns
 of ale was his limit, but one satisfied him. His
 body absolutely demanded exercise, so he
 fenced. When there was moonlight he went riding in
 mad chases over the fields or joined
 bacchanalian swimming parties in the river. He
 indulged in quick romances, having no trouble finding
 willing partners.
   He learned how to beat Montpurse with
 sabers, if not with a rapier.
   He wore the royal sword breaker everywhere
 except in bed.
   The King never indulged in fencing now, and for that the
 Guard was duly grateful to Durendal.
   He saw the King frequently. Even if they
 just passed in a hallway, when the King had
 acknowledged the Marquis, he would always greet his
 Blade by name. It would be very easy to fall
 victim to that famous charm--and what it would be to be
 bound to such a man!
   Alas, fickle chance had decreed otherwise.
 However great his swordsmanship, he knew he was
 stuck with the job of guarding the obnoxious Marquis
 for the rest of his days. Never would he serve the king
 he revered, never ride to war at his side or
 save his life in lethal ambush, never battle
 monsters, unmask traitors, rise to high
 office, travel on secret missions in far
 dominions.--never be anything at all except a
 useless ornament around the court.
   Even the greatest of swordsmen can be a lousy
 prophet.


                NUTTING
                  II



   "Very well!" Kromman spluttered. "You
 may leave. You will remain at your residence
 until you are summoned." He was scarlet with
 fury.
   "Let go your sword, Sir Quarrel,"
 Roland said, edging between the two men.
   But Quarrel was a very newly bound Blade,
 and the new chancellor very obviously a danger to his
 ward. For a moment it seemed as if that order would not
 be enough. Then the white-faced boy made an
 effort and released the hilt he was holding.
   "As you wish, my lord." He glared hatred at
 Kromman.
   With a silent sigh of relief, Roland headed
 for the door. Quarrel arrived there before he did and
 opened it to peer out, as a well-trained bodyguard
 should.
   Roland whispered, "Mask!" It was an old
 Ironhall warning, a reminder that in real contests
 a man's face was not hidden from his opponent's
 view.
   "My lord." The boy's mouth smiled as he
 swung the door wide. The angry glitter in his
 eyes remained, but none of the watchers would be
 close enough to notice that. Few of them would even be
 astute enough to realize that the new Blade's face
 might not be as uncommunicative as his ward's
 notoriously was. It was the principle that
 mattered, for serenity would deceive no one tonight. The
 King's Secretary had arrived posthaste from
 court and gone into the Chancellor's office; if
 Lord Roland then emerged without the chain of office
 he had worn for twenty years, was the conclusion so
 hard to draw?
   Half a dozen men-at-arms were standing in a
 bored and puzzled huddle. Obviously
 Kromman had not told them what he had
 expected them to do, for they sprang to attention at
 the sight of the former chancellor and made no effort
 to block his departure. Six? Even Quarrel
 might have had trouble with six--but of course Roland
 would have been there to help him. He was gratified that
 Kromman had thought six might be necessary to arrest a
 man of his years.
   The first ordeal would be just to stroll across this wide
 antechamber, crowded with men and women
 waiting to see him, some of whom had been there for
 days. Now none of them had reason to see him and
 most would prefer not to be seen anywhere near him,
 lest his fall from favor prove to be infectious,
 as it so often did.
   He watched the news flash through the room ahead
 of him--the startled gasps, the exchanged glances,
 the calculating looks. Who was smiling, who
 frowning? It did not matter! He had no friends
 now, only enemies.
   "They say," Quarrel remarked, "that the Earl
 of Aldane is already clear favorite to win the
 King's Cup this year."
   Ah, the disgraced minister still had one friend! Even
 royal disfavor could not alienate a Blade from his
 ward. "Too early to tell, my lad! Don't
 lay any bets yet. Is he another of the
 Steepness school?"
   "I believe so. Steepnessians are fast, I
 understand."
   "Lightning with diarrhea." The onlookers were
 watching, listening, but now none came crowding forward
 to clutch Lord Roland's sleeve.
   "What do they use--air and fire?"
   "Plus a hefty dose of time, I imagine.
 That's what's dangerous. The subjects rarely
 live to see forty. The present duke, his father, was
 one of theirs, although he is still hale, last I
 heard. I fought against him once, when he was the
 earl." The great lout had never forgiven him for that
 day.
   "Oh, I have heard tell of that bout, my lord!
 It is one of the legends of Ironhall."
 Quarrel babbled more appropriate nonsense, his
 youthful face displaying pure innocence. He was
 doing splendidly, and his ward must tell him so as
 soon as they were alone. They would first go around by his
 personal quarters and collect a few
 keepsakes. After that, the gauntlet would continue
 down the great staircase ... on and on, until
 he could clamber into the coach, leave Greymere
 Palace forever, head home to Ivywalls. There
 he would await the King's pleasure. The King's
 displeasure would be a more apt description.
   What was he going to do about his Blade, though?
 The ex-chancellor's troubles suddenly seemed very
 minor as he contemplated Quarrel's. He had
 brought disaster upon the boy only three days after his
 binding. If the King tried to arrest him, Quarrel
 would resist to the death. No matter how
 hopeless the defiance, he would have no choice.
   A Blade whose ward was accused of plotting
 against the King--Lord Roland knew that dilemma from
 personal experience.



   Sunlight shone on the brilliant array of
 watchers massed in the stands like flowers in boxes.
 The wind snapped bright-colored pennants and
 flapped the brilliant awnings; it ruffled
 striped marquees. The court was assembled in a
 great display of tabards and blaring trumpets,
 heraldic banners and fair ladies in
 sumptuous gowns.
   Clank, clank went the armor as
 Durendal plodded over the muddy grass. The
 broadsword in his hands already weighed as much as an
 anvil and would soon feel like an overweight
 horse. He could swing it convincingly if he did
 not have to keep up the effort for long. In a few
 minutes, a much larger man than he was going
 to start smashing at him with an even larger sword,
 and the two of them would chop away brutally until
 one of them went down. Encounters in full armor
 involved very little skill, only strength and endurance
 --and quite often serious injury. He was not looking
 forward to the contest, but he had only himself to blame
 for this predicament. He had made a mistake that
 morning and must now pay the price.
   Curse Ambrose and his stupid
 broadswords!
   Although the King no longer fenced, he had not lost
 his interest in fencing. Each year he sponsored a
 great tournament modeled after the jousting of olden
 days before advances in conjuration made armored
 knights an absurdity and trial by combat
 unnecessary. Each year he donated a gold cup
 worth a hundred crowns, enough to attract
 contestants from all over Chivial. The first
 King's Cup had been won by Montpurse and the
 second by Durendal himself, so he was now defending
 his title. He had reached the semifinals without
 trouble. This morning Montpurse had lost
 to Chefney, another Blade, so tomorrow the finals
 would pit Chefney against either Durendal or
 Aldane, that mountain of metal now thumping forward
 to meet him.
   The Duke of Gaylea was a smallish man but
 rich enough to have had his son's growth enhanced.
 He must have paid well, because at sixteen his little
 boy now stood a full head taller than any
 Blade and was muscled like a bull. He looked
 more fearsome stripped than he did in plate
 armor. Ironically, this young giant had
 developed ambitions to be a fencer, which was
 absurd for one of his size; but wealth could always
 find a way. The Steepness school specialized
 in quick results for aristocrats unwilling to waste
 years in secular learning; it substituted spiritual
 speed for skill. As a fencer, the Earl of
 Aldane was technically crude and
 unbelievably fast for his size--for any size.
   Durendal had lost to him that morning at
 rapiers, which he should not have done. He had then won
 at sabers; and perhaps that success counted as a
 second mistake, for under the King's elaborate
 rules it forced a deciding match with two-handed
 broadswords. Few contests had gone so far,
 and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. At
 broadswords, when strength was vital and skill
 unimportant, Aldane had an almost insuperable
 advantage.
   Right foot forward, left foot forward, right
 foot forward ... every move was a conscious effort.
 Armor was ridiculous stuff. The padding stank as
 if someone had lived in it day and night since the
 Fatherland Wars. It was already growing unpleasantly
 hot. His right knee squeaked. When he lowered his
 visor, he would peer out at the world through a slit,
 which turned fighting into a mindless brawl with no art
 whatsoever. Unlike the rapier and saber
 matches, this bout would be decided by a single round,
 when one contestant could not or would not fight longer.
 Contrary to popular belief, it was possible for a
 man who fell down in plate armor to get up
 again without help, but not if someone else was beating
 on him with a six-foot sword.
   One of the red-and-gold umpires gestured for
 Durendal to come no closer. He stopped and
 clanked around to face the royal box, noticing
 at once that the Queen was there now. She was
 reported to be expecting another child, although
 Princess Malinda was still a few days short of
 her second birthday. The Countess was rarely
 seen at court anymore. Gossip had it that she
 would soon be banished completely.
   A trumpet stilled the crowd, sounding
 unpleasantly muffled inside Durendal's
 padded helmet. The umpires bowed to the
 King. The contestants raised their swords in
 salute, which seemed no small concession,
 considering what they weighed. He turned himself
 to face his opponent, seeing again the kid's
 confident smirk from inside the cave of steel
 encasing his head. The bigger they are the harder they
 fall.
   The harder they hit, too. Durendal's
 shoulder still throbbed from this morning's saber bout, where
 a padded plastron had not completely absorbed the
 Earl's vicious blow. The broadswords were
 blunt, but his armor would crumple like parchment when
 Muscle Brat started beating on it. Because a
 Blade could not guard his ward if he were injured,
 Durendal's spiritual binding might compel him
 to escape the dilemma by losing the match. He must
 gamble everything on a very quick win.
   This was not a fair fight.
   "My lords, prepare!" cried the senior
 umpire. Aldane raised a gauntlet the
 size of a bucket and closed his visor.
   Durendal did nothing.
   "Prepare, my lord!"
   "I'll fight like this. It's hot in here."
 Fighting with an open visor was rank insanity, but
 it was also a bluff. Aldane would be sorely
 puzzled, wondering what exotic technique his
 Ironhall opponent knew that he did not.
   The umpire hesitated, glanced at his
 colleagues and even across at the King's box, and
 then shrugged.
   "May the spirits preserve the better man. Do
 battle!"
   The umpires scuttled out of the way. The
 contestants lumbered forward over the grass.
 Durendal aimed his sword like a lance and tipped
 himself forward into a near run. Aldane copied him
 at once, for if they collided he would
 contribute twice Durendal's weight and
 knock him down like a skittle. Soon he was
 sprinting in full armor, an awesome display of
 strength. He raised his blade, aiming at that
 temptingly open visor.
   Of course, he could not see very well. He must
 have been sorely puzzled when his opponent
 disappeared.
   Durendal dropped to hands and knees in front
 of him. That act alone was reckless, for armor was
 no place to try gymnastics and he might
 injure himself before taking a single blow.
 As a tactic, it was insane. If he failed
 to trip the Earl, he would be at his mercy. If
 both of them were knocked prone, he would have gained
 no advantage. Its only merit was that no one
 had ever done that before.
   Aldane pitched headlong over him, striking the
 ground like a falling smithy. Fortunately his
 weight neither toppled Durendal nor came down
 on top of him--it just tried to push the Earl
 into his own helmet. The bout was reduced to a question
 of which man could regain his feet first and start
 hammering the other into scrap metal. As Aldane
 was at least momentarily stunned, Durendal had
 no difficulty in clanking himself erect and
 setting a foot on the kid's back. He put
 the point of his sword at a suitable gap in the
 armor.
   "Yield, miscreant!" he declaimed.
   The umpires went into a hurried consultation.
 The crowd's jeering was a constant roar, like a
 mountain torrent.
   Aldane began screaming, "Foul!" and tried
 to rise. Durendal poked him in the kidneys with a
 dull edge--a fairly dull edge. After that the
 noble earl just lay and beat mailed fists on the
 turf, still yelling muffled protests.
   The umpires waved a flag to declare a
 victory. The crowd became even noisier.



   The contestants clattered side by side toward
 the royal box with their helmets tucked under their
 arms. Aldane was demonstrating a virtuoso
 command of indecent language.
   "Did they teach you those words at Steepness?"
 Durendal inquired sweetly.
   The kid glared down at him with the beginnings of
 two lush black eyes. His nose had not stopped
 bleeding yet, and his purse would bleed even harder
 to pay for all the expensive healing he would need.
 "Did they teach you to cheat at Ironhall?"
   "Look, you've got another twenty years
 ahead of you. Making the semifinals at your age
 is a wonderful feat."
   "Losing the match doesn't matter, you oaf!
 It's the flaming money!"
   Not being a gambling man, Durendal had
 forgotten that side of the tournament. "What odds?"
   "I was taking thirty to one at
 lunchtime," the Earl admitted.
   It was very hard to sound sincere. "That's a
 shame."
   "There are hundreds of losers out there. You'll
 be lucky to leave the palace alive, you
 blackguard peasant!"
   Not so funny.
   The King was not amused either. When the contestants
 came to halt in front of the royal box, he
 leaned back in his chair of state and glared at
 Durendal. At the King's side, the
 diminutive Duke of Gaylea was an alarming
 gray color. How much had he wagered on his
 baby boy? Indeed, most of the nobles present
 seemed to have bet on the favorite, but Blades
 in the background were grinning like pike.
   The Marquis was there, being guarded by Hoare.
 He was smiling, which was something he did only in
 public now. He had been seated three rows behind
 the King, almost in among the baronets, and likely
 would not have been admitted at all had his Blade
 not been fighting, because the entire Mornicade
 family was seriously out of favor at the moment.
 He had been dismissed from his naval office; his
 uncles and cousins had all lost their sinecures
 and privileges.
   "You disapprove of broadswords?" the King
 inquired menacingly of Durendal.
   Tricky! "I do prefer rapiers, Your
 Majesty."
   "My liege!" Aldane bleated. "I
 protest the decision!"
   The royal glare was turned on him. "We
 did not address you."
   The Earl made unpleasant noises, as if
 gargling blood.
   The King looked back at Durendal. "And
 what is it you prefer about rapiers?"
   "Um. I suppose it is the greater element of
 skill, sire."
   "I see. Well, we saw no evidence that
 brawn triumphed over brains in this instance." The
 amber eyes had begun to twinkle.
   "Your Majesty flatters me."
   "You won a duel without striking a blow! You have
 created another legend. It seems to be a
 habit of yours. Congratulations."
   Relieved, Durendal managed a small bow
 without falling over.
   "And as for you, my lord, I applaud
 your remarkable showing in our tournament. You and your
 honored father will dine with us tonight, of course."
   Aldane stepped forward to the barricade. The
 King rose and hung a ribboned semifinalist's
 star around the giant's neck, even he having to stand
 on tiptoe to do so. Everyone else was upright also,
 of course, applauding politely.
   The Marquis had not been invited to dine. When
 the royal party had left, he came down to the
 barricade and beamed at his Blade, undoubtedly
 for Hoare's benefit. He had grown plump in
 the two and a half years Durendal had known him.
 He was seldom sober.
   "Well done, my man! How soon can you get
 out of that bear trap?"
   Displaying his habitual cryptic smile,
 Hoare said, "I will be happy to attend his lordship
 until you are ready, Sir Durendal."
   "About ten minutes, my lord."
   "Hurry, then. I have business to attend to.
 Meet me at the coach yard."
   As Durendal trudged off to the marquee, the
 crowd began booing again.




   Nutting was waiting beside his carriage with the
 footmen and driver already in place. What
 business could be so urgent? His only occupation these
 days was supervising the decoration and furnishing of the
 grandiose mansion he had built, and his wife
 invariably overruled his decisions. He drank
 excessively and wandered the halls at night.
   Durendal nodded his thanks to Hoare, who
 rolled his eyes sympathetically, bowed to the
 Marquis, and strode off. Nutting scrambled
 aboard. The carriage began to move as
 Durendal followed him in.
   "That was very well done!"
   "Thank you, my lord. I should not have lost to him this
 morning, though."
   "Yes, but you will be pleased to hear that I had
 faith in you. It has been a most lucrative
 afternoon for me."
   It might prove less profitable if an
 angry crowd was waiting outside the palace
 gates. As it happened, the few spectators
 there confined themselves to booing. The Marquis did not
 seem to notice, and the carriage rumbled
 unmolested into the cramped and dirty streets of
 Grandon.
   After several minutes of idyllic silence, he
 said, "Unfortunately, the odds will be less
 favorable on tomorrow's match. You are the
 favorite, at four or five to one."
   "I do not deserve so much. Sir Chefney is
 a brilliant fencer."
   "Um, yes." The Marquis chewed his lip for a
 moment. "I hate to mention a subject as
 sordid as money, Sir Durendal ..."
   The title was meaningless, but he had never used it
 before. Durendal felt a sharp stab of worry.
 What was coming? He had absolutely no money of
 his own. He was given his board and his clothes but
 never wages. He sponged his recreations off the
 Royal Guard--horses and ale. The only
 purpose for which he would have liked to have some cash was
 to give presents to women, but pride forbade him
 to ask for it. They had to be satisfied with the
 legend, which fortunately they always seemed to be.
 "My lord?"
   The coach rattled over cobbles, making slow
 progress through the crowded streets. It seemed
 to be heading for a very seamy part of the city.
   "Nutting House has cost considerably more
 than I anticipated, you see."
   "If I win the cup tomorrow, then of course it
 belongs to your lordship, as my patron." As he
 had taken last year's, the skinflint.
   "Yes, but ..." The Marquis's eyes wandered
 shiftily, not meeting his Blade's. "I'm
 afraid a hundred crowns is a drop in the
 gutter. My winnings today are in the thousands and I
 have staked them all on the finals."
   Death and flames! "Am I to infer, my
 lord, that you are counting on winning tomorrow? I am by no
 means certain that I can beat Sir Chefney.
 He trounced Commander Montpurse very
 convincingly."
   "I was pleased to see-- What I am
 suggesting, Sir Durendal, is that you should lay a
 bet of your own."
   "I have nothing to wager, my lord."
   Nutting pointed at the sword breaker on his
 thigh.
   "No!" Seeing his ward flinch in alarm, he
 drew a deep breath. "I mean, I cannot in
 honor hazard losing a gift from the sovereign,
 my lord! He would most certainly
 notice its absence."
   "Bah! He will never know. You don't wear it
 to fence. You need only part with it until the match
 is over. I have a friend willing to advance six
 thousand crowns against it."
   "It's worth ten times that!"
   "Only as an outright sale, boy. This is
 merely a short-term loan."
   "And if I fail to win the match, what then?"
   The Marquis sniffed plaintively. "Your
 task is to defend me, yes?"
   "Of course. But only--"
   "Does debtors' prison rank as a
 specified peril? If I cannot raise certain
 amounts within days, Sir Durendal, then that is
 where I will be. I presume you must accompany
 me."
   "You poxed pig's bastard." Durendal did
 not raise his voice--shouting was unnecessary when stating
 facts. "You mean your harlot sister can't wring
 any more money out of the King?"
   Nutting's eyes glittered for a moment, then his
 air of dejection returned. "As you say. And
 no one will pay my debts, so we shall rot in
 jail for the rest of our lives. Men die quickly in
 Drain Street, Blade. Will you defend me
 against the coughing sickness?"
   "By the eight, I am a healthier man than you
 are! When you die, I can walk free--free of
 you and free of the worst duty ever laid upon an
 honorable swordsman."
   "As you please. We have arrived. Is that your
 final decision?"
   The carriage had stopped in an alley,
 gloomy and stinking and so narrow that men could barely have
 squeezed by. As if the visitors had been
 expected, a door opened in the wall
 alongside, revealing a fat, bald man, who
 smiled to show black and broken teeth.
   Durendal discovered that he was trembling
 violently. Never had the binding been so at odds
 with his personal inclinations. He wanted
 to strangle this human toad beside him and stamp his
 corpse into mud.
   "The King gave it to me!"
   "And you shall have it back."
   "Don't you trust me?" His voice cracked.
 "Do you fear I won't try my best? I
 swear, my lord, that I will fight tomorrow as if your
 life depended on it. I don't need
 talk of debtors' prison to keep me honest!"
   "But it is true. My life is at stake--
 indirectly, I admit, but very surely. I
 merely ask to borrow that thing on your belt for a
 day. Is that so much to ask of a man bound to defend
 me against all foes? Decide. Shall I signal
 the coachman to proceed?"
   It was true that life expectancy in
 debtors' prison was a matter of weeks. The
 binding might ignore a danger so indirect, but
 Durendal had sworn an oath. Sick at
 heart, he detached the sword breaker from his belt
 and handed it over.
   Smiling, the Marquis passed it down to the man
 waiting in the doorway, receiving a roll of
 vellum in return. He scanned it quickly,
 nodded his assent, and rapped on the window to the
 driver. The carriage clattered into motion. Not a
 word had been said.
   How had the turd arranged all this without his
 Blade knowing? Of course Durendal had spent
 much time fencing in the last few days, leaving his ward
 in the care of the Guard. There had been more letters coming
 and going than usual, so he should have suspected
 something evil was afoot. What difference would it have
 made? He could not oppose his ward in anything that
 mattered.
   "You realize," he said, his mouth dry, "that if
 I lose and the King asks me what happened to the
 breaker, I shall tell him the truth?"
   The Marquis of Nutting smiled slyly. "You
 will lose, dear boy, and he won't notice,
 because it will not be missing. We are betting on Sir
 Chefney, not on you. I can get odds of five
 to one and he will win. You must lose to get your
 sword breaker back."



   The autumn evening was fading into night when the
 Marquis arrived back at Nutting House, but
 he at once proceeded to inspect the gardens,
 complaining loudly to his Blade that the army of
 workmen had left without achieving anything during the
 day. Indoors, it was the same story. All those
 painters, artists, carpenters, and plasterers had
 obviously been idling since dawn, wasting his
 money.
   My money, Durendal thought. The King's
 money.
   The Marquise had been dispatched a few days
 previously to visit her parents, so the
 half-completed house was empty except for the
 fifty-two servants. Nutting screamed for his
 valets, demanding a shave and fresh clothes--
 bathing was a danger he seldom risked. While
 the lackeys tended his noble carcass, Durendal
 prowled restlessly around the grandiose dressing
 room.
   There was something wrong, something that should be obvious
 but remained maddeningly out of sight. Foul as the
 turd's explanations had been, the whole truth
 must be even worse. He had, in retrospect,
 dismissed his wife very brusquely; she had not
 wanted to visit her family, but he had insisted.
 That was a reasonable precaution if he expected
 to be arrested, so it could not be the missing clue. A
 man facing financial ruin ought to be trimming his
 construction costs and household expenses,
 surely? Well, perhaps not. Courtiers were
 notoriously lax in paying tradesmen and
 domestics, and any hint of economy might
 spook his creditors. The turd probably did
 not know what economy was, anyway. He could
 no longer swindle money out of the navy or sell
 his sister's influence with the King. Fixing fencing
 matches might be a lucrative sideline, but
 he was up to something more. What was coming next? He was
 demanding full evening wear, as if planning to go to a
 ball or banquet. Nobody invited him to those
 anymore.
   What else was he up to? Why was he not more
 morose? That was what was wrong! Ever since he
 came home, he had been smirking. Six thousand
 crowns at odds of five to one meant, um,
 thirty thousand. Was that enough to save him from ruin? Or
 was there some other foulness in the wind?
   The Marquis ordered dinner and ate in
 satisfied silence with his Blade sulking at the
 other side of the table. Then, instead of calling for his
 coach, he demanded a cloak and boots.
 Apparently he was going out for a walk--in the
 dark? This was utterly unprecedented, completely
 out of character.
   Durendal spoke for the first time since he gave
 up the sword breaker. "Where are we going, my
 lord?"
   His ward smiled mysteriously. "Wait and
 see."

   There was moonlight, but for a gentleman to walk
 the ill-reputed streets of Grandon by night was a
 rashness that set his Blade's binding jangling like
 bells. It was his clear duty to prevent such
 folly, even by force if necessary. Against that,
 Durendal was so exhilarated by the thought that his
 skills might possibly be required at last
 that he suppressed his wiser instincts. Thus he
 found himself escorting the devious Marquis through
 noisome, sinister alleys without even a lantern
 between them. He quivered with joy like a racehorse
 at the gate, praying for someone to leap out of the
 shadows at them. Fortunately or
 unfortunately, no one did. Once or twice
 he thought he detected footsteps some distance behind
 them and cursed himself for a nervous ninny.
   The Marquis obviously heard nothing. He
 knew where he was going, although he seemed to have
 learned the route by rote, for he muttered to himself
 at every corner. Then he began counting doors, but
 when he found the one he wanted, it was clearly
 defined by an octogram sign that glowed with
 enchanted light. A conjuring order that hid itself in
 a slum must specialize in very murky
 conjurations, and supplicants who came in the
 middle of the night must have very murky needs. Two
 footmen in imposing livery admitted the callers
 and led them to a salon whose decor of jarring reds and
 purples, salacious paintings, and contorted
 erotic sculptures revealed exactly what
 sort of enchantment was available. Soft music
 played in the distance and the air was fetid with hot,
 musky odors. Shamefully, Durendal felt
 his flesh responding to the sensual mood.
   Other conspirators had already arrived. The
 elderly man was easily recognizable as the
 Earl of Eastness, former governor of Nostrimia
 and the elder of Nutting's notorious uncles. The
 woman was veiled, but her identity could be in no
 doubt.
   She sprang up in alarm. "You fool! Why
 did you bring him here?" Even her voice was
 unforgettable. The pale hand she pointed at
 Durendal was long-fingered and graceful.
   The Marquis laughed and strolled across to her.
 He lifted her veil back and kissed her
 cheek. "I can't shake him off. He sticks like
 a birthmark. Besides, he is an ideal
 accomplice. He wouldn't betray me under
 torture. Would you, Sir Durendal?"
   Durendal ignored the mockery and tried
 to ignore the loveliest face in the kingdom as
 well. "What foulness are you plotting, my lord?
 You must remember that I am a servant of the
 King."
   "But I come first! And I stand or fall with my
 accomplices here, so you can betray none of us."
 Smirk, smirk, smirk!
   Anyone else who provoked Durendal like this
 would be dead already, although he had never drawn his
 sword in anger and had believed he never would.
 "I cannot betray you, so I must stop you. It is
 obvious that you are planning to use conjuration against
 His Majesty, and that is a capital offense."
 His logic was leading him to an unbearable conclusion.
   Nutting glanced briefly at his sister and his
 self-confidence wavered. "Indeed? Just how do you
 propose to stop me?"
   Durendal, too, looked at the Countess.
 She shrank back, anger turning to fear.
   He said, "You are plotting to restore the whore
 to royal favor. I cannot harm you, Tab
 Nillway, but she is not so favored." Could he
 really slay a woman in cold blood? Yes,
 if his ward's safety demanded it. Perhaps
 mutilation would suffice, but that might be even harder
 to do and would be less certain. Disfigurement could be
 cured. Death could not.
   The Countess gasped and made a dive for the
 door. She stopped with Harvest's razor edge
 before her face like a rail. Eastness roared an
 oath and reached for his sword.
   "Don't be a fool, Uncle!" Nutting
 snapped. "He'll filet you before any of us can
 move an inch. You are too late already, lad.
 You cannot possibly hope to kill a countess and not
 have the crime discovered. The inquisitors will question
 us, perhaps even put one of us to the Question--you, most
 like, as you are not of the nobility. Our intentions will be
 revealed, and intentions are enough in cases of
 treason. There is nothing you can do."
   A carillon of conflicting emotions clamored
 in Durendal's mind. His voice came out
 hoarse and shaky. "It is still a better chance than
 letting you attempt an impossible crime."
   "A very possible crime. Put up your sword
 and I shall explain."
   "No. Say what you must and be quick."
   The Countess backed away from the sword, and
 he let her go. Whatever was coming, he
 knew that he had lost.
   The Marquis, also, seemed to have realized that, for
 his oily smoothness flowed back. "A candle,
 only a candle. Quite harmless. It will be attuned
 to my sister's body. When it burns and the King
 inhales the fumes, his desire for her will
 return, stronger than ever. He will reinstate her
 at court; my fortunes will be restored also. I was
 not lying about debtors' prison, Sir
 Durendal. The King will take no harm."
   Durendal shuddered. "Others may be affected
 also."
   "What matter? Hundreds have lusted for her in
 their time. Only one counts."
   "You cannot hope to bring such a conjurement within reach
 of the King."
   "No? You underestimate me. The Queen has
 retired to Bondhill for her confinement.
 Ambrose already has the place so stiff with
 enchantments that no sniffer can go near it. He
 visits her there regularly. We have made
 arrangements."
   It sounded all too horribly plausible, just
 the sort of slimy trick the turd would think up.
 And, no, there was nothing Durendal could do to stop
 him. Treason! Where was honor now? Where were the
 bright hopes of his youth? Where ...
   "A dramatic scene," said a new voice.
 In the doorway stood a woman dressed all in
 scarlet. Only an ageless pale face was
 visible within the wimple that enclosed her head, and the
 irises of her eyes were red, also. Rich robes
 of the same shade cascaded from her shoulders to the
 rug. Her bearing left no doubt that she was in
 charge of the elementary and the order that ran it.
   The Marquis bowed. "It had its moments, my
 lady, but I think my young friend has seen
 reason."
   The Prioress turned her nightmare gaze
 on Durendal. "Do you think we are unaware of the
 dangers? Would we undertake this venture lightly?
 If you misbehave, young man, then none of you will
 leave these precincts alive. We have ways of
 disposing of evidence."
   He hesitated even then, wondering if he could
 slay that foul creature as well. The need
 to keep his ward from harm restrained him, for
 obviously an order that dealt in such evils would
 have strong defenses. The Marquis knew he had
 won, smirking already. The Countess was
 recovering her anger. The old uncle had shrunk
 back into unwilling despair.
   Durendal sheathed his sword. Truly, he had
 no choice. He must carry on as normally as he
 could, being a perfect accomplice, trustworthy
 to death itself. Tomorrow he would even throw the final bout
 of the King's Cup in a demonstration of his shame and
 failure. His binding would not let him kill himself.
   He watched in sick self-hate as the
 Marquis paid over the money that had come from the
 sword breaker, the King's gift. The prioress
 scanned the scroll with satisfaction and then led the
 way into a chapel that was itself an octogram, a
 tall chamber of white marble with sixteen walls
 defining eight points. Each of these alcoves was
 in some way--mostly very obviously and crudely--
 dedicated to an element. One was empty,
 representing air, with a ewer of water opposite,
 a sword to portray chance, and so on. Fire's
 brazier provided the only light in the big
 chamber. Durendal considered much of the symbolism
 questionable or just in bad taste, like the skull for death
 or the huge gold heart for love. It set his
 teeth to scraping, but perhaps it impressed the sort
 of customers such a place attracted. Although he
 could sense the presence of spirits strongly, here they
 did not give him the comforting feeling of support that
 he had experienced at Ironhall. Here they
 unsettled him and felt wrong.
   The four supplicants were joined by three more
 conjurers in scarlet gowns--two men and another
 woman. All eight were then placed in position
 by the prioress. Durendal was ordered to stand before the
 black pedestal from which the skull grinned down, so
 he was at death--which felt very appropriate in his
 present mood. It was the standard octogram, so
 he had air on his left and earth on his right.
 Nutting was at chance, his uncle at time, and the
 Countess, of course, was love, opposite
 Durendal.
   When the conjurer chanting the role of Dispenser
 began banishing unwanted elements, Nutting, his
 uncle, and Durendal were required to turn their
 backs. That was their only participation in the
 ritual, but Durendal could make out enough of the
 chanting to guess roughly what was going on behind him.
 Standing in the place of death he should be less
 involved in the proceedings than any of the others, and
 yet--to his utter disgust--the erotic spirits roused
 him to panting, sweating, trembling lust.
 The only consolation he was able to wring from the night's
 events was that he was not forced to watch the
 obscenities being performed upon the naked body of the
 most beautiful woman in Chivial.



   It was near dawn when the Marquis returned
 to Nutting House and demanded his valet be wakened
 to put him to bed. Durendal just paced--up and down
 stairs, through completed rooms and rooms still being
 plastered, along corridors, past piles of
 furniture in dustcovers. Even for a Blade,
 it was no way to prepare for an honest fencing match
 but perhaps a good way to prepare for a match he must
 throw. It might be the start of madness. He
 looked back with contempt on the idealism of his
 youth, the time before Harvest's death had sealed his
 fate. He marveled at how far he had fallen
 from those dreams, how fast he had become a cheat
 and a traitor.
   He could still hope for the conspiracy to be
 uncovered, yet he could do nothing to expose it.
 He would cheer with the best of them when the headsman
 raised the Marquis's head for the crowds to see,
 even if his own neck was to be next on the
 block. He hoped it would be. A ward's death
 was always a shattering bereavement for his Blade; when
 the ward died by violence, the Blade rarely
 survived. Beheading definitely classed as
 violence.
   A clatter of hooves at sunrise roused
 him from his brooding. He sprinted downstairs and
 slithered to a halt at the front door just ahead
 of the porter, a former sailor named Piewasher,
 who had regaled him during many a long night with
 improbable tales of travel, foreign ports,
 foreign women, and children of various shades. Before either
 of them could say a word, a stave thundered against the
 panel and a voice demanded that it open in the King's
 name.
   Piewasher gasped with dismay, then stared
 blankly at Durendal who was laughing.
   So! The fox had been tracked to its lair
 already. The jig was up. Now it had happened, he
 had no doubts about what he must do. He spun
 Piewasher around. "Go and tell the Marquis!
 Quickly!"
   Sailors did not question orders. The old man
 scurried off across the hallway at the
 best speed he could muster.
   The Marquis's only hope of escape was the
 servants' stair at the back. The chance that any
 exit from the house had been left unguarded was very
 slim, but Durendal's duty now was to give his
 ward the longest possible start. He could die with his
 sword in his hand.
   He waited for the second demand, then snapped
 open the spy hole cover. He saw a gaunt and
 bloodless face framed by lank, mousy locks and
 topped by a black biretta. That and the black
 robes were the uniform of His Majesty's Office
 of General Inquiry. Behind the inquisitor stood
 at least a dozen men-at-arms of the Watch.
   "His lordship is not at home."
   "That is a lie."
   The prospect of action had lifted the burden
 and set all Durendal's muscles tingling. "I
 did not mean it literally. It's a social
 fiction. You can't possibly believe that I would
 be so foolish as to try to lie to an inquisitor,
 can you? No, I was merely presenting the customary
 excuse the gentry use whenever they do not wish--"
   "You are trying to delay us." The young man had
 a harsh, unpleasant voice.
   "I am attempting to further your education.
 Now, it is possible that his lordship might consent
 to receive visitors if he were--"
   The inquisitor gestured without taking his
 glassy stare off Durendal. The nearest
 man-at-arms slammed the butt of his pike against
 the door and bellowed again, "Open in the King's
 name!"
   Even a marquis did not rate more than three
 warnings. Durendal shut the peephole and marched
 across the hallway, detouring past the fireplace
 to pick up the poker. He mourned the absence of his
 sword breaker in what would be his first and final real
 blood-on-the-floor fight, but the poker might
 deflect those heavy pikes better. It was a
 pity, too, that when her ladyship insisted on a
 main staircase of pink granite, her grandiose
 taste had required it to be of such width that it
 required at least three men to hold it
 adequately. Why hadn't she thought of that? The
 defenses could be improved, though. On high
 pedestals at either side loomed pretentious
 creamy marble statues of mythical figures. The
 Marquise had been very excited when these two
 eyesores were delivered a week ago,
 but she would not grudge them in a good cause.
   The lock on the front door clicked open.
 The chain rattled loose of its own accord.
 Bolts slid. Inquisitors had ways of
 entering anywhere.
   The statues required a surprising effort, but
 they toppled, one after the other, setting echoes
 rolling and spraying fragments of stone across the
 tiled floor. That would make the footing a little
 trickier for the opposition, while Durendal could
 stand on the steps. Moreover, the noise would bring
 fifty or so servants running, which might delay
 the invaders a little.
   The inquisitor led in the Watch. His black
 robes should have made him an ominous figure, but
 he had a comical in-toed strut like a rooster
 crossing a farmyard. He hesitated when he
 reached the scattered debris. His men came to a
 halt behind him.
   His fishy gaze fixed itself on Durendal.
 "You are under arrest."
   Durendal smiled. "Talk is cheap."
   Sounds of voices and running feet overhead
 meant that the back stairs would be full of
 servants, at least for a few moments. If the
 Marquis had reacted fast enough he might be down
 in the kitchens now, or even the cellar, which had an
 exit to the alley.
   "Your cause is hopeless."
   "Of course."
   The glassy eyes did not change expression.
 "We know everything you have been up to: how you
 pawned your sword breaker, how you went to Werten
 House--"
   "Was that its name?" Durendal itched with
 eagerness for the action to start, but delay was the game.
 He admired his opponent's unwinking sharklike
 stare, wishing he could keep his face impassive
 like that. "I needs must defend my ward, you know."
   "You have already betrayed him. It was you our sniffer
 was following."
   Ouch! He must not let himself be rattled, although
 he was trained in swords, not words. "Then my
 obligation is all the greater."
   Startled faces were appearing at doors and
 balustrades as the servants flocked to witness this
 confrontation.
   "Sergeant, arrest that man."
   The sergeant looked at the inquisitor in
 disbelief. "He's a Blade! Can't
 you enchant him, like you did that door?"
   "No. Try to take him alive."
   The men-at-arms exchanged worried glances.
 None of them moved.
   "I won't be taking prisoners," Durendal
 said, feeling sorry for them. They were only doing
 their duty, like him; and he would certainly fell some
 of them before they overpowered him. "Inquisitor, I
 regret this. I hope you catch them all and chop
 off their heads, but I will do everything I can to stop
 you."
   "You are being illogical. Why throw away your
 life on a hopeless cause?"
   "You can't understand, pettifogger. The only
 cause a Blade knows is the defense of his
 ward. What he's up to doesn't matter--I will
 die here and write my name in the Litany of
 Heroes. My sword will hang in the place of
 honor at Ironhall forever."
   "You fool, Kromman!" Montpurse
 shouted. With Chefney at his side, he came
 striding around the Watch to accost the inquisitor.
 "How dare you start before we got here?"
   Durendal had not seen them come in the door, and
 his heart dropped solidly into his boots, for
 he had absolutely no chance against those two
 together. But at least now it would be quick and he would not
 be butchering secular men-at-arms. Harvest leaped
 from her scabbard in a flash and hiss of beautiful
 steel. He laughed joyously. "Come on, then!
 Let's get it over with. Both of you!"
   No one paid any attention to him.
   "Normal rules for dealing with Blades do not
 apply in this instance," said the inquisitor's
 hoarse voice. He dragged a scroll from somewhere
 inside his robes. "The warrant names this one as a
 conspirator, not just as witness. Our readings
 register him as a danger to His Majesty."
   "You can take your reading and stuff it down your
 throat. The King will pardon him."
   "He is not pardoned yet. He goes to the
 Bastion with the others."
   "Come on!" Durendal shouted from the stair.
 "What are you waiting for? Are you scared?" The
 talk of pardons was terrifying. Far better
 to die quickly doing his duty than languish as a
 failure, an emotional wreck, an outcast
 unable to hold up his head among men. If the
 Marquis wasn't safely out of the house by now,
 he never would be. Time to die.
   He was ignored. The others continued to discuss
 him like a troublesome damp patch in the plaster.
   "Don't be a fool, Kromman!" That was
 Chefney. "You can't lock up a ward and then
 expect to treat his Blade like any other
 prisoner. He'll go mad."
   Montpurse spared Durendal an appraising
 glance. "He's gone already."
   The inquisitor shrugged blandly. "We can put
 madmen to the Question, Commander. They often seem saner
 afterward. And we shall see how he behaves now we have
 his ward under restraint. Stand aside, up there!
 Let them through."
   Durendal heard muttering and whispers above and
 behind him, up among the servants at the top of the
 stair, but he was too close to Chefney and
 Montpurse to take his eyes off them. He
 backed up a couple of steps. It was probably
 a trick. It must be a trick. The
 alternative was that all the time he had been thinking
 he was distracting the inquisitor, the inquisitor
 had been distracting him. No! No!
   "You idiot, Kromman!" Montpurse said.
 "Oh, you flaming moron!"
   Durendal backed up another step, still not daring
 to turn his head.
   "Look up, Sir Blade!" the inquisitor
 shouted. "Your cause is hopeless. Throw down
 your sword."
   "Death and fire!" said Montpurse.
 "Hoare, bring the net! Quickly!"
   Durendal risked a quick glance above and behind
 him. The goggling servants had been cleared away
 from the top of the stair. Now the Marquis was
 stumbling down between two men-at-arms, barefoot and
 pathetic, his red woollen nightcap askew, his
 creamy silk nightshirt torn and spattered with
 blood, although apparently only from a nosebleed.
 A length of chain connected his ankles, his hands were
 tied behind his back, and the left-hand guard held a
 sword under his chin. There were six more men-at-arms in
 the squad, but they were all coming behind the prisoner.
 That was foolish of them.
   Durendal went up the pink granite
 staircase much faster than he would normally have
 dared go down it. He cut the left-hand guard's
 throat before the man could even pull his sword
 away from the Marquis's chin. The man on the other
 side tried to draw and died. Durendal pushed his
 ward aside so that he could get at the
 three on the next step. He promptly
 hamstrung two of them, but either his shove or the
 falling bodies caused the bound prisoner to lose
 his balance. The superhuman reflexes of his
 Blade might have saved him even then, had not
 Montpurse and Hoare at that moment enveloped
 Durendal in the net. With a thin shriek of
 terror, the Marquis tripped on his ankle
 chains and fell headlong. He rolled all the
 way down his pink granite staircase and arrived
 at the inquisitor's feet with a broken neck.
   Durendal screamed. He went on screaming.
   The Guard bundled him in enough stout hemp to rig
 a galleon. He still held his sword, of
 course, and they did not try to remove it, knowing
 what that would mean to a Blade, but they slid
 Hoare's scabbard over it so he would not cut either
 himself or the mesh in his struggles.
   Chefney took his feet and Montpurse his
 shoulders. They carried him out like a roll of
 carpet and loaded him into the coach. They took the
 west road, to Starkmoor. He still screamed.





   Being both ward and suzerain, the King could
 release his own Blades from their binding just by dubbing
 them knights in the Order--that was how the conjuration
 worked. For private Blades, with their divided
 loyalty, the only way out was a reversion
 ritual, which rarely succeeded. When the ward was
 already dead, and possibly by the Blade's own hand,
 there was no ready answer at all.
   The group that assembled in the Forge that night
 included no candidates. The innocent slept in
 their dormitories, unaware that a Blade who was
 already one of their heroes had been returned in a
 seriously damaged condition. A couple of the
 smiths had been recruited to help with the dirty
 work, but many of the masters and other knights refused
 to attend. Knowing the odds against a reversion
 succeeding, they were unwilling to endure the ordeal of
 watching this one.
   After a whole day of screaming, Durendal had
 at last fallen silent, unable to force another
 sound through his battered throat. He lay on the
 floor in his rope cocoon, unresponsive
 to all queries or entreaties, although some
 gibbering corner of his mind registered the horrible
 things happening. He was knotted with cramps; he
 had fouled himself. He cared for nothing except the
 fact that his ward had died by violence and he had
 done that terrible thing himself.
   "I don't suppose we can do it without untying
 him?" Grand Master mumbled. He walked with a
 cane now and was seriously deaf. He was well
 over eighty.
   Master of Rituals ran fingers through hair that
 resembled a field of seeding dandelions. "No.
 We need his sword first." He had brought a
 bundle of scrolls from the library, but he knew
 the ritual by heart. He had always been aware that
 one day he might need it and the need would be urgent.
 "He must be chained. That is essential. Even
 if he were in his right mind, he would have to be chained."
   Montpurse said, "How could he be in his right
 mind? Let's get started."
   "Wait a moment," suggested Master of
 Archives. "Can we get his sword out first? I
 don't like the idea of him loose with his sword."
   "That's a good idea."
   "Let's try that. ..."
   No, they discovered, they could not free the hilt
 from Durendal's grip while he and the sword were
 all wrapped up together. There was a delay while
 Master of Arms went off to the armory and returned
 with some steel gauntlets and a couple of shields.
 Then Montpurse cut the knots. As the ropes
 fell away, Durendal began to draw Harvest
 free of the scabbard. Chefney and Master of
 Horse managed to grasp the blade with the
 gauntlets before the madman could wield it. Four
 men pried his fingers off the hilt. The shields were
 not needed. It took eight men to hold him down
 while the smiths fettered his wrists and ankles;
 then Montpurse and Hoare cut away his clothes
 and dunked him bodily in one of the troughs, then
 toweled him dry. He was trying to scream again.
   The ritual was long and complex, for all the
 elements that had been invoked in the binding must be
 invoked again. Through it all, Durendal lay chained
 on the anvil, mostly in silence now, although he
 cried out when his sword was plunged into the coals.
 Two masters worked the bellows.
   Prolonged roasting on charcoal will ruin a
 blade, making the iron brittle.
   At the end of the invocation and revocation, when the
 sword had been quenched, the
 participants sang the dedication song, for that was
 what the texts demanded, although it seemed
 incongruous to include part of a ritual in its own
 reversal. Then Master Armorer, a bull of a
 man, took the sword Harvest and swung her,
 bringing her down with all his might across the
 subject's heart. As he saw the blow coming,
 Durendal screamed one last time.
   The blade shattered, the body did not. The
 ritual had apparently succeeded.
   "Can't even see a mark on his skin," Grand
 Master said cheerfully, leaning forward on his cane
 to peer. "Sir Durendal?"
   "He's unconscious!" Montpurse said.
 "Wouldn't you be? Let's get those flaming chains
 off the poor beggar and put him to bed."



   When the need for a privy became unendurable,
 Durendal opened his eyes to admit that he was
 conscious. Montpurse closed his book
 instantly; he had been lounging on the window seat
 for the last three hours or longer, apparently
 reading. Perhaps he had been faking, too.
   "How do you feel, brother?"
   Whisper: "Sore throat."
   "I'm surprised you have any throat left."
   The room was large and well furnished, finely
 paneled. The bed alone would have stabled two oxen,
 the draperies were of rich velvet--faded in
 places, originally good stuff. The scenery beyond the
 window resembled the useless, rocky hills of
 Starkmoor, but there was no chamber like this in
 Ironhall.
   "Where?"
   The Commander rose, his smile becoming visible as
 he moved away from the light. "Back home in the
 Hall. This is the royal suite. The kiddies
 never get to see it. Is this what's on your
 mind?" He reached under the bed and produced the necessary
 receptacle.
   The ensuing procedure took all of
 Durendal's strength--Montpurse had to help
 him stand up and steady him. He flopped back on
 the bed again like a landed fish. Montpurse offered a
 water flask so he could drink.
   "Roast venison? Pease pudding? Chicken
 broth?"
   Durendal closed his eyes in
 silence. It was almost three years since he'd had
 a good sleep.

   The battle of the Royal Guard versus Sir
 Durendal went on for three nights and three
 days. They never left him alone--Montpurse,
 Hoare, Chefney, and others, taking turns.
 They brought trays of steaming dishes. They
 lectured. They bullied. They pleaded. Hoare
 even wept. They sent in Grand Master and other
 knights. They showed him the royal pardon, and his
 sword breaker, and eventually even Harvest
 reforged to prove to him that she was as good as new again,
 and now she had her name engraved on the blade in
 these neat little letters near the top, see? Nothing
 worked.
   He would not speak. He would not eat. He
 drank water and passed it and slept. That was
 all. His face grew ever thinner under its stubble.
   As another night was falling, the door flew
 open and the King marched in. He barked, "Out!" and
 Montpurse departed like a hare. The King
 slammed the door behind him, shaking the building to its
 roots.
   His Majesty strode to the bedside, put his
 hands on his hips, and said, "Well?" He
 seemed to fill the room.
   Durendal whispered, "No."
   The King swelled like a bullfrog, filling the
 room with his amber glare. "I don't accept that
 word from any man. So Tab Nillway is dead?
 He would have died anyway on the block.
 Perverting a Blade is a capital offense in
 itself. Utter trash!"
   His Blade had killed him. Nothing else
 mattered, or ever would.
   The royal glowering darkened. "Why should you care
 now what happened to that traitor? You're free of
 your binding now."
   He did not feel free.
   "Well?" Ambrose boomed. "Where's your
 loyalty to me, mm?"
   "Long live the King," Durendal whispered.
   "You think that pus-face Nutting defeated you?
 No, you defeated him! He thought I gave him a
 Blade because he was important, but I was marking
 him as dangerous. Mold like him creeps under the
 furniture and rots things unseen, but he couldn't
 be unseen when he had you at his heels. You
 blazed. The whole court noticed you
 wherever you went. And I always remembered that I had
 marked Master Tab Nillway as dangerous."
   That was a lie. Durendal had been assigned
 to the Marquis because a sniffer could follow a
 Blade in the dark. He had been a double
 traitor, betraying both ward and sovereign.
   The King waited for a response that never came.
 Seeing that loudness wouldn't work, he tried louder,
 like a rising thunderstorm. He kicked the table beside the
 bed. He threw a scroll on the covers.
 "There's your pardon. I'll make you a knight
 in the Order, and you can put all that fencing skill
 of yours to work teaching, here in Ironhall. Well,
 what do you say?"
   To live out the rest of his days in these barren
 hills? To be a permanent horrible example
 of a failed Blade, pointed out to all those
 youngsters, and helping to trap them as he had been
 trapped? It was unthinkable. "No."
   "Thought not." There was a dangerous glint of
 satisfaction in the King's cunning stare.
 "Well. I didn't ride all day on an
 empty stomach just to pander to a self-pitying
 namby-pamby. You're interfering with the business of the
 kingdom. You're an almighty nuisance, but I'm
 going to try another binding on you."
   "What? Will that work?"
   "Probably not. The conjurers say it will kill
 you. I'm going to find out." A royal bellow
 rattled the casement. "His Majesty has need
 of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
   Durendal shook his head.
   The royal yellow eyes flashed dangerously.
 "You refuse our command?"
   Making a great effort, Durendal said,
 "Binding is evil. It steals a man's soul."
   "Steals it? It gives him one, you mean. If
 your past had had any future in this world, boy, you
 would never have been brought to Ironhall. A
 Blade has pride, status, and above all a
 sense of purpose. He matters. His life
 matters. His death may matter even more. And you
 certainly don't look as if you've got any
 future at the moment. Serve or die!" The
 King raised a clenched fist. "But I won't be
 a laughingstock, even for you. Can you stand on your own
 feet? Will you say the words?"
   To climb up on the anvil or lift a
 sword in his present state would be an impossible
 effort. "No."
   "Very well. I take back the pardon." The
 King did, crumpling it into a pocket. "Now you
 have a choice. You can either be put to the Question, stand
 trial, and then have your head chopped off, or you can
 get a sword through your heart tonight. Which is it
 to be?"
   Since he couldn't just will himself to death, the quicker
 way was the more appealing choice. Besides, it would
 make fat Ambrose do his own filthy
 executions.
   "All right. I'll say the words."
   "Then get out of that putrefying bed and bow to your
 sovereign lord."
   "I haven't any clothes on."
   "I won't scream. Up!"
   Durendal forced himself upright. The covers were
 made of lead, but he heaved them aside and put his
 feet on the floor. He stood, swayed,
 straightened.
   "Go on, man! We are waiting!"
   Durendal began to bow and collapsed.
   "I didn't say grovel, I said bow!" The
 King took him under the arms and hoisted him to his
 feet like a doll, big as he was. For a long
 moment they stared at each other.
   Then the King pushed, and he fell back on the
 bed like a dirty shirt.
   "Get dressed. We'll start as soon as
 you're ready. Cold baths come first." The door
 slammed behind the monarch. The building trembled
 again.



   "For the last time," the King roared, rousing
 long-sleeping echoes, "I am not going
 to meditate. Not five minutes, not one minute.
 I have meditated all day on a horse to get
 here. The candidate has meditated in bed for even
 longer. I am hungry. Begin now!"
   Eight hearths flickered in the deep stillness
 of the hold. More than a hundred men and boys
 held their breath in the spirit-sanctified gloom.
   Master of Rituals cringed. "My liege!"
   Candidate? Yes, Durendal was a candidate
 again. He was as weak as a newborn babe again.
 Even standing without swaying was an effort, and there were
 all those shocked young eyes staring at him. Young!
 It wasn't even three years since he had been
 one of those apple-cheeked kids, but they
 had not looked so innocent then, surely? Could those
 be seniors? When he'd agreed to go through with this,
 he had forgotten there would be an audience. He was
 the celebrated, the famous, the renowned Sir
 Durendal, who'd taken the King's Cup away
 from Montpurse last year and just a few days ago
 had won a broadsword duel without striking a
 blow. He must look like a geriatric paralytic
 to these adolescents, ruining all their dreams. Every
 one of them was going to have to go through the ordeal in the
 next few months or years, and seeing their King
 strike the famous Durendal dead in front of
 their eyes would give all these kiddies
 nightmares.
   There was Montpurse, shining like a gold
 figurine in the firelight, going to be Second
 for him in the ritual. Poor old Grand Master,
 failing fast--soon another sword would hang in
 the hall. But Harvest was going there even sooner,
 because Sir Durendal was going to die tonight, and good
 riddance to all of them and the whole stinking world.
   Master of Archives was Dispenser, just as he had
 been the last time. He hadn't shut out death for
 poor Harvest. There was the other Harvest, the
 remade sword, and a badly undernourished Brat
 stumbling his way through the dedication.
   He felt the spirits rally and his skin pucker.
 Weak, weak! Why did he have to be so weak?
 Three days without food shouldn't make his knees
 shake like this. He staggered in to join hands with the others
 around the anvil. The singing soared erratically,
 half the Forge trying to stay in one key and the other
 half trying to follow the King as he bellowed out the
 words in several. But the song still worked. Tears
 blurred the firelight. He wondered if the
 others noticed.
   He didn't really want to die. It was just that
 life wasn't worth living anymore.
   He made it back to his place and Hoare
 arrived to remove his shirt. Why was he leering like
 that? Was he looking forward to Durendal's death?
 Oh, perhaps he was trying to appear cheerful. Then
 came Montpurse's thumb on his chest ... and a
 frown on Montpurse's face as he realized
 how far off-target the scar was. It felt as if
 he put the mark where it ought to be, one rib lower.
   Back to the center for the sword. Why had they
 made Harvest so heavy this time? And the anvil
 seemed a foot higher than he remembered. He
 climbed onto it, straightened up, and
 swayed. The King put a foot forward, then
 stopped.
   Deep breath. "My Sovereign Lord, King
 Ambrose IV, upon my soul and without
 reservation, I, Durendal, companion of the
 Loyal and Ancient ... defend you, your heirs
 and successors, against all foes ... bid you
 plunge this my sword into my heart that I may
 die. ..." Last time he had shouted. Now he
 had no cause to shout, but he did not mumble, either.
   He very nearly fell headlong getting down off
 the anvil, and he did twist his ankle. He
 limped over to the King and disposed of the sword. It
 was a great relief to be able to sit down. This was
 it, then. Time to die. All over.
   The King put the point to the charcoal.
   They stared hard at each other.
   Will you live?
   Will you kill me?
   Hoare and Montpurse were waiting to take his
 arms.
   Why live? Was being a Blade purpose
 enough?
   Well, perhaps it was better than nothing. Show the
 fat toad! Show them all. On sudden impulse
 --just as he'd once trounced the King at fencing,
 and just as he'd dropped in front of Aldane's
 charge--he put his hands on his thighs and lifted his
 chin. "Do it now!"
   "Serve or die!" The King was fast, but then
 he'd done this fifty times or more. The guard was
 almost touching Durendal's chest before the awful
 explosion of pain came; then it was all over, the
 sword was out again, and he felt that rush of life and
 healing.
   Marveling, he rose. Sweat cold on his
 skin ... crazy, hysterical cheering ... the King
 returning his sword and clapping a hand on his
 shoulder ... Life! He had a life to live.
   Beaming as proudly as if he'd been on the
 other side of the gruesome ordeal, the King shouted
 over the tumult, "Ready to ride, Sir
 Durendal?"
   Slipping the bloody sword through the loop on
 his belt, Durendal gave fat Ambrose his
 own treatment--the steady stare first. "Against whom,
 Your Majesty?"
   The King's fist clenched, but he did show a
 trace of doubt. "Against all foes, of
 course!"
   Then the smile. "Of course, my liege."























                EVERMAN
                 III



   At last the great door and the snowy steps beyond--
 Lord Roland was about to leave Greymere for the last
 time, venturing out into a very unpleasant-looking
 winter's night. Never would his own fireside
 seem more welcome.
   The King came and went from palace to palace:
 Nocare, Greymere, Wetshore, Oldmart, and
 others. Court was where the King was, but government
 was where the paper was; and the clerks and counters,
 lawyers and lackeys, labored year-round in the
 capital, Grandon. Even now, when the King had
 shut himself up in Falconsrest for Long Night,
 the pens still scratched busily in Greymere
 chancellery. Carriages were held ready day and
 night for the convenience of senior officials.
   The weathered, square-faced head porter had
 borne the grandiose title of Gentleman Usher
 for longer than anyone could remember, perhaps even
 himself. Roland had bid him many thousands of good
 morrows and good evens. Now the old man looked
 ready to melt like the slush on the cobbles.
 All he could say was, "I got my orders,
 my lord." There was a coach and four in clear sight
 sheltering under the arch, awaiting his hail, but he had
 his orders. He probably had hopes of a
 small pension from the King if he continued to behave
 himself for the next couple of years--and did not die
 of misery in the next few minutes. He had his
 orders.
   Lord Roland had never owned a coach of his own,
 unless one counted the one his wife used. He had
 rarely in his life carried money. He did not
 even have a horse of his own at the palace just now,
 but he needed to proceed home with as much dignity as
 possible, and a two-hour walk through the streets and
 out into the countryside in his chancellor's robes would
 not be dignified. Kromman wanted to hurt, but
 then Kromman had been nursing his hatred for a
 generation.
   Quarrel's eager young face seemed
 dangerously inflamed under the rushlights. He was
 practically quivering. Roland gestured him forward
 and took a step back.
   "Gentleman Usher," he said from behind his
 guardian's shoulder, "this is very embarrassing for
 me. My Blade, Sir Quarrel, has not
 been with me long enough to learn how things are done in the
 palace. Thus, when I sent him on ahead
 to order a carriage, he did not understand that the
 ensuing problem was not of your devising. I am sure
 he would not really have hurt you, but--"
   Quarrel's sword hissed from its scabbard.
   Gentleman Usher lost his look of despair.
 "Ah, noble Sir Blade! Pray be not hard
 on a poor old man or deprive his fourteen
 grandchildren of their beloved grandfather!"
   "Verily!" Quarrel said. "Dost thou not
 summon yonder carriage full speedily and
 direct it to a place congruous to my ward's
 desires, then I shall expeditiously slit thee
 into elementary eighths."
   "Forsooth? Hold it under my chin, lad--it'll
 look better. Coach! Coach!"
   As Roland climbed into the carriage, he could
 hear Gentleman Usher directing the driver, still
 at sword point. When the horses began
 to move, Quarrel swung nimbly aboard and
 closed the door. The team pulled out of the palace
 gates, clattering into the night-filled streets.
   Farewell, Greymere!
   "Thank you, Sir Quarrel. That was
 a very nice piece of highwaymanship. And I
 congratulate you on your verbal feinting earlier."
   "My pleasure, my lord." He did not
 laugh, but his smile was audible.
   What was Roland going to do about this boy, trapped
 in a fatal allegiance? Binding only worked one
 way, but a man's instincts and standards insisted that
 loyalty must be a two-edged sword. Long
 ago, he had survived a reversal conjuration
 unscathed, but he knew of only one other who
 had. He would drag Quarrel with him in his
 downfall, and that was unjust.
   As he would drag down many others, no doubt.
 What, for that matter, of his wife? His shameful
 dismissal would upset her if he were upset, but
 she would be very glad to have him to herself at last. She
 had never cared for court life, all glitter and
 sham. How long would they have together before Kromman
 sent the inquisitors?
   What sort of a fool would expect
 gratitude from a monarch?
   The clattering and jingling of the coach was overridden
 by a voice from the darkness opposite. "May I
 ask a question, my lord?"
   "You are trying to stop me brooding, I
 presume?"
   A chuckle. "Of course. But I do want
 to know the answer."
   "Ask then. Ask questions anytime. The old can still
 be useful as sources of information."
   "Will you tell me about the time you saved the King's
 life?"
   Oh, that! They always wanted to know about that.
   "I wish I could. You really ought to ask the
 King. He saw it all, and he was the only one
 who did. Absolutely as cool as an
 icicle." He heard himself sigh. Those had been
 the days! "It happened back in 355--in
 Nythia, of course. Outside the walls of
 Waterby, about the third week of the siege, I
 think. It was a foggy morning. And there was a great
 deal of smoke and dust about, too."
   And noise, of course--deafening thunderclaps as
 Destroyer General and his men tried to bring down the
 walls, and the defenders retaliated with conjurations
 of their own. The King would never listen to reason.
 He wandered the camp in full view, ignoring
 arrows and flying rocks and explosions of elemental
 power, driving his Blades insane with the risks he
 took. They crowded around him like swarming
 bees until he cursed at them to give him
 room to breathe. Yet somehow, that morning, for just the
 critical few moments, there was only one. ...
   Roland remembered he was supposed to be
 telling Quarrel this story, not reliving it. He
 pulled himself back from that misty morning, from golden
 youth and high adventure, back to Grandon's
 bleak winter, the swaying carriage, shame, and
 dismissal. Old age. This was 388 already. Where
 had the years gone?
   "I just chanced to be walking with the King and no other
 Blades close. I don't know why. It must have
 been conjuration, I suppose."
   "I thought our bindings were spirit-proof?"
   "So did we. If the rebels had that much
 control, you'd have thought they would have blasted the King
 directly. The conjurers at the College never
 could explain it, although they speculated that my double
 binding might have made me more resistant than the
 others; or it may have been fickle chance. We were
 going through marsh and low scrub, so we tended
 to spread out, avoiding puddles and so on. The
 others had wandered farther off than they realized. The
 King and I were discussing horses, ambling along like
 blind turtles.
   "As to what actually happened--I don't know,
 I really don't know. Four armed men jumped out
 of the bushes." Not men, just boys. "The next thing
 I recall is being a little short of breath,
 blood on my sword, four bodies on the
 ground. Then Commander Montpurse arrived at a
 scream. You never heard such language! His
 Majesty laughed at him, calm as milk."
   Yes, those had been the great days--days of youth
 and love and war, the days when he had been a
 simple Blade in the Royal Guard, wanting
 nothing more in the world, when life had been pleasure
 from dawn till dawn.



   "You missed an interesting display of
 swordsmanship, Commander!" The King was enjoying his
 Guards' collective dismay. "Another
 Durendal legend, I fancy."
   "Take it, my liege!" Montpurse was on
 his knees in the mud, offering up his sword.
 "Take it. Cut off my useless head if you
 want, because I certainly--"
   "Stand up, man! Keep your sword.
 You won't escape that easily. Well, perhaps
 I need to borrow it for a minute."
   A nearby copse exploded with an
 earth-shattering roar, hurling branches and rocks
 everywhere. The King ignored it, although some of the
 debris went dancing past his feet. The river
 plain was pockmarked with craters, most of them now
 full of water. The honey-colored walls of
 Waterby were in worse shape, with half the towers
 in ruins; but archers on the battlements had been
 sending arrows this far. Not accurately,
 fortunately. Another thudded into the turf close
 to Chefney, who jumped.
   Bewildered, Durendal was examining Harvest.
 That was fresh blood on her and those were dead men on
 the ground, but the last few minutes had vanished in
 a confused blur of leaping and slashing and parrying.
 Four?
   "What was your family name, Sir
 Durendal?"
   "Family ... Roland, sire." He had not
 spoken the word in a dozen years. He almost had
 to think to remember it. Of course a King could ask
 questions that others must not, but what on earth was
 Ambrose after now?
   The King frowned. "The Rolands of
 Mayshire?"
   "Who? Oh, no, sire. Dimpleshire, very
 minor gentry. My grandfather held lands in
 tenancy-in-chief from the Priory of
 Goodham." Why ask? And why was Montpurse
 pressing a hand on his shoulder so heavily?
   Then realization--the Commander was signaling him
 to kneel. Mystified, he dropped to one knee and
 then to two as full understanding came. Oh, no!
 He felt the mud cold through his hose.
   Oh, yes! The blade came down on his
 shoulder. Then on the other.
   "Arise, Baron Roland of Waterby."
   He arose. Montpurse grabbed his hand and
 pumped it, hugging him with the other arm. The rest of the
 Blades started a cheer and gathered around to thump
 him on the back.
   "My liege! I--I thank you, Your
 Majesty. But I do not deserve--"
   "Deserve?" Hoare bellowed. "Four dead
 men and you don't deserve? The rest of us ought to be
 hung, drawn, and quartered--every day for a month."
   One of the towers of Waterby dissolved in a
 ball of stones and dust that floated
 leisurely to the ground. Everyone looked quickly
 to the battery where the conjurers of the Royal Office
 of Demolition were at work, to see if they had all
 survived, because sometimes they blew themselves out of the
 octogram as well as the shot. Then came the
 sounds--first the distant cheering of the army, second the
 roll of thunder over the plain.
   Durendal turned back to face the King's
 smug smile. "But, Your Majesty ... I
 trust that this does not mean ... that I don't have
 to ..." How could a peer belong to the Royal
 Guard? Unthinkable!
   Chuckling, the King returned Montpurse's
 sword to him. "Not unless you wish. We grant you
 leave to retain your present style at your own
 pleasure."
   That was honor indeed! He could retire at will
 and be a lord. Not that he ever would, of course. A
 noble must live nobly, which required vast amounts
 of money.
   Another explosion showered mud and pebbles. They
 all ducked, and one or two swore at being
 struck.
   "They are finding the range, sire!"
 Montpurse said angrily.
   "True. Well, let us proceed to the
 battery and hear how Destroyer General views
 his progress." The King set off at a
 leisurely stroll, anxious not to appear to be
 retreating. With much relief his Blades
 accompanied him.
   Hoare edged close to Durendal to whisper,
 "My lord, may I kiss your backside?"
   "No. You aren't worthy."
   "I know that. I was just hoping."
   Baron Roland of Waterby. Meaningless,
 really. He could never afford to use the title,
 even if he would ever want to.

   That evening, as the new peer was whetting Harvest
 to remove a few recent nicks, a herald
 came to the tent and presented him with an official
 notice from Chancery. The honor and lands of
 Peckmoss in Dimpleshire had been estranged
 from the royal demesne and granted in freehold
 to Baron Roland of Waterby; said lands would be
 henceforth administered to the avail, benefit, and
 profit of the said baron, pending his further
 instructions.
   He was rich. It didn't matter.
   He was more worried about getting the bloodstains
 off his jerkin.



   Those were the great days. In the four years between his
 second and third visits to Ironhall, he was
 never far from the King. Of the hundred or so
 Blades in the Royal Guard, five or six
 were especially favored; and Sir Durendal was
 one of them, companion at both work and play.
   Ambrose was a ferocious horseman still, in
 spite of his ever-increasing size, and rode in mad
 hunts. He hawked and followed hounds. He
 danced and attended masques. He went on
 progresses through town and country, while the
 crowds roared their loyalty. Seldom, if ever,
 had Chivial loved a monarch as much as this one.
 He repaired highways and built bridges,
 fostered trade, wenched notoriously, and kept the
 nobility under control. He had managed
 to conclude a treaty with Baelmark, ending a war that
 had dragged on for fourteen years, so now the
 coasts no longer lived in dread of Baelish
 raiders. Almost the only complaints ever heard in
 Parliament concerned the lack of a male heir, so
 when the King divorced Queen Godeleva and
 married the Lady Sian, the country rejoiced and his
 popularity soared even higher. From any
 viewpoint, he loomed larger than life. The
 fickle spirits of chance were his handmaids in those days,
 and Durendal was there to share in the glory.
   When the King did not need him, he never lacked
 for recreation. There was Rose, soon after he
 joined the Guard, but Rose's father disapproved and
 married her off to a man of better breeding.
   There was Isolde. They spoke seriously of
 marriage until the rebellion in Nythia
 called him away. He had thought they had an
 understanding, but on his return he found her betrothed
 to another.
   That summer of the Nythian Rebellion was perhaps
 the finest time of all--living with the army, fighting a
 war. Apart from the vague few minutes when he
 earned his barony, he experienced little real
 battle, for the days of kings in armor leading charges
 had long gone. Only very hard talking
 by Montpurse kept Ambrose out of several
 skirmishes, though; and even Montpurse could not
 stop him on the day Kirkwain fell.
 Then the King rode through the breach directly behind the
 vanguard with his Blades around him. Four were
 killed, a dozen wounded, but they gave more than they
 took. Harvest alone avenged the four, and the
 legend of the second Durendal crept a little
 closer to the legend of the first.
   Then there was Kate.
   He had seen her around the palace many times, but
 never close. He took a long time to find the
 resolution to address her, for he feared rejection
 --not from most women, for he knew his abilities,
 but from her--because he still remembered the last time he
 had presumed to approach a White Sister. One
 evening, while he was considering whom to invite to a
 masque, he saw her on the terrace, admiring
 the swans. Her robe and tall hat were the same
 snowy white as they, and the blossoms overhead
 matched as well. ... A little rejection would not
 kill him.
   He walked closer and closer and closer, and
 she did not sniff inquiringly and turn around
 to glare. She just watched the swans. He saw that
 she was smaller than he had realized; the tall
 hennin was deceptive. Size did not matter when
 everything else was perfection. When he judged the
 distance to be about right--interest, but not threat--he
 rested his forearms on the stone balustrade, to bring
 his eyes nearer to the level of hers.
   "Ugly brutes!" he said.
   She turned her head with a frown. "I think
 they're beautiful."
   "You're not standing where I am."
   He had always been puzzled by the fact that he
 could never predict a person's laugh until he
 heard it. The largest men might titter and the
 smallest women guffaw. She had a wonderful
 laugh, like birdsong.
   "You are flattering me already, Sir
 Durendal!"
   "You know my name?" He pretended surprise,
 although everyone knew his name.
   "You have quite a reputation." She had a lovely
 smile, too, and eyes of cornflower blue.
 He presumed her hair would be the same gold as
 her eyebrows, but it was hidden by her veils and
 hat.
   "What sort of reputation?"
   "I don't think we should both indulge in
 flattery. It might be dangerous."
   "I spurn such danger." He
 proved it by moving closer.
   "That's part of the reputation."
   This was definitely promising, but before his hopes
 soared any higher he must discover if his binding
 made him repugnant to her. "I have been told
 that White Sisters can detect Blades at a
 considerable distance."
   "Thirty paces or so. Less in a crowd."
   "Upwind or downwind?"
   She laughed again. "Any wind. I could
 detect you behind a wall, too, or in the dark.
 Your binding is a powerful enchantment."
   "Detect how? You really sniff?"
   She smiled. "That's an old superstition. Not
 by smell nor sight nor touch nor sound, and yet
 by all of those. Explain color to a blind person."
   "I asked you first. What does a Blade
 look like, otherwise than other men?"
   She considered, head tilted cutely. "More
 intense. A Blade in a group seems more
 solid, more important, I suppose.
 Detecting conjurements is my duty, after all,
 and my skill. A dagger in a box of kitchen
 knives."
   "This is very interesting. And hearing? You can tell
 by my voice?"
   "Even when you are silent. All the time. Like the
 highest note on a trumpet, very high, very
 clear. ... That sounds unpleasant, but it
 isn't. Sort of rousing."
   "Rousing?"
   "In a military sense," she said hastily.
 "And as for smell, you know that dry sort of odor
 from very hot iron?"
   "The smell of the Forge, I expect." He
 laid a hand on hers. "And how do I feel?"
   She stiffened. He feared he had moved too
 soon, but she did not snatch her hand away. She
 turned it over, so that they were palm to palm.
   "Strong."
   "So a Blade is not too horrible to be with?"
   "One could get used to it."
   "Would you begin by accompanying me to the masque
 tomorrow?"
   She looked up in astonishment. "Oh, I should
 love to! You mean it?"
   They parted an hour later, when he had to go on
 duty. He had forgotten to ask her name. He
 knew it by the end of the masque the next night, and
 he also knew that this was a fish he wanted
 to land. He must play his line very carefully.

   Kate had other ideas. On the afternoon following
 the masque, as they strolled hand in hand under the
 spring blossoms, she said, "This dramatic
 sword-through-the-heart ritual, does it leave a
 scar?"
   "Two--one front and one back. I have
 four."
   "I should like to see those."
   Earth and fire!
   He led her to his quarters--a small room,
 poorly lit and cramped by an oversize bed.
 He locked the door, for the Blades had informal
 ways among themselves, but she did not protest. She
 turned to peer at the lithographs on the wall,
 while he went over to stand in the light under the
 window. As he removed his doublet, then his shirt,
 he could feel his heart pounding as it had not pounded
 for a woman in years. Then she turned. He
 held out his arms; she came to them.
   She ignored his scars completely.
   He knew very soon that she had no experience of
 lovemaking. He did, though. He was skilled
 and, in this case, extremely careful. And
 extremely successful.
   Later, as they lay entwined, he said many things,
 but one of them was, "You astonish me. We have
 only known each other for two days."
   She snuggled even deeper into his embrace.
 "I have loved you for months. For weeks I have
 been putting myself in your path and you never seemed
 to notice me."
   "I did notice you. I was always frightened that you
 would think ... that you might find a Blade
 unpleasant at close quarters."
   "Very pleasant."
   "Trumpets and hot iron, daggers ... what
 am I now?"
   "Mm?" She stroked the hairs on his chest.
 "Like being in bed with a sword."
   "A naked Blade, you mean?"
   "Exactly."
   "Months, you say? Then I have a lot of
 catching up to do."
   She sighed and stretched her body against his.
 "Begin now."





   He was on duty in the antechamber the following
 day with Parsewood and Scrimpnel,
 surreptitiously rolling dice on a cushion
 so they made no noise, while pointedly
 ignoring disapproving stares from the officials who
 waited endlessly in the big brocade chairs and
 understood perfectly that the Blades would not
 misbehave like that if there was anyone of real
 importance present. Dusk was falling, pages
 were lighting the lamps, the Chamberlain fussed with
 papers at his desk. From time to time a secretary
 would shuffle in and out again.
   The antechamber was boredom incarnate.
 Eavesdropping on what went on in the King's
 presence could sometimes be interesting. At least one
 Blade was normally present when the King granted
 audience, but at that moment he was receiving Grand
 Inquisitor, and not even Blades overheard her
 reports.
   The outer door opened a handbreadth to admit a
 pint-sized page, who scurried over to Sir
 Durendal and handed him a note, thus prompting
 sarcastic whispers about billets-doux from his
 insubordinate subordinates.

   Must see you. Very urgent. K.

   It had better be urgent! Cataclysmic!
   Ignoring all the curious and disapproving
 stares, he went over to the door and peered out. She
 was right there, with the two men-at-arms scowling at her.
 Montpurse would have him racked for this, but his anger
 melted as he saw her pallor. She would never
 weep, but something was very wrong.
   "Quick!"
   "I've been reassigned!" she whispered.
 "First thing in the morning."
   "No!" Then quieter, "To Oakendown?"
   "No. To Brimiarde. It's a new posting."
   "How long?"
   "Probably forever."
   To lose her so soon? It was unbearable. "Will
 you marry me?"
   "What?"
   "They won't transfer you if you're married.
 Marry me."
   "But, but ... but we can't! There isn't time.
 It takes days, weeks. ... I need
 permission from--"
   Parsewood coughed. Durendal glanced around and
 saw the door to the council chamber already opening.
   "No, it doesn't. I'll ask the King
 to declare us man and wife. Then it'll be done. You
 agree?"
   She gasped, took one breath. ... "Oh
 yes!"
   "I adore you!" He closed the door and
 moved away from it, aware of amused grins from
 Scrimpnel and Parsewood and wondering what the
 men-at-arms thought.
   Grand Inquisitor backed out of the council
 chamber, making a final curtsey with one hand on
 the doorknob and the other clutching files. Her
 age was a state secret, for a black gable
 headdress concealed her hair and her pale moon
 face bore no wrinkles. She turned and began
 to cross the anteroom in the shuffling,
 flat-footed walk of the grossly fat, black
 robes whispering around her ankles. Her fishy
 gaze swam from face to face as she went, noting
 exactly who was present and who sat next
 to whom. No one would look her in the eye except
 the Blades, who stared back coldly--a point
 of honor, to prove they had nothing to hide.
   The Chamberlain gathered up more papers and
 hastened in to learn His Majesty's pleasure.
 Durendal headed for the desk.
   Words whirled in his head: Your Majesty,
 I crave a boon. Utterly ridiculous!
 Sire, may I humbly beg a favor?
 Better. The King would certainly consent. Married
 by royal prerogative!--it would amuse him.
 He loved to flaunt his power, especially if the
 demonstration did not cost the Exchequer anything.
 Durendal was, after all, one of his
 favorites. Montpurse should have been advised
 beforehand, but would understand. Married! To Kate! No
 doubts, no hesitation. What a woman! But
 first, of course, he must get by the Chamberlain.
 "I seek a brief audience with His Majesty
 concerning personal business." Personal business
 might take months! He certainly must not try
 to bring it up when it was his turn to stand guard in the
 council chamber itself. That would call down royal
 thunderbolts, even on him.
   The Chamberlain emerged, but he hung onto the
 handle and peered shortsightedly around the
 anteroom. "Ah, Sir Durendal!
 Thought you were here. Just the man. His Majesty
 wants you."
   Even for a Blade who prided himself on his fast
 reflexes, this afternoon was moving a little too quickly.
 He straightened his doublet and his shoulders, then
 walked into the inner sanctum.
   The council chamber was a square room,
 poorly lit by mullioned windows at the far
 side and made gloomy by paneling of black
 walnut and a dozen dark leather chairs set around
 the walls. One of them was piled with an untidy
 heap of red dispatch boxes and a snowdrift of
 spilled documents. The two high fireplaces
 were white marble, but neither was lit.
   The chairs were sometimes offered to foreign
 ambassadors. Everyone else--ministers,
 officials, petitioners; high and low, male or
 female--remained standing because the King did.
 Hoare, the Guard humorist, maintained that if the
 King sat down, you tried to remember when you had
 last updated your will, but if he began to pace it
 was too late to worry. He was an erratic
 worker, driving his ministers to desperation by refusing
 to look at a single paper for weeks, then working
 them for days and nights until they were half dead of
 exhaustion. He could snatch the substantive
 points out of a long-winded report like a sparrow
 hawk taking sparrows. His memory for detail was
 legendary, his temper even more so, his tenacity
 infinite. He made the policies. His ministers
 found ways to carry them out. Or were carried out
 themselves, Hoare said.
   The lamps had not been lit. He was brooding
 by the window, peering out at the sunset and darkening the
 room like a hay wagon. Durendal walked to the
 center of the room, bowed to that massive royal
 back, and then waited. Never before had he been more
 than a single pace from the door.
   The King swung around and grunted as if
 surprised. He pointed vaguely at a group
 of chairs. "Sit. I need to think."
   Fire and death and more fire! Durendal
 obeyed, although his scalp prickled. He could not
 recall anyone sitting when the King stood.
 Invalids, no one else, not ever.
   The King put his hands behind his back and began
 to shuttle--door, window, door. "I made a
 mistake once. Now I'm going to make
 another."
   Silence was the only possible comment.
   Window, door ... "I suppose I'm just
 pigheaded. Hardest part of being a King--being any
 sort of leader--is knowing when to quit. You've
 wounded the quarry, you've tracked it all day, and
 now night is coming. Do you give up and go home?
 Lose all that effort? Or do you push on, knowing
 you'll have to spend the night in the woods and may
 gain nothing? Hmm? How do you decide?"
   He seemed to be speaking to himself, but he
 suddenly stopped and peered at his uneasy
 Blade.
   "Hmm? Well? Which?"
   "I've never known Your Majesty to give up
 when there was any hope at all."
   Grunt. "Pigheaded, you mean. You're
 probably right. If I send you, can you go?"
   "Huh? I mean--"
   The King snarled impatiently. "You will be gone
 some time. Can you stand it, or must I release you
 first?"
   Release? Durendal shivered. Blades
 notoriously resisted being released from their
 bindings, although most of them were very relieved to be
 free of them afterward. Unexpectedly faced with that
 dread prospect, he felt a surge of
 panic. Of course, he would then be able to snatch
 up his barony, marry Kate, do all sorts of
 things with his life. ... No, unthinkable!
   The alternative, though, seemed to be to be
 absent from his ward for an extended period, and that
 might be torture unendurable. But at least it
 would be temporary, and the other permanent. He
 wiped sweat out of his eyes. "I think I can
 trust Commander Montpurse to take care of you,
 my liege."
   The King beamed. "Good man! Remember
 Everman?"
   It took a moment. It had been six years.
 "Candidate Everman? Three behind me at
 Ironhall."
   "That one. The one who got the job I wanted
 you for."
   No reply was required except a faster
 heartbeat.
   "He's still alive," the King said. "We have an
 agent in Samarinda. Sends reports in every few
 years. This time he reports that there's a
 Chivian-- You don't know any of this, do you?"
 He peered suspiciously at Durendal.
   Fortunately, it was possible to answer
 as truthfully as if he were being put to the Question.
 "Nothing at all, sire. There were rumors that he
 had been bound to a mysterious gentleman whom no
 one had ever heard of and they both disappeared. Nothing
 more."
   "Master Jaque Polydin, merchant,
 adventurer, perhaps a trickster." The King cleared
 his throat uneasily. "It's a long story.
 Grand Inquisitor will provide you with the
 details. There were reports that the knights of
 Samarinda owned the philosopher's stone--the
 gadget that turns lead into gold and lets you
 live forever. If you ever breathe a word of this around
 court, my boy, I will have you shortened by a head!"
   "I understand, sire." The King had been younger
 then, and every man was entitled to a few youthful
 follies. He'd been older than Durendal was
 now, though.
   "Grand Inquisitor will explain. I assumed
 they were both dead, but apparently Everman is still
 alive, fighting as some sort of gladiator. Of
 course, the news is two years old, so he
 may be dead now. But I won't have it, you hear?
 I won't have one of my Blades turned into a
 performing bear! Go and get him back."
   "Yes, sire." Durendal rose to his
 feet, but he felt as if he were falling.
   What else could a man say when the bottom
 dropped out of his world? It was the challenge of a
 lifetime. Where was Samarinda, that news took
 two years to arrive? Not even in Eurania.
 Oh, Kate! He could not refuse an order from
 his liege. He could protest and explain, but
 something as strong as the binding prevented that--pride.
 What a fool Kate had been to fall in love
 with a Blade!
   The King studied him for a moment and then smiled
 grimly. "Or at least find out what happened.
 Create another legend! I don't want
 to lose you, but I can't think of any other man
 to choose. Only you. See Grand Inquisitor
 in the morning. She'll assign one of her own men
 to accompany you. And Privy Purse will
 provide all the money you need. May the spirits
 favor your cause."
   Dismissal--so easily may a prince send a
 retainer to his death.
   How? When? Where? Who else? Take
 what? All those matters were being left to his
 discretion. It was Ambrose's way.
 Mind racing, Durendal said, "One question,
 sire?"
   "Ask Grand Inquisitor."
   "Your orders, sire? Am I to bring him
 back whether he wants to come or not? And further
 ... what about the philosophers' stone?"
   The King opened his mouth and seemed to think better
 of what he had been about to say. "Use your own
 judgment. I can't make decisions at the other
 side of the world. That's why I picked you. It's
 your enterprise; do what's best. Oh, yes, before
 you go ..." He stalked over to the paper-littered
 chair and began to rummage in a flurry of
 vellum and parchment.
   Kate, Kate, Kate ...
   Other side of the world?
   He could resign! He had a barony in his
 pocket, and the King had given him the right to claim
 it at any time. No, his binding would not let him
 exercise that right, as the King had known all along.
 And to mention Kate now would seem like cowardice and
 weaseling out.
   "Ha!" The King had found what he wanted
 down on the floor. He heaved himself upright again.
 "I keep meaning to amend the Ironhall charter.
 Allowing boys of fourteen to choose their own names
 is utter ... Ahem. Nothing personal, you
 understand. Nothing wrong with your name, and you have amply
 lived up to it. You may be the Durendal by the time
 you're finished."
   "Your Majesty is gracious."
   "Sometimes. When I have my foot in my mouth,
 I am. But what about Sir Snake, for
 example? Now we have Candidate Bullwhip.
 Young idiots! The current Prime is
 Candidate Wolfbiter."
   Durendal had planned to be Bloodhand if
 they wouldn't let him be Durendal. "I believe
 there are precedents for all those names, sire."
   "Yes, or Grand Master wouldn't have allowed
 them. Anyway, Grand Master says this
 Wolfbiter is the best thing they've produced
 since you. I've been saving him for something
 special. Now he's turned twenty-one and
 he's tearing the walls down."
   Hardly surprising! "I look forward
 to meeting him."
   "Well, you will. Here." The King thrust out a
 parchment sheet bearing the personal signet.
 "He's yours."



   Durendal bowed and closed the door. For a
 moment he just stood there, staring at the oak panel
 in front of his nose, sick with the thought of what he
 had done. Oh, Kate, Kate, Kate!
 He had given the king the best six years of his
 life and owed him nothing more. By any sane standard
 he should have demanded his release then and there and carried
 his beloved off to whatever that estate of his was called
 to happily ever after. The knowledge that his binding had
 overruled his own desires and judgment was no
 consolation at all.
   But what was done was done. He turned and
 beckoned the nearest page. He bent to whisper
 into a none-too-clean ear. "Go and find two
 Blades. I want them, the first two you see.
 Say please if one of them is Commander
 Montpurse, otherwise don't."
   The lad bowed and hurried off, impressed with his
 sudden ability to give orders to Blades. The
 Chamberlain bustled away into the King's presence.
 Durendal sat down at his desk, ignoring all
 the curious and disapproving faces. He selected
 a blank sheet of parchment and wrote out his will,
 leaving everything to Kate. Most Blades would have
 nothing to bequeath, but he owned a manor he had
 never seen. He had no idea what it was worth.
   Then he took another sheet.

 Grand Master:
   You are hereby authorized and requested
 to prepare Prime for binding on the night of the
 fifteenth instant.
   Done by my hand and in the King's name this
 fourteenth day of Thirdmoon, in the three
 hundred and fifty-seventh year of the House of
 Ranulf.
     Durendal, companion.

   He folded the papers, held wax in the candle
 flame, sealed them with his ring. He wandered over
 to rejoin Scrimpnel and Parsewood, enjoying
 their baffled stares and hoping his own face was not too
 scrutable.
   "Whose throw?"
   "Yours, obviously," Scrimpnel said. There
 were two groups in the Guard now, and he was one of the
 young ones, those who had not been in on the
 Nythia campaign. Good man with a rapier,
 though. "May spirits of chance favor you wherever you're
 bound."
   "Writing out your will?" asked Parsewood, who
 was newer yet, but a powerful saber fighter and
 clearly another good guesser. "You won't tell
 us a thing, you big bastard, will you?"
   Before Durendal could frame a reply with enough
 scathe, the door swung open to admit the most
 recent Blade of them all, although even he had
 several months' experience now--a reminder of just
 how long the King had kept the respected
 Wolfbiter dangling. Despite His
 Majesty's disapproval, Sir Snake's name
 was apt, he being about as long and as slender as a
 Blade ever was. He affected a thin mustache,
 a supercilious manner with a nose to match, and he
 sat a horse like the shine of its hide. He would
 do very well.
   Durendal sprang up and intercepted him before
 he could join the group. He passed him the letter.
 "Deliver this to Grand Master, no one else."
   The kid raised his eyebrows. "The Moor?
 Tonight?"
   "Yesterday. And keep your mouth shut, totally.
 Report to Leader when you return."
   "But tonight is the--" Snake took another
 look at the deputy commander's face. "At
 once, sir."
   As he went out, Chefney came in.
 Excellent! His luck was holding.
   "Take over from me here, please, brother?"
   Chefney nodded, curious but not questioning.
 Durendal followed Snake out, almost colliding
 with the returning page. Kate was no longer in the
 hall, but that was to be expected.
   He tracked down Montpurse as he left
 the fencing gym. A distinctly frosty stare
 suggested the Commander already knew there was something
 afoot and he had not been informed. He still looked
 no more than fifteen.
   "I've been detached for special duties,"
 Durendal said. "May be gone some time. Will you
 hold this for me--it's my will--and see my things are
 put in a safe place? The cups are worth a
 fair bit."
   The Commander's face went bleak. "Talk
 to Chancery. That's their job, and Blades can't
 always keep promises. Friend ... I'm going
 to miss you."
   "These things happen. He's the boss."
   "Yes." Montpurse's ice-pale eyes were
 asking how bad it was.
   "I'd like you to wear my sword breaker for me,
 though."
   "I'll see it's kept safe." He was not
 going to wear it, obviously, any more than his
 deputy would say where he was going. "Is this
 good-bye?"
   "I'll leave tomorrow." Durendal told him about
 Snake and the changes that would be needed in the duty
 roster. Then there was nothing more to say and nothing left
 to do except go and find Kate.



   He headed first for the White Sisters' quarters.
 Crossing the western courtyard, he saw her coming
 toward him. They both began to run, shocking
 several elderly sniffers and a few grandly
 dressed courtiers. Before they even met he
 watched the hope die in her eyes and wondered if
 his face was as readable to everyone or if women were more
 perceptive than men.
   They embraced in an impact that should have
 knocked her hat flying but didn't. Eventually
 they broke loose and began to walk, holding hands
 still. Passersby coughed disapprovingly.
   "It didn't work," she said. Statement, no
 question.
   "I had no chance to ask. He called me in and
 gave me a posting, too."
   Her eyes scanned his face for clues.
 "Dangerous. And long. If it were short you'd be
 making plans."
   He would not lie to her. He never lied to women
 or had reason to lie to men. "And yours?"
   "Just a dull guild of merchants in
 Brimiarde, worried in case some conjurer
 tries to steal their money." She shivered. "Their
 halls will all be stinking with conjurements. Never
 mind. Is it true that Blades never sleep?"
   "Almost never."
   She forced a smile. "Then we have the whole
 night ahead of us."

   They talked. They made love. They did
 both all over again. Moonlight crept down the
 wall, across the bed, and up the other side, dragging
 inevitable morning behind it.
   "I will wait for you," she said many times.
   His heart ached. He had always believed that was
 only a manner of speaking, but there was a real pain
 in his chest.
   "No, dearest, you must not. A Blade is not
 meant to be loved, because the King will always come first in
 his heart. I could have told him about you. Then he
 might have withdrawn his orders or delayed them.
 He's not a cruel man by nature. I just
 couldn't. Much as I adore you, I had to obey.
 Find a better man and forget me."
   "Will you come back? Do you expect to come
 back?"
   "I hope to come back, but not for years."
   "I will wait for you, no matter how long."

   Once, after a long kiss, he said, "You have
 told me how Blades sound and feel and seem,
 but how do they taste?"
   "Like strong wine."
   "Tis passing strange! So do White
 Sisters."

   "I will wait for you."
   "You mustn't, but if I do come back and you are
 still free, then I shall sit on your doorstep till
 I die or you agree to marry me."

   Although he had revealed nothing about his task, he
 did let slip a remark about inquisitors--a
 breach of security, perhaps, but his mind was on other
 matters. It was one of those times when women like
 to talk and men don't but will humor them in a good
 cause.
   "Horrible people!" she said. "All time and earth and
 death. No love or air at all."
   He was sitting up cross-legged, admiring her
 body in the moonlight, exploring its contours with
 his fingers, not really listening. "You can tell what
 elements were used in a conjuration?"
   "Usually. You do have scars! I hadn't
 noticed them before. Let me see your back."
   "No, I'm busy. What elements do you
 sense in a Blade?"
   "Love, mostly." She sat up also. "I
 want to see your back."
   "No. Lie down and submit. Love, you
 say? I'm a killer, and you think I was made
 by spirits of love?"
   She kissed him in passing, climbing
 around and over him. "Love isn't only man and
 woman. It is many other things--motherhood, man and
 master, brother and sister, men in bands, simple
 friendship. Turn around; your back's in shadow.
 There they are. They're closer together at the back.
 Love can be dying for someone, even. Understand?"
   "Love can be this, too!" He pulled her
 back into her proper place. She had already found
 his ticklish spots. The wrestling became heated.
   "Now you see why Blades are such great
 lovers," she said. "Because they're bound by
 mmmph--"
   Her lips were too precious to waste on
 speech.

   It was dawn.
   "I will wait for you."
   "I will be true to you."
   "Just come back safe and I will never ask if--
 mmmph!"



   "We have met before, Sir Durendal."
   "So we have. I was not at my best that day."
   Durendal knew the sallow face, the
 bloodless lips, the lank hair, because they were part
 of his Nutting nightmares. He would not have known the
 name, Ivyn Kromman.
   Grand Inquisitor's gloomy office was a
 room oppressed by too many papers, folders,
 bookshelves, tomes, and unhappy
 implications. Even the dust and cobwebs seemed
 to whisper of broken lives and buried secrets.
 Mother Spider herself had her back to the window, a
 huge and hunched blackness against the light.
 Durendal had been placed across the desk from her,
 better lit. Kromman sat at the end so that
 he, too, could watch the Blade's face.
 Making other people uneasy must be an inquisitors'
 instinct, like dogs' barking.
   "Have you reservations about having Inquisitor
 Kromman as your colleague, Sir
 Durendal?" Grand Inquisitor's fish eyes
 neither blinked nor moved. Her fat white hands
 lay like dead things on the desk.
   "I welcome his help in my mission."
   "You do understand that he has been working on the
 case for a long time and that your experience of foreign
 travel is considerably less than
 his?"
   "I have the King's word for it that I am to be the
 leader."
   She ignored that. "How much do you know of the
 matter?"
   "Assume I know nothing at all and begin at
 the beginning."
   "Why do you not answer questions directly?"
   Perhaps he was managing to give her a rash--he
 hoped so. "Why do you never blink?"
   "Is that question relevant?"
   "Yes. If Inquisitor Kromman stares
 at everybody as he likes to stare at me, then
 he will attract suspicion."
   She smiled without making a wrinkle. "I
 assure you that Ivyn can evade attention most
 expertly and has done so many times on His
 Majesty's service. Does staring make you
 uncomfortable?"
   "No. It just annoys me as a demonstration of
 bad manners. I have nothing to hide."
   "Do you feel happy at being chosen to undertake
 such an exotic quest?"
   "Any man would be honored to be so trusted."
   She smiled again, but only with her mouth. "You
 see? You do have something to hide. By "any
 man" you mean "all men" and thus you are lying,
 because you have some reservation you do not wish to admit. A
 romance, perhaps? Ah!"
   He reminded himself sternly that she was just
 guessing. She had a conjured ability to smell a
 spoken lie, but if he remained silent she was
 forced back on purely secular skills like
 face watching--at least that was what the Blades
 believed. It was also why criminals were put to the
 Question. Nevertheless, she had nettled him.
   "Must we fence all day, or can we start shedding
 blood?"
   "As you wish. Six years ago now, Master
 Polydin came to His Majesty with a wild
 tale of faraway lands. He told of the city
 called Samarinda in Altain, wherever that is, at
 the back of nowhere--ancient and isolated, a
 place of strange legends. Yet he swore that
 he had been there and that the strangest of these legends
 was true. The city is ruled by a military
 order, the Knights of the Golden Sword. He
 thought that there were twelve of these knights. They
 possess the secret of the philosophers' stone and
 so they live forever."
   "Wild indeed! A sword of gold would be
 useless, of course, soft as wax. Unless it was
 enchanted, I suppose. What proof did he
 offer?"
   "Only what he had seen. He may have been
 deceived, but he believed that he was telling the truth.
 I can testify to that--he was convinced in his own mind.
 He told us what he had witnessed. Each
 morning at dawn, the order will accept a
 challenge from any man of quality. One of the
 knights comes out to the courtyard of their castle, and the
 two of them fight with real swords. Almost always,
 the knight slays the challenger."
   Durendal was both skeptical and intrigued.
 Of course the King would have chosen to send a Blade
 to investigate such a story. His first choice had
 been Durendal himself, the candidate reputed to be
 the finest fencer Ironhall had produced in
 memory.
   Grand Inquisitor smiled, reading his interest
 in his face or just guessing it. "A champion who
 succeeds in wounding the knight--a rare event,
 apparently--is rewarded with as much gold as he can
 carry to the gate. In so poor a land, there are
 aspirants aplenty. Men wait months for the
 chance to win their fortunes with a single stroke. And some
 do, that is the surprising thing. The house does not
 win every time, so it never lacks for players. It
 charges no entry fee and pays out in real gold.
 Where does the gold come from, if not the
 philosophers' stone?"
   It might be always the same gold, "won"
 by accomplices and smuggled back into the castle
 by night.
   "You mentioned wounded? The knight is never
 slain?"
   "Apparently not, although Master Polydin
 swore that he had seen one run through. A wounded
 knight reappears the next morning, healed and
 ready to fight again. They are reputed to be
 immortal. Old men swear that the current
 knights are the same ones they saw in their youth,
 still as young and virile as they were then."
   Durendal tried to consider the problem and
 decided that considering the problem would be a waste of
 time. The King and others must have investigated
 thoroughly and been convinced. He wasn't, though.
 There would be a trick somewhere. "Our conjurers could
 not manage any of that."
   "Exactly. His Majesty resolved
 to send an expedition to the city in an effort to buy
 or steal the secret."
   "Buy? From men who own the philosophers'
 stone? What could you offer them in return?"
   Grand Inquisitor shrugged her heavy
 shoulders. "K. The King authorized Master
 Polydin to steal the secret if he could. He
 provided him with many arcane conjurations to offer in
 trade if he could not. If both approaches
 failed, and if he believed there was anything to be
 gained, Sir Everman had royal permission
 to accept the challenge."
   Everman had been a daredevil. He would not have
 been able to resist.
   "And now? The King said he has an agent in
 Samarinda."
   "Hardly an agent. A collaborator at
 best. A local merchant who had befriended
 Master Polydin in the past and had dealings with him.
 He wrote a letter, which reached us a few months
 ago, claiming that Sir Everman has himself joined
 the order, the first new member admitted in
 centuries. He lives in the castle. Every
 twelve days or so, he answers the challenge."
   Gladiator, the King had said. But when
 Durendal had asked if Everman was to be brought
 back even if he did not want to return, the
 King had evaded the question. An immortal
 swordsman, the ultimate Blade.
   "Those are the bones of the matter," said Grand
 Inquisitor. "Ivyn knows the details and can
 provide them to you at leisure. You will have much time
 together for conversation."
   Durendal glanced at that flesh-crawling
 inquisitor and thought of several million people he
 would rather have as companions on a long journey.
 Almost anybody except Mother Spider herself, in
 fact. "I need a lesson in geography."
   "Ivyn has studied the route and spoken
 to merchants with connections in the east. In brief,
 the day after tomorrow you will sail from Brimiarde
 to Isilond, landing at Furret, and thence
 proceed overland to the Seventh Sea by whatever
 route seems advisable. The shortest route is
 across Fitain, but they have a civil war raging at
 the moment. Your way then takes you across or around
 the sea to Thyrdonia and up the Yvusarr River
 until you find a caravan traveling the Jade
 Road. A few deserts and mountain ranges
 later, you should arrive at Samarinda,
 probably on the back of a camel."
   He had been wondering if he should recruit more
 helpers, and the answer was obviously no. More people
 would merely find more opportunities for trouble.
 "Money?"
   "His Majesty has been more than generous.
 Ivyn has been provided with ample funds in
 drafts drawn on reputable banking houses.
 You will have to convert most of them to gold before you enter
 Thyrdonia, of course."
   Ah! Someone was feinting. He turned to consider
 Kromman's waxen features. "These drafts?
 Do they specify you by name?"
   "Most do. Some are bearer instruments."
   "The King put me in charge of this mission--am
 I speaking the truth?"
   The well-remembered croaky voice said,
 "Of course, Sir Durendal."
   "And are you prepared to accept my orders
 until we return to Chivial?"
   After a barely perceptible pause, Kromman
 repeated, "Of course, Sir Durendal."
   "I want those drafts redrawn. I do not
 mind your keeping some minor amounts in your name in
 case we become separated or I meet with
 misfortune, but the bulk of the funds will be under my
 control and I will carry them." Whoever had the money
 would have the power.
   The inquisitor looked to Mother Spider.
   "Your request is much less reasonable than you
 realize," she said. "Ivyn must leave in a few
 hours, and the clerks of Privy Purse are
 overworked as it is. To burden them further for a
 purely symbolic personal advantage
 seems very petty."
   "I will accept no other terms. Attend to it
 please, Inquisitor."
   Kromman nodded impassively. "As you
 wish, Sir Durendal."
   "I must be at Ironhall tonight. I can meet
 you tomorrow in Brimiarde. Where?" He had never been
 there. He had seen the sea only once.
   "The Brown Fox in Seagate is
 adequate, Sir Durendal. I shall take a
 room in the name of Chalice, posing as a
 successful merchant who has hired two mercenary
 soldiers down on their luck for service in a
 private militia. You and your Blade should be
 dressed in suitable style--patched and threadbare.
 Please remember that cat's-eye
 swords are well known in this country and keep the
 hilts under your cloaks. Make quite certain that you
 bear nothing that can be identified--no papers,
 letters, lockets, signets, nothing. The same
 goes for your horses' tack, but you may lodge
 the horses themselves at the inn and I will have them
 attended to. You are listed in the ship's log under
 the name of Sergeant-at-arms White, accompanied
 by Man-at-arms Ayrton, so you may as well
 use those names at the Brown Fox. The names on
 your passport for Isilond may be different, of
 course."
   Barely controlling his temper, Durendal said,
 "I can see why we may have to behave like
 criminals in Samarinda, but when did Chivial
 become so dangerous that a gentleman cannot use his
 own name?"
   Kromman revealed a brief flicker of
 amusement, undoubtedly deliberate. "A
 swordsman should understand the importance of
 practice, Sir Durendal. His Majesty's
 Office of General Inquiry is not merely
 responsible for the internal security of the realm, it
 also watches the King's enemies in foreign lands.
 I have been smuggled in and out of other countries so
 often that all these habits are second nature
 to me. You and your Blade have much to learn if we
 are to survive our journey."
   "I accept the rebuke, Inquisitor.
 Thank you for correcting me. By the way, can you
 use a sword?"
   "Not by your standards, Sir Durendal."
   "He is an expert by any others'," Grand
 Inquisitor said dryly. "He has slain
 several men. Did you think I would choose an
 incompetent?"
   Two inquisitors were certainly cutting one
 stupid swordsman to shreds. Keeping his anger as
 far from his face as possible, he said, "Chalice,
 White, Ayrton, at the Brown Fox. Is
 there anything else I need worry about?"
   Grand Inquisitor produced her closest
 approximation yet to a genuine smile. It was an
 unpleasant sight. "What about languages?"
   He had not given a thought to languages. "I
 suppose we must hire local guides." He
 saw at once that he had again displayed total
 incompetence for the task the King had set him.
   She shook her head, and there was a disapproving
 set to her mouth now. "At His
 Majesty's insistence, we have arranged for you to receive
 a spiritual enhancement known as the gift of tongues.
 With that you will be able to pick up any foreign
 language within hours. After a day's exposure
 you will speak it like a native."
   He had never heard of that conjuration--an
 intriguing insight into the Dark Chamber.
 "Inquisitor Kromman is already so enchanted,
 I presume? A specialty of your office,
 ma'am?"
   "We employ it," she admitted. "The
 conjuration itself belongs to the Silk Merchants'
 Guild. They charge a fortune for its use, I
 may add."
   Had the guild's sudden new wealth enabled it
 to hire the services of some sniffers, including
 Sister Kate? She would be in Brimiarde when
 he arrived there. The Everman Affair spread its
 tentacles ever wider.
   Kromman said, "Tomorrow night, in
 Brimiarde."
   "And my Blade will be enchanted as well, of
 course."
   Grand Inquisitor pursed her lips. "I
 am afraid not. The budget will not run to two
 fortunes, Sir Durendal."
   Here was a place to stand and fight. "I am
 afraid I must insist. Tomorrow night he will be
 freshly bound. It will be virtually impossible for
 him to leave my side. More important, the gift
 of tongues will make him much more useful." He
 tried to look as if he were prepared to take his
 case to the King. He knew his pride would not let
 him go running for help, yet he was certain that the
 King would agree with him if he did.
   Perhaps that certainty was what Mother Spider
 smelled, for she scowled and said, "Very well.
 Anything else?"
   Kromman and Durendal glanced at each other
 and shook their heads simultaneously.
   "Until tomorrow then, Master Chalice."
 Durendal rose and bowed. "A most interesting
 meeting, ma'am. My thanks for all your
 help."
   She acknowledged the courtesy with a queenly
 nod. "I suggest you visit some convenient
 elementary and spend a little of the King's money on a
 good-fortune conjuration. You will need it."

               EVERMAN
            III (continued)

                  

  He rode up to the royal door at
Ironhall with his hat pulled down to hide his
face, for it would be unfair to reveal the identity
of Prime's ward until Prime himself was
told. The last few miles he had ridden by the
light of the full moon, chivied by a bitter
moorland wind. He had cut it fine, for the
ritual must begin at midnight andwitha man's
life at stake he would not dare dispense
completely with meditation, as the King sometimes did.
His day-long fast had left him shaky and
depressed.
  The door opened before he had even dismounted.
Wallop had been a servant there since long before
his time, perhaps since before he was born. If
Wallop recognized the cloaked visitor, he
did not say so. He mumbled, "You are
expected, my lord," and led the horse away.
  Durendal went in and began to climb a dark and
narrow spiral stair. This was his third visit
to Ironhall, and might well be his last, but he
could see that no Blade could ever wholly escape
its clutches. Would Harvest ever hang in the
hall, or would she rust away in some distant
jungle?
  The door at the top opened into Grand Master's
private study, with lamplight and a crackling
fire, comfortable chairs and shelves of books, and
heavy drapes drawn over the casements to keep
out the drafts. Grand Master was standing in front
of the hearth, toasting himself. Old Sir Silver
had died in the winter, honored and sincerely
mourned. His replacement was Sir Vicious, who
had been Master of Rituals in Durendal's
day and was one of the best. He had grown a little
shorter and somewhat wider, but his hair was still a
field of seeding dandelions and his cheerful face
glowed red from the fire.
  "You?" The astonishment was almost comical. "I
expected the King. My! How very ...
unexpected."
  Tossing his cloak over a chair, Durendal
headed for that seductive hearth. "I thought you would
guess. That's all right, isn't it--one
Blade binding another?"
  "It's been done. Not in this century, I
suspect. No, I never dreamed. Can you tell
me why?"
  "'Fraid not." He squatted beside the
knight's knees to warm his hands. The respect with
which the old man was treating him was a little unnerving,
for his memories of Ironhall were memories of
his boyhood. He had not realized how the years
had flown.
  "Well! We must break the good news
to Prime right away!" Grand Master seemed almost
as excited as if he were about to be bound again himself.
Without waiting for consent, he went to the door and
spoke to someone outside. In a moment he came
back to the hearth. "I'd offer you wine if you
weren't fasting."
  "I understand. Tell me about Wolfbiter."
  "Oh, the best. Absolutely first class.
Not quite Durendal, but he'll be giving you a run
for the King's Cup in another couple of years."
Grand Master chuckled. "It's time somebody
else got a chance at it anyway."
  "Tell me about the man, though."
  "Solid steel. Mind you, the last six
months have been hard on him--can't recall any
Prime having to wait that long. Make allowances
for that."
  Blast fat Ambrose for being so unthinking!
Durendal rose and leaned an elbow on the
mantel. Watching for a reaction, he said, "Is
the boy going to be resentful that he's not being bound
to the King?"
  "Resentful? Resentful?" Grand Master
chortled. "Well, no, I don't think I
expect resentment. You realize that this is your
night you've picked?"
  "My night?"
  "We have a hard time explaining that Durendal
Night isn't named after you. No, I don't
think Wolfbiter will be resentful. Delirious,
perhaps. Hysterical joy is a possibility, I
suppose. Being torn limb from limb by all the
other--"
  Horror! "You're joking!"
  "Not much. You are the Blade of Blades
to them. Win the cup every year, saved the King's
life, bound twice, deputy commander of the Guard,
the Aldane bout--they think the sun won't rise
if you don't pee in the morning. We
postponed the Durendal Night dinner until after
the binding. That thunder you can hear is all those young
bellies growling." Grand Master rubbed his hands.
"And now we discover that the guest of honor will be the
second Durendal himself with his new Blade at
his side! No, I don't think Prime will have
any complaints."
  Death and fire! How could a man live up
to such expectations? He was not worthy of
absolute loyalty. He had been feeling
unhappy about becoming a ward ever since the King
ordered it; this news made him feel much worse.
He was going to lead his Blade on a useless
trek halfway around the world, with very few
prospects for a safe return.
  "Bring your cloak," Grand Master said,
producing one of his own. "We'll await them in
the flea room."
  Durendal followed, stooping along a
low-roofed corridor and down a short flight of
stairs. This was the oldest part of the keep, an
ants' nest of passages. It smelled of rot.
"Why do you play these tricks?"
  Grand Master stepped aside for him to enter the
little room he remembered so well, where he had
caught coins, where he had first met the Marquis.
Candles already flickered on the table and mantel,
but the air was icy and unused.
  "Dunno. Because it's always been done, I
suppose. Because the tricks were played on us, so
we play them on others. You sit there. Maybe
it is childish," he conceded.
  He settled in one chair, Durendal in the
other, where he would not be readily visible. Yes,
Grand Master's glee as he prepared to spring the
great surprise was juvenile. What happened to a
Blade when he retired to these forsaken moors
to forge more Blades? From the shimmer and glitter of
court to--what? Bleak nothing and a house full
of children. were the knights and masters perhaps all a little
crazy? It was not a welcome thought, but it might
be one to ponder when he succeeded Montpurse as
... but he was going to Samarinda, wasn't he?
He would never succeed Montpurse.
  "You had a fire last summer, I heard."
  The older man nodded. "Lightning. Happens
every hundred years or so. It was one of those freak
late storms, middle of the night. We were lucky
all the boys got out safely. That was only
thanks to--"
  Knuckles rapped on ancient boards.
  Grand Master winked. "Enter."
  How many times had this scene been played out?
Five thousand swords in the hall ... For a
moment the door blocked Durendal's view.
When it closed, two boys stood at attention
between him and the other chair.
  "You sent for us, Grand Master?"
  Wolfbiter was unusually short for a Blade,
and slight of build--a rapier man. From that
angle he certainly did not look twenty-one.
His hair was black. Second was very different,
fair, big-boned, and meaty. They represented
the two end limits of the Blade type.
  "I did, Prime. His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
  "More than ready, Grand Master."
  No hesitation there!
  Grand Master smirked and gestured. "Then
pray greet your assigned ward."
  Wolfbiter spun around and completed the turn
without stopping, a complete circle until he was
looking at Grand Master again, and snapped, "Is
this some kind of a joke?"
  Second was staring at the visitor with his mouth
hanging open. It was less than four years since
Durendal's second binding. These lads would have
been juniors then, so they knew his face, but
Wolfbiter's reaction had been incredibly fast
--so fast that it could not have been faked, even. If
he had been forewarned he would have faked better
than that.
  Grand Master spluttered, totally taken
aback. "Joke? What do you mean by insulting--"
  "To bind a Blade to Sir Durendal would be
setting a lamb to guard a wolf! I do not
understand." The bantam cock was furious! Was this the
resentment Durendal had feared?
  It was time for him to intervene. He rose. "No
joke. Grand Master does not describe you as a
lamb, nor even a ram. But my own first
experience with binding had terrible consequences for me,
and I have no wish to put you to the same ordeal.
If you would prefer to wait for another ward,
Prime, then this episode can be quietly
forgotten, as if it never happened."
  The kid had blushed scarlet. "No, no,
no! I meant no disrespect, Sir
Durendal! Quite the reverse. To be bound to you is
an unbelievable honor, that's all--
one I could not have dreamed of." He bowed with a
fencer's grace.
  Durendal offered a hand. "The honor and the
burden are mine. I shall strive to be worthy of the
loyalty you pledge."
  Wolfbiter's grip was powerful. His dark
eyes gleamed bright and clear in the candlelight, and
undoubtedly those quick wits were now trying
to calculate why a Blade should need a
Blade. His gaze kept darting toward
Durendal's right hip. Either he wanted to see the
famous sword breaker, or he had glimpsed its
absence under the cloak but could not be sure.
  Yes, this one would do.
  Then ... "By fire! You were the Brat! You
gave me my sword!"
  Intense satisfaction flashed back at him.
"Yes, sir. And you came and thanked me afterward.
You can't imagine what that meant to me!"
  "Yes, I can." Montpurse and himself.
Deja vu!
  "Second?"
  "Candidate Bullwhip, Sir Durendal,"
Grand Master said.
  "My pleasure. I have heard much good of you
also."
  It was Bullwhip's turn to blush, but he also
stammered incoherently. His grip was positively
crushing--a broadsword man. Wolfbiter would
be the better man for the job.
  Grand Master rose. "I expect you will all
wish to start the preliminary stages of the ritual as
soon as possible so we can start on the
banquet."
  Wolfbiter looked inquiringly at
Durendal, who said, "The sopranos won't
starve if we keep them waiting a few more
minutes. If we may stop by the gym, I'd be
interested in trying a couple of passes with
Prime."
  "In this light?" Grand Master protested.
  "If the candidate has no objections."
  "None at all, sir. My honor." Dark
eyes gleamed in triumph. "We shall be leaving before
dawn, then, sir?"
  Quick!

  Word must have flashed through Ironhall like a bolt
of lightning. By the time the contestants had removed
their doublets--retaining their shirts against the
cold--the entire school had assembled around the
walls of the gym, most of them holding candles or
lanterns. Durendal could hear his own name being
whispered everywhere. He stipulated rapiers to let
his future Blade show his best weapon. The
lighting was certainly tricky, as all the myriad
flames danced on the foils like a mist of stars.
  Wolfbiter was sunlight on water. He
flashed from position to position, making even
tricky transitions gracefully: Swan,
Violet, Steeple. ... He was aggressive
as a bee swarm but never predictable. The foils
clashed and clattered, feet tapped like a patter
of raindrops. Durendal let him lead, holding
him off but finding himself stretched almost to his
limits. Deciding not to let the lad get too
cocky, he switched to attack, seeking a touch.
But Wolfbiter was never there. Incredible speed!
Ah!
  "A touch, sir!" He was ready to go again,
barely even puffing.
  Durendal saluted and tossed his foil to a
waiting junior. "No. I daren't risk my
reputation. I know only three men other than
myself who might beat you, Candidate, and I'm not
sure of any of them. I do not flatter."
  He felt ill. Who was he to own this superb
young man body and soul for the rest of his life?

                  

  By the time the familiar ritual rose to its
climax, Durendal had lost most of his doubts.
Perhaps the singing was spinning its old seductive
spell around him again, the love of men in bands that
Kate had mentioned. He could rationalize that
Wolfbiter had chosen this life, just as he had.
If a man must serve his King indirectly, that was
still service. Of course it was a shame that his first
duty was to risk his skin in a distant land to no
real purpose, but the King must be the judge of such
matters. Kings' whims were not as other men's. There
might be more to the foolish tale than Grand
Inquisitor knew or had admitted.
  It was strange to watch the candidate jump up
on the anvil and address him in the words of the oath.
It was even stranger to stare at that ominous smudge
of charcoal below the dark fuzz on his chest and take
up a sword to try and kill him. The sword was
a surprise, too. It had a slight
back curve and its point of balance was far
forward, so Wolfbiter was a slasher, not a point
man after all. If he was so good with rapiers, how
must he be with his preferred sabers?
  Now he must find the lad's heart.
Wolfbiter was seated on the anvil, pale but
determined as he stared up at death, but exactly
as Kate had described a Blade--strong,
intense, a dagger in a box. Bullwhip and
another stood ready to grasp his arms, but suddenly
Durendal guessed what was going to happen. Hero
worship ...
  Prime slapped his hands down on his thighs,
lifted his chin defiantly, and said, "Do it now!"
--the Durendal way.
  "Serve or die!" In, three feet of
steel through the chest, back out again. Done!
Durendal saw the contortion of agony, the instant
relief. Surprise, pride ... All so
familiar! Almost no blood at all.
  Wolfbiter did not smile even when the waves
of cheering boomed back from the roof and his friends poured
around to congratulate him. He just stood there,
acknowledging the acclaim with quiet dignity, as if
to say that it was no more than his due. He was
obviously popular, which was a good sign in
Ironhall, and his assignment to Durendal was being
hailed as incredible good fortune.
  Durendal knelt to give him back his
sword, for that seemed a fitting tribute
to courage and years of effort. The King could not do it
that way, but another Blade should. With more
heartrending deja vu he watched the boy
inspect the bloodstains and then hang the sword
on his belt.
  Wait for it!
  Wolfbiter was distracted by more knights coming
to compliment him. Suddenly he turned from them
impatiently and glanced around, seeking his ward.
When he located Durendal, his eyes widened in
shock. That was it, the moment of realization, the moment
when the ward became the sun and the moon, the light
of the world.
  Remembering the King's words to him four years
ago, Durendal said, "Ready to ride, Sir
Wolfbiter?"
  "Yes, sir."
  "I think we can eat first."
  "As you wish, Sir Durendal."
  Did the kid never smile?

  During the raucous festivities that followed,
he was shocked to discover that the Litany of Heroes
now included his own exploit at Waterby. The
roar that followed seemed to make the sky of
swords shimmer and glitter more brightly and would not
stop until he rose and took a bow. Very few
Blades lived to hear their own names in the
Litany.
  Somewhat later he found himself on his feet
giving the Durendal Night speech and mouthing all
the platitudes he had suffered through five times
during his own youth--honor, duty, service.
Yet the hundred young faces out there did not seem
to recognize banality when they heard it. Perhaps
it helped to have a real hero spreading the
fertilizer, or perhaps fertilizer was more welcome
when one was still growing. No soprano went
to sleep, no senior yawned, and Grand Master
swore that this was an unprecedented compliment.
  Prime Candidate Bullwhip conducted the
real hero around the hall, introducing him
to everyone, even the servants, even the Brat. His
Blade followed two steps behind. When Sir
Durendal went to the privy, Sir Wolfbiter
was immediately overcome with the same need.

  Dawn found the two of them miles away,
riding into the rising sun. Of course Wolfbiter
was as impressive with a horse as he was with a
rapier--if he had any failings at all, they
would have been mentioned. Even his manner was
appropriate; he knew he was good, but he would
let the world find that out for itself. Everyone wanted
to compare him to Durendal. Had he been like this:
bright, sharp, untested, dangerous? He
suspected he had been a lot more cocky. He
had been younger, of course.
  "Ready to hear the story?"
  "Yes, sir." Not a smile, though, only that
intense dark stare. Why had he not died of
curiosity before now?
  "First, though ... I couldn't tell you this
earlier, but Grand Master submits detailed
reports on all the seniors. The reason you
stayed Prime all those long months is that you are
so fiery good! The King has been saving you for
something special."
  Wolfbiter nodded as if he worked that out, but he
did not comment.
  "This is the special something. Remember
Everman, just behind me?"
  That won a faint frown. "Yes, sir."
  "Did you give him his sword, too?"
  "No, sir."
  "He and his ward were sent on a dangerous
mission to a mythical city halfway around the world,
in Altain. They never returned and were assumed
dead, but word arrived a few months ago that
Everman at least is still alive, probably
enslaved. Two days ago, the King ordered me
to go and get him back. He gave me a Blade
because I'm going to need one. We sail with tomorrow's
tide."
  The hooves drummed on the dewy trail. The
riders squinted into the rising sun. Wolfbiter
seemed to be thinking. He certainly did not
volunteer any remarks.
  "The journey there will take us at least two
years, by ship, by horse, and eventually by camel.
We shall cross seas and deserts and mountains. We
must evade brigands and wild beasts, storms and
disease, pirates and hostile tribesmen."
  Still no reply.
  "Well?" Durendal said, exasperated. The
hawk was loosed from the hand at last; he had been
assigned to aid the hero of his dreams on a
fairy-tale mission to the ends of the earth. Was he
pleased or scared? Couldn't he say anything at
all?
  His Blade's swift glance seemed
to appraise him: What does he want of me?
What am I doing wrong? "Sir?"
  "Sonny, not one Blade in ten ever draws his
sword in anger from the night he is bound till the
day he is knighted and released--his whole
career is one big sham. He struts and
postures and does nothing of any interest except
prod girls. You are going to be fighting for my
life and yours about once a week for the next five
years. Your chances of ever coming back alive are
worse than slim. How does that future look
to you?"
  "Oh." Wolfbiter did not exactly smile
then, but he came close. "Very satisfactory
indeed, sir."



              WOLFBITER
                 IV

                  

  Eight hundred days later, they rode
into Samarinda, mounted on the shaggy, tough ponies
of Altain, which had no great speed or beauty but
could amble on forever. The Blades were posing
successfully as free swords, two of the dozen
nondescript guards hired to guard Sheik
Akrazzanka's caravan of linen, ivory, and
dyestuffs. Ironically, despite all
Kromman's skilled efforts at masquerading as
an itinerant scholar, the wily traders were quite
convinced he was a spy, just on principle. They
did not care, since most of them were spying for someone
or other.
  The sheer size of Altain made men feel like
fleas. Ice-clad peaks lined the horizon--
clear at dawn, fading under the sun, and yet
revealed the next morning unchanged, as if a
whole day's ride had achieved nothing. Compared
to those giants, the nearby gray-brown hills
seemed insignificant, but hours of riding were
needed just to descend a slope or climb out of a
valley. Water holes were scattered and
precious, trees nonexistent, villages even
rarer. From time to time Durendal would catch a
glimpse of watchers in the distance but never of
tents; rare tracks and droppings were the only
sign of herds. In this parched emptiness, life was
a constant struggle against wind and dust, the gentle,
misty landscape of Chivial an incredible dream.
A man might vie all day with a sadistic sun
searing his eyes and flesh, and at night be fending
off bitter frost under crystal stars.
  A line of laden camels wound up the long
hillside ahead, but one lone rider came
cantering back, shouting to every trader, driver, and
guard he passed, "Samarinda in sight!" Most
laughed or cheered. When he reached the end of the
column, he wheeled around to retrace his path;
he drew alongside Durendal. He smiled,
teeth very white against his deep-tanned face--
Sir Wolfbiter, of course.
  What would the court of Chivial think of the two
of them now? Under conical, comical felt hats,
their faces were as brown as dried dates. They
wore the baggy trousers and shapeless smocks of the
country, colored a muddy shade, and they
reeked of man and horse and camel. Hair and
beards blew wild in the ceaseless wind. Only
the cat's-eye swords at their sides marked them
for what they were--or what they had once been and
might hope to be again.
  "We'll make it before sundown?"
  Wolfbiter nodded firmly. "Journey's
end! Praise to the spirits!"
  Amused by this rare display of enthusiasm,
Durendal said, "It has been an interesting
trip, has it not?"
  His Blade glanced appraisingly at him.
"Moderately, sir. You promised me seas and
deserts and mountains--no complaints there.
Brigands, yes. Wild beasts, I think you
mentioned. Not too many of those. Or pirates. But
hostile tribesmen ... yes, you delivered
those." He did not mention the snakes,
scorpions, fevers, shipwreck, avalanche,
forest fire, and dysentery.
  "You delivered me. I'd be rotting in an
unmarked grave in Thyrdonia if you had not been
with me. Or feeding fish."
  The Blade's faint smile indicated
satisfaction. At least twice he had saved the
life of his friend and ward with a flashing thrust--and that
put him one ahead of Durendal. "But the same
goes for me, too. And we still have to find our way
home again."
  "Enjoy it. The rest of our lives will seem
dull after this."
  "I am enjoying it, every minute." He stared at
the skyline, where the horses showed as dark dots.
"I'm considering killing Kromman."
  "You don't say? Why?"
  "He makes my binding itch."
  He was probably joking--it was never easy
to tell. Wolfbiter was a peerless companion, as
tough and reliable as a cat's-eye sword,
uncomplaining, resourceful, and usually a voice
of prudence to restrain Durendal's wilder
impulses. Though he was four years younger, his
blood was colder. He would kill the inquisitor
without a scruple if he thought he had reason
to.
  "We'd never have made it here without him,"
Durendal said hopefully. "He will probably
be as useful on our way home. Murder needs
evidence, Wolf." Not necessarily, because some
Blades could detect danger to their
wards by pure instinct.
  "He told me that they did a reading on you
once, and it foretold that you were a danger to the
King."
  Durendal laughed with a confidence he did not quite
feel. "I know that, and the King knows it. It
doesn't worry him, so why should it worry you?
Readings are about as reliable as old wives'
weather lore."
  "And I know that. What matters is whether
Kromman believes it. If he does, then
he's a danger to you, out here in nowhere. He may
not want you ever to get home."
  "I honestly think he's more of an asset than
a threat, Wolf."
  The Blade glanced thoughtfully at his ward.
"But how much of an asset? One reason I
don't trust him is because he doesn't trust us.
He has brought along conjurements he hasn't
told us about. I'd like to know why Inquisitor
Kromman's blanket looks like mine and feels
like mine and yet weighs three times as much."
  Durendal had not known that, and Wolfbiter's
satisfaction was irritating.
  "I suppose he's just naturally
secretive."
  "Then why did he tell me about the reading?
Why is he so unfriendly all the time?"
  "Because he was taught sneering at inquisitors'
school. I think he's never forgiven me for
escaping his clutches once, that's all. I know
he's a human slug, but sarcasm isn't a
capital offense. He does have many good
qualities."
  "Name one."
  "Resourcefulness. And he's loyal to the King
--you just admitted that yourself. Come on, friend, you can't
kill a man just because you don't like him!"
  After a moment Wolfbiter said, "You are an
old sourpuss!"

  When they crested the rise and looked down the
long slope to Samarinda in the distance, it seemed
disappointingly similar to other places they had
visited in this last stage of their trek. Like
Alzan or Koburtin, the city itself was only a
slightly rougher patch of the same drab brown as
the overwhelming landscape, with a striking lack of
shining towers or domes of jade, but the flat
valley bottom beyond it displayed the lush
green of cultivation. Water made crops,
crops made food, food must be stored, stores
required defenses. In another hour or so,
Durendal discerned walls and a central building
higher than anything else: palace, castle, or
monastery?
  Somewhere between Altain and the court in Chivial, the
legend had become distorted. The military order
that Grand Inquisitor had described was known here
as the Brethren of the Gold Sword. She had
spoken of knights in a castle, which in the local
tongue became monks in a monastery.
Durendal had concluded that the distinction was of little
significance; the building would be fortified and the men
would rule by force or reputation, as required.
Otherwise, the tale seemed to be standing up. He
had expected it to retreat as he approached, like
a rainbow, but it had grown stronger all along the
Jade Road. Yes, agreed the traders, there
was much gold in Samarinda. They had chuckled at
his questions. A swordsman asking about Samarinda
could have only one thing in mind, wealth. What he
would find would be death.
  "You are a fool to dream so," old
Akrazzanka wheezed in the talks around the
campfires. "Many strong young men have I guided
to Samarinda on that quest. Only two have I
brought out again, either to east or to west."
  "But some win?" Durendal had asked. "Some
succeed?"
  "A few. Not that they manage to keep their
gold for long, you understand--any man foolish enough
to enter that contest will succumb to the first woman or
rogue he meets--but yes, a few live and
depart with much fine gold. I have touched it."
  All the rest of the legend might be faked, but
real gold leaving the city was inexplicable. No
one knew of mines or miners in the district, and
everyone agreed that Samarinda gold was the purest
gold in all the world, yellow butter-metal so
soft you could score it with your fingernails, let
alone your teeth. Taking gold to Samarinda was a
byword for futility. If the answer was not the
philosophers' stone, what was it?
  Journey's end. The two guards would leave the
caravan here, as would the spy who pretended to be a
scholar. At Kromman's insistence, they had
concealed their relationship. If they did not die in
Samarinda, they could catch an eastbound caravan
in a few days or a month or two,
or when the spirits willed.
  Not an end, then, a halfway point. Say a
week in Samarinda to solve the Everman mystery,
or a month for a return caravan, and then two more
years home. Two more years until he saw
Kate again.
  Or the King.
  Kate and the King, the King and Kate. He was still
bound--many nights he woke up sweating, wondering
if his ward was safe.
  The true defense of Samarinda must be the
monks' skills in conjuration, for the city walls
stood only three spans high, which was modest for a
place with a reputation for wealth. Few rooftops
within the walls overtopped them except the castle,
or monastery, itself, which brooded above everything like a
hen within her chicks; yet Durendal had seen many
fortresses in Chivial more impressive. Four
stubby towers rose at the corners of the main
keep, each built of the same brown stone and
capped with a low-pitched roof of green copper.
No faces peered from the tiny windows, no
pennants flew--no, nor even birds. It was
strange not to see at least crows or pigeons
around an inhabited castle.
  When the sun turned pink in the dust of the
horizon, he slid with relief from his pony's
back outside the city gate, amid an untidy
clutter of shanties and paddocks--businesses not
worth the high rents within the walls, constructions that
could be sacrificed if enemies attacked. He
handed the reins to one of the Sheik's drivers and
bade him farewell; then he hefted his bundle
on his shoulder and headed for Wolfbiter, who was
doing much the same.
  He made a conscious effort to speak in his mother
tongue. "Now we can be about the King's business!"
  "After we have collected our pay, you mean."
Wolfbiter's eyes glinted as they did when he
was playing nursemaid. "Sir!"
  "You're right, I suppose. Where is the old
scoundrel?"
  They still carried great wealth strapped around their
waists and had no need of money, but it would be
imprudent to begin their activities in Samarinda
by showing that they were not what they said they were.
Wolfbiter was probably anxious not to give
Kromman a chance to criticize--the inquisitor
insisted that a careful agent never broke out of his
role.
  Finding the Sheik and extracting their due was a
slow process. Akrazzanka was busy making
arrangements for his livestock, workers, and trade
goods. When he had a moment to spare for two wandering
swordsmen, his memory of their agreement
naturally did not coincide with theirs, so everything
had to be haggled out all over again.
  Thirsty, hungry, and almost weary enough to think of
himself as tired, Durendal strode at last toward
the gate with his bundle on his shoulder and
Wolfbiter at his heels. He need never fear
a knife in the back while he had his Blade with
him. As soon as they left the anonymity of the
caravan, they were identified as visiting
swordsmen and surrounded by a yabbering mob of men,
children, and even a few women.
  "The finest house in all Samarinda ..."
  "My wife's cooking ..."
  "My beautiful sister ..."
  The voices were hoarse and harsh, for every city in
Altain had its own dialect; but by tomorrow they would
seem as intelligible as the Chivians at court.
He pushed on through the jabber, the waving hands. In
a few minutes he spotted Kromman and headed
toward him. Kromman turned to go into the city,
following a bent old man; and the Blades in
turn trailed after him at a distance. Eventually
the pimps and hawkers gave up and scuttled off
to find more willing prey.
  Poky alleys wound between walls still giving off
the day's breathless heat, although dusk was almost over.
In Altain night fell faster than a
headsman's ax. The overpowering smells of
cooking, animals, people, and ordure seemed very
close to visible. Strains of music drifted from
barred windows, children wailed, mules and cattle
bellowed in the distance. Old, old, old!
Stairs and doorsteps were hollowed by generations of
feet, cobbles were rutted, even the corners of the
houses seemed rounded off; mortar had crumbled and
fallen out. Alzan was old and Koburtin even
older, but Samarinda was more ancient than anywhere.
Along the Jade Road it was a truth ordained
that when the gods built the world they began at
Samarinda and worked out from there. If each of the eight
elements must have a source, then Samarinda was the
fount of time.
  The people were olive skinned and broad faced,
hiding their eyelids when they were not in use. Some
of the women went veiled, not all. Most
men had mustaches but either shaved their cheeks and chins
or else grew very little hair on them. Yet here
and there were other types, a blond man and one with
near-black skin. ... They bore swords.
They must be visitors come to seek their fortunes.
  Feeling a thrill of excitement, Durendal
caught up with Kromman and fell into step. They
had hardly spoken since leaving Koburtin.
Wolfbiter remained at his post, one pace behind
his ward.
  The inquisitor wore the same filthy,
shapeless clothes as the Blades, and even his
fish-belly face had turned brown on the
trek. His beard was straggly and already streaked with
gray. "Congratulations!" he said in
supercilious Chivian. "You made it all the
way to Samarinda."
  "I should not have done so without your help, of
course. Do you think I am unaware of that?"
  "Even you could not be so obtuse."
  "Who is your friend? What is he peddling--his
daughters or worse?"
  "His name is Cabuk. He offers
accommodation for visiting swordsmen, just like them
all, but when he said his place was the best, he was
lying less than any of the others were."
Inquisitors were undeniably useful
companions. It was a shame they could not be more
pleasant people.
  Murder would be going a little far, though.
  The ragged old man had reached their destination, a
set of staggered stone slabs protruding from a
wall to form a narrow and precarious stair, well
worn by use. He scampered nimbly up to a
massive iron-studded door set about head
height above the street; he unlocked it and
disappeared inside. Wolfbiter went first--it would
have taken an army to stop him. Durendal and the
inquisitor followed.
  The single room was furnished with a few dubious
rolls of bedding, a handful of stone crocks in one
corner, and a knee-high, rickety table. It was
loud with flies and hot as a sweat house, although the
two grilled windows were unglazed and there was an
open trapdoor in the awkwardly low ceiling.
Immeasurable time had stripped all but a few
traces of the original plaster from the walls and
reduced the floorboards to a creaking mesh of
gaps and splinters. Twilight showed through the roof
in places, giving just enough light to see little
Cabuk standing in the middle of this ruin, beaming at
his visitors as if he expected them to go
into raptures over such luxury.
  It was much better than most of the places in which
Durendal had lived during the past two years.
The long journey had been less arduous than the
months spent waiting for ships or caravans.
  "Noble lords!" Cabuk declared. "Behold the
finest lodging in all Samarinda! No one
disputes that it is the most fortunate for all
swordsmen; for many, many who slept here have won
vast wealth in the arena." This was clearly a
well-rehearsed speech. "I have it most
expertly enchanted every month without fail for that
purpose. Here, while you wait your turns, you
have privacy and security. Here you will not be
molested by rats and other vermin, as you will be in all
other establishments without exception. Here is
cool by day and warm at night, see? My wives
are the most excellent cooks in the city and my
daughters will attend most expertly to the personal
needs that strong young men like yourselves must have. Their
beauty is famed throughout Altain and they are
absolutely free of lice or disease or
defects--practically virgins and yet very
skilled. I also have two charming young sons, if you
seek variety, no more than this high, see?
Anything whatsoever that we can do to make your stay in
Samarinda more pleasurable, you have only to ask.
And for this, a mere two dizorks a night, although
my wives rail shrilly at me for my insane
generosity."
  In cash, of course. Swordsmen would be poor
credit risks in Samarinda.
  Directly underfoot, two of the wives or
near virgins began screaming at each other.
Wolfbiter dropped his bundle and went to climb
the ladder, which creaked even louder than the floor
did.
  "He's lying through his beard about the daughters,"
Kromman said in Chivian. "The rest is
probably not far off the truth. Apart from the
money, naturally. You want one boy or both,
Sir Durendal?"
  That was a typically Krommanian sneer.
Fidelity was a difficult concept for him
to appreciate. He could not understand Durendal's
celibacy, and even Wolfbiter thought it odd.
  "You are the expert, Ivyn," Durendal said
wearily. "Negotiate realistically,
but don't make a career out of it, please. No
boys for me."
  Kromman said, "One obit per night,
including all the food we can eat and fresh water
whenever we need it."
  Cabuk screamed as if impaled. "One
obit? I have never accepted less than a
dizork and a half, and that was in midwinter."
  "I bet you've taken four obits and been
glad of them."
  "Never! But since there are only three of you and
you seem honest and well-behaved persons, I will
make an exception and take one and a half
dizorks."
  "Four obits," Kromman said with a
satisfied tone. "Here, take it and begone."
  "Wait!" Durendal cut off the next
flood of protest from the landlord. "I have a whole
dizork here for information--in addition to the rent, just
this once. We want food and beer, but no
daughters."
  The old man hesitated and then nodded
grudgingly. "But tomorrow we must reach a more reasonable
arrangement."
  Durendal dropped his bundle near the wall
and sat down, leaning back against the wall.
Kromman folded down where he was standing.
  "Aha!" the old man said. "You want me
to tell you how you go about winning all the gold you can
carry. You could not have asked a better expert. But
first ..." He dropped to his knees and put his
mouth to a gap in the boards. "Food!" he
screamed. "At once, food! A feast for six
mighty warriors! Do not bring shame upon my
house by scrimping, you bitches! They are huge
men and starving. And send up beer at once for these
nobles. Enough for all six to drink themselves into a
stupor, or I shall whip you to death's door." He
sat back and crossed his legs. "Now, my
lords, I shall tell you the truth of the wonders of
Samarinda."

                  

  Wolfbiter came squeaking down the ladder and
nodded to say that there were no problems on the roof--
security being his responsibility, of course.
They would probably sleep up there. He
settled himself cross-legged, close to the door.
  Cabuk rubbed his spidery hands,
producing a rasping sound. "Around dawn, noble
lord, you go to the courtyard of the monastery and give
your name to the monkeys on the gate. There is a
long waiting list, you understand." He rubbed his hands
again gleefully at that thought. "About an hour after
sunrise, they start calling out names. If
yesterday's challenger won, then he is called
again--given a chance to double his fortune, see?
Else the next name in line is called. If that
man does not answer, then the monkeys call the
next, see? No man is ever given a second
chance if he misses his first."
  That was the first new information. Durendal had
heard the rest many times already, even the peculiar
stories of monkeys. The traders insisted that the
Monastery of the Golden Sword was guarded
by man-size talking monkeys.
  "Wait. These monkeys? Do they write down
the names?"
  Cabuk cackled, sounding startled. "Monkeys
cannot write, my lord!"
  "I never heard of any that could talk, either.
How long is the waiting list?"
  "Usually a couple of weeks, my lord."
  "I heard a couple of months."
  "It is very rarely that long. I have not checked
recently."
  Kromman scratched his knee. It was understood
that the inquisitor moved his left hand when he
smelled a lie.
  "So the monkeys remember every name in the
correct order? For months?"
  "These are no ordinary monkeys, my lord.
They will remember a man's face for years. Where
was I?" Cabuk's speech was obviously given
by rote. Having been interrupted, he might have
to begin at the beginning again.
  "The monkey just called out my name."
  "Um, yes. When a man responds, then he
comes forward to challenge. The monkeys make
sure that he is armed only with a sword, and he
must strip to the waist to show that he is not wearing
armor. He beats on the gong. The door opens
and one of the brothers comes out with the golden sword and
they fight. If the challenger wounds the brother,
then he is taken inside and comes out carrying all
the gold he can move. Anything he drops before
he reaches the gate must remain. If he falls
over, then he loses it all, but that is a fair
penalty for greed, yes? It is very
simple. I have seen it done many times."
  "What happens if the brother kills him?"
  The old man shrugged his tiny shoulders. "He
dies, of course. But you seem a most noble and
virile swordsman, my lord, and your companions
also." He glanced uncertainly at Kromman
who did not, although in fact he was an outstanding
amateur. "I am sure you will prosper,
especially if you are living under this roof of great
good fortune."
  The door creaked open. A woman waddled
in, carrying a leather bucket with both hands and
holding three drinking horns tucked under her
arms, bringing an unmistakable stench of beer. The
foul Altain brew was made from goats' milk and
probably other things even worse, but the traders
insisted it kept away the flux. It did seem
to settle the stomach.
  "My eldest," Cabuk said. "Is she not
ample? In all Altain there are no more generous
breasts. Drop your gown, child, and display your
charms to these noble lords."
  "That will not be necessary," Durendal said sharply.
"Leave the beer, wench. We will serve ourselves."
He waited until she had gone. "How else can
one approach the brethren?"
  "Er ... I do not understand, my lord."
  "If I just wanted to speak with them, or one of
them--can I go to the door at some other time of day
without issuing a challenge?"
  "But why?" Cabuk sounded so puzzled that perhaps
none of his customers had ever asked him such a question
before. "What other business could you have with them?"
  "Suppose I just wanted to ask them a question."
  "I never heard of that being done, my lord. No
one ever goes in or out of the monastery except as
I have told you."
  Kromman's fingers did not move.
  Durendal persisted. "Who delivers their
food?"
  "I--I do not know, my lord!"
  "How often does the challenger win? Once a
month?"
  "Oh, more often than that."
  Kromman rubbed his chin.
  "And are these brothers truly immortal, as the
legends say?"
  "Indeed they must be, your honor," the old
man said unwillingly. "I have seen them all my
life. When I was but a child, my father would
sit me on the wall to watch the duels, and they were
the same men then as they are now. I know them all
--Herat, Sahrif, Yarkan, Tabriz, and
all the others. They are no older now than they were
then."
  Kromman's fingers were still.
  "Thank you. The food soon." Durendal
flipped a coin, which Cabuk snatched out of the dark
with surprising agility--take him back
to Ironhall, maybe?
  As the door closed behind him, the inquisitor
spoke in Chivian, "Mostly true."
  "But not once a month?"
  "No. What did the caravan guards say?"
  "About once a year. Or less."
  Wolfbiter snorted with disgust. "They must be
fiery good fighters! And the challengers are earth
stupid! Three or four hundred to one? Those
odds are not worth it."
  "Not to Sir Wolfbiter," Durendal said.
"But if you were a strong young peasant with
absolutely nothing--no herds, no lands, and could
see no other way of winning a wife--they might
seem reasonable."
  His cautious Blade obviously disagreed.
He would be a lot less likely ever to accept
such a gamble than his impetuous ward would.
  Kromman rose and creaked across to inspect the
crocks in the corner. "Do you suppose the odds
are adjusted to draw the required number of
challengers?"
  Durendal had not thought of that. "You mean the
brothers deliberately lose once a year?
Flames!" They might be
even-better-than-fiery good.
  "You did not ask about Sir Everman."
Wolfbiter made the statement a question.
  "I wanted to see if our flea-bitten friend
would mention him on his own. Now I want to know why
he didn't. Besides, we have the rest of our lives
ahead of us. We'll take this mystery one step
at a time."
  "I may make a competent agent out of you
yet," Kromman remarked in his unpleasant
hoarse rasp.
  Observing a dangerous glint in his Blade's
eye, Durendal said hastily, "After we've
eaten, if we don't fall ill immediately,
I'll take a stroll around the town."
  Wolfbiter rose and took a step
to stand before the door. He drew Fang and raised
her in the duelists' salute. "Over my dead
body."
  "Put it away; you're bluffing."
  Fang went back in her scabbard. "But I'm
not joking, sir. All those strong young peasants you
mentioned, trapped here for months waiting their
turn, running out of money ... Do you remember
where I put the manacles?"
  He had a good point. Samarinda after dark would
not be a haven of tranquility and a prudent man
would explore it first in daylight. "All right,
nurse, tonight I'll behave myself."
  "Thank you."
  The inquisitor said, "This is the water jug and
this is the chamber pot, I think. Confirm that
please, Sir Wolfbiter."
  About once a year, Kromman showed signs
of a sense of humor.

                  

  They left at first light, locking the door behind
them in the certain knowledge that it would not keep Cabuk from
rummaging through their packs while they were out. The
alleyways were deserted still, but the monastery was so
high that it could not be hard to find. Soon they were
walking parallel to it, seeing it looming over the
adjoining buildings.
  "Makes no sense!" Wolfbiter complained.
"These houses must butt up against it. Why give
your enemies a three-story leg up?"
  If his quick wits did not understand, then his ward's
certainly would not. "Because you defend yourself with
conjuration, I expect. The fortifications are just for
show."
  Then they turned a corner into a square, the first
open space they had found in the city. The side
to their left was the front wall of the monastery, a
smooth and forbidding curtain of stone between two
corner towers. The other three sides were a
tightly packed jumble of the ramshackle, chaotic
houses of Samarinda, a continuous frontage
broken only by a few narrow alleys. Most of the
square itself was occupied by the fateful courtyard of the
legends, defined by a chest-high wall on three
sides, directly abutting the monastery on the
fourth. The terrace between the wall and the houses
provided both access to the dwellings and a grandstand
for spectators, for the flagstones of the
court lay a man's height below street level.
  "The bear pit. Once you're in you're in."
Durendal leaned on the wall and peered over.
He wondered how often some poor wretch lost his
nerve down there and was pursued around and around by an
immortal conjurer wielding a golden sword.
The coping of the wall was too smooth to offer any
hope of a handhold; it had been polished
by centuries of arms leaning on it.
  In the chill dawn light, the courtyard stood
deserted and the monastery door was closed. The arch
was large enough to take a loaded wagon, which was
clearly impractical, as the only other way in
or out of the courtyard was a barred gate directly
opposite, and it was only man-size. Steps
outside it led up to street level, while
close inside it stood a post with a single arm, like
a gallows, and from that hung a bronze disk about
shield size. Cabuk had mentioned a gong.
  A dozen or so men were already leaning on the wall
near the gate. Durendal set off to join them, in
the belief that they would have chosen the best place
to view the show. Before he reached the corner, a
door in one of the houses opened and the biggest man
he had ever seen emerged, bent almost double. He
straightened up to tree stature and put his hands
on his hips. He looked up at the morning and
then down at Durendal. He was obviously not a
native of Altain, for his hair was the wrong
color. He was all hair: tawny beard
trailing to his waist, a cinnamon mane hanging
down his back, a black bearskin around his loins,
and man-fur everywhere else. He bore a shiny
steel battle-ax on his back. He would have
curdled blood had he not at once grinned from
ear to ear.
  "You're new! Do you speak Puliarsh? I am
Khiva son of Zambul."
  "Durendal the Bastard."
  "Chalice of Zuropolis."
  "Wolfbiter the Terrible."
  "Welcome!" He looked doubtfully down
at Wolfbiter, who did not come up to his
nipples. "How terrible?"
  The Blade gave him a malignantly
calculated glare. "Appalling when I have to get
up before dawn. Quite patient otherwise."
  The colossus took a moment to work that out and
decide it was a joke. He laughed, a sound like
runaway barrels. "Are you going to put
in your names today? Come!"
  He set off with long strides. Durendal
walked with him, letting the other two follow.
  "We'll decide if we want to enter when
we've seen a few fights."
  "They're very good, all of them. But I am
better."
  Was he? A warrior who let his hair or
beard grow long was inviting opponents to catch
hold of it. "Will they let you fight with that ax?"
  "Yes. The monkey said it would be all right."
  "How long have you been waiting?"
  Khiva pondered. "Weeks. But I'm due
soon, because I don't know anyone who was here when
I came, except Gartok son of Gilgit.
It will be nice to have someone else who can speak
Puliarsh. I have been lonely since Ysog was
called."
  "Have you seen any winners?"
  "No. But you will, if you watch me. I have a
woman waiting for me, friend Durendal! Her father
said I could not have her because I had no flocks.
When I go home, I shall buy up all the
flocks in the village and buy her with them and
everyone will be amazed. And I may take her
sisters, too."
  Alas, when the brains and brawn were passed out,
Khiva son of Zambul had been served twice
from the same pot and missed the other one altogether.
  A couple of dozen aspiring swordsmen had
gathered at the gate now, and more were drifting in.
As soon as the newcomers introduced themselves, it
became clear that many of the other contestants had the
same cognitive shortcomings as Khiva son
of Zambul, but a few were quite impressive. It
made sense that only fools or very skilled
swordsmen would venture their lives in the Golden
Sword Stakes. One man in particular stood
out as having a following. He was large but not
ungainly, past his first youth but still lithe. His
swarthy, hooked-nosed features probably
came from somewhere on the shores of the Seventh Sea,
and his curved sword certainly did. He gave
his name as Gartok son of Gilgit.
  "Ah! Then you are next?" Durendal said.
  His dark eyes gleamed in a smile. "I
believe so. It is impossible to be certain.
There were forty-six here when I put in my name, but
many become dispirited and go home. I have been here
forty days. It must be soon."
  Durendal wondered why he could not just ask the
monkeys to tell him where he stood on the list,
but the question seemed so absurd that it stuck in his
throat. "And you believe you can win?"
  Gartok shrugged. "If they send out Tabriz
or Valmian, I have a very good chance. Against
Karaj or Saveh, a reasonable one. I have not
seen all the brethren in action, and a couple of them
only once. If Herat comes or Everman or
Tejend, then I am dead."
  Aha! "I was told that Everman was a recent
recruit to the brotherhood?"
  Gartok shrugged again. "So they say. He has
a strange style, but he is deadly. I have
watched him twice. He does not toy with his
victims as Karaj and Herat do. He goes
straight for the heart. Stab! Like that!"
  Everman had been a rapier man.
  Before Durendal could ask more, a murmur of
excitement drew his attention to the courtyard. The
sun was over the rooftops now, already hot. One
of the flagstones had lifted like a trapdoor, and the
monkeys were emerging. He left Gartok and
strode along the terrace a few yards to watch this
performance more directly.
  The only monkey he had ever seen had been a
pet chained to a beggar's wrist in Urfalin, and that
had been a tiny animal. These were as tall as he
was, although they walked stooped with a shambling
gait; and they most certainly outweighed him. They
were all female, wearing loose trousers of
many-colored material--scarlet, blue, green,
and gold--and each had a sword on her back, the
scabbard held by shoulder straps. He counted
seven of the strange beasts before a dark hairy arm
pulled the trapdoor closed. Two shuffled
toward the gate; the others spread out to the sides
of the yard. Then they just stood, waiting.
  He glanced behind him, and for once his Blade was
not there. He went back to the group at the gate,
receiving an angry stare from Wolfbiter, who could not
have noticed him leave.
  Nothing very much seemed to be happening. Gartok,
the senior contestant, was holding forth to a dozen or
so intent disciples, passing on his own observations
of the monks' personal styles, plus wisdom
collected by others--the group folklore of a
unique, ever-changing gladiator society.
  "Yarkan I have not seen. He is of great
stature, like Sahrif, but may be known
by his chest hair, which is black and in a
cruciform pattern. He has been wounded either
twice or three times in living memory, always
on the left leg and always with a rapier. He is
left-handed and often uses a broadsword. That
is a very tricky combination, my friends, a
broadsword coming from your right! They may well
send him out against Khiva son of Zambul."
  One of the listeners made a remark about Khiva
son of Zambul that sent the others off into nervy
laughter. Fortunately the giant was not within
earshot, or else the joke had not been phrased
in Puliarsh.
  A newcomer went by and started down the stairs.
At once everyone fell silent and crowded around
the railing to listen. He was older than most, with
silver in his beard, but he moved well and bore
a very long single-edged sword on his back. He
peered through the bars at the two waiting monkeys.
  One said, "Give me your name and you will be
called in turn." Her voice was deep and
throaty but perfectly intelligible. Her lips
and tongue were black. She had dangling breasts,
although not as prominent as a woman's, and the
nipples were black also.
  "Ardebil son of Kepri."
  "You will be called, Ardebil son of
Kepri."
  "May I use this sword?"
  "It will be permitted."
  Ardebil climbed back up the steps and was at
once hailed as a welcome addition to the group.
Had that been a person of grotesque appearance
he had spoken with or an intelligent animal?
Suppose Durendal went down and asked the
monkey to deliver a message to Brother
Everman--what then?
  The terrace was filling up as the hour of
challenge approached, so he strolled off in
search of a clear space of wall to lean on.
Wolfbiter joined him on one side, Kromman
on the other.
  "There must be forty contestants here."
  "Forty-two," said Kromman. "A good agent
collects exact information. And here come another
three. Those six over there with the women are unarmed,
probably just spectators. So is the man with the
boy."
  "Would it be easier to enchant a monkey into a
thing that size and make it talk or
to enchant a woman into looking like a monkey?"
  The inquisitor sneered. "I am not a
conjurer, Sir Durendal. My guess would be the
latter, but conjuration is not always logical. Do you
agree?"
  "Yes. They seem to be intelligent, not just
trained animals, although I can't be certain. The
feat of memory still troubles me. Is there such a
thing as a memory-enhancing conjuration?"
  "Possibly. We must find out what else the
brutes do."
  "I think they prevent anyone else interfering
in the duel." Wolfbiter was clearly having
nightmares of his ward down there fighting for his
life.
  One of the monkeys by the gate shambled over to the
gong and reached up a very long arm to rap on it with
her knuckles. A metallic note
reverberated through the court. She went back to the
gate as her companion there bellowed out a
summons.
  "Jubba Ahlat!"
  Heads turned this way and that along the long line
of spectators.
  "Jubba Ahlat!"
  "Master Ahlat has apparently thought better
of his rashness," Kromman said. "Prudent young
fellow."
  "I have never heard you speak sense before,
Inquisitor," Wolfbiter retorted.
  "You do not listen. One of the camel drivers
told me that if a man comes back years later
to try again, the monkeys will always remember him and
refuse him a second chance, no matter what
name he gives."
  A third time Ahlat's name was called, and still
there was no response. More spectators were
drifting into the square. Faces had appeared at
the windows of the surrounding houses.
  "Gartok son of Gilgit!"
  "Here!"
  The Thyrdonian hauled off his tunic and then
his shirt. Each was snatched from his fingers by a group
of small boys who had gathered near the steps and
promptly began fighting over the loot with many
shrill curses. When he contributed his dagger,
one of them grabbed it and ran; others pursued.
Finally Gartok emptied his pockets, showering
coins over the remaining scavengers, and hurried
down the steps to the gate that now stood
open for him.
  "This is barbaric!" Kromman growled.
  "My Blade and I do not disagree."
  One of the monkeys clanged the gate shut and
locked it. The other intercepted Gartok, pawing
at him to make sure he had brought no concealed
weapons. Then she stood aside and let him
stride out into the sunshine, naked to the waist,
flashing his scimitar as he flexed his arms for
battle.
  He went to the gong and struck it with the flat of his
blade, crashing out an earsplitting boom that
echoed back and forth.
  Barbaric, yes, but there was some horribly
primitive attraction in a contest to the death.
Durendal could not have torn himself away for anything
except immediate danger to his ward, the King.
  A second boom on the gong, then a third--
the challenge delivered.
  The great iron-bound door of the monastery began
to open, swinging slowly inward to reveal a blank
wall of sunlit stone, which was to be expected in a
castle, where an invader breaking down the front
door would find himself confined to a passage and
defenders dropping missiles on his head.
  A man strode in from one side and advanced
until he was in the center of the arch, then turned
to face his opponent across the width of the court.
Experienced spectators began whispering a name,
which in a moment worked its way along to the
Chivians: Herat!
  Gartok had named three who could certainly
kill him and two who toyed with their victims.
Herat had belonged to both groups.
  The monk was clean-shaven and wore his black
hair cropped short. He had the hollow belly
and hairless chest of a youth barely into manhood, but
appearances were reputed to be deceptive in
Samarinda. He emerged from the archway and paused
to raise his sword in a duelist's salute
while the great door silently closed behind him.
His blade shone gold.
  Gartok returned the salute. The two men
marched toward each other. They looked more like man and
boy, though.
  They met in the center, Herat stopping first and
raising his blade at guard to let the challenger
strike first. He turned his right shoulder toward his
opponent and placed his left hand on his hip,
fencer style. Gartok leaped in at
once with a dazzlingly fast two-handed slash. The
youngster parried it easily, and the challenger jumped
back. He began to circle, making feinting
movements, now using a matching one-handed grip.
The monk turned slowly to keep facing him.
  Kromman said, "An expert commentary, if you
please, Sir Durendal."
  "That was a very wild stroke. Gartok told me
that Herat likes to play cat and mouse. He was
gambling on surprise and assuming Herat would not
strike him dead if it failed."
  "Could he have done?"
  "I think so. Too early to be sure."
  Gartok closed again, but Herat leaped back,
barely parrying. And again. The fight moved
swiftly across the court.
  "Now who's winning?" asked the inquisitor.
  "Why play ignorant?" Wolfbiter
snarled. "We know how good you are with a sword."
  "Herat is," Durendal said. "Did you see
how neatly he avoided being pinned against the wall?
Gartok's good. Nothing fancy, but fast and
accurate. Herat's going to wear him out, though."
  True enough. Herat let his opponent drive
him three times across the full width of the court,
until the older man began to tire. The third
time the monk was almost backed into a wall, he
changed tactics without warning and went on the
offensive in a flurry of clangorous parries
and ripostes. Round two had begun. Now the
pace was even faster, and it was Gartok who was in
full retreat. Monkeys shambled out of the way
whenever the battle came near.
  "Do we have to watch this?" Wolfbiter asked
bitterly.
  "That bad?" said the inquisitor.
  "The only thing left to bet on is how long
he'll be made to suffer."
  Or how long flesh and blood could stand that
pace, Durendal thought. He had never seen a
bout continue so long without a touch, and those were real
swords, not lightweight foils. "The kid is
superb. I wouldn't last a minute against him.
Well, maybe two. But he'd always beat me.
You agree, Wolf?"
  "Loyalty forbids me to answer, sir.
Look at that! Point, edge, point again. He
hasn't repeated a move. He's just playing!"
  The crowd was becoming noisy. Even Kromman
was showing signs of excitement, drumming
his fists on the wall. "This is it!" he rasped
as Gartok was expertly herded into a corner.
  But no. With a wild slash at the monk's head
he broke out of the trap--was allowed to break
out. And round three began, for now Herat switched
to a very dirty game, pricking his opponent here and
there as the fancy took him: chest, arms, face,
even legs. None of the wounds seemed serious, but
soon the older man was streaming blood, while still
fighting desperately. He was driven
methodically backward around the courtyard, as if
to allow all the spectators a clear view of his
humiliation. In a moment they passed below the
Chivians, both fighters gasping for breath.
  They did not progress much farther before pain and
despair and sheer exhaustion triumphed. The
challenger conceded. With a howl, he dropped his
sword and spread out his arms, waiting for the coup
de grace. The two men stood in tableau
for a moment, chests moving like bellows. Durendal
was fairly sure that Herat had been slowing down
near the end, so he was not without human limitations,
even if he was immortal.
  The boy spoke and gestured, pointing at the
ground.
  Gartok shook his head, and spoke a word that was
audible over the whole silent square: "Never!"
  Herat laughed and flicked his golden sword in
the older man's face. Gartok screamed once
and doubled over, but then he straightened up again,
clasping his hands to his eyes, bleeding and blinded,
still too proud to kneel. That was a game he could
never win. Herat paced around him like a giant
cat circling its prey, making random cuts, but
seemingly just amusing himself, not playing to the
gallery, for he never once looked at the
spectators. Gartok was being flayed alive and
could not see the strokes coming. He screamed and
staggered; it sounded as if he was begging, but again he
refused a command to kneel. Eventually Herat
cut his throat and walked away, leaving him
to bleed to death.
  The great door swung open to receive him. Something
about the way he wiped sweat from his forehead and the
relaxed way he walked suggested a young athlete
returning from a strenuous but enjoyable workout.
  "I think we have seen all we need,"
Durendal said thickly. His gut was heaving.
  "Why?" Wolfbiter asked. His face was
pale under his deep tan.
  "What?"
  "Why, sir? What is the purpose of all
this?"
  "I wish I knew."
  It was a curious question. Did barbarity need a
purpose?

                  

  They walked in silence through alleyways already
stiflingly hot under the midsummer sun, bustling with
people and carts and pack animals. Durendal chose
to leave the square by the far side and continued to bear
left, staying as close to the monastery as he could.
A couple of times he had to retrace his steps
at dead ends, but he had no serious trouble in
circling all the way around. He found only two
places where he could stand in the street and touch the
fortress. Everywhere else it was behind houses. There
was no other door.
  Having now given himself time to think, he led the
way back to their room at the top of the precarious
stairway of slabs. He saw at a glance that the
packs had been emptied and carelessly stuffed
back together. Cabuk had not been subtle. Knowing
his guests expected him to snoop and steal, he would
see no need to be devious about it.
  Durendal scrambled up the ladder to the roof, which
was admittedly a superior feature of Hotel
Cabuk. At one time the house had possessed
another story, and most of the walls were still there, even
to windows blocked by the stonework of adjoining
buildings. When the original roof had burned
away to a few charred beams, the owners had spread
clay over the floor. The result seemed
likely to collapse at any moment, but the
resulting patio was private and as cool as
anywhere in Samarinda could be.
  He kicked away enough litter to make a clearing
on the shady side and sat down. The other two
did the same. Finding he had a view of the
monastery towers, he glared at them with sudden
hatred. Why? Why murder a man every day? According
to the legends, this had been going on for thousands of
years. The Monastery of the Golden Sword had
always been there. There was no record of its founding.
Two years he had spent coming here, two years
he would need to return, and it seemed as if it would
all be wasted. He would go home with only
failure to report.
  "Anyone want to eat?" he asked eventually,
and his companions shook their heads.
  "Ideas, then. His Majesty told me
to rescue Everman or at least find out what
happened to him. We have--did have--an eyewitness
who saw him fight, so he's almost certainly still
alive." Was that progress? Yesterday at this
time, he had not expected as much. "At worst we
must linger here until he fights again and Wolf and
I can identify him. But how we go about getting a
message to him, I can't for the life of me ...
The castle--or monastery, whichever you want
to call it--seems to have no other door. Even if
it has its own well for water, they still have to get
food in and night soil out. Cabuk didn't
know, but he wouldn't care."
  Wolfbiter was wearing his steady, calculating
stare. "And women. Monks may abstain, but
knights rarely do, even in theory. Those houses
crammed against the walls, they bother me, they
really do."
  "You noticed the monkeys are all female?
Perhaps they don't always look like monkeys." The
alternative did not bear thinking about. "You think
there's a secret way in?"
  "Must be. Several, through the houses. One of the
merchants told me that Samarinda is a good
place to buy swords. We can try to find out who
sells them and where he gets them."
  "They may just leave them on the flagstones for the
scavengers."
  "Yes, sir. But why not put Inquisitor
Kromman to work interviewing harlots and see if
any of them ever get called in by the brethren?
He's good at that sort--"
  "Don't you start being childish. He's bad
enough. Today we explore the town and ask some
guarded questions. And we ought to find that merchant who
sent the letter. What was his name--Quchan?"
  "Why?" Kromman asked with a disagreeable
pout.
  "I'll write one and give it to him to send on
the next eastbound caravan. Then at least the King
may learn that we arrived." Assuming it ever
arrived, which was probably not probable. "If we
fail to return, he'll be less tempted to send
anyone else."
  "But Quchan may very well be in league with the
brethren. I suggest you wait a few days first."
  Durendal conceded the point with a nod,
knowing that the inquisitor was much better at
intrigue than he would ever be.
  For a moment Kromman sat with a sour
expression on his face. Then he sighed. "I
wish I could show you both up as stupid
musclebound louts for missing something obvious. I
do think that's what you are, but I can't expose you
at the moment. We must prepare an escape
route in case we need to leave in a hurry. I
suggest we buy five horses and saddles and
stable them at one of those establishments outside the
gates. If we pay a high enough daily rate,
they should remain available."
  "Five?" Wolfbiter said. "You think
Polydin's still alive too?"
  "Everman was only twenty-two when he came
here. Few musclebound louts could be bribed with a
promise of immortality at that age." The
inquisitor sneered. "The brethren found a
Blade's weak spot, that's obvious."
  He meant Everman's ward, because if they held
Jaque Polydin hostage, they could force
Everman to do anything. It was a horribly
logical way to explain how an honorable
swordsman had been turned into a cold-blooded
killer.
  "Well, there's our first day," Durendal said.
"We'll see about horses, and explore the city
and make inquiries. I suppose we had
better eat something now before it gets any hotter.
Tomorrow we'll watch another man die."
  It was small consolation that Kromman seemed
to be as baffled as he and Wolfbiter were.

                  

  The next day began very much like the first, with the
Chivians arriving at the courtyard as the sun was
rising. Durendal walked only a few yards
along the wall and stopped before he reached the house
from which Khiva son of Zambul had emerged the
previous morning.
  "I want to watch from here today."
  "Why?" demanded the inquisitor.
  "Just a whim. You go 'round and talk to the human
sacrifices if you want."
  Glowering suspiciously, Kromman remained.
So, of course, did Wolfbiter.
  The challengers were gathering by the gate,
conspicuously including Khiva son of
Zambul, that hairy giant standing head and
shoulders above even the tallest. The sun crawled
up over the buildings, spreading brightness across the
flagstones. Yesterday's bloodstains were a darker
black, but the whole of the courtyard was a dark
color, dyed by the dried blood of centuries.
  The previous day's inquiries had done nothing
to solve the mystery. Neither the inquisitor nor the
two Blades had managed to learn anything about the
monastery's domestic arrangements. No stall
keeper had admitted to delivering food or knowing
who did, and the men who gathered the night soil
claimed they did not collect any from the
brethren. None of which meant anything if
Wolfbiter's guess about concealed entrances was
correct.
  The expedition had purchased horses in case
it must make a quick getaway. Whether a small
party could travel across Altain unmolested was
another problem, but if they could just reach
Koburtin, they could wait there for a caravan.
  The trapdoor rose, and the first monkey
clambered out.
  Durendal began to walk then, and his companions
followed in puzzled silence. They joined the
contestants, who greeted them cheerfully and asked
if they were now ready to submit their names.
  Suddenly he decided to tackle the monkey
guardians. He had not intended to, for he would be
drawing attention to himself and might even put
Everman in danger, but he had learned to trust his
impulses. Swordsmen who waited to analyze
problems tended to die without finding answers. He
headed for the steps. Wolfbiter muttered a curse
and followed. Although the gate was still closed, the
monsters were clearly visible through the bars. They had
long tails, huge yellow fangs, an acrid
animal stench, and calluses on their shoulders where
the scabbard straps had worn the hair off. They
were certainly not people in costumes, yet the dark
eyes seemed intelligent.
  "Give me your name and you will be called in
turn," one of them said.
  When he did not reply, she repeated the
statement in another language, and then again in a
tongue he did not know.
  "I am not ready to do that. I wish to speak with
one of the brothers."
  The monkey scratched herself with big black
nails.
  Feeling his skin crawl, he tried again. "I
have something important to tell the brethren."
  Still no reaction. He glanced at
Wolfbiter. "Do you think she doesn't understand
or won't?"
  "Won't. I'd be happier if you stood
farther from the bars, sir. I don't know how fast
she is."
  Durendal moved back against the wall to ease
the strain on his ward, although the monkey's long arm
might still be able to reach him there.
  "If you are going to put our names in,"
Wolfbiter said tensely, "give them mine first.
I will not be able to remain in the gallery if you are
down here fighting." He was speaking Chivian, but
could monkeys have the gift of tongues also?
  "I'm not going to put anybody's name in. I
am not crazy, and I have a duty to report back
to my ward. Don't you answer questions?"
  The monkey scratched again impassively.
  The answer was no. The other one turned and
shambled toward the gong to begin the day's
spectacle. With an angry sense of failure,
Durendal trotted back up to the street and went
in search of a place to watch from. He had gained
nothing and might have warned the opposition that
Everman's friends had arrived at last.
  The summons of the gong died away.
  "Khiva son of Zambul!"
  "Here!" roared the giant. He ripped off his
bearskin and hurled it to the waiting scavengers, then
went plunging naked down the stairs. He emerged
through the gate, crouching under the stone lintel, and
strode past the monkeys. He was much larger than
they but not much less hairy. If his nudity was not
just bluff and he truly was a berserker, then today's
match might not be the pushover Durendal had been
expecting.
  At that moment Kromman inquired, "What
odds on Khiva the Short?"
  When his ward did not answer, Wolfbiter said,
"A thousand to one on the golden sword. Khiva
hasn't got a brain in his head."
  "He has a lot of muscles in his body."
  "I'd take the same odds on me against that
lout--and cut him down to my size, or less."
  Boom!--boom!--boom! The giant's
fast blows seemed designated to tear the gong from
its chains. They reverberated like thunder through the
square, echoing off the monastery wall.
  The great door began to open.
  "He does not lack enthusiasm or
courage," the inquisitor said. "Intelligence in
swordsmen is a relative matter, and that ax of
his is at least six feet long. His arm can't be
much less. How do you close with him, Sir
Wolfbiter?"
  "I wear him out. I dodge his stroke and come
in behind it. It must weigh-- Oh, death and fire!
Sir, isn't that Everman?"
  Steady! Durendal forced his fists to unclench and
laid his palms on the wall. Everman had been
one of the best. Superb, he had told the King.
Trouble was, he was short, like Wolfbiter. He
looked tiny, standing there in that huge archway. This was
to be a battle of the bull and the bulldog.
  The two men advanced toward the center as the
monastery door closed. Sunlight glinted on
Everman's auburn hair. He had always been
pale skinned, rarely taking a tan even in
midsummer, and now his chest and arms seemed almost
milk white. The closer he came to the giant,
the smaller he became, like a boy facing an
ogre.
  Khiva had no use for duelists'
courtesies. He roared out a battle cry and
charged, swinging that enormous ax around his head with one
hand. Hair and beard streaming behind him, he bore
down on his opponent within a whistling circle of
flashing steel, safe from any swordsman's
reach. That was not the technique Wolfbiter had
predicted.
  Everman halted and watched him come, waiting in
a half crouch. Which way would he jump--left
or right? He would be far more nimble than Khiva,
who would need five or ten paces to come to a halt
and reverse direction, but even that great bone-brain
must know that Everman would dodge. Khiva could
lunge sideways at the last minute. If he
guessed wrong, he could try again, but Everman would
have no second chances. The contest would end when the
challenger ran out of wind or the monk out of
dodges.
  They met and both men went down. Everman
rolled clear and bounced to his feet at once,
unharmed and unarmed. The giant slid to a halt
face downward, while his ax clattered and
clanged across the flagstones halfway to the
monastery door. He had grown a bloody
horn between his shoulder blades.
  The encounter had been almost too fast for even
Durendal's expert eye. Everman had simply
dropped to his knees under the ax and then sprung
up, thrusting his sword two-handed into Khiva's
chest. The son of Zambul had done the rest,
impaling himself on the blade with his own momentum.
Stab! Gartok had said, right to the heart. The
wonder was that Everman had not been crushed by the
giant's fall, but he was upright, dancing from
foot to foot, and Khiva was prone,
spread-eagled, hardly twitching. The
spectators were silent.
  The victor took hold of the corpse by one
ankle and walked around it until it flopped over
on its side and he could retrieve his sword.
Then he headed back toward the monastery door.
He had won his bout in little more than a minute,
spilling almost no blood. He had not once
looked at the audience, any more than Herat had
the previous day--mortals must be beneath
immortals' notice. There was no cockiness in
his walk, as there had been in Herat's, but there was
no dejection either.
  Impulse: Durendal cupped his hands to his
mouth and bellowed at the top of his voice,
"Starkmoor!"
  Everman missed a step and then kept walking,
not looking around. He passed under the arch, turned
to the left, and disappeared from view. The door
swung shut.
  The swordsmen began to disperse in gloomy
silence.
  "Oh, I approve," said Kromman. "Very
sharp and concise. Merciful pest control. Stamp
on them quick so they don't suffer."
  Durendal rounded on him. "Will you shut up, you
slime-mouthed reptilian shit bucket? That
man is a friend of mine, and he is in trouble!"
  Kromman stared back at him with the fish-eyed
gaze of an inquisitor. "Men are known by the
company they keep, Sir Durendal."
  "Sometimes we have no choice. Let's get out
of here."
  "This way, sir." Wolfbiter was wearing his
warning expression, the one that made him look like a
constipated trout.
  "Lead," Durendal said, puzzled.
  But his Blade moved only a few paces,
to the middle of the terrace, and then turned. "Here,
I think. Pretend we're having an
argument or a discussion or something." He was facing
the monastery and the other two had their backs to it.
  "You are behaving very much out of character," Kromman
complained. "I do not know what could provoke a
Blade to start cultivating the superior habits
of an inquisitor, but of course I am prepared
to stand here all day if it will further your education and
progress."
  A group of four contestants went by.
Muttering, they disappeared into an alley.
  "I just keep wanting to know why," Wolfbiter
said apologetically.
  Kromman beamed like a toad. "You're watching
to see what happens to the body!"
  The Blade gave him his familiar dark
appraising stare. "Yes. And at the moment the
monkeys are trooping back down the-- Ah! The
last two have gone for it. Yes, they're carrying it
to the trapdoor."
  Durendal said, "Only two?" Khiva would
have outweighed an ox.
  "Only two, sir, and not making heavy work of
it, either. Gone. You can look now."
  The trapdoor had closed. The courtyard was
deserted, bearing no sign of Khiva's death
except his great ax, which lay abandoned in the
sunshine.
  "What does it mean, Wolf?"
  "I think that must be how they feed the
livestock."
  "But--but they can't go through all this just for that,
surely?"
  "Look!" Kromman snapped.
  A wiry adolescent had dropped over the
wall on one side of the yard, and two more came
down on the other. They all raced for the ax. The
solitary youth reached it first and sprinted back the
way he had come with the other two in close
pursuit. Reaching the wall, he hurled his
booty up to his waiting friends. The opposition
abandoned the contest and ran back to their own
helpers. Thief and would-be thieves were hauled
up, over the coping. The rival gangs vanished
into convenient alleys and the courtyard was truly
deserted again.
  "Very slick," Durendal grumbled, leading the
way homeward. "They do it every day. I don't
think I could have handled Khiva as neatly as
Everman did, though." He would not have wanted to,
that was the difference. "What you were hinting,
Wolf, is that the monkeys are the masters and the
brethren are the servants. A murder a day just
to feed the apes on human flesh?"
  Wolfbiter glanced appraisingly at him and
said nothing.
  They walked on in silence through the morning
crowds.
  "We have broken cover," the inquisitor said
suddenly. "You spoke to the monkeys and then shouted
to Everman. I think your idea of a letter sent through
Master Quchan may now be a wise precaution.
If the brethren are opposed to our meddling, they will
probably have little trouble tracking us down very
shortly and--"
  Durendal caught his companions' arms to halt
them. Cabuk's house was straight ahead.
Waiting there, seated on the third block of the
staircase with his feet resting on the second, was
a man in the anonymous dusty garments of
Altain. The face under the flapped, conical cap
was Everman's, and he had already seen them.




                  

  He stepped down to the road as they approached,
offering a hand and a wary smile. "Durendal! I
did not expect you. And ... Wait, don't
tell me. Not Chandler ... Wolfbiter!" The
smile broadened. "Sir Wolfbiter now, of
course! Fire, how the years go! And?" He
looked quizzically at Kromman.
  "Master Ivyn Chalice, merchant."
Durendal's conscience squirmed. He was lying
to a brother Blade. "Our infallible guide.
Let's go up."
  "No, we'll talk here. How are things back
in Chivial? And Ironhall?" Everman had not
changed on the outside, whatever he had become
inside. His face was unusually pale for Altain
but the same face it had been eight years ago.
The gingery eyebrows and eyelashes were the same, his
eyes perhaps more cautious. Immortality must
agree with him.
  "The land's at peace. The King was well when
we left--remarried, expecting a second child.
Queen Godeleva produced a daughter and he
divorced her. Grand Master finally
died. Master of Archives succeeded him."
Durendal felt waves of unreality wash over
him as he tried to discuss such matters in this
exotic alleyway--with bizarre crowds trooping
by, mules and even camels, beggars chanting,
conical caps with earflaps, hawkers wheeling
carts and waving hot meat on sticks, alien
scents, harsh voices, slanted eyes without
visible lids.
  Everman nodded as if none of it mattered very
much. "I was afraid he'd try again. I
didn't expect you, though. You were not bound to the
King."
  "I am now."
  "You have had a long journey for nothing,
brother." His red-brown eyes stared intently at
Durendal. "There is no philosophers' stone.
Discard the first wrong answer. There is no
secret in Samarinda that you can steal for good King
Ambrose."
  "There are mysteries, though." Not the least of them
was whatever had changed a former friend into this stranger.
"There is a source of gold. And apparently there
is immortality."
  Everman shrugged sadly. "But nothing you can
take or use. Look ..." He reached for his
sword and Fang flashed into Wolfbiter's fist.
  Everman jumped and raised both hands quickly,
palms out. He glanced from one Blade to the other
and then smiled. "I can tell who is whose ward.
I just want to show you something."
  "Put your sword up, Wolf."
Fortunately none of the passersby had taken
alarm. "Show us what?"
  Everman pointed at the stone on the pommel,
keeping his hand well away from the hilt. "The
cat's eye is coated with wax. The blade's
covered with gold paint. I was going to draw it and
show you the scratches. This is Reaper, the sword
I took from the anvil in Ironhall. You want
to look closer?"
  "What's the significance?"
  "Discard the second wrong answer. There is
no enchanted sword in the monastery, in spite of
its name. There are some fiery good swordsmen, but
no enchanted swords."
  "There's you. Why? Why did you join them?"
What are you now, who were once my friend? Why
kill men the way you swatted that half-witted
giant this morning? What harm had he
ever done you?
  A passing wagon caused them to move closer
together. Everman sighed and leaned an elbow on one
of the slabs of the stair.
  "My ward died, so discard the third wrong
answer. Master Polydin died of a fever in
Urfalin." He peered around at their faces.
"You know what that does to a Blade. I decided
to carry on, and I made it all the way here. I
prowled around like you've been doing, I expect, and
couldn't find out anything at all. So I put my
name in. The day my turn came, Yarkan drew
short straw. He brought out a broadsword and
I managed to prick his knee. They took me
inside. ... There's a stack of gold bars there.
I tucked one under each arm and walked out again. That
night I sat in my room and stared at them and
tried to decide what on earth I needed gold
bars for."
  Durendal could not see Kromman's left hand
and suspected he was not signaling anyway or
else that all this was true. "And?"
  "And the next day I answered my call again--
they give you a second chance, you know. If I
hadn't taken it, then Yarkan would have fought again, but
this time they sent out Dhurma. I won again."
  "Ironhall would be proud of you."
  A brief smile made Everman's face
seem absurdly boyish. "Our style was new
to them. They know it now--I've taught them. The
third day they sent Herat."
  "Third?"
  He shrugged, almost seeming embarrassed. "You
haven't heard that part? Three wins and you're in.
I couldn't resist. I'd been sent to discover the
secret, remember."
  "You were always a daredevil."
  "Oh? The well is calling the puddle deep,
Sir Durendal."
  "We watched Herat yesterday. Vicious. You
beat Herat?"
  "Nobody ever beats Herat. He says I
gave him the best sport he'd had in a century
or two, though. When I was about to pass out from
loss of blood, he dropped his guard. I was so
mad I disemboweled him."
  Wolfbiter whispered, "Fire and death!"
  Everman chuckled. "Fire, maybe. We
staggered back to the monastery together, but he was
helping me more than I was helping him--
holding his guts in with one hand and me up with the other.
Their healing conjurements are vastly better than
anything we have back in Chivial. By next
morning I was good as new. I became one of
them."
  "And you're staying there of your own free will?"
  Everman nodded. "I'm going to stay here forever."
He met Durendal's stare defiantly. "Of
my own free will."
  A beggar boy started wailing for alms.
Kromman clipped him on the ear to send him
packing. He used his right hand, though, not
signaling. How much of Everman's tale was
true? What should Durendal ask next?
Gold? Immortality? Monkeys eating
human flesh?
  "The King sent me to get you back. If there was
a philosophers' stone, and I could find it,
well and good, but my prime directive is
to bring you home. He won't have one of his
Blades made into a performing bear."
  "Kind of him. And since I don't want
to leave?" Everman had lost his smile. He was as
tense as if he had his sword in his hand.
  "He said I could use my own judgment."
  "You always had good judgment, even if you were a
worse daredevil than me. Go home and meddle
no more in Samarinda."
  Durendal glanced inquiringly at Kromman,
but the inquisitor's fishy stare told him nothing.
How much of the story was true? None of it, if
Polydin was chained in the monastery cellar.
  "In the King's name, Sir Everman, I
command--"
  "Screw fat Ambrose."
  Wolfbiter hissed at this sedition. Everman
laughed.
  Appeal had failed, duty had failed. The
renegade seemed ready to terminate the discussion.
If he dodged off into the crowds, he would be gone
forever. All Durendal had left to try now was
force.
  "There are three of us, brother, and only one of
you. We could take you, I think."
  Everman stared hard at him and then shook his head
sadly. "Brother, you say? Oh, brother,
brother! Look over there."
  They all looked. Three youths were lounging
against the opposite wall, watching. The middle
one was Herat. He smiled.
  "My brothers now," Everman said. "Go
home, Sir Durendal. Go home, Sir
Wolfbiter. There is nothing in Samarinda for you
or for the King. Whatever secrets the monastery
holds will not work in Chivial, I promise you.
You will find only death here, and this is a long way
from home to die." His lip curled. "And take
your tame inquisitor with you. Give my regards
to Ironhall. Reaper is one sword that will never
hang in the hall, but you don't have to mention that."

                  

  I suppose I'm just pigheaded. Hardest
part of being a King--being any sort of leader--is
knowing when to quit. You've wounded the quarry. ...
No, Durendal thought, the quarry had wounded him.
The quarry had run him out of town with his tail between
his legs. He was going home to report
failure.
  Sunlight blazed like a furnace door. The
morning was still young, yet the air was unbreathably
hot and the peaks had already vanished in purple
haze. Five ponies followed their shadows over
the dusty hills--three with riders, two spares.
They could travel no faster than a caravan, so
five days' ride to Koburtin, maybe. No
one spoke a word until they crested the long
rise and Samarinda disappeared from view, then
Durendal said, "What went wrong? Obviously
Wolf was right and they have secret doors, but how
did they catch us so quickly?"
  After a moment, it was Kromman who answered.
"An efficient spy system. The brethren must be
very interested in strangers--who they are, where they
stay. We asked strange questions. ... Or perhaps
conjuration--who knows? They must have some sort of
sniffers to make sure the challengers are all
secular."
  "Very few good swordsmen are purely
secular, Inquisitor, any more than you are.
Wolf and I are not, certainly. Herat can't
be. I think even Gartok had some spiritual
enhancement."
  "Or we were betrayed," Wolfbiter suggested.
"How did Everman know we had an inquisitor
with us?" As always, his face was expressionless. Was
he contemplating murder again?
  "You mean me?" Kromman sneered. "What do
I have to gain by treachery, Sir Blade?
If you want to search my pack for gold bars,
then go ahead."
  "You wouldn't have told them you were an
inquisitor," Durendal said. "That's out of character.
How much of Everman's story was true, if
any?"
  Kromman twisted his straggly mustache over a
pout. "I don't know. You let him talk in a
busy street. We normally question people alone. If
others are present, they must at least keep still.
A crowded alley with people going and coming is
absolutely the worst possible situation for
smelling falsehood."
  Was he lying? Why should Kromman lie?
Durendal did not know, and yet he knew he
trusted his inquisitor ally no farther than he
now trusted Everman. Killing might be inevitable
for a Blade or man-at-arms on duty, but
killing for no purpose was unforgivable.
  "Give me some opinions."
  "He was lying about Polydin's death. That I
am almost certain of."
  "And later, when he said he was a willing
member of the gang?"
  "No--at least, he wasn't saying that just because
the three bullyboys were watching him. He may have
been holding something back."
  Durendal looked at his Blade, riding on
his left to cover his vulnerable side.
  "No arguments, sir. I thought much the same."
  "Yes. Me too. Who needs inquisitors?
But if he was lying about his ward, then he needs
rescuing. On the other hand, the brethren now look
absolutely invincible, and any further efforts
on our part will be rank suicide. But that's what
we came for. But, but, but! Do we go home or
ignore the threats and double back to try again?
Look--shade! Let's see if we can get
down there."
  He turned his mount to the right and rode over to a
rocky wadi that cut the landscape like an open
wound. The surefooted pony seemed to approve,
for it picked its way eagerly down the stony
slope and in a few minutes brought him to a patch
of shadow against a beetling cliff. The rising sun
would soon wipe out even that small shelter, but at
the moment it was a heavenly refuge. Without
dismounting, he turned to face his companions as they
closed in beside him.
  "We can't fight conjuration without using
conjuration. You have not been open with us, Kromman.
We all know that inquisitors have resources they
prefer not to discuss, but now we need your help.
What tricks have you got with you that you haven't
told us about?"
  Kromman scowled through his lank beard. "It
is true that I was provided with certain devices
that may prove useful--you have already benefitted from
the enchanted bandages, Sir Durendal--but the
Office of General Inquiry does not
proclaim all its resources hugger-mugger. I
am forbidden to reveal them unless and until they are
needed. If you tell me what you are planning
to do, I shall be happy to advise you how I may be
able to assist. But don't expect very much."
  "How about a golden key?"
  Wolfbiter groaned in dismay. "You can't be
serious!"
  The inquisitor smiled thinly. "Of course
he is serious."
  "Break into the monastery?"
  "You should cultivate your powers of observation,
Sir Wolfbiter. When that trapdoor in the
courtyard opened yesterday, your ward walked along
the terrace until he was opposite it and then
looked behind him. This morning he stayed at the east
side until it opened again--at which point he
started to walk, glancing at the houses he was
passing. He now has two bearings on the opening,
so he can find it again. A unusual display of
thinking from a sword jockey, I admit, but
obviously he had burglary in mind, even then."
  Durendal tried not to show his annoyance.
Wolfbiter was naturally impassive, the
inquisitor had training or enchantment to help him
conceal his emotions, but he always felt he was an
open book to both of them.
  "Before we left, there were rumors going around of a
handy little gadget called an invisibility
cloak."
  The inquisitor laughed harshly. "Most of the
legends about the so-called Dark Chamber are
absolute swamp gas, and that definitely
includes invisibility cloaks. Pure myth.
But if you are intent on suicide, I shall do
everything I can to help, of course."
  He was about as likable as something dug out of an
outhouse pit.
  Wolfbiter glared at him and then equally at
Durendal, who reached for his water
bottle to give himself a moment to think. It was
ironic that the man he disliked and distrusted was
supporting him, while the one he called friend must
be opposed. Wolfbiter was smarter than
Durendal when it came to logic, even if he
did not have the same gift of intuition. Was
intuition much different from what Everman called
daredeviltry?
  "Sir, this is crazy talk! We'll be
caught for certain ... Why throw our lives
away like this? What can you possibly hope
to achieve?"
  "There's no secular way to open the trapdoor
from the outside--I'm sure of that--and I'm
gambling that it won't be guarded. It must lead
into the cellars."
  "Dungeons? Polydin?"
  "That's what I'm hoping. If we can rescue
him, then their hold over Everman disappears. At
worst, we may gain useful information."
  "At worst we get skinned alive, like
Gartok." Wolfbiter wiped an arm across his
forehead, searching for arguments. "I do, I mean.
One of us has to go home to Chivial, to report
to the King. That's your mission, sir. You do
that--start now--and I'll go into the monastery for you
tonight. Wait for me at Koburtin."
  "You know me better than that, Wolf."
  "You have a duty to report to the King!"
  "The inquisitor will. He can let us in, but
then he heads down to the city gate and at dawn
he leaves, with us or without us."
  "Sir! There's no point both of us walking
into the lions' den, and you know I can't let you go."
  "Everman was my friend." Was that Durendal's
motive? Or was it just stupid pride, a
pigheaded refusal to crawl home to his ward,
the King, and admit defeat? He did not know.
He did not care. He just knew he was going
back to Samarinda to try again.
  Kromman had been listening to the argument with his
customary disdain. Now he said, "I certainly
won't go in there myself, but I can open the
trapdoor for you, unless it is itself a conjurement.
I can provide you with lights. ..." He
screamed, "Call off your dog, Durendal!"
  Wolfbiter's left hand had caught hold of the
inquisitor's reins and his right was drawing Fang
--slowly, though, so he was not quite certain.
Kromman's hand fluttered over his own
hilt, but he knew that he would die before he could
draw.
  "Wait!" Durendal said. "That won't stop
me."
  Wolfbiter stared at him with eyes that seemed
strangely empty. "It needs three of us to find
the way in, doesn't it?"
  "It would help, but two could do it, perhaps even
one. And I'm going back there if I have to do it
over your dead body, Wolf."
  For a moment Kromman's life balanced on a
sword edge.
  Then Wolfbiter let go the reins with a sigh.
"Why did I have to be bound to a raving
lunatic?"

                  

  The day was long, and the night even longer.
  "Plan for both success and failure" was an
Ironhall maxim. Failure in this case was
death at best or enslavement at worst, so no
contingencies need be considered. Success would consist
of rescuing Master Polydin--and possibly
Everman himself, although that was even more unlikely--and
escape from the city when the gates opened at
dawn. Two hours would be ample. More time could
only help the enemy track them down, so most
of the night had to be wasted. The best place for
swordsmen to waste time without attracting
suspicion was a brothel.
  Both Kromman and Wolfbiter expressed
much enthusiasm for that part of the plan, but a Blade
could not be parted from his ward in such surroundings. Thus
Durendal spent many hours playing a complicated
board game against a series of amused young
ladies, losing large amounts of money to them
while trying to ignore the continuing sounds of
pleasure from the bed behind him. Kate, Kate,
Kate! Would he ever see her again?
  As the waxing moon was setting, the expedition
prepared to set out.
  "Wear these rings on your left hands,"
Kromman explained, "with the stone out. When you need
light, turn the stone inward. You can control the
amount by opening or closing your fingers. They should
last several hours."
  The square was deserted. No lighted windows
showed in either the monastery or the houses.
Durendal found the door he had noted
the previous day and left Wolfbiter there. With
Kromman, he went around the corner and along to the
one he had marked on the first morning. The
inquisitor continued alone, heading for the gate.
  Durendal leaned on the wall for what seemed
like a very long time, quite long enough to convince him that something
had gone wrong already. Then a star twinkled in the
courtyard. He turned his ring over and briefly
opened his hand. The resulting flash half blinded
him, and a moment later another flash showed that
Wolfbiter had made the same mistake--too
much!
  Kromman was very close to the right line, though.
Another twinkle, farther to the left. This time
Durendal flicked one finger and achieved the
required effect. So did Wolfbiter.
  Then again. This time he flashed twice to tell the
inquisitor that he was correctly aligned. And
two from Wolfbiter.
  A long, nerve-racking wait ... Three from
Kromman to say he had located the trap.
  Wolfbiter loomed out of the dark, breathing faster
than usual. Without a word, the two of them headed
for the steps and the gate, which the inquisitor had left
ajar. They found Kromman easily enough and knelt
beside him.
  "It looks good," came his whisper. "Seems
to be just a slab on a pivot. If there's no
secular way to open it from this side, they may not have
too many defenses on it. Ready?"
  Whatever the "golden key" conjurement looked
like, it was small enough for him to conceal inside his hand.
Metal clinked on stone. The slab shivered and
slowly rose, making grating noises that sounded like
trumpet fanfares in the stillness. When it reached
vertical, the iron ring set in its underside
clanked once. An acrid stench of monkey
wafted into the night.
  Kromman thrust his hand down and released a
faint glow, revealing a square shaft with a floor
eight or nine feet down. There was no ladder,
only a few iron staples set in the wall--
an entrance made for oversized monkeys with
prehensile feet, not for men. Durendal rolled
on his belly and dropped his legs over the edge.
A minute later, three burglars stood at the
bottom of the shaft and the trap had been closed.
  It had indeed.
  A low, rectangular tunnel led off in the
direction of the monastery, and the stench of
monkey was eye watering.
  "I'll wait here," the inquisitor said. "You
may be suicidal, Sir Durendal, but I'm
not."
  "You're a brave and resourceful companion,
and I shall tell the King so if I ever see him
again. How long?"
  "There are gaps at the side of the slab, so I
should be able to detect dawn. I shall go as soon as
I see light coming through. You want me to leave it
open or closed?"
  "Open. If we're that late, we shall
probably be in a hurry." Durendal was
removing his boots.
  "As you please. If there's no pursuit,
I'll wait outside the city for a couple of
hours. Then I'll go on to Koburtin and take
the first caravan west."
  "I approve those arrangements, so you can
quote me if you ever have to testify at an
inquiry. Ready, Wolf?"
  "I go first. Come."
  They set off barefoot along the passage.
  Thirty-two, thirty-three ... He had
paced it out in the road and they ought to be under the
monastery by now. Thirty-five. This was truly
crazy, one of those insane impulses of his.
One day he would jump and find spikes. Everman
was the danger. The rest of the brethren would not
expect such madness, but Everman knew him and had
practically warned him not to try exactly what
he was trying now. Thirty-seven ...
  Wolfbiter stopped, killing his light.
Durendal bumped into him and smelled his sweat.
  "What?"
  "Light ahead. No? I thought ..." He
flashed a gleam. "Ha! It's a reflection."
  It was gold. It was a small room almost
full of gold bricks--piled ten feet high
at the back, in lower rectangular stacks in
front--while the narrow corridor on the far
side was walled with them. Durendal eyed the stone
pillars in the room, lining them up with the
passageway beyond. Then he climbed up the lower
heaps until his head was against the roof and he could
peer through the narrow gap on top. His light showed
no end, but it did reveal the heads of more
pillars, rows of them. He climbed down.
  "This is all the space they have left," he
whispered. "I think this cellar underlies
the whole monastery or a large part of it. It's
all full of gold. Tons and tons of gold."
He tried lifting one of the bricks and decided that
Everman had done very well to carry two of them
across the courtyard. "Thousands of tons, maybe
millions."
  "Gold is no use to the dead." Wolfbiter,
that practical soul, started forward again, but
inconspicuous skulking had suddenly become very
difficult. The smallest ray of light he could
produce reflected dazzlingly from the walls.
In a moment he reached another gold corridor
branching off to the right. He hesitated and then went
straight. Then one to the left--he stopped.
  "We're going to get lost."
  "Keep left. It ought to put us under the corner
tower, I'd think."
  It led, eventually, to a stone doorway
slightly narrower than the corridor itself, and beyond
that was a dark place, with no reflections. The
air did not smell good. Wolfbiter paused at
the entrance and directed a narrow beam through his
fingers, moving a spot of brightness over rocky
walls and then a cubical structure with an
obvious chimney, metal tongs, a stone
crucible ...
  "A forge?"
  "No. That's a furnace, though." Durendal
activated his own ring and advanced into the room.
"A foundry. This is where they cast the gold."
He pointed to the molds. "Where do they get their
ore?" And why did the place stink so badly?
  He turned his hand to light up the other end of the
chamber and almost cried out at the resulting blaze.
The conical mountain of raw gold heaped there
filled the room from side to side and reached almost
to the roof. It was not what he supposed ore would
look like, being a collection of odd-shaped
fragments and nuggets, from lumps the size of a
man's head all the way down to gravel. He
picked up a log that had rolled free, marveling
at its weight. Its surface was rough, and here and
there black stone still adhered ... except it
wasn't a log, it was a human tibia.
Blood and fire! Ribs, vertebrae,
jawbones, skulls, and the gravel was toe and finger
bones. The black adhesions were lumps of dried
flesh. Hence the stench.
  "They don't feed the livestock, do they?"
Wolfbiter said aloud.
  "Sh!"
  "But this is what they do with the bodies. They
turn the bones to gold."
  The surface of the tibia sparkled as if
whatever had scraped away the flesh had scored the
metal heavily all over. Durendal recoiled
from trying to understand that and laid his trophy down again.
On impulse he helped himself to a few finger
bones and slipped them in his pocket as souvenirs.
There was only the one door. The bones had been
tipped in through a trapdoor in the roof, like trash.
  As he followed his Blade back along the
gold-paneled corridor, he marveled at the
obscene hoard. A great nation could not spend this much
wealth in a thousand years, and yet a mere dozen
or so maniacal monks waged daily slaughter
to increase it. So infinite a fortune must surely
be guarded by infinite defenses. When they came
to the junction, he was very tempted to tell
Wolfbiter to go to the right, back to the trapdoor,
but Wolfbiter went left again and he followed.
  Would the trapdoor even be there? He could
easily call up a nightmare of wandering in this
golden maze forever, imprisoned by some potent
conjuration. If Herat had anything to do with it, the
reality might be worse than anything he could
envision.
  The corridor went on and on. As he was
deciding that they must soon reach the far side of the
monastery, they came to a door of stout timbers,
banded with iron. In darkness, Wolfbiter tried the
latch.
  Whisper. "It's not locked."
  "Go ahead then. Slowly! And sniff."
  The worst thing they could stumble into would be a stable
full of sleeping monkeys. Even Herat might
not be as bad as one of those brutes.
  Slowly Wolfbiter pulled, easing hinges that
would be longing to creak but not giving them the chance. The
room beyond was pitch-black. A momentary flash
... A pleased breath. "Ah!" ... More light.
  They had found the jail, a double line of barred
doors. It did not smell of monkey. It did
smell of men, but not recent men. Stale and foul.
A few of the little cells still had rotting straw in
them; some had old buckets and water jugs
covered with dust. The jail had not been used for
many, many years.
  "If Polydin is anywhere, he should be here,
sir."
  "Probably. Not necessarily." Durendal
went to the door at the far end.
  His Blade reached it first and stood before it,
barring the way. "Sir! We've seen enough."
  He was absolutely right, of course. They had
met with amazing luck and ought not to push it any
further. How long had they been inside? The
brethren must certainly rouse at dawn, if not
before.
  "I'm going on," Durendal said miserably
--knowing he was making a mistake, knowing his friend must
come with him and share his fate. "Remember if we
have to make a run for it, the way out is straight
down that corridor." But there was an unexplored
branch in that corridor. They could be cut off.
  Without wasting time on argument, Wolfbiter
doused his light and tried the door. Perhaps a spirit of
adventure was overcoming his caution at last.

                  

  The next room had been designed for
jailers, for it contained ancient wooden benches and
racks for weapons. Now it was merely used for
junk; a heap of old swords and axes,
baskets and boxes, piles of rotting clothes.
It stank of rats and immemorial dust.
  It did have another door at the far end.
Wolfbiter eased it open in darkness, but there was a
faint light beyond. For the first time, they had reached a
place that might be inhabited. It might even be
luxurious, for there was just enough brightness to show that the
walls and floor were patterned or tiled. It was
a squarish hallway with two more doors at this
level and a white stone staircase winding upward.
The light was coming from somewhere up there--perhaps only
starlight, but probably the first stirring of dawn--
and with it came unexpected odors of flowers and
vegetation and a very faint sound of running water.
What lay outside? The monastery was swathed in
city houses all around, so a best guess was that it
was hollow, a shell enclosing an open atrium.
  One of the doors was ajar, showing blackness.
Staying ahead of his ward, Wolfbiter padded over
to it in silence and peered inside.
  "Stinks," he whispered. "Kitchens.
Flies." Then he crouched down and risked a
single ray of light, running it around the floor
to check for more open doors. He was worried about
windows, although they were probably not quite up
to ground level yet. Finally he rose and went
in. Durendal followed.
  It was not a kitchen, it was the meat locker,
containing a single carcass, although there was space for
more. It had been flayed and eviscerated and hung
up by a metal hook through its hocks--upside
down, of course, so that the fluids could drain from the
gash in its throat. It buzzed with flies.
Judging by its size, it had been Khiva son of
Zambul.
  Wolfbiter made a retching noise and put a
hand over his mouth.
  "Gold ore," Durendal whispered. "Those
... bastards!" He could not think of words anywhere
near adequate. He poked the corpse. It was
stiff with rigor mortis, but the way it swayed
told him it was not heavy enough to have gold bones. It
would probably have fallen apart if it did.
  "But why skin him and gut him?" his Blade
said. "Why leave him here to go bad?"
  "Some meat improves with hanging." Not in this
climate, surely?
  "Sir, let's go now, please?"
  "I want to look outside. Just a quick
peek."
  Wolfbiter sighed and followed him as he started
up the stairs.
  Durendal knew he had given up all hope
of locating Jaque Polydin and was now
motivated by pure curiosity to see a little more of the
monastery. Dungeons and cellars were not enough.
Where was he, though? His sense of direction had
failed him. Somewhere at the back, he thought,
well away from the court. This stairwell was
probably in one of the towers.
  They reached another decorated hallway. More
stairs went upward. There were two closed doors
at this level and an archway open to a shadowed
garden, with faint shapes of trees and bushes.
Frustrated, he stood on the step and peered out
at the darkness, sniffing lush odors of greenery,
very unexpected in Samarinda. A few lights
glimmered in windows, and above the encircling walls
the stars were fading as dawn approached. Even as
he watched, more windows brightened. He could see
nothing of the garden itself, but its presence showed that the
monastery must be a much finer place to live in
than it seemed from the outside--a palace, in
effect. Everman's decision might not be quite as
crazy as it had seemed.
  "Beautiful!" Wolfbiter whispered. "Now can
we go?"
  "Yes, all right. Lead the--"
  Hinges squeaked downstairs in the hall they had
just left. Light flared. Wolfbiter spun
around, drawing his sword. Grunts and shuffling
footsteps, a door closing but the light remaining
... Someone or something was coming up. Trapped!
  Without a word, the two intruders dived out the
archway, down two steps to a paved path. A
tangle of shrubbery to the right of the door offered
cover. Dropping to hands and knees, they squirmed
underneath and lay prone. Wolfbiter mouthed some
obscene words under his breath. Somewhere close, a
steady tinkle of water did nothing to add to the comfort
of the situation.
  Light from the arch grew brighter, flickering like
fire and illuminating elaborate colored
tiles on the path. A monkey came shuffling out
to stop abruptly not five feet from the cowering
Chivians. She wore the usual garish trousers
and held a flaming torch. There was a sword on
her back. She snuffled suspiciously. Could
she smell the intruders?
  Durendal might not be able to jump to his feet
and put Harvest through her heart fast enough to prevent
her crying out, because animal reflexes were usually
faster than human. He might trip over a
branch and fall flat on his face. More light
had appeared in a window overhead, meaning that more people
or monkeys were coming down the stairs. Light
brightened behind her. She stepped aside to make
way.
  Two more monkeys emerged, carrying Khiva's
flayed corpse like a rolled rug on their
shoulders, its death-stiffened arms stretched
rigidly ahead of it. A fourth shuffled along
behind them, bearing another torch, and all four headed
down the path. Wolfbiter started to move and then
sank back with a sound of grinding teeth as he saw
more light streaming from the arch.
  Durendal leaned close to his ear. "I think
we may have to relax here for a while. Someone has
called a meeting."
  "Relax? Yes, sir. Wake me when it's
time to go."
  Next through the door was a torch-bearing monkey
lighting the way for two tottering humans. They
seemed to be two women, but they were so shrunken and
bent that Durendal could not be sure. He
could hear voices from the stairwell.
  More torches had appeared in the far corner of the
garden and begun moving slowly in their direction.
Once or twice their flames reflected off
water. The ground seemed to be lower at that end, so
the tantalizing fountain nearby probably fed an
ornamental stream and a series of ponds like the
Queen's Garden at Oldmart. More windows were
brightening, others going dark. The entire population
of the monastery must be awake, and it was a reasonable
guess that they were all on their way here.
  Why? The focus was just below him, a platform of
white stone, probably marble. He slithered
forward under the branches until he had a better
view. The floor itself was irregular in shape,
bounded by ornamental walls and flower beds close
at hand, a lawn at the far side. Khiva's
corpse lay facedown in the center of an inlay
of dark tiles that outlined an octogram. The
two old women were sitting on the far edge, and now
a monkey arrived carrying another, whom he set
down gently beside them. No, it was a man, and the
next three who came shuffling into the gathering were men
also. They all stayed outside the octogram and
well away from the stinking, buzzing load of bad
meat that yesterday had been Khiva son of
Zambul. Obviously someone was going to perform a
conjuration.
  Sunrise and sunset were very sudden affairs in
Altain. The roofline and the towers' silhouettes
were clearly visible now against the sky. Even the
shadowy atrium had brightened to reveal a tiny
secret paradise of lawns, bushes, flowers,
little gazebos, ornate bridges, tall
trees.
  Wolfbiter's whisper in his ear: "Kromman
will have gone by now. He was going to leave the
trapdoor open."
  "Can't be helped. Let's just hope all the
monkeys are here at the moment. Who do you think the
senility cases are?"
  His Blade's eyes showed white all around their
irises. "You tell me."
  Durendal did not try. He could not convince
even himself of what he suspected, let alone
put it into words. But it had begun to make a
horrible sort of sense. Some very potent
conjurations could be performed only at certain
specific times. Now it was dawn, the start of a
new day. By next morning I was good
as new, Everman had said.
  There were twenty-three of those living corpses
laid out around the platform now. Most of them were
wrapped in some sort of sheet or robe, a few
completely naked, all gray-skinned and either
bald or white haired. Some mumbled aimlessly
to their neighbors, others lay prone, as if near
death. Three more were brought in and set down by their
animal guardians, for a total of fifteen
monkeys and twenty-six human beings, if that was
a fair description of those repulsive
bundles of stick limbs and sagging flesh. Most
of the monkeys squatted down on the grass
nearby. Two climbed into trees, but four went
inside the octogram with the corpse and began
to chant, first one, then another. Chivian
conjurations were usually done by eight people, but other lands
might know other rituals.
  Wolfbiter squeezed his ward's shoulder.
"Now!"
  "Wait!"
  "Go! I'll wait and see what happens if
you want, but if you stay here any longer, I shall go
out of my mind!" He was right, of course. The time
to make a break was now, while the livestock was
engrossed in watching the ceremony.
  Durendal began to wriggle back, then
paused. "Listen! They're revoking time!" The
ritual was unlike any he had ever heard of, a
complicated sequence of invocations and revocations that
seemed to leap in purely random fashion back and
forth across the octogram. All the manifest
elements were being invoked. He could have predicted
that, because life sprang from all four in combination:
air, fire, earth, and water, while to make
gold must require massive amounts of fire and
earth. It seemed that all the virtuals were being
revoked, even love. The entire faculty of the
Royal College of Conjurers would tear its
collective hair out for a chance to witness this
ritual, but it was making his skin prickle. The
climax came as the first rays of the sun flashed
on the top of the towers. The chant ended on a long
note of triumph.
  The corpse moved.
  Impossible! The man had been dead for
twenty-four hours. His guts had been removed
and his blood drained; his flesh was already rotten--and
yet Khiva's limbs were stirring. He seemed
to be trying to rise up.
  Three of the shrunken mummies reeled to their
feet and staggered across to him. Four or five more
began to crawl forward. As they reached the body,
they fell on it and fed, tearing at it like starving
dogs. Some were rolled away by its spasmodic
thrashing, but they scrambled back to try again. The
monkeys lifted the weaker ones and carried them
over to join the feast. Soon all twenty-six were
ripping and sucking at their prey, the corpse
buried beneath them. The monkeys stood back
to watch, some of them hooting in amusement.
  A naked woman struggled to her feet,
clutching a lump of meat to her mouth with both hands.
As she stood there and gorged, her body grew
larger and straighter. Its color changed from the
sickly pallor of the very old to vibrant youth.
Her desiccated dugs filled in, rising to lush
young breasts. Her hair darkened and thickened. She
dropped the last fragments of her feed and screamed
with laughter, showing bloody teeth.
  "Durendal!" Wolfbiter said in a barely
audible scream. "If we don't go now, we'll
never get away!"
  True. Durendal rose to his knees, still
unable to tear his eyes from the bestial scene. Now
men were emerging from the melee--strong young men, where
moments before there had been only feeble
geriatrics. He recognized one who had stood
beside Herat in the alley the previous day, thick
muscled and hairy chested now, yet not much more than
a boy. He laughed and lunged with bloody hands
for the woman. She jumped clear and pretended
to run. He followed. They came up the path, and
she let him catch her when they reached the arch. They
embraced, bloody mouth to bloody mouth, hands
smearing reddish stains on each other's bodies in
urgent passion. They were blocking the fugitives'
escape. Wolfbiter whimpered.
  Sounds of laughter came from the octogram. The
rest of the pack was opening out, youths and maidens
sitting up, strong and comely, some of them still chewing
on a bone here, an arm there. Gold glinted from
those bones; the scratches Durendal had seen on
the relics in the foundry had been made by teeth.
More women jogged off with men in pursuit.
Couples flopped to the grass to entwine and
wrestle in the exuberance of newly regained youth.
  The two by the arch disappeared inside.
  "Now!" said Wolfbiter.
  "Yes."
  They wriggled out from under the shrubbery until they
reached the path.
  "Ready?"
  "Yes!"
  "Now!"
  They jumped to their feet and dived for the arch.
Howls and roars from monkey throats told them
they had been seen. The passionate lovers had
progressed only to the hallway and lay writhing
on the tiled floor--Wolfbiter went around them,
Durendal jumped over. Together they went plunging
down the stairs.

                 

  They stumbled across the junk-infested guardroom,
the light from their rings barely visible in the brightness
of daylight. Wolfbiter opened the door, stood
aside for Durendal to pass, then closed it behind
them as Durendal ran the length of the jail and
threw open the next. Its hinges squeaked
shrilly. He raced off along the gold-walled
corridor, hearing his Blade shut that door also.
He thought they could probably outrun the
monkeys, although not necessarily outfight them.
Thirteen young swordsmen were loose, too, and would
know shortcuts. Swordplay, if it came, would
not be a matter of honorable, man-to-man
duels this time.
  Then something roared or screamed ahead of him, the
distorted sound echoing bizarrely along the
corridor. Apparently he was going to have to fight
his way to the trapdoor. He drew Harvest without
breaking stride. Wolfbiter's feet were slapping
on the stone at his back. Then the jail door
squealed and light blazed up behind them. Monkeys
hooted.
  He passed the turnoff to the foundry. He had
almost reached the other branch when he saw a body
in his path. No, it was a monkey playing
tricks, scrabbling on the ground. It uttered the
same discordant howl he had heard a moment
earlier, apparently writhing in pain. There was
blood on it, blood on the rock floor, even
on the gold walls. That could hardly be a
trick. Surely only Kromman could be
responsible for that, so the inquisitor had not gone
at first light.
  "Look out for this!" he shouted, and hurdled over
it. Just beyond it was a puddle of blood and
some bloody footprints leading toward the
trapdoor.
  "With you!" Wolfbiter responded.
  Then they were out of the gold-filled cellar,
running along the tunnel.
  "Kromman! We're coming!" Durendal almost
blundered into the wall at the end.
  The trapdoor was closed.
  He spun around, but Wolfbiter had turned
already and was waiting for the attack with Fang at the
ready. Wild hoots and bellows indicated that the
pursuit had found the casualty.
  "Put your boots on!" Durendal hurled
Wolfbiter's footwear to him, and put on his
own. They were going to need those. He scrambled up
the metal brackets. Balancing precariously,
he freed both hands for the slab and strained. He
could not budge it. Fire and death! He had
seen a monkey open and close it with one arm.
  Holding the top bracket with both hands, he
turned around to put his back to the wall and then
took hold of the metal ring dangling from the flap
itself. The corridor was full of gibbering apes,
flashing swords, flaming torches.
Wolfbiter's left-hand ring blazed, and that would be
a small advantage, shining in his opponents'
eyes.
  Meanwhile, Durendal had to get them both out
of there and do so soon, or they would find Herat and
his friends waiting for them above. He put his shoulders
against the slab and brought his feet up as high as he
could. If he slipped, he was going to fall
headfirst to the floor. He heaved with all the power
he could summon from legs and back. He heard
joints creak. The slab quivered
reluctantly.
  Metal rang as the leading monkey swung at
Wolfbiter. Then rang again. Fencing in a narrow
corridor would be a skill all its own. A
triumphant shout from the Blade and a
simultaneous animal howl proclaimed first
blood.
  The flap tilted and blinding daylight poured in
around the edges. Durendal straightened with a
convulsive heave. Clang, clang, clang
... another yell of triumph, more animal
howls. Now the angle was worse but the weight was
less. The slab tilted past the vertical and
settled there, erect, leaving him stretched at
full length over the shaft. He
scrambled out and spread himself prone on the
flagstones, reaching down.
  Wolfbiter came backing along the corridor
into the light, clanging sword against sword.
Only one monkey could get at him at a time,
but a single careless stroke into a wall would ruin a
parry and leave him open.
  "Can you keep fighting while I lift you?"
  "I'll have to!" He raised his left arm.
  Durendal grabbed his Blade's wrist and
levered himself up with his other hand. Fire! This was
impossible. It had bloody well better be
possible. Gritting teeth, he hauled, taking
Wolfbiter's weight to let him climb
backward up the staples while still parrying thrusts
from the gibbering monkey below. Gasping, Durendal
forced himself up to one knee, then both knees. Below
him, swords rang, the monkey shrieking
furiously as her prey worked his way up the
wall, step by step, defending his legs from her
strokes. Durendal got one foot on the ground
and prepared to snatch Wolfbiter out bodily in
one tremendous heave. Just as he tried it,
Herat kicked the trap shut.

                 

  Wolfbiter screamed once, although that was
probably only air being expelled from his
collapsing chest cavity. He must have died even
before the scream emerged, when his heart was crushed.
  A few early-bird challengers were watching
over the wall, doubtless very puzzled by this break in
routine. Half a dozen monks stood before the
open door of the monastery, but they were making no
move to come closer. Why bother when Herat was there
already? He had a rag tied around his loins and a
golden sword in his hand. His smile displayed
lips and teeth still streaked with blood. Durendal
drew Harvest in his right hand and his dagger in the
left and leaped at him.
  Herat fell back a couple of paces before the
fury of the Chivian's attack--but then he
continued to retreat. His smile vanished. The
swords rang like the Forge at Ironhall when
all eight smiths were hammering at once. He was
superb, incredible. Every parry was a hairsbreadth
escape from death, every riposte a mad gamble.
Durendal had never met a swordsman to match
him, but Durendal had a friend to avenge and
very little life to lose. First blood would decide the
match, for the slightest nick must throw off a
man's timing and concentration just enough to leave him open
to the next lunge. Lily, Eggbeater, Rainbow
... He stayed with Ironhall style, parrying
often with the dagger that was his only advantage. In
provoking this contest, Herat had forgotten it would not
be fought by the brethren's rules. He had
overlooked the possibility of the dagger. He
began by countering Ironhall with Ironhall, but
soon switched to other styles, trying everything he
knew to slow Durendal's murderous onslaught.
Wrist, fingers, arm, feet--his control was
perfection. He never repeated a stroke, and yet
nothing he tried could overcome the dagger handicap.
Parry, riposte, parry ... He was retreating
steadily. Perhaps his watching friends believed he was
playing the same game he had played with
Gartok, but this time he had no choice. Every move
he made was parried by the dagger, leaving him open
to Harvest's deadly tongue licking toward knees
or groin or eyes.
  They were almost to the gate already. Butterfly,
Cockroach ... Ah!
  Harvest bit into Herat's shoulder. He cried
out, and then a bloody gash opened on his ribs.
Durendal had the upper hand now. He persisted,
trying for a kill and still managing only flesh
wounds. Face, neck, chest--he was shredding
Herat as Herat had shredded Gartok; but it was not
play, for every stroke was attempted murder. How
could a man suffer so and still keep up that superb
defense?
  Then Herat backed into the wall. He
recoiled with a desperate thrust, which was parried by the
dagger. Harvest opened his throat, his sword
clanged on the flagstones, he sprawled after it
in oceans of blood. But the brethren had ways of
healing, and his death must be certain. Durendal
chopped off his head, taking three blows to do it.
  Gasping for air, he glanced around. The men at
the door had at last begun to run forward. He
sprinted for the gate, only a few yards away,
wondering vaguely why the swordsmen leaning on the
wall were cheering.
  The gate was locked--more treachery.
  "Here!" yelled a voice and muscular arms
stretched down to him.
  He grabbed a wrist with his left hand and raised
his sword arm so another man could take
it. They hauled him up bodily, face to the
stones. Then more hands seized his shirt, his belt,
and he went flopping over the wall.
  He said, "Thanks!" and was on his feet,
sheathing his sword as he ran.
  One shout would do it: Ten gold bars for that
man!
  If it came, he did not hear it. He dived
into an alley and kept on running.

                 

  As he pounded along the alleyways of
Samarinda, dodging the first early-morning
pedestrians, he was convinced that he would find the
brethren already in possession of the city gate. They
would have sent men to close the exit; that must be why
they had not made more determined efforts to stop him.
To his astonishment, no one challenged. Puffing
hard in the already hot morning, he trotted out under
the arch to the cramped shanty market and smelly
paddocks beyond. Even when he rode away over the
bare hills, he would still not be safe, of course.
If the monks chose to follow on racing
camels, they would ride him down in no time. The
bare hills hid dangers of their own, but just to be
outside the accursed walls was a huge relief.
  The traders and farmers had not yet spread their
awnings, and Durendal needed a few moments
to locate the paddock where he and Kromman and
Wolfbiter had boarded their five shaggy
ponies. He identified it eventually by its
owner, a bloated man with a villainous pockmarked
face. His name was Ushan, and Kromman had
vouched for his honesty--his relative honesty.
He had been there near dusk yesterday, and he was
there now. Dung stains on his clothes suggested that
he slept there, which would be the only way to keep his
charges from being removed by others who seemed less
villainous. The next question was whether the five
ponies wearing red cords around their necks were still
the same healthy specimens they had been when they
arrived, or whether they had aged ten years in the
night. Their owners had scratched signs on each
front right hoof, also, but Durendal had no time
to waste arguing about such details.
  He fumbled in his pocket and produced his
receipt for three of them. Ushan peered oddly
at this sweaty, blood-spattered, out-of-breath
stranger, but without a word he swayed off
into the herd and returned leading two ponies. They
certainly looked familiar. Others came
drifting along behind, as horses would.
  "Two will do for now," Durendal said. "My
friends may be along later for theirs, and I do not
need my third one today. I will only require
one saddle. I expect to be back before evening and
will pay you then for another night." He must try not
to arouse any more suspicion.
  Again Ushan looked at him oddly. He did
not say anything until Durendal was mounted, with the
second pony tethered behind.
  Then he spat in the dust. "For three obits,
I will tell you which way your friend went."
  Durendal reached in his pocket and found a
gold dizork. He held it up. "Tell me
everything."
  The obese man shrugged. "He had been
running, like you. He bought another horse, although like
you he had no baggage. He went that way." He
pointed west. "Fast. But he cannot have gone far
yet."
  Durendal threw him the coin, which he bit before
making it vanish in the dirty folds of his gown.
"You have just inherited two more horses, friend. And the
saddles. In return, have I your silence?"
  Ushan's nod of agreement was worthless, of
course.
  Durendal mounted and rode off to the west. He
felt suddenly very happy--not because he had escaped
from the city with his life, which he did not value
especially highly at the moment, but because he bore
an obligation for vengeance and now he knew where his
quarry was. He had expected to have to wait at
Koburtin until Kromman arrived. Now he
could hope to catch him before being himself caught by the
pursuing monks.
  Three men had killed Wolfbiter and he was
one of them. He had pushed his luck too far, not
realizing that his luck might not shelter others.
Perhaps every man learned from experience the limits of
his own luck. Wolfbiter had known his and had
repeatedly begged his ward to leave the monastery.
Durendal had refused until it was too late.
He had cut it absurdly fine, surviving
only because his luck had held. So he was one of the
three murderers. The only recompense he could
make was to punish the others; Herat had already paid.
That left one more to die.
  Kromman would not expect to be
followed, so he would not be taking precautions.
He might well be invincible when he did, for he
had resources he had refused to reveal. In a
crowded city, or even a forest, he would vanish
without difficulty, but here on the rolling wastes of
Altain his inquisitor tricks might fail
him. He could not have much of a head start.
  After about half an hour, Durendal saw him
in the far distance, leading his spare mount. For almost
another half hour, the inquisitor rode
blithely on, unaware that death was creeping ever
closer at his back. When he did look behind
him, Durendal was close enough to detect the move;
thus he was not taken unaware when Kromman's
spare horse stopped to graze and Kromman himself
disappeared, mount and all.
  Durendal changed horses then, so he could
make a spurt in the direction he had last seen
his quarry, and he abandoned his spare. Rumors of
invisibility cloaks had begun to circulate
about the time he'd left Ironhall, but little was
known about them. He must hope that they could not mask
both a man and a horse, or at least not
completely. Again his luck held. Soon he
detected a faint blur ahead somewhat to the right of
his line of travel. He angled that way. At
times he seemed to be racing alone over the dry
hills. At others he could see a shadow or a
riderless animal. Often he could detect dust.
Another hour went by in relentless pursuit.
He was parched and exhausted and his horse was in
worse shape, but Kromman's was flagging
badly. Every time he changed course, Durendal
could cut a corner.
  At last, as he was descending into a small
hollow, he saw the inquisitor appear ahead of
him, discarding his invisibility and slowing to a walk.
When he reached the bottom, he reined in and
dismounted to examine his horse's hooves, bending
over each and taking his time. Durendal made
sure that Harvest was loose in her sheath, not
gummed there by Herat's dried blood. When he
drew close enough for the sounds of his pony's shoes
on the stones to be audible, the inquisitor looked
up with sudden alarm.
  "Sir Durendal! You startled me." If
fish could smile ... "I had given you up for
lost. Wonderful! What has happened to your
Blade?"
  At thirty feet away, Durendal
slid down to the ground and looped his reins around a
dead thorn bush, which would suffice as a tether if
his horse believed in it strongly enough. He
walked closer to Kromman, keeping his right side
to his opponent, wondering what tricks were to come.
  "Exactly what you wanted to happen to him."
  "I don't think I quite follow." Kromman
was caked with dust. He rubbed his forehead with his arm.
  Twenty feet.
  "You shut the trapdoor. You locked the
gate."
  "Oh no! I certainly did not! That was not our
agreement. If you found the trapdoor shut, the
monkeys must have closed it. I expect they went
and checked the gate after that. Flames! but that sun
is bad, isn't it?"
  "You killed Wolfbiter and you are a dead
man."
  Either fear or anger glinted in the fishy eyes.
"That is not true! I don't know what's come
over you, Sir Durendal. I shall certainly
include this episode in in my report."
  "You will not be making a report. Now throw your
sword over there--still in its scabbard. And your
knife, too."
  "I shall do no such thing!"
  Ten feet.
  Again the inquisitor raised an arm to his
face. How could there be sweat on him in this
virulent dry heat? The dust would soak it up
if there were. Durendal started to turn his head
away, but only a fraction of a second before a
flash brighter than the sun seared his eyes. The
two horses screamed in terror, a tumult of
hoofbeats shook the world.
  Blind and half mad with pain, Durendal whipped
out Harvest. He could see nothing, but he knew
Kromman's fighting style and his distance. He had
three paces to come. One, two, three--parry!
The blades clanged. If Kromman had used
his customary lunge to the heart, his sword was right
there, so parry! again and then riposte! He swung
Harvest around like a scythe and felt her strike
flesh. Kromman's shriek was accompanied
by what sounded like a sword falling on the rocky
ground, but he was capable of any deception.
Making Harvest dance random patterns in front
of him, Durendal backed away. He heard no
footsteps following, and a moment later he
detected a groan of pain some way
off. He paused then.
  Lurid green fires swayed before him; tears
streamed down his cheeks. That last-minute aversion
of his head had saved his sight from worse damage,
for a vague grayness to his left marked reality
returning. Slowly the green mists cleared
until he could make out blurred shapes of
thorns and rocks, and eventually he located
Kromman, curled up on the gravelly ground
with his sword behind him.
  Durendal approached quietly,
cautiously. If that black puddle was blood--
for some reason he was not seeing colors--then he
had seriously injured his opponent or even
killed him. He hooked Kromman's sword
away with Harvest, then picked it up and tossed it
safely out of reach.
  "Tell me why."
  The inquisitor whimpered.
  "Why did you leave Wolfbiter and me there
to die when the hue and cry started? You followed us
in. You probably saw everything we saw and more,
but you had an invisibility cloak. And when you
left, you deliberately locked us in to die."
  Slowly Kromman turned his head.
Durendal's sight had cleared enough now for him
to see that he had opened the inquisitor's belly
from side to side. He was lying there holding his
guts in place with both hands, and no doubt
suffering excruciatingly. Oh, what a shame!
  "No."
  Durendal's knuckles ached around the hilt of
his sword as he fought to restrain his hatred.
"Flames, man! You are about to die. Do you
want to die with lies on your lips? You wounded the
monkey--I heard it cry out, and the blood on the
floor was still wet. You left footprints. You
turn your toes in, you scum. Tell me why."
  The inquisitor's face blanched under its tan
and dust. "I'm sorry! Yes, I was, I
mean I must have been, just ahead, or at least not
far ahead of you. I panicked. That's all.
I'm not a trained fighter like you, remember. I
lost my head. I'm just a glorified clerk who
wasn't cut out for--"
  "You're a glorified slug. But that isn't the
worst of it. The worst of it is that you lied about the
invisibility cloak. Even if you only have one
of them, there was no need for three of us to risk our
lives. So what's your explanation of
that, Master Kromman?"
  "I'm hurt! I--I need help!"
  "Well, you're not going to get it. For the murder
of Sir Wolfbiter, I condemn you to death.
Die, but take your time. Take all the time you
want. And give my regards to your brothers the
vultures."
  Durendal sheathed his sword and walked away.

                 

  Three men had murdered Wolfbiter and all
three must die for it. That seemed very probable and very
just as he trudged back up the endless dirt
slope with the sun only a foot or two above his
head--or feeling like that. His eyes ached and watered
so hard that he could still barely see, and the tears were
all he had to drink. Kromman must have known his
fancy trick with the light would spook the horses,
so either he had been desperate enough to take the gamble
or he had arranged some way of calling his own
back to him. Perhaps that was what he had been doing
when he worked on its hooves. Durendal would have
to survive on his own two feet. If he lasted
long enough in the heat to make his way back to the city,
assuming he could find it, then he would very likely
be caught by the Brethren, and that would mean
Durendal for breakfast with an apple in his mouth.
  He made his way to the highest elevation he could
find and paused there, rubbing his eyes. He
assumed they would heal in time, if he had time, but
at the moment a fog of tears hid Samarinda,
although he knew it must be to the east. He could tell
south from his shadow. There was no sign of his horses
or Kromman's, and if there were he would never be
able to catch one. He would run himself to exhaustion
in the attempt.
  Someone was coming. At first he could not make out who
or what, but probably more than one and so
obviously heading in his direction that he must have
been seen already. He set off across the vast
landscape to meet them. It might be the Brethren
intent on vengeance, and in that case he had no
chance of escape. It might be Everman, having
had a change of heart. It could never be
Wolfbiter. No matter how marvelous the
monks' healing conjurements were, they could not have
repaired that much damage.
  Eventually he came to an outcrop of dusky
rock that, while it offered no shade, would
at least be a place to sit down, so he sat
down. By then he knew that the others were two
camels, with only one rider.
  They came up the long slope under the enormous
sky until the rider was close enough to identify as
Everman. He had removed his cap to show his
auburn hair. He made his camels crouch on
the dusty grass. Dismounting stiffly, he walked
over to Durendal, handed him a water bottle, and
chose a suitable rock to sit on.
  Durendal drank greedily, then the two men
stared at each other for a long moment.
  "Repentance? Coming home?"
  Everman shook his head. "I would die at
dawn. I really don't want to, anyway, but
I couldn't if I did. I wasn't lying to you."
  "You lied about your ward." So Kromman had
said--but had Kromman been telling the truth?
  Apparently he had, because Everman shrugged.
"Only when I said he died of sickness. He was
killed in a skirmish just this side of Koburtin.
I failed my ward." He looked up
defiantly.
  "That's why you challenged? To die?"
  "I suppose so. Before you judge my new
brotherhood, brother, consider the ethics of the
old." Dust had collected in the fine lines on
his forehead. His hair had lost its sheen and was
thinning at the front; thickening neck and jaw.
... He saw that Durendal had noticed. "Not
quite the man I was, am I?" He smiled
sadly, making grooves from nose to mouth. He
had not had those yesterday.
  "That fast?"
  Nod. "A lifetime every day. By sunset
I'll be middle-aged. By midnight I'm
old." He smiled ruefully. "From then until
dawn it gets really bad."
  "So you lied about staying of your own free will?
They trapped you!"
  Everman leaned his arms on his knees. He
toyed with his cap, then glanced warily at
Durendal. "How much did you see?"
  "More than enough--animals, scavengers.
Starving rats."
  "You don't know what it's like. Not trapped
... Well, partly, I suppose. They do have
wonderful healings, and they kept me alive in
spite of all the blood I had lost, and Herat
alive, also. The next morning, the
monkeys brought me a mouthful of meat. I
didn't know what it was, but it worked like fire.
I screamed for more, and they brought more. The next day
I knew what it was, but I couldn't do without
it."
  "It has to be eaten right after the conjuration, I
presume?"
  "Within minutes. It won't keep." Everman
went back to tormenting his headgear. "Rejuvenation!
You can't imagine what it's like."
  "You pay for it. You just told me you'll be old
by midnight."
  "That isn't as bad as the real thing, though. It
can't be! To have to go through that--wind going first, then
speed, strength ... senses waning, pains,
decay ... to go through all that knowing that it's
permanent, that it's forever, that there isn't going to be
any remission. ... No, that must be much, much
worse. Life must be one long torture. You have
that to look forward to." He shrugged again. "No
one survives it. Except us. We start
afresh every morning."
  "At a price."
  "They're all volunteers! Every one of them!
They know the risks. They all have a chance. In
drought years, or after a big war, the waiting list
grows to hundreds. All volunteers."
  No, there was no repentance. An honorable
swordsman had sold his soul for immortality.
He could not even see the evil.
  "Are they really all volunteers? What
happens on the days when the challenger wins?"
  "Ah!" Everman sighed and replaced his cap
on his head. "Yes. Well, on those days we
engage in active recruitment--but we take one
of them, one of the strangers. He just didn't
expect to go so soon, that's all."
  "And he dies in an alley with a knife in his
back instead of a sword in his hand?"
  "Let's not argue, old friend." Everman shook
his head sadly and put his hat on. "We're not
going to agree. I did warn you that the secret
wouldn't work in Chivial."
  "What do you want, then?" Durendal peered
around at the horizon with sudden suspicion,
wondering if he was being encircled.
  "Thought you might need a little help. Looks like
I was right, too. What happened to your horses?
What's wrong with your eyes?"
  "Had a disagreement with my tame
inquisitor. I won on points."
  Everman shrugged. "You shouldn't consort with such
lowlife. I also came to say I'm sorry about
Wolfbiter. He was top drawer, wasn't
he?"
  "They don't come any higher."
  ""All Blades are born to die." That's
what they told us at Ironhall, but they
didn't know about me. Wolfbiter's what I
came about. I brought you his sword to take
back."
  Flames! Durendal wasn't sure if the
pain was anger or sorrow, but whatever it was, it
made speaking difficult. He nodded.
  Everman waited a moment, looking at him as
if waiting for something. Finally he said, "They say
a Blade can never rest if his sword doesn't
hang in the hall. Friend, you have my word on this--he
has been returned to the elements in proper
fashion. I lit the pyre myself. He was not a
volunteer."
  Would they eat Herat instead? But it was
welcome news. "Thank you."
  "I brought you some water and food. Two days
due west, then aim for the two peaks like breasts--
that'll bring you to Koburtin. The tribes have
mostly gone south at this time of year. You should be
all right."
  Disconcerted by the painful lump in his throat,
Durendal said, "Thank you. Look ... I
wish I could say I'm sorry about Herat. I
never met a swordsman to match him."
  "Yes," Everman said sadly. "He was no
coward. He didn't shout for help, and he was
risking a lot more than ... But he had his
faults. I haven't congratulated you on beating
him. Let's let it go at that, shall we?"
  "Yes," Durendal said. "We'd better
let it go at that."
  "One other thing. I am authorized to offer you his
place, if you want it. No tricks, I
swear. You can join us, and welcome. Forever."
  "No thank you."
  Everman smiled. He blinked as if he had
dust in his eyes. "I'm not surprised. I'm
sorry, though. You don't know what you're turning
down. Just tell me this: Is our brotherhood so
much more evil than yours? You don't think I'm
worth all the lives it takes to keep me
alive, but is your precious king?"
  The outrageous question took Durendal's breath
away. "I risk my life voluntarily
to--"
  "So do our challengers."
  "Oh, that is absurd! That's crazy! Blast
you! We were friends at Ironhall. We were close
as brothers. Now to see a man I trusted and
admired and loved turned into ..." Into what?
There was a stranger behind that familiar face.
Argument would not bring back the old Everman.
"We did agree to let it go at that, didn't
we? You'll make it home all right?"
  The monk chuckled. "Oh, I'll be stiff and
so on, but I'll make it. I brought you a gold
bar, as a memento. Throw it away if you don't
want it. You can ride a camel?"
  "Not well, but I'll get by."
  They drank from a water skin and bade each
other farewell as friends who know they can never meet
again. They mounted and rode off in opposite
directions.



             MONTPURSE
                  Very

                  

  Home proved to be very far away. Everything
conspired against him--caravans, weather, and finally
war. A man alone was fragile. Many times he
escaped robbery only through his ability to stay
awake all night. Twice he felt the
approach of fever and had to bury all his
valuables in a secret place and hope he would
live to dig them up again. He found half
Eurania up in arms. Chivial was at daggers
drawn with both Isilond and Baelmark, so he
was forced to return through Gevily, and even then he
was fortunate not to fall into the hands of Baelish
pirates. He landed at Servilham on a
blustery morning in Ninthmoon 362, more than
five years after he left. Converting the very last
of the King's money into a dapple mare, he set
off to ride the length of the kingdom.
  He found his homeland strangely changed.
Ambrose was no longer the popular hero he had
been. Taxes had risen sharply, trade was
depressed by the war, harvests had been
poor for three years in a row. Queen Sian
had been beheaded for treason and replaced by Queen
Haralda. Bizarre fashions now ruled the
cities. Gentlemen sported ruffs, vast
plumed hats, grossly puffed sleeves,
slashed tabards, embroidered surcoats,
fur-trimmed capes. Ladies had disappeared
inside clouds of drapery, sleeves trailing
to the ground, and little lost faces peering out from beneath
elaborate turbans. As he neared the
capital, Durendal learned that he must seek out
his sovereign at the great new palace of
Nocare. But reporting to the King could wait a
couple of days; he had a mission more important
than that.
  He rode in over Starkmoor around noon, being
spied first by a pair of horsemen who veered
to intercept him. At first glance they knew him for a
Blade, but they saluted with no sign of
personal recognition.
  "Candidate Bandit at your service, sir."
  "Candidate Falcon, sir."
  Judging their eager faces, flushed pink by the
wind, he would have taken them for juniors, and yet
they were both armed. They were so typical and he had
been away so long that they seemed almost like twins
to him. He noted that Falcon had an upturned
nose and Bandit's heavy eyebrows met in the
middle. He berated himself for using such trivia
to distinguish men with as much right to be counted
individuals as he had, but he had nothing else
to go on in a first encounter, out here on the blustery
heath.
  He did not give his name, which must have been
forgotten by now. They would assume he was making a
joke in very poor taste. He said only, "I
come to return a sword. I cannot stay."
  They exchanged frowns, then Falcon wheeled
his mount and galloped off to give warning, while
Bandit escorted the visitor in. He had both
the sense to realize that Durendal did not wish
to converse and the poise to remain silent. When they
rode through the gates, the great bell was tolling.
  Durendal dismounted before the monumental main
door and handed the reins to a groom he did not
know. "I shall not be staying. See to her needs and
bring her right back."
  He had thought that time had blunted the heartache,
but he felt it all anew as he extracted
Fang from his pack and strode up the
steps. He mourned again for Wolfbiter; for
friendship; for absolute loyalty, quick wits,
unfailing endurance; the great promise that had been
wasted to so little purpose. He mourned his own
guilt. Never would he accept another Blade from
the King. He had sworn that oath a hundred times
since Samarinda, and he swore it again there, in the
shadow of the Hall. Monarchs might bear such
burdens, but not simple men like him.
  No task took precedence over a Return.
All the school had assembled under the sky of
swords: masters, knights, candidates, with
anonymous servants huddled in the background,
hushed and solemn. His tread tapped a slow
knell on the stone as he entered, holding the
sword before him. No whispers of excitement
greeted his appearance, for he had been five
years gone. One or two of the most senior
candidates might have witnessed his last visit, but
they would have been mere children then. He had won no
cups since, felled no foes. Even the faces
at the high table took time to light up with
recognition, and some of those were a surprise to him.
Many he had expected to see were absent. There was
a new Grand Master, a man who had been
retired from the Royal Guard just after
Ambrose's succession and whose name was Sexton
or Saxon or Sixtus or something like that. The
candidates seemed like babies to him, the knights
like mummies. This was his fourth arrival at
Ironhall, and now he knew he wanted it to be
his last. He was thirty! He owned an estate,
after all, Peck-something in Dimpleshire. He
would not need to join that row of impotent pensioners when
his arm grew slow. He had served his King well
for eleven years, longer than most Blades.
If she was still free, he would marry Kate and
retire to be a country gentleman.
  The tables and benches had been cleared away.
He paced along the lines of candidates to where
Grand Master stood waiting for him below the broken
Nightfall. Already the second Durendal wished
he had not come at all. Had he waited, the King
might have given him permission to reveal some of the
story, although that was not likely. As it was, the
details must remain secret, and Wolfbiter's
heroism untold. Bitter the injustice! On the
other hand, Ambrose might have forbidden even this
small tribute.
  "I bring Fang," he said, hearing his
voice echo dismally in the hush, "sword of Sir
Wolfbiter, companion in our order. He died
in a far land, defending his ward, whom he saved
then and had saved several times before. Cherish his
sword and write his name in the Litany, for none
better deserves to be remembered there."
  Grand Master waited for more. Then, frowning, he
stepped forward to accept the blade. He said only
the required minimum: "It shall hang in its
proper place forever."
  Durendal stepped back one pace and drew
Harvest to salute the broken blade on the
wall. Then he turned on his heel and walked
out. He rode away over the moors in the
eye-watering wind.

                  

  "By the eight, you've aged!" Commander Hoare
boomed cheerily. "I hope I don't look as
bad as that. Good to see what's left of you,
though!" He enveloped Durendal in a
bone-breaking hug.
  His face had not changed very much, although he had
finally discarded his much-derided pale beard and there
were flecks of premature silver in his hair.
The rest of him was resplendent in a redesigned
Guard livery, which seemed totally impracticable
but might be appropriate within the new palace's
sprawling wonders of gilt and marble. True, many
parts of it were still scaffolding and ugly brick;
to see gracious gardens in the current swamp and
abandoned farmland required a considerable amount of
imagination--but the inhabitants were all grandiose
as peacocks.
  "You look much the same," Durendal
retorted. "Congratulations, Leader! Is it
permissible to ask what happened to your
predecessor?"
  "The Chancellor, you mean? Wench? Wench!
Bring ale for our guest! Sit down, man, sit
down!"
  The visitor sank into a swansdown-padded
chair and gazed all around the sumptuous office of
quilted silk walls and ankle-deep carpets.
Back in his day, the headquarters of the Royal
Guard would have been rejected as stabling by the
royal hostlers, while this looked like a
potentate's harem. Then he stared in even greater
disbelief at his elaborately bedecked
host, observing that his surcoat was embellished with
complex heraldry of anvils and flames and
swords, topped by a motto, To Be Withand
Serve.
  "Can you fight in that ensemble?"
  Hoare cleared his throat and stretched out his
legs to admire his elaborate buskins.
"Probably not, but when was the last time we had
to fight?"
  "Things have changed?"
  "You could say that. The King no longer
campaigns in person." The Commander glanced a
warning as a buxom maidservant bustled in with
tankards and a small keg.
  "Chancellor?" Durendal said. "Montpurse
is chancellor? Um, good for him! What happened
to Lord Centham?"
  Hoare busied himself tapping the barrel until
the door had closed behind the maid. "Treason.
He was to be put to the Question today, actually."
  "How is His Majesty?"
  "Ah! Well, very well. Truly the greatest
monarch Chivial has ever seen." The remark was
accompanied by an expansive gesture with both
hands, and a raising of expressive eyebrows.
"We have a new queen, you know."
  "The former Lady Haralda, I understand."
  "And a real beauty! A very sweet sixteen.
Just five years older than Princess
Malinda. Your health, Sir Durendal, and your
happy return!"
  They clinked tankards.
  Durendal smacked his lips. "I missed this.
You really ought to try fermented goats' milk.
Nothing ever tastes bad again."
  "No wonder you've aged! Tell me where
you've been all these years."
  "Not until I have reported to the King, I'm
afraid. How is Montpurse enjoying his new
duties?"
  "Like a double dose of crotch rot. Lord
Montpurse, of course. Companion of the White
Star and so on." Hoare donned an expression of
cross-eyed idiocy that said nothing and hinted at a
great deal. His humor bore a cynical odor
it had lacked in the old days.
  Yes, things had changed. All the myriad
questions frothing up in the newcomer's mind had best
be postponed until he learned better how the land
lay. Ambrose must be ...
forty-five? Yes, forty-five. He should not be
losing his grip yet. And a wife of sixteen!
He would still crave a male heir, of course.
  "I must request an audience to report on
my mission."
  "I'll arrange that for you," Hoare said. "I
do have some powers, and access to the Secretary's ear
is one of them. An unpleasantly hairy ear,
yet a very acute one. But it was the Secretary
..." He fell silent, staring.
  Puzzled by the look, Durendal said, "I
trust you can find a corner for me to call my
own?"
  "Absolutely! Will a two-wench bed be
adequate? You realize you're officially dead,
don't you?"
  Durendal had been about to quaff ale. He
lowered his tankard. "News to me. How did that
happen?"
  "I do believe that it was Secretary
Kromman himself who originated that report. The
King issued--"
  "Kromman? Ivyn Kromman, the
inquisitor? He's alive?"
  His host kept an intent gaze on Durendal
while taking a long drink. "Very much alive. Very
close to His Majesty. Useful fellow.
Relieves the Chancellor of many of his burdens."
  "Do keep talking." Durendal caught himself
transferring his ale to his left hand, which was a
danger signal in a swordsman.
  Hoare had noticed. "He returned from some
foreign mission about a year ago. He had picked
up some very valuable intelligence in Isilond--
on the way back from somewhere else, rumor has
it--and that brought him to His Majesty's attention.
About a month ago, he was appointed personal
secretary." Pause. "He has taken up his
duties with celerity and diligence."
  "Tell me how I died. I've forgotten."
  "No details were revealed."
  "Would it be possible for me to have that audience before
the Secretary learns that I am undead?"
  "How long since you came in the gates?"
  "About fifteen minutes."
  "Too late, then."
  Silence.
  "You know Master Kromman?" Hoare asked
quietly. "But of course, he arrested your--I
mean the late lamented Marquis. You
met him that morning?"
  "I have met him since, too." To reveal more,
even to Hoare, might be very unwise.
  More silence. Granted that Kromman had
witnessed the rejuvenation conjuration in the monastery,
had he actually managed to steal a sample of that
revolting feast and use it to save his own life?
  No. From what Everman had said, even a single
mouthful would have bespelled him, so he would have been
forced to go back to Samarinda and join the brethren
or else die the following dawn. But
Kromman's cache of inquisitorial
conjurements had included spiritually enhanced bandages
and simples, so it was just possible that he had
managed to heal himself. Just barely possible--
wounded, without horse or water, stranded in the endless
wastes of Altain. Even if he had possessed
some means of calling his horse back to him, it could
not have been a pleasant experience. He would be no
more friendly now than he had been before.
  What had he told the King?
  "I believe that an audience may be more urgent
than I first thought, brother."
  The Commander pushed away his tankard half
full. "Give me an hour. He's going to be
inspecting the west wing. I'll borrow livery for
you--you can't meet him looking like that. You want an
escort in the meantime?"
  "Flames and death, man! In the palace?"
  Hoare shrugged. "No, of course not. I'm just
jumping at shadows."
  "There must be a lot of them around," Durendal
said grimly.

  He had an hour. He went straight to the
White Sisters' quarters and asked to see Mother
Superior. Several of the sniffers came and went
while his heels were allowed to cool in the
corridor outside the ornate door, and he
noted that they, at least, had not changed their
traditional habit for any of the newfangled
fashions.
  The door opened again. Mother Superior was a very
tall, gaunt woman with a supercilious nose and
awl-sharp eyes. Her hennin almost touched the
lintel, which was a good ten feet up, and she brought
with her an eye-watering fragrance of lavender.
She had not been Mother Superior when he left,
but he remembered her. Judging by her expression,
he had the spiritual attributes of a warm
dung heap.
  He bowed. "I am Durendal of the Royal
Guard, Mother. I have been away for some time on
His Majesty's business. I have just returned."
  Her gaze traversed from his face down to his
travel-scuffed boots and back again. Her
pursed lips said pity!
  "I wish to see one of the sisters. We were friends.
Sister Kate?"
  The pursed lips had become a clenched jaw.
"We have no sister by that name." She began to close
the door.
  He stamped a foot in the opening in a fencer's
appel. "She was transferred to duties in
Brimiarde about five years ago, just as I--"
  "There is no Sister Kate in Brimiarde,"
Mother Superior announced firmly. "There is
no Sister Kate in the order. If you do not
instantly remove your boot, I shall lodge a
complaint with the Privy Council--just see if I
don't!" She slammed the door in his face.
  Homecoming was not turning out as he had
expected.


                  

  The clink of masons' hammers and a powerful
stench of paint were reminders that the west wing was still under
construction. Hoare knew where he was heading, though,
and led the way to a huge emptiness that must be
destined to become a reception hall. It was lit
by enormous windows along one side, while
plasterers labored in a high spiderweb of
scaffolding covering the opposite wall and tilers
crawled antlike around the floor, creating
swirls of color. He set out across it, aiming
for a group of men standing at the far end.
  "If you think this is big, you should see--"
  "Halt!" A squad of four Blades
blocked their path, and the foremost had his sword
drawn.
  Hoare roared, "Snake!"
  "Beg pardon, Leader. Standing orders,
sir." Snake was trying with a notable lack of
success to conceal his amusement at this opportunity
to challenge his superior. He had been a new
boy when Durendal left and now wore an
officer's sash, but neither maturity nor the
voluminous new livery could make him
look much less like his namesake than he had before.
He was still as thin as a rapier. "The Sisters are
questioning your compan--" His eyes widened. "Sir
Durendal! You're back! You're alive!"
  Durendal said, "Wait!" before Hoare could
say anything he would have to retract. Two White
Sisters were hovering in the background, both of them
mature, competent-seeming women. One looked
close to nausea and the other not far from it, and the
cause could only be the contents of the heavy bag he
bore in his left hand. "I was intending to present
this package to His Majesty. It is a
conjurement, yes, but I did not expect it to be
still active."
  The three junior Blades were still adjusting to the
presence of the famous Sir Durendal, but
Snake himself--and, more important, Hoare also--
had progressed to the next step. Their faces had
hardened into doubt and suspicion. A man
returns from the dead, heads straight for the King, and
triggers the sniffers' alarms. Who or what was
he?
  "You had better leave it here, brother,"
Hoare said warily.
  "It is fairly valuable, and I suspect the
Sisters would rather have it removed from their presence."
He looked at them to make the remark a question.
  "Whatever it is, it is vile!" one of the women
snapped.
  "You speak truer than you can know. Well, let
us send it to a safe place." Durendal laid
down the bag and fished in his pocket for the golden
bones. He transferred them to the bag without--he
hoped--any of the watchers seeing either them or the
gold block itself. "Leader, would you have this taken
to your office, please? Without anyone looking
inside it? And give orders for it to be kept
safe and confidential."
  Hoare seemed reassured but not totally
convinced. "Of course. Fairtrue, see to that.
Take it to my office; stay and guard it until
I get back."
  The young man thus addressed was sandy haired and
fair complexioned, with a face suggesting more
affability than intelligence. Durendal had
met him before, because he had been introduced to all
the candidates in Ironhall on the night of
Wolfbiter's binding, and now he recognized the
other two Blades also. The beefy one had been
Wolfbiter's Second, by the name of
... Bull-something. Bullwhip. His eyes were
bright with hope. So were the others'. All three of
them would have been friends and contemporaries.
  He shook his head. "Just me. He died with
great honor, though. I returned his sword to the
Moor on my way here." He watched their
hopes die and imagined their reactions if they
heard that Wolfbiter's killer was now within the
palace. But he did not want them to get
to Kromman before he did. He would explain at
the inquest. He handed over the bag to the one called
Fairtrue. "Careful! It's heavy."
  Too late. Fairtrue dropped it with a thud
that shook the hall, fortunately missing his feet.
He picked it up again with an embarrassed laugh.
"Must be solid gold!"
  "We don't need a speech, Sir
Fairtrue," Hoare snapped. "What is
required in the present instance is prompt
obedience to orders!"
  "Yes, Leader!" Pink faced, the youngster
hurried away, canted sideways by the weight of
his burden.
  The men all looked to the sniffers, who
exchanged worried frowns. They did not seem very
reassured. Flames! Durendal felt in his
pockets to make sure he had not overlooked
any more of the gold bones. None.
  "Have you been carrying that package for some time,
sir?" asked the elder.
  "Three years, sister."
  "Ah. You vouch for him, Commander?"
  "I vouch for him before any man in the Guard."
  She was relieved. "Then we shall assume that it
is only some residual odor ... taint. I
mean, a residual taint of the conjurement."
  The taint was on his soul, too. As Durendal
proceeded on his way, he noticed Hoare
gesturing to Snake to follow and bring his men. The
incident was troubling, a shadow on his loyalty
when he faced a showdown with Kromman over which of
them was lying. And the King was obviously busy with
other matters. To force bad news on him at such
a time would be utter folly.
  "Perhaps we ought to leave this for now?"
  Hoare cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.
"Second thoughts? You? You're certain that
Kromman lied to him?"
  "Yes."
  "Telling fibs to His Majesty is
classed as treason, and there is nothing to which
Ambrose the Great assigns greater priority
than treason in all its multifarious
manifestations. Just watch. Wait here, all of
you."
  The King was consulting a roll of drawings, standing
within an entourage of about two dozen men ranging from
splendidly attired nobles to artisans in dirty
rags, and dominating them like a swan among
cygnets. At first he scowled when Hoare
appeared before him, but his reaction to the whispered
explanation was instantaneous, suggesting a
full-force gale hitting a scatter of dry
leaves on a courtyard. A moment later there was
no one within twenty feet of him except
Durendal, bowing low.
  As he straightened, the King said, "You are very
welcome back, Sir Durendal. Your
return gladdens our heart."
  "Your Majesty is most gracious. It is
always an honor and pleasure to come into Your
Majesty's presence." It was, too.
  Ambrose was certainly bigger than he had
been, but his height and the skill of his tailors had
turned obesity into mere overwhelming mass. A
lesser man must have collapsed altogether under the
magnificence of his attire--fur, brocade,
cloth of gold; ruff, gems, gold. Only his
face gave him away: the shrunken mouth, the
mountain of butter encroaching on the famous amber
eyes. There was white in his fringe of beard, and the
rest of it had faded to a dull brown, yet he was
still an unquestioned monarch. Durendal felt small
before him.
  "You escaped from captivity? We shall look
forward to hearing of your exploits."
  "I was never captive, sire."
  The piggy eyes shrank to pinholes. "Then how
exactly came you to be separated from
Inquisitor Kromman?"
  "I left him for dead in the desert, sire.
I tried to kill him and am sorry to learn that I
failed."
  A royal foot tapped on the tiles. "You
had some reason for this, I presume?"
  "Because he killed my friend and Blade, Sir
Wolfbiter, and very nearly killed me also."
  The King looked slowly around the great empty
hall. All the spectators backed away even
farther. "We are waiting, Sir
Durendal."
  "My liege. We arrived at Samarinda
..."
  He told the story in full detail. The
King gave him his complete attention--he had always
been a good listener. For twenty or thirty
minutes the nobles and master craftsmen stood
impotently silent, Blades and White
Sisters conferred in faint whispers, tilers and
plasterers worked their hearts out in case the King should
glance their way. When Durendal had finished,
two red blobs of fury glowed on the royal
cheekbones.
  "I was informed that you and your Blade insisted on
breaking into the castle despite contrary advice from
Master Kromman. When you did not come out at the
agreed time, he returned to the lodgings you shared.
He waited two weeks and when you still failed
to appear he gave you up for dead and left the
city."
  A man could not say, I know you appointed him
Secretary only a month ago and to put him on
trial for treason so soon will be a public
admission that he deceived you, but I am sworn
to defend you from all foes and that man is a liar
and a killer.
  All he could say was, "I am prepared
to repeat my story before the inquisitors, sire."
  The King thumped the roll of drawings against his
thigh a few times. "Trusting of you. Secretary
Kromman told me his story in the presence of
Grand Inquisitor herself."
  Death and fire! A trickle of sweat
ran down Durendal's ribs. The King was warning
him that the inquisitors defended their own. Mention
of Mother Spider raised the stakes considerably.
If the King accepted his Blade's story, he
must at least dismiss and perhaps destroy a senior
minister. Would he even dare to try? The Office
of General Inquiry might not cooperate in
decapitating itself. To be certain that he had the
truth of this affair, he would have to put someone to the
Question, and that was using sledgehammers for
drumsticks. The best Durendal could hope for
now was dismissal from court. It was what he
wanted, wasn't it--retirement? Honorable
retirement, though.
  "I have the gold I mentioned, sire. Did
Master Kromman describe the gold, and, if
so, how did he explain his knowledge of it?"
  The shrewd little eyes grew no warmer. "He
said little about gold, but I am sure he can
present other explanations of how you acquired it.
I want to see this gold. Where is it?"
  "In a bag in the Commander's office, sire.
The sniffers took exception to it."
  "Damn the sniffers. You may have brought a
profit for ..."
  The King had turned to look for his Blades.
Hoare was grinning, having just finished saying something
humorous. The other three and the two White
Sisters were all shaking with suppressed laughter,
unaware of the royal glare suddenly fixed upon
them. It felt like a month before one of them
noticed.
  Hoare came hurrying over. "My liege?"
  "Go and bring me Sir Durendal's bag."
  "Sire, the White Sisters were very ... Um,
yes. At once, Your Majesty!" The Commander
backed away, bowing. His sovereign's fury
seemed to follow him all the way to the door like
tongues of fire.
  "Your return is most timely, Sir
Durendal," the King muttered.
  Not sure what that implied, Durendal said,
"For further evidence, I must have imprinted a
substantial scar on Master Kromman's
belly."
  The King left off glowering after Hoare to glower
at Durendal instead. "He was wounded when
brigands attacked the caravan on his way
home."
  Shit! "Sire, he has obviously kept
his lies as close to the truth as possible. But he
did follow us into the castle, he did not wait
two weeks for us to emerge, he did close the
trapdoor and the gate on us, he certainly
possessed an invisibility cloak, which--"
  "Those were his orders."
  "Sire?"
  "The cloaks are a state secret, to be
denied at all times. They do not confer
invisibility, only a sort of unimportance,
and they are extremely difficult to use. If
an assassin walked in here wearing one, you would
probably see a page or another Blade, and
you would pay no heed--but only if the man kept
his head. If he let his own attention wander for an
instant, the cloak would reveal him. Kromman
could no more have loaned you his cloak than you
would loan an unruly horse to a man who has
never ridden. It would have been useless to you. And if
he did follow you into the killers' den, then he was
taking little less risk than you were."
  The swamp grew deeper every minute.
  "He did not wait two weeks! He fled
right away. He lied to you."
  "A man may reasonably conceal his own
cowardice."
  "He used the cloak against me, sire, which is
hardly the act of an innocent. He might just
argue that closing the trapdoor was a necessary
precaution with dawn breaking, but never that locking the
gate was." Was this now the extent of his complaint
against the King's personal secretary?
  Ambrose glared at him as if he were a
cast-bronze idiot. "It was already light. He
assumed that you were either dead or had found a hiding
place within the castle. The next night he went
back and unlocked the gate and waited until
dawn. He will also claim he tried to run from you
later because he did not know who was pursuing him.
He has hairs growing out of his nose. Is there
anything else about him you dislike?"
  That thumping noise must be earth falling on his
coffin lid. "If that is what Your Majesty
believes, then you had better put me to--"
  "No!" bellowed the King. The watchers all
shivered and retreated a few more paces. "I
don't believe it," he continued in his former tones
of quiet menace. "Accept an inquisitor's
word over a Blade's--what kind of dunce are
you calling me? He tried to steal all the glory
and leave you to die, but I can't prove it without
putting one of you to the Question, so I won't. He
is a bottom-feeding worm, but a prince must
use the tools available to him, and very few are beyond
reproach, as you are. I congratulate you on a
superb accomplishment. You have lived up to your
glorious reputation, Sir Durendal."
  Speechless, his Blade bowed.
  The King said, "Name your reward."
  Fire! He thought of that estate he had never
seen. Release? No, not that. And he had sworn
to obey his liege, not to pander to his feelings.
"Justice for Wolfbiter's death, sire."
  The King swelled, his fat fists clenched, his
beard bristled. "Sirrah, remember your
place! Not even you can speak to me like that! Name
another."
  "I want nothing else except to continue
to serve Your Majesty as best I can." To Be
Withand Serve--that would be Harvest's answer if he
could ask her the same question. It was the purpose for
which he had been made.
  Ambrose accepted the amendment with reluctance.
"Very well, I will grant you that. But you will
remember that justice is mine, Sir
Durendal. I will have no duels or blood
feuds in my court."
  Oh?
  The hall stilled like a mill pool after a
trout has taken a fly. Courtiers and
Blades fell silent; even the busy artisans
paused in their clinking and shuffling, as everyone sensed
the confrontation--the mysterious newcomer glaring
rebelliously at his sovereign, the King's
face growing steadily more inflamed while he
waited for assent so dangerously withheld. Veins
began to bulge at his temples. His foot
tapped. The onlookers exchanged shocked
glances, held their breaths.
  Long seconds crept by as Durendal
wrestled with his soul. His friend and defender had been
foully betrayed; he had bungled the necessary
retribution. How could he claim one speck of
manhood if he did not seek out Kromman again
at once and complete the job? What use would he
be to himself or anyone else if he had to live with
that crushing shame? It would destroy him.
  But defiance now would destroy him even sooner,
certainly before he could empty Kromman's
blood on the floor. Even if he were merely
banished instantly from court, he would be ruined: a
Blade without a purpose. What else was he
good for except guarding the King?
  How could he serve any king who decreed such
injustice?
  But he could almost hear Wolfbiter warning him not
to be impulsive, arguing with cold-blooded
logic that this man was the only king he had, and a good
one in spite of his faults. Ambrose had more
pressing concerns than the death of one of his
Blades. Blades were dispensable. They accepted
their powers and privileges in full understanding of the
price. A monarch with a kingdom to rule,
responsible for millions of lives, could not
shatter the smooth running of his government
by deposing Grand Inquisitor and her minions
over a petty personal squabble.
Sometimes even the best of kings must dilute
justice with policy. And so on.
  Oh, Wolfbiter!
  He bowed his head in misery. "As Your
Majesty commands." Wolfbiter, Wolfbiter!
  Ambrose continued to scowl. "We trust that
any wishes we may convey in future will be
granted more seemly acknowledgment, Sir
Durendal?"
  A last flicker of rebellion: "No command
Your Majesty can ever give me will hurt more than
that one."
  And a final spark of royal anger ... but then
a grudging nod. "You have not lost your brash
insolence. A little of that can be refreshing, but don't
overdo it. And no one understands better than we do
how readily a ward is inspired with countervailing
loyalty to his Blade."
  "Thank you, sire."
  "Your return is timely," the King repeated.
"Commander Hoare frequently displays an
inappropriate attitude to his duties. You
replace him now as commander of our Guard. And I
won't have him as your deputy, either."
  Speechless, Durendal knelt to kiss fingers
like thick pink sausages.

                  

  It was typical of Ambrose that he left
Durendal the job of breaking the news to his
predecessor, which he did as soon as they
returned to the overembellished Guard
headquarters. Hoare heard of his dismissal in his
own bordello of an office.
  He closed his eyes in rapture. "Oh,
bless you! Bless you! Bless you!"
  "You mean that?"
  "I will kiss your feet if you promise not
to tread on my tongue. Flames, I'll do it
anyway!"
  "Get up, you idiot!"
  Truly, the former commander did not seem to be
faking his delight. He hurled himself into a chair
and bellowed, "Wench! Wench! A bottle of
sack for a celebration!"
  "I shall need your help," Durendal said
unhappily.
  "Anything you want, brother, but I know you--it
won't take you long to pick up the
reins." Hesitation. "Did he mention release
for me?"
  "Um, no. I can recommend it, of course.
You don't want to crawl off and rot on
Starkmoor, do you?"
  Blades typically resisted release
vehemently, but Hoare was always an exception
to rules. He beamed. "I want to go off and rot
at a place called Sheer, whose lord has a most
gorgeous daughter of seventeen with the sort of
breasts that inspire poets to write epics."
  "You mean sonnets."
  "Not in this instance."
  "Is she crazy enough to want a lecherous,
broken-down swordsman?"
  "She is mad about me. So is her father, but I
can fight him off. No, I mean he approves
of me as a man, but he doesn't want his only
child tied to court, that's all."
  With wistful thoughts of Kate, Durendal
congratulated him. Times were a-changing when the
Guard's most celebrated rake settled
into matrimony. He wondered how many more
Blades had such ambitions.
  "You won't mind," Hoare said, "will you, if
I go and tell her now?"
  As he ran out, he almost knocked over the wench
bringing the bottle of sack. Durendal sent it
back to the cellar and proceeded to explore Guard
headquarters. The first door he opened revealed
an assembly of seven bored Blades playing
dice and drinking. All of them dated from after his
time, except Felix, one of his old
classmates, but they all leaped to their feet
to embrace him and welcome him back to the world of the
living.
  Touched, he broke the news that he was their new
commander.
  "Ha!" Felix bellowed. "Now you'll see
some changes, you slipshod tadpoles! Now
you'll find your backbones stiffened."
  "Quite possibly," Durendal said. "And you can
start by carrying a message for me, brother.
Kindly inform Mother Superior that the commander of the
Royal Guard needs to see her at once upon a
matter of extreme urgency. Don't mention my
name. I give you fifteen minutes."
  When the formidable and somewhat breathless lady was
ushered into the ostentatious office, she recoiled in
horror at the sight of the man behind the
great desk. A wrinkling of her nose suggested that
the taint of the Samarinda conjurement had not yet
faded very much. She herself had brought the same
penetrating odor of lavender.
  "Do be seated, Mother," Durendal said without
rising. "His Majesty has just appointed me
to succeed Commander Hoare. I am exceedingly
concerned about the King's safety, a matter on which
I have overriding authority, of course." He
scowled at a handful of papers he had snatched
at random from a drawer. "These schedules!"
  She perched stiff-backed and awkward on the
edge of a chair designed for lounging. "What
schedules, Commander?"
  He assumed a threatening glower. "About an
hour ago, Mother, I took a very obvious
conjurement into His Majesty's presence. I was
not challenged until I was less than twenty
feet from our sovereign lord. That is clearly
unacceptable."
  "But ..."
  "Yes?"
  "Nothing. Do continue."
  "I intend to." He slapped the unoffending
documents. "I am going to double all the guards
on the palace. That will apply to both Blades and
White Sisters, of course."
  She gasped and clutched both hands to her
monumental hat, as if it were about to fall off.
"Double? You mean His Majesty wishes to contract
for additional assistance from our Order?"
  "No, I regret that the budget will not allow
hiring more staff. Advise your charges that they will be
working double shifts from now on."
  The old witch glared at him. "I do not
believe this!"
  Durendal was ashamed to discover that bullying could
be a pleasurable occupation in certain
circumstances. "If I fail to have your complete
cooperation, Mother, I shall lodge a complaint with the
Privy Council--just see if I don't!"
  She colored in fury. She chewed her lip
for a moment. Just when he had concluded that she was going
to call his bluff, she said, "I investigated your
previous inquiry, Commander. There was a Sister
Kate, as you said. She resigned from the White
Sisters almost five years ago, which is why she
had slipped my mind."
  "Indeed?"
  "Indeed."
  They eyed each other appraisingly, like fencers
after a first exchange. He dropped the papers on
the floor and leaned back in the chair. "And where
is she now?"
  "Our last information is that she returned to her
parents' home."
  "Married?"
  "I understand not."
  "In that case--and only in that case--I wish
you would find her for me. I shall be posting the new
duty rosters in ... let me see--three
days?"
  She stood up. "Make it four!"
  After so many years, what was one more day? "Four
it is." He rose and bowed across the desk to her.
"I look forward to working with you, Mother, on all
matters pertaining to the safety of His Majesty."
  "It will be interesting," she said as she swept out.

                  

  After the King had been safely seen off to bed that
night and guards posted, the Commander was treated to a
private supper in the Chancellor's opulent
suite, and that august personage rewarded him
by returning his sword breaker. Montpurse had
aged less than anyone, for his hair had always
been ash blond and he had not lost it. He even
retained his Blade trimness inside vestments as
sumptuous and bulky as the King's. Despite his
disclaimers, he did not seem to be finding the
golden chain too onerous. His worst burden, he
said, was the King's creation of the office of private
secretary and the man he had chosen to be the first
incumbent.
  "Then why don't we drink to his swift but
painful demise?"
  "An excellent suggestion!" The Chancellor
refilled the glasses. "Kromman is a
hagfish. He attaches himself and sucks out the
life. Tell me what he did in Samarinda."
  Cautiously Durendal asked, "How much do
you know already?"
  Montpurse's eyes were still the color of
skimmed milk and could still twinkle in candlelight.
"More than the King suspects. He swallowed some
tale of the philosophers' stone and threw away a
few lives on it. But one of his strengths is that
he's never afraid to try something new. That's
rare in aristocrats, you know? I hear you
lost a good Blade. Was there anything behind the
legends?"
  "Quite a lot. Everman would have been after your time
..."
  Even to Montpurse, he told little. Just a
few words seeping back to the younger Blades would
give the King that blood feud he did not want.
  As evening drifted toward morning the Chancellor
became quite talkative, passing on valuable
information about ministers and nobles and even some
noteworthy commoners in Parliament, supplying
Durendal with an expert's eye view of
Chivian government. But then he returned to the
subject of Master Secretary Kromman.
  "He is definitely after my job. I'd
give it to him gladly if I thought I could
escape with my life." That was a gentle twisting
of the truth, of course. It was obvious by now that
Montpurse reveled in being chancellor. "And when
he has stuck my head on a spike, I am
sure he will go after yours."
  "I'll drink to that as an order of battle.
Er, not tonight, though. I seem to have reached my
limit."
  "Oh, I'll come first, no question. He's
efficient, Master Hagfish. He can lie to you,
but you can't lie to him. The King realized his
mistake very quickly. He was going to remedy it
back into the cesspool it came out of, but now
you've changed all that."
  "Me? You're saying that I saved
Kromman's job?"
  The Chancellor sighed and refilled his glass.
"I fear so. Court intrigue is very like fencing in
some ways: thrust, parry, feint, riposte. Where
was I? Oh, yes. You convinced the King that
Kromman is a liar, right? And had actually
lied to him. So now the King has a noose he can
drop around Kromman's neck any time he
wants. That increases his value immensely.
I'm truly surprised Ambrose would put an
incorruptible like you in charge of the Guard. He
likes to use people he can menace."
  "You are calling me incorruptible? What are
you guilty of--clandestine nose picking?"
  "Many things. Letting His Majesty believe
he could fence worth a spit, for example,
until a braver man than I rubbed his nose in
the truth."
  Durendal hurriedly reached for the
decanter. "Maybe I could manage one more
glass."
  Montpurse laughed. "Never forget, Leader,
that the best player in the game is Ambrose
himself."
  "I don't like the game. I don't want
to be part of it."
  "You will. It grows on you."

  By the following noon, Durendal had
interviewed every member of the Guard. Far too many
of them were of his own generation, those who remembered the
Nythia campaign. He made tactful
inquiries about romances, ambitions, outside
interests. He discovered that Ambrose had not
visited Ironhall in more than eight months and
Grand Master's reports told of a dozen ready
seniors cribbing their stalls.
  When he had prepared his report, he set off
to seek an audience. He caught the King after
lunch, when he ought to be in a good mood; but the
way he bunched his eyebrows and rumbled,
"Well, what is it?" was not promising. He
made no move to take the scroll being offered
him.
  "Briefly, sire, half your Blades are
rotting from old age; they contaminate the rest. I
have here a list of fifty-seven who ought to be dubbed
knight and released. You don't need so many
guards." The royal mouth opened, but before the foam
could start to fly, he continued: "And Ironhall
is bursting at the seams. If you keep those boys
waiting any longer you will ruin their edge." That was as
close as he dared come to saying that his sovereign
should move his fat carcass to Starkmoor and stop
torturing all the anxious youngsters.
  But the King took it that way. His face flamed
red and his beady yellow eyes glinted like those of a
wild boar. "Nobody talks to me like that! I will
shorten you by a head, you upstart pigsticking serf!"
  Durendal knelt. "My life is Your
Majesty's, always, but I swore an oath
to serve you and will not serve you in any way except
the best I can. To withhold unwelcome truth is
no true fealty." If he was remembering a
certain night when an upstart recruit had given
his liege a brutal lesson in fencing, it was a
reasonable wager that the King was remembering it also.
  The King glared.
  After about two minutes, he said,
"Arrange it. And get out of here before I
throttle you!"
  The Commander rose, bowed, and withdrew.

                  

  On the third day, heading up a wide
granite stairway, he saw an odiously
familiar figure in black robes mincing down
toward him. Kromman's face had returned
to its former pallor, but it was thinner, and the dangling
hair framing it was streaked with white. They halted
to appraise each other. A couple of White
Sisters came by, going down. They pulled
faces and went on without a word.
  This was the moment Durendal had been dreading, the
encounter he had wanted to put off as long as
possible. It was going to take all the
self-control he possessed not to draw his sword
and revenge the treachery that had slain his friend.
Fortunately Kromman was unarmed.
  When the Sisters were out of earshot, Durendal
said, "So even the vultures rejected you?"
  "I fail to understand that remark, Commander." The
Secretary's voice had not lost its
unpleasant hoarseness. "I do wonder on what
terms you obtained your release from the brethren."
  "Go and get a sword!"
  Kromman smiled. "If you wish. We know that
you are destined to betray your king and if I must die
to stop you then I shall willingly lay down my life
for His Majesty. Do you plan to call me out?"
  "He has forbidden it."
  "How unfortunate! Of course your exalted
new office pays an additional fifty crowns
a year, which you will not wish to jeopardize by defying
him."
  Fire and death! "Don't push me any
further, Kromman."
  "I will push all I want, Commander," the
inquisitor whispered. "I will plot and scheme,
and one day I will find your blind spot and drag you
down. The next round will be mine."
  "No, it will be mine, because I am already old for a
Blade. One day quite soon I will be released from
his service, freed of my binding and my pledge.
That day you die. Enjoy life while you can,
Ivyn."
  This was a very narrow interpretation of what he had
promised--a slippery, forked-tongued,
inquisitor-type of hedging--but it was all he
had, and he meant what he was saying. Kromman
could see that he did, and a shadow of doubt showed in
his face. Durendal strode on up the
staircase.

  He appointed Snake as his deputy, for he
seemed the brightest of the youngsters and had shown
resolution in drawing on Hoare when that was his
duty. The King approved the promotion without
comment.
  On the third day, Commander Durendal walked
in on the squirrel-like bureaucrats of the
Ministry of Royal Forests and explained that he
was taking over their offices but they could--if they
wished--occupy the Guard's old space, which was
four times the size, much more luxurious, and hidden
away where no one would ever bother them again.
  He put two desks in the front room and
set his own name on one of them. Now anyone could
find the Guard without delay, and usually get the
commander in person. He sent the King a note.

  On the fourth day, Snake arrived at the
Guard office to find his commander in conference with six
fawning tailors. Blade Fairtrue, who had
been unfortunate enough to be the first man to catch
Durendal's eye when he needed a victim, was
being employed as a mobile tailor's dummy.
His stolid, boyish face was screwed up in
misery as he pranced around to order, waving his
sword.
  "Cockroach!" said the Commander. "Swan.
Rainbow. No, that neckline is going to throttle
you. Take it off. Snake! Tell me what you
think of these britches."
  Alarmed, Snake pulled his superior aside
and hissed in his ear. "The King himself designed our
livery!"
  "That explains it, then. Get your pants off
and try on these."
  Snake glanced out at the hallway where about
two hundred people were parading back and forth. "Yes,
sir. If you promise not to recommend me as your
successor in your famous last words."
  "I won't if you behave yourself." Durendal,
too, eyed that open door, realizing that more than just
modesty recommended a move to more private
premises. If the King had designed the
livery, then he must not be allowed to hear
what was going on until the entire Guard had
been outfitted and the old uniforms were safely
burned. Spring it on him at a big banquet,
maybe--one for the Diplomatic Corps or
something. Then he would have to pretend that it was his own
surprise. That was Kate standing in the doorway.
  Words lodged in his throat. He just stared, and
she just stared--no longer as young but every bit as
desirable. Smaller even than he remembered,
a little plumper. And her companion ... No
mistaking those rebellious dark eyes, the brows
already thicker than most, the widow's peak.
Numbers whirled through his head.
  Finally he said, "He's tall for his age."
Then, to the consternation of the observers and for the first time
since he had been only about five himself, Commander
Durendal burst into tears.

                  

  His years as leader flew away like swallows,
perhaps because twenty-four hours were never enough for all the
living he needed to do in a day. There was Kate,
above all, and a mutual love that never produced
a single cross word. There was winning the trust of the
hitherto fatherless Andy, who had named himself
by mispronouncing the name they shared and was quite the most
stubborn child ever spawned by a swordsman. He was
also reckless to the point of insanity, a fault that
his mother would not admit must spring from her
bloodlines. Soon, too, there was Natrina, the
loveliest baby Chivial had ever seen.
  The Treaty of Fettle brought the
Isilondian war to an end, at a price.
Parliament screamed that it was a national
humiliation, which it was, but Lord Chancellor
Montpurse retorted that a Parliament that does
not vote enough funds to wage a war properly cannot
expect to approve of the results. The lopsided
Baelish struggle continued, with raiders ravaging
the coasts almost at will: burning, looting, raping,
slaving without mercy. Chivial had no way
to retaliate, for Baelmark itself was impregnable,
a poor and sparsely populated archipelago
ringed with reefs. Parliament reluctantly
granted funds to build half a dozen fast
ships. The Baels caught four of them in port
being outfitted and burned them. There was little cheering
now when Ambrose appeared before his people.
  Durendal kept the Guard youthful,
undermanned, and strung tight as a lute. He
escorted the King on his progresses and royal
visitations--except to Starkmoor. There he sent
Snake. The first time a binding was scheduled, he
arranged for Montpurse to mention in passing to the
King that the founder's name might possibly receive a
louder ovation than the King's. Ambrose took the
hint and did not insist on the Commander accompanying
him.
  He won the King's Cup twice more and then
retired from competitive fencing, but he pointed out
that only members of the Royal Guard had ever
won it and vowed fearful vengeance if that tradition
were to be broken. It never was while he was in
charge.
  Amid the pomp and panoply, when orders
glittered and trumpets sang, he was closer to the
King than any man. He stood with drawn
sword beside the throne when the King addressed
Parliament, when the King received ambassadors,
when the King judged major disputes between great
landowners. He developed a deep respect for the
wily fat man's ability to steer his realm the
way he wanted it to go. One of his duties as
chief Blade was to stand guard inside the door at
meetings of the Privy Council, so he was soon
aware of all major state secrets. He was
amazed at the way the ministers submitted to the
King's browbeating, even Montpurse sometimes.
Could they not see that Ambrose would respect
only those who chose their ground correctly and were
then prepared to defend it to the death?
  On the shadowed side of the road sat the hated
Kromman, lurking in his webs, ever plotting
against Montpurse, always ready to exploit a
mistake but seemingly making none of his own. The
battle was unequal, for a chancellor must act
while the secretary was a mere shadow of the King
himself and rarely offered a target. Nevertheless there were
some victories, as when Grand Inquisitor
dropped dead and Ambrose accepted
Montpurse's candidate as her successor
instead of Kromman's.
  There were even triumphs, as when Queen
Haralda gave birth to a healthy young prince.
The exultant king decreed a month's national
rejoicing and named the boy after himself. There were also
tragedies. The Queen died a week later, and for
half a year Montpurse ran the kingdom
until the King came back to his
senses.
  That shattering sorrow reinforced Ambrose's
virulent hatred of conjuration, whose seeds had been
laid by the long-dead Countess Mornicade.
No number of assurances from the White Sisters
would persuade him that his wife had not been slain
by some antagonistic conjurer. This obsession led in
turn to the King's Great Matter and thus to the
downfall of Chancellor Montpurse.

                  

  The epochal meeting of the council at which the
Great Matter was unveiled was held in
Greymere on a dreary day in early winter, with
sleet beating on the windows. Ambrose's
overworked ankles could no longer support his
bulk for hours at a time. A couple of years
ago, Secretary Kromman had introduced a
chair of state into the council chamber, and the King
now used it as a matter of course. His ministers
remained standing, although several of them were much older
than he was and there were empty chairs all around the
walls.
  The Privy Council was a strange mixture
of hereditary nobles with resounding titles and
efficient commoners who did the actual work--the
High Admiral, the Earl Marshal, the High
Constable, the Second Assistant to the Master of
Forests. They ranged in age from thirty to eighty
and were all, with the possible exception of
Montpurse, terrified of the King.
Black-clad Kromman stood at a writing
desk in the shadows, officially taking notes but in
practice fixing every speaker with his unnerving,
lie-detecting stare.
  The meeting was going poorly. Negotiations for the
King's marriage to Princess Dierda of
Gevily had been dragging on for months, growing
ever more complex, until now the draft contract
included clauses on lumber exports and fishing
rights. Montpurse argued for a conciliatory
response, the soft line. When no one else
objected, the King did. Debate raged until
he had his way, and the Chancellor was instructed
to send a very hard response.
  To the Blade observer by the door, it was quite
clear that Ambrose had only opposed the
original recommendation to see if Montpurse
had done his homework and would defend his
position. Once the King began to argue a case,
though, he usually convinced himself; he quite often ended
by imposing solutions he did not really want.
Durendal wondered if Montpurse had foreseen
this and therefore had begun by defending the wrong goal.
It was possible.
  The First Lord of the Exchequer presented a
harrowing account of the national finances, ending with a plea
that Parliament be called into session to vote more
taxes. Chancellor Montpurse warned that there was
much unrest in the country and a Parliament would
certainly seek redress if given the chance.
Redress meant concessions, and concessions were
easier to start than finish. And so on. Ambrose
had been growing more and more flushed. The chief
Blade was laying bets with himself on how soon the
thunder would start. He won and lost
simultaneously.
  "Flummery!" roared the King. "Parliament?
I'll give those pettifogging stall keepers
something to redress. Chancellor, why do you not
impose our taxes uniformly? Why does a
fifth of the kingdom benefit from our rule and
justice, yet contribute not a copper mite to the
upkeep of the realm? Is this fair? Is this
justice?"
  Montpurse's face was not visible to the watcher
by the door, but his voice sounded calm. "I
regret, sire, that I do not understand to what Your
Majesty--"
  "Master Secretary, read out that report you
gave me."
  Kromman lifted the uppermost sheet of paper
from the pile on his desk and tilted it to the gloomy
winter light. "Your Majesty, my lords. A
preliminary survey of lands held by elementaries
and conjuring orders indicates that they constitute in
aggregate approximately nineteen
one-hundredths of the arable land and pasture of
Chivial. As examples, the Priory of
Goodham owns more than half of Dimpleshire
and large tracts in neighboring counties, the
House of Fidelity at Woskin controls one
third of the wool trade of the eastern counties, the
Sisters of Motherhood at--"
  "Sisters of Lust!" the King bellowed. "They
sell love potions. The House of Fidelity
traffics in mindless sex slaves. Foul
conjurations! If you want an enemy cursed or a
virgin enthralled, you take your gold
to these purveyors of evil. And yet they pay no
taxes! Why not? Answer me that, Chancellor!"
  Montpurse's voice was less calm now.
"I have no idea, sire. The matter has never
been put to me until now. As Secretary
Kromman has obviously had time to investigate
the--"
  "Because it has always been done that way!" said the
King triumphantly. "Because no one ever had the
gumption to suggest otherwise. In my grandfather's
day it didn't matter. The sickness was a matter
of a pox here and a pox there. But year by year these
cancers grow richer and acquire more land, until
now they are a blight upon the whole face of
Chivial. Put that to Parliament, My Lord
Chancellor! If we levy taxes upon the
orders, we can reduce the impost on everybody
else and still raise the revenue. How do you like that
idea?"
  "It is a breathtaking concept, sire. But--"
  "But nothing! Why didn't you suggest it to me?
Why didn't any of you? Why do I have to rely
upon a mere secretary to point out this injustice in
our rule, mm?" The King leaned back in his
chair and smirked. "You see, not one of you can think
of an objection!"
  Durendal resisted a strong desire
to whistle. He felt a distinct chill up and down
his backbone.
  "Many of these orders do good work, sire,"
Montpurse protested. "The houses of healing,
for instance. Others enhance seed corn, end droughts,
treat--"
  "They can do all that and pay taxes too! I
see no reason why they should wax ever richer while
the crown goes penniless. Summon Parliament,
Lord Chancellor, and prepare a bill to levy
taxes on them."
  Montpurse bowed and the rest of the council
copied him like sheep.

  As soon as the meeting was over, Durendal
went back to his office and tore up a
recommendation to release eight Blades from the
Guard. He consulted the latest report from
Ironhall and penned a letter to Grand Master. He
wrote another requesting a meeting with the Grand
Wizard of the Royal College of Conjurers.
Finally he went to call on Mother Superior, who
received him in her private withdrawing
room, offering him dainty plates of sweet
cakes and a glass of dry mead. They were fast
friends now.
  The writ to summon Parliament was issued the
following week, but rumors of the Great Matter
had escaped already. Durendal waited upon the
King.
  Kromman had long since ousted the Chamberlain
from the anteroom and assumed his duties there. It
was well known that persons not in the Secretary's
favor might need another haircut before they
gained admittance to His Majesty, but that
restriction did not apply to the Commander of the
Royal Guard. Only once had Kromman
dared to challenge his right of immediate access and then
Durendal had emptied an inkwell over him.
  Falcon was senior Blade on duty, with
Hawkney assisting. They sprang up as
Durendal entered.
  "Who's in there now?"
  "His lordship the Warden of Ports, sir."
  That was excellent news. The Warden was a
notorious windbag, whom the King suffered only
because he was an uncle of the late Queen
Haralda. "Poor Screwsley! I can't let
the poor boy suffer like that. I shall relieve him."
Durendal headed for the council room.
  Kromman's dead-fish eyes glittered
angrily as he went by the desk. "You can't
interrupt--"
  "Then stop me."
  He opened the door, causing young Sir
Screwsley to jump like a spooked frog. His
lordship the Warden was in full drone, while the
King brooded by the window, staring out at frosty
branches. He spun around with a glare. What
happened next must depend on the King's
reaction. Durendal could merely gesture
Screwsley out and take his place--a breach of
etiquette but hardly high treason. His gamble
paid off, though.
  "Commander!" the King boomed. "My Lord
Warden, you will have to excuse us. Sir Durendal
brings urgent business, which I do believe may
take some time." Laying a meaty arm on the
surprised noble's shoulders, he propelled him
to the exit. Then he banished Screwsley with a
dagger glance and shut the door himself, chortling.
  That left Durendal.
  "Lord Warden of Windmills," the king
muttered. "Do you have urgent business?" His
jocularity turned to suspicion.
  "Vital, sire, if not quite urgent."
  The suspicion increased. "Namely?"
  "Majesty, you are about to declare war on most of the
conjurers in the kingdom."
  "You are not supposed to know that!"
  "Half the population knows it. My job now
is to prepare a defense against the inevitable
retaliation."
  The next few minutes were at least as stormy
as he had expected. On one hand, the King
refused to believe that anyone would dare attack
him by conjuration. On the other, he had a
deep-seated dread of exactly that. He detested
his Guard's attempts to mother him, although this was its
duty. He had no lack of courage, except
that he feared being thought a coward. If Parliament
heard that he had increased his personal guard, it
might refuse to pass the bill. And so on.
  Eventually Durendal went down on his
knees. "My liege, I must humbly beg you
to relieve me of my duties as com--"
  "Blast you! Double blast you! No, I will not
relieve you of your duties. Get on your
feet. Why do I tolerate your stubborn
impudence? There isn't one man in the realm who
defies me the way you do. I ought to fire you!"
  The glare stiffened and then slowly melted. The
King guffawed. "That wasn't too logical was
it?"
  Tricky. "It was too subtle for me,
sire."
  The King boomed out another laugh and thumped his
Blade on the shoulder. "I just hope I don't
cut off your head one day before I change my
mind. How can I get rid of you this time? What's
the absolute minimum you will accept?"
  "Sire, I have always kept the Guard below
official strength. In normal times, this keeps
them on their toes. I do think times may not be
normal for the next little while. There are eight
seniors ready at Ironhall."
  "Eight? Last report I saw said three."
  "Grand Master will approve eight, sire.
Mother Superior can obtain another dozen White
Sisters ..."
  "At what price, mm? Blasted women bleed
the treasury dry." The little amber eyes peered
suspiciously out of their caves of fat.
"If I go to Ironhall and let you hire six
more sniffers, will that shut you up?"
  Durendal bowed. "For the moment at least,
sire."
  "Go!" As his Blade reached the door,
Ambrose shouted, "I'm only humoring you because
you got that warden windbag out of my hair, you
understand?"
  Impulse ... "Sire, when is his next
audience?"
  "Out!" roared the King.

  The King rode to Starkmoor four days later,
and that time Durendal went with him. He had warned
Grand Master in advance about the cheering problem, and the
word had been passed down the ranks. His
Majesty and the Commander entered the hall together, receiving
a memorable ovation. Eight excited new
Blades swelled the King's escort when he
departed.
  Durendal, meanwhile, had quietly
investigated the next crop. He urged that they be
brought on as fast as possible. He held a long
meeting with the knights, laying out his concerns for
royal safety in the days to come.

  Parliament convened. Durendal stood beside the
throne while the King read his speech to the assembled
Lords and Commons. Things began to go wrong very
soon after that.
  The Lords were quite amenable to the Great Matter. As
major landowners themselves, the peers disliked the way
the elementaries were gobbling up the countryside, so
if the King thought he could bring them to heel, they would
willingly cheer from a safe distance.
  The Commons had other ideas. Taxing the conjuring
orders was low on their scale of priorities,
even dangerous, not necessarily advisable. The
elementaries were good for business. Everyone needed
healing magic, perfectly respectable burghers
changed the subject when there was mention of love
charms or aphrodisiacs, and many an honorable
member wore a good-luck amulet under his shift.
The Commons were much more interested in curtailing
monopolies, raising import duties,
reducing export duties, and especially in ending
the accursed Second Baelish War, which had been
dragging on now for more than a decade. Nor had
the Commons forgotten the Treaty of Fettle.
  As the voices droned, day after day,
a consensus emerged--the Commons decided they
particularly disliked the King's first minister. The
Chancellor's duties included bullying
Parliament into carrying out the sovereign's wishes,
but now the Commons began to bully the Chancellor.
It was his fault that taxes were so high and the cost of
building the palace of Nocare had drained the
treasury. He was to blame for the monopolies and
perhaps the bad harvests, too. He was certainly
responsible for the Fettle humiliation and the
Baelish monsters turning the coasts to desert.
  No decision had been reached when Parliament
recessed for the Long Night festivities. The
King was furious. Durendal relaxed a little.
  Montpurse promised action as soon as the
holiday season was over, and he was as good as his
word. With flagrant intimidation and wholesale
bribery, he jostled the bill along. It passed
second reading in the early days of Firstmoon.
One more vote would bring it to the palace for the royal
seal.
  If anything was going to happen, it ought to happen
before that.


                  

  Durendal had gone to bed. He went to bed every
night, on principle, to make love or just
snuggle. Even after six years of marriage, it
was almost always the former--a man had to uphold the
legend--and he was frequently back at
Kate's side again when she awoke, for much the
same reasons. While she slept, he attended
to less important matters, like business,
fencing, reading, or carousing. Poised on one
leg, he had just put one foot into his britches
when she screamed. He regained his balance and
ripped the curtains aside. She was sitting up,
but he could not make out her face in the dark.
  "Where?" he said.
  "Everywhere!" She screamed again. "It's
terrible! Stop it!"
  He snatched up his sword and an enchanted
lantern--one of a score that he had bullied out
of the College--and dashed for the door. Any
normal man who abandoned his wife and children like that
would be a despicable poltroon, but a Blade
had no option. Kate knew that. It was shock that
had made her react as she had, never
fear. She would cope.
  He raced across the children's room, where a
five-year-old girl and a ten-year-old boy were
just waking in terror at the noise. He shouted,
"Look after your mother and sister, Andy!" and was
halfway across the salon. Those three rooms
comprised his personal world when court was at
Greymere, and they were much more luxurious than any
other member of the Guard enjoyed. As he reached the
corridor beyond, he realized that he was wearing
next to nothing. Had the alarm come five seconds
sooner, he would not have had even that.
  By the wavering light of the lantern, he sprinted
for the King's quarters. The palace was dark and
silent, although he assumed that every White Sister
would be reacting as loudly as Kate had--the
building was just too huge and solid for him to hear
them yet. He had a long corridor to traverse
and two staircases to climb. Common sense
might suggest that the Commander should be billeted
close to the King. That was the case in most of the other
palaces and had perhaps once been the case in
Greymere; but the old building had been extended
and modified a hundred times, until now it was a
labyrinth and any such convenient arrangement had
been lost. Moreover, Blades did not
sleep, so common sense did not apply to them.
  He was not greatly concerned, even yet. The
royal suite could only be reached through a
guardroom where three Blades were always on
duty. For the last three months, that number had
been increased to twelve as soon as the King
retired. Nor was Ambrose aware that rooms just
outside the royal suite held another dozen
swordsmen and more kept vigil in the grounds below his
windows. The entire Guard, now comprising
eighty-seven men, was on high alert and should be able
to rally within minutes. Seventy-two knights had
been called back from retirement and smuggled into the
palace. If the king learned of them before they were
needed, he would roast Durendal whole.
  The problem, of course, had been to know what form
the assault might take. If it involved an
attack on the building with the sort of thunderbolt
power wielded by the Destroyer General and his
Royal Office of Demolition, then swords
would be useless. Defense against fire and air was the
responsibility of the conjurers of the College.
Durendal had alerted them, nagged them, and--he
hoped--persuaded them to take all
possible precautions. The Guard was concerned
only with personal assault by people, probably
crazed people roused to killer madness by enchantment, like
the assassins who had cut down Goisbert
II.
  Or so he had thought.
  He had just reached the bottom of the staircase
when something hurtled out of the darkness into the light of his
lantern, coming straight at him. He thrust out
Harvest instinctively and skewered it through its
chest.
  It was only a dog.
  There were scores of dogs around the palace, every
palace. They varied from enormous deerhounds to the
cute little bundles of fluff that the ladies
cuddled when they had nothing better to cuddle. This
one was about the size of a sheep, of no discernible
breed. No, it was not only a dog. It had
been coming on its hind legs, so he had struck it
as he would strike a man, and it ran right up the
sword at him. With a yell of horror, he let
go of the hilt just before the monster sank its teeth in
his hand. It fell to the floor, snarling and yelping
while he jumped clear of the snapping fangs,
wishing he was wearing boots, thick boots.
  Now he could hear uproar in the distance, two
floors above him. Spraying blood around
Harvest's hilt, the dog hauled itself upright, then
reared on its hind legs and came at him again.
He beat at it with the lantern, and it went down
again. He rammed the lantern into its jaws so he
could snatch the hilt and drag Harvest free. In
sudden gloom, the dog rallied and attacked again,
this time going for his legs. Now he knew better
than to stab--he slashed, splitting its skull
through one eye and one ear.
  It rolled in the sea of blood it had already
lost. But still it was not dead. Leaping backward from
its attack, he slashed and hacked, blood
sticky on his hand, the lantern light winking
uncertainly. He cut off the monster's head.
The body reared up, front paws clawing at
him. He swung mightily, and cut it in two.
The halves flailed helplessly, while the head
was still snapping. It couldn't move, though, so he
left it and went racing up the stairs.
  In the distance, the great bell began to toll, the
signal he had arranged. At the first landing, he
could hear tumult along the corridor in both
directions--men cursing, women screaming
--but he had to keep going upward, heading for the
King. The dog-thing had attacked him on sight,
so while the attack might be aimed at the King,
everyone was vulnerable.
  Halfway up the second flight of stairs,
he heard claws following him. Ignoring them,
he reached the top and sprinted along the passage.
Lights flickered and flashed ahead of him, showing
men and monsters fighting. There were bodies on the
ground--men with their throats torn out, fragments of
dog still thrashing and snapping. But the men were winning and
now more of them were emerging from the doorways.
  "Silence!" he bellowed. "Blades stay with the
King." That was inevitable, of course. "Knights,
go and hunt down the rest. Clear the palace!"
  Close on his heels came a pack of
monsters, streaming out of the darkness with eyes glowing in
the light of the lanterns. Sheepdogs, mastiffs,
bulldogs, wolfhounds, terriers, cuddly
lapdogs--so they had been. Now many were teetering
on hind legs and most of them were man-sized or
even bigger, with slavering nightmare jaws. But there
were twenty or more men in the press of defenders, so
he squirmed through them until he reached the first
door. He rapped the agreed signal--three,
two, one.
  Locks clattered and the door opened a slit.
Terrified eyes peered out at him, and then he was
allowed in. The doorkeeper was Falcon, the one
with the upturned nose he had first met years ago,
while returning Wolfbiter's sword
to Ironhall. Now Falcon was one of the
officers, although more because of his sword skills than
the quality of his judgment. He slammed the door
again and locked it, but by then his leader was already running
through the warren of the royal suite.
  He passed four dead dogs in pieces and
two dead men before he reached the bedchamber. The bed
curtains were ripped and torn down, revealing a
girl sitting there with covers up to her chin. She was
so high on the heaped mattresses that he could see
her over the heads of the men standing in a ring around the
bed, and he registered her ashen face and
wide-stretched eyes and bloodless lips. She
looked as though she wanted to scream and could not find
air.
  At the foot of the bed stood the King in a
purple robe, with his scanty hair all awry,
steadying his hands on the hilt of an upright
broadsword. His expression suggested
that somebody was going to die to pay for this, probably
several somebodies. All around him stood
Blades and knights. There were four dismembered
dogs on the floor, the pieces still thrashing.
Big dogs. Huge dogs, they had been. And a
whole lot of blood. The air was foul with the stench
of blood and offal. The expensive rugs would be
ruined.
  Muffled tolling of the bell and distant screaming
--but in the room, sudden silence.
  "You should not appear before us improperly
dressed, Commander." The King was more shaken than he
wanted to show, but obviously in control of himself.
Starting to enjoy himself, in fact, the fat bastard.
  "Anyone hurt in here?"
  "Nothing serious," said Dreadnought, who had
succeeded Snake as deputy commander. He had
blood all over his arms and in his sand-colored
beard. There was a makeshift bandage on his left
wrist. "We lost a couple out there, though."
  "I saw them." Durendal made a fast
count. Thirty or so. If that wasn't enough, he
couldn't imagine what would be. The King, thank
all spirits, was not given to sleeping with dogs. His
last queen had been, though--four or five at a
time--but she was gone. Lucky!
  He said, "They're not just coming here, sire. They
seem to be attacking anyone. I think we can
keep you secure, but I'm afraid we have
casualties elsewhere."
  To confirm his remark, a chorus of deep baying
had almost drowned out the tolling of the bell. It
sounded like a choir of thousands.
  The King's dawning smile shriveled away.
"Has anyone any idea of how many dogs there
are in the palace?"
  "Not as many as there were," Fairtrue growled.
  "You must have them hunted down, Commander!"
  "I've arranged for that, sire."
  Before Durendal could comment further, the nearest
window collapsed in a shower of glass and lead and
wood. The thing that came in through the drapes was
roughly dog shaped, but as big as a bull. It
had six-inch canines and claws almost as long. As
four men converged on it, another window crashed.
  Durendal jumped for the King and manhandled him
toward the corner of the room. Ambrose was big.
He instinctively resisted, dropping the
broadsword to fight off this assault, but
Durendal had more muscle and a binding
to aid him. He thrust his sovereign bodily
into the garderobe, slamming the door.
  The King tried to open it. Durendal threw
all his weight against it. "Stay there until I
tell you to come out!"
  The first monster was a heap on the floor,
methodically hacked to pieces. The second was
now being given the same treatment, but not before it had
crushed a man's head in its jaws. Who had that
been? There were four windows in the room. He
began organizing precautionary defense at the
other two. If the hound things could climb three
stories up the side of the palace, the outer
walls were not going to keep them from invading the
grounds. How many dogs were there in Grandon? What
was the range of this conjuration? How huge were they
going to become?
  How many windows led into the royal suite?
"Flint! See to the next room!"
  Another monstrosity started to come in the first
window. Fairtrue hacked off a taloned paw
and it toppled back and vanished into the darkness with a
long, discordant howl, cut off abruptly as it
met the rose garden far below.
  "Nice one," Durendal said. He ran over
to look out. He caught a brief glimpse of the
palace with innumerable windows flickering lights and
what seemed to be scores of enormous ants
scrambling upward. Then a huge set of
slavering fangs opened in front of him. He
jumped back and rammed Harvest into the jaws.
  He heard more windows shattering and a door going
down in the distance, suggesting that all the defenders in
the corridor were dead or wounded. It was going to be
a long night. He snapped orders, setting
guards on each window, with backups to spell them
off and clear away the debris so that the fighters
had room. The King had emerged from the closet, but
just far enough to reach the bed and catch hold of the girl,
who had fainted. He dragged her to him and carried
her into the garderobe. He came out again, scowling
at Durendal.
  "I'll stay here. If they get close,
I'll even hide inside."
  To his own astonishment, Durendal laughed.
"If they get close, I'll join you!"
  Several voices shouted at once, "Leave
room for me!"
  Bloody flesh was making the floor slippery.
The stench of eviscerated dog was
appalling. Monsters fought their way in through the
windows almost on one another's tails, but the
Blades had their measure now--hack at the
muzzles to cut away the deadly jaws, chop off
the legs. The flesh still writhed, but it could do no
harm.
  Men began screaming out in the dressing room.
Flint and his helpers fought a determined rear
action, retreating back into the bedchamber before the
ghoulish attackers. Soon the doorway was almost
blocked by corpses.
  Durendal had begun to feel better, though.
His initial impression had been wrong--the sheer
weight of this attack showed that it must be directed
at the King. There could not be enough dogs in all
Chivial to put so many into every window in the palace.
Unless they started tearing their way through the stonework
he could hold this room. Blades protecting their
ward would fight for days before they dropped dead, and
he did not think the hounds' attack could match that
defense. Everyone in the room now was soaked in
blood. Young Ebony was sure to lose that crushed
arm and was weeping on the bed, being tended
by Sailor.
  It was going to be butchery, but nothing worse
than that. Just a very long night.

             MONTPURSE
             Very (continued)

                 

  Lunch in Durendal's quarters the next day
was a boisterous celebration. Snake was there, and so
were a score of old friends from the past--Felix who
was Keeper of Brimiarde Castle; Quinn, now
Master of Rapiers at Ironhall; Hoare who
was father of four--his wife produced them in
pairs--and many more. It was a school reunion.
Parsewood, on his knees, was lecturing the
solemn Andy on what a great man his father was.
Scrimpnel jiggled Natrina on his lap, and the
little minx was playing up atrociously. Kate, the
only woman present, was being hailed as the
heroine of the hour. Nonsense, she said, every White
Sister in the palace had pealed like thunder; it
hadn't been detecting the conjuration that was the
problem, it had been doing something about it. She
beamed proudly at her husband and nagged the
footmen to distribute the wine faster.
  From cellar to turrets, Greymere reeked of
dog guts. Flesh was being carried out in barrows.
Thoughts of the death toll lurked just below the gaiety,
but the Blades had won the most dramatic
victory in their entire history. Every success
must have a price, and in warfare it was often the
price that measured the victory--a dozen
members of the order had died to write this epic in
the annals.
  Brock, who had ambitions to be master of
rituals at Ironhall one day, was
pontificating on how the thing could have been done in
apparent defiance of the rule that spirituality could
only be applied with an octogram. Enchanted
dog food, he opined, with much more confidence than
conviction. Audience response was moving from
scathing to outright hostile when the Chancellor walked
in. Everyone who had found a seat stood up; those
already upright bowed.
  "No, no, no!" Montpurse pulled off his
chain of office and thrust it at Kate. "Hide
that in the laundry bin!" He pecked her cheek.
"I'm not here officially. I just want to be one
of the gang again, like old times. Franklin, you young
scoundrel, what's this I hear about you and the
ambassador's daughter ...?" He
began working his way through the overcrowded room,
greeting everyone by name without hesitation. Kate
hung the chain around her neck for safekeeping and
headed for a mirror.
  "How is the big man?" asked Hoare when his
turn came.
  "Preening," Montpurse said with a cautious
smile. "Accepting congratulations from all the
peers of the realm. Don't anyone mention
garderobes for the next ten years."
  "Congratulations to you also," Durendal said,
fighting his way through with a glass of wine. "This ought
to put paid to our mutual unfriend!"
  "Why do you say that?"
  "Well, taxing the orders was his idea,
wasn't it?"
  Montpurse sipped his wine. A ripple of
silence flowed out from him until he was the focus of
every eye. He had never been one of the gang--even
at Ironhall he had always been a chief.
  "Not so simple, I'm afraid," he said
quietly. "Whom do you think Parliament will
blame?"
  The room erupted in protest. Durendal
felt a touch and turned to see the worried face
of Hawkney, one of the new juniors.
  "The King wants you, Leader."
  Montpurse smiled thinly at Durendal and
said, "Good luck."
  What did that mean?

  The King was in his dressing room, which alone
among the rooms in his suite had escaped
assault in the night. Feet had tracked
bloodstains across the rugs, but there were no other
signs of damage, and the stench was bearable. He was
busily complicating the efforts of his valet
to undress him.
  Royal toilets were frequently public
occasions, but this one was as private as could be, with
only old Scofflaw, the valet, and a single
Blade by the door--Flint, who was discreet. His
commander did not post gossips to such intimate
attendance on the King.
  Durendal bowed when the royal head appeared from
inside an undershirt.
  "I owe you my life again, Commander."
  "My duty, sire. And my pleasure,
too."
  If the King had been preening earlier,
he wasn't preening now. He scowled as he
stepped out of his britches. "What's the latest
toll?"
  "Much the same--twenty dead, seventeen
mutilated, a couple of dozen bitten less
seriously. About half those were civilians, the
rest swordsmen. Six of the dead were women,
sire, which--"
  "And where did all those swordsmen come from?"
  "The Blades? Oh--you mean the knights?"
  "You flaming well know I mean the knights!"
Ambrose said with a sort of wry menace. He was
amused, though. "Hurry up, man, I'm
freezing to death." That was to Scofflaw.
  "Well, from all over, sire. Starkmoor, a
lot of them. From the length and breadth of Chivial.
They were all very glad to have a chance to serve again.
..."
  "But it was you who thought to summon them and have them
standing by. I was wrong; you were right." The King
sighed. "Give me your sword."
  Durendal felt a jolt of alarm. "Sire,
if you are planning what I think you are, I must
respectfully point out that the danger has not
yet--"
  The King held out his hand. "I have kept you bound
too long, my friend. How old are you now?"
  "Thirty-five, sire." Thirty-six in a
few days. "But I'm still--"
  "And how old is the next oldest Blade in
my Guard?"
  "Four or five years younger, I suppose."
Nearer ten. Panic! A Blade released from his
binding was a lost soul. "Sire, I beg you
to remember that reading the inquisitors made. If
I'm not bound then you can't trust--"
  "Readings are camel drippings!" the King
boomed cheerfully. He seemed quite unaware that he
was wearing only his underwear and exposing a belly that
would have filled a wheelbarrow. "Bound or unbound,
I trust you before anyone in the realm. Now give
me your sword and kneel!"
  Many times Durendal had watched Blades
whining and pleading when faced with this terrible moment.
He had always promised himself that he would not be such
a fool when his own end came. Nevertheless his shaking
fingers took a shamefully long time to remove his
ruff, open his doublet, unbutton his shirt, and
expose his shoulders. He knelt before the king. The
sword that had bound him touched his flesh--
right, then left ...
  "Arise, Sir Durendal, knight in our
Loyal and Ancient Order."
  There was no peal of thunder, no sense of change,
and yet now the burden must be gone. No longer
need he worry night and day about defending his
ward. Perhaps it would take a few days for that
realization to sink in. What was he going to do with the
rest of his life? He could leave court! Kate
would dance on the ceiling. Aha! He could kill
Kromman!
  He should have known that something dramatic would
happen right after he went back to Ironhall. It
always did.
  Smiling, the King held Harvest out to the side.
Flint came forward to take it, carefully
avoiding Durendal's eye.
  "Baron Roland, as I recall?"
  "I suppose so, sire." Strange--it still
felt like a loss.
  "Your-- Blast you!" That remark was directed
at old Scofflaw, who had seen an
opportunity to leap forward and plunge a garment
over the royal head. Ambrose reluctantly
put his arms through the armholes. "Your
recommendation for your successor, Lord Roland?
Dreadnought?"
  Durendal glanced toward the door, where Flint
now stood again. The King frowned and gestured for the
Blade to leave, which he did, taking Harvest with
him. The door closed. That left Scofflaw, but
he never spoke to anyone except perhaps the King.
He was older than Ironhall, probably
half-witted, a bent and desiccated husk of a
man. Junior Blades and younger courtiers
told terrible Scofflaw jokes. (what has
four legs and steams? Scofflaw ironing the
King's britches.) Scofflaw did not count.
  "Bandit, sire." Dreadnought was
twenty-eight, much too old.
  "Bandit?" The King frowned. "Which one is
he?" Once he had known every Blade in his guard
personally. "Not that corset, you blockhead! It
pinches. The old one."
  "The one with the eyebrows, sire. He never
enters the Cup contest, but he's the best man
by far. They'll follow him into a furnace."
  The King shrugged. "Send him up, then."
  "I may tell him that you asked for him?"
  A chuckle. "If you wish, my
lord."
  With half his buttons still undone, Durendal
started to bow.
  "Wait. I'm not finished." The King gasped
in agony, but that was merely the corset being
tightened. "Pull, fool, pull! You expect
me to go out looking like a butter churn? Tighter!"
He groaned. "Find Chancellor Montpurse
for me."
  Someone tipped another bathtub of icy water
over Durendal. "Your Majesty?"
  "And bring me his chain."
  "Sire! But--"
  "No buts. It's for his own good. If I
don't do this, Parliament will impeach him."
  Sick at heart, Durendal muttered, "As
Your Majesty commands." The rank injustice of it
burned like ice in his belly. All this uproar was
Kromman's fault, not Montpurse's. He
began to bow again.
  "Wait," the King said again. "We'll settle
this now. I have every confidence that you will be an
excellent chancellor. It brings an automatic
earldom at the next investiture."
  "Me? Me? You're joking ... er, Your
Majesty. I'm a pigsticker, not a
statesman, sire!" The floor rocked under his
feet.
  Trailing Scofflaw on the end of his corset
strings, the King stumped over to tower above
Durendal. "Would you recommend I appoint
Kromman?"
  Oh, bastard! Couldn't he at least have found a
more honorable argument than that? "Sire, I am not
capable. I am only a swordsman. But
Kromman is a liar and a killer and a human
slug. Your Majesty cannot possibly be serious
about--"
  "No, I am not. Now kneel and kiss my
hand and then go and get that chain."
  Bugger! Gross, fat, conniving bugger!
Unbound or not, Durendal could not refuse his
sovereign. He knelt as Baron Roland
to kiss the King's hand and rose as first minister of
Chivial.

  Happily wearing his sword again, he went down
to the Guard Office, where he found Bandit listening
with a tolerant smile to a dozen bragging
juniors. This party was more sober than the
riot going on in his own quarters, but no less
exuberant.
  "The King wants you."
  "Me, Leader? Me? He doesn't know me
from a long-eared owl. Why?" Bandit was little changed
from the fresh-faced kid Durendal had met on the
moors the day he returned Fang
to Ironhall, but he was as solid as Grandon
Bastion and personable to a fault. He would handle
the King as deftly as he wielded a rapier.
  "I have no idea. He specifically asked for
you, though."
  The thick line of eyebrow bent in a frown.
"There's been a mistake! He must be confusing
me with one of last night's heroes. I did
hardly anything."
  "Tell him so to his face."
  Bandit straightened his doublet and hurried off.
His excessively puzzled expression was a
small ray of pleasure on a very gloomy day.
Durendal glanced around the company and was
satisfied that none of them had guessed.
  "Again I tell you that I am proud of all
you," he said, "and so is His Majesty. He
sends his thanks and his congratulations."
  He would have done if he had thought of it.
  Nor did Durendal's face give away
anything when he returned to the party that was rapidly
turning his quarters into a rook's nest--not even
to Kate, who could usually read his features through
an oak door, and who at last sight had been
wearing the gold chain he was seeking but was not wearing
it now. He summoned her with a glance. Frowning,
she came squirming through the merrymakers to reach
him. He backed out to the corridor. At close
quarters she sensed the absence of his binding and lit
up with a smile like a fanfare of bugles.
  They hugged.
  "At last you're mine!" she said. "And I am
Baroness Kate?"
  "And Countess Kate after the next dubbing."
  "Oh?"
  "He made me chancellor."
  Her smile wavered. She tried to hide her
feelings behind coquetry, which she was never good at.
"I shall need a whole new wardrobe!"
  "If that's all it takes to compensate you, then
I'm a far luckier man than I deserve."
He kissed her, wondering what he had ever done
to deserve such a woman. "Can you forgive
me?"
  Someone roared his name, the old name he had been
so proud to bear.
  Her smile was back--a little thinner, but very
fond. "Forgive? I am bursting with pride. You
wouldn't be the man I love if you'd refused
him. Can I wear the chain sometimes?"
  "Only in bed."
  "That sounds a little bizarre."
  "Wait and see--we'll both wear it."
  Even his bedroom was packed with revelers, so
he could not shed his Guard livery yet. He gave
the party a few more minutes, then slipped away
again and plodded off in search of his predecessor,
whom he found alone in his office, setting heaps
of papers in rows on the desk. For once--perhaps
because he was stooped or because the room was dim--his
flaxen hair made him seem old. He looked
up with a smile and lifted the chain from his shoulders.
  "You knew!" Durendal said with relief. "You
might have given me a hint!"
  The ex-chancellor shook his head. "I
guessed, that's all."
  "You put him up to this!"
  "I swear I did not. We never discussed it.
You are the obvious choice. There just isn't
anyone else he would consider for a moment. Here."
He set the chain around Durendal's neck.
"Suits you. Congratulations."
  "Condolences are more in order."
  "Oh, you'll be a great chancellor, but I
admit that there is a sense of relief." He
sighed contentedly. "I've had seven years of
it--he's drained me." He was showing no
bitterness, no regret. He had always had
grace. "I was terrified he'd appoint some
birdbrain aristocrat. Oh, by the way, that chain
is gilded copper, not gold. Make sure the
receipt you give Chancery for it says so, just in
case someone accuses you of embezzlement one
day."
  "You're joking!"
  Montpurse chuckled. "Some of our
predecessors fell into even sleazier traps
than that. Now, I've sorted these by urgency.
Start at this end." He waved his successor
to his own chair and took another. "Let's
see. What isn't in here? What's too
secret to be written down? Well, as one
ex-Blade to another, let me warn you
about Princess Malinda."
  Durendal wondered how soon he could
resign. Would half an hour be too short a
term? "You are telling me that the King's children are
my concern now?"
  "Everything is your concern now," Montpurse
said cheerfully. "She's sixteen and has her
daddy's temper only more so. The sooner you can
get her judiciously married off, the better."
  Amen to that! Durendal had already had some
clashes with Princess Malinda, but if
Montpurse had not heard about those, then he need
not be troubled with the information now. He was a free
man.
  "And there's the war," the free man said.
"There's only one way to stop that, of course."
  Durendal realized that he knew very little about the
Baelish War. The council never discussed it.
"Which is?"
  Montpurse gave him a long stare. "You
don't know that story?" He spoke more softly
than before. "No hints, even?"
  "I haven't a clue what you're talking
about."
  "Ambrose started it. The whole bloody
Baelmark disaster is all his fault. I'm
astonished it hasn't leaked out by now." He
smiled, a smile much like his old smiles.
"Well, Lord Chancellor, in this case what you
don't know won't hurt you. Keep as far away
from that whole Fire Lands business as you can.
Perhaps, but only perhaps, it will end when Ambrose
is ready to make a groveling apology to King
Radgar. He knows that, but I've never had the
courage to suggest it. Good luck there."
  "I am not qualified for this! You have tact
and--"
  "But you have courage, friend, which matters more. That's
what he needs--someone to tell him the truth when
he's wrong and save him from himself. You're the
man." Montpurse leaned back with a smile.
"Anything I can do to make the transition easier,
of course, just ask. I'll be glad to help all
I can. But there is one more thing I must warn you
about."
  Durendal fingered the accursed chain. "All
right, tell me the worst."
  The buttermilk eyes were guarded. "We've
been friends a long time."
  "Flames, yes! Ever since that
night I gave you your sword and you came and
thanked me--you realize how long ago that was?
And when I was a green Blade, just come to court.
... I disgraced myself and everyone else fencing with the
King. You could have slaughtered me and you didn't.
And what you did for me when the Marquis--What's
wrong? Why even mention it?"
  There was sorrow in Montpurse's smile--and
amusement, of course, and appeal, perhaps. "Because
Parliament will have my head."
  "No!"
  "Or the King will. Be quiet and listen.
Princes are not easy to serve. They in turn
serve their realms, and realms are without mercy.
One of the first things you will have to do is--"
  "I'll stuff this damned chain down his throat
first!"
  "No you won't. I did the same to Centham.
Will you button up your lip a minute?
Ambrose has made a mistake, several
mistakes, but kings can't make mistakes. They
all have to be my fault. A chancellor's job
is to bear brunts."
  "Kromman--"
  "Kromman wins this round. He's too
insignificant to blame." The ice-blue eyes
seemed to darken for a moment. "Never take your
eyes off that one, friend! Remember that Ambrose
loves to yoke the ox and the ass together and play them
off against each other. But you can handle Kromman.
Parliament is another matter."
  "I won't be a party--"
  "You'll do what the King needs. I tell you that
it is your duty, that I bear no malice, that I
did the same thing myself. May chance preserve you
when your day comes, brother!"
  Durendal felt ill. "Fire and death,
man! If that's what's in the wind, then we've
got to get you out of the country, and fast!"
  Montpurse shook his head resignedly.
"No. I swore long ago to give my life for
him, and this may be the way I have to do it. It will
give him a fresh start, and you also. Parliament will
simmer down once it has tasted blood. Now
I'm going to go home and tell my family the good
news. The bad news will come when it comes." He
rose and offered a hand. His palm was dry, his
grip firm, his gaze steady. "You'll see they
don't suffer too much, won't you?"
                                  
                 

  Many a fencing bout was decided by the first appel.
Some instinct told Durendal that he would never
meet the King's standards as first minister unless he
began with a decisive move. He had everything
to learn about fighting in this new arena, he had huge
amounts of backlog to absorb, and suddenly the
days were a third shorter than they had been--he
must waste the nights in sleeping. Nevertheless, he
had attended every meeting of the Privy Council for
more than five years. He knew the King, he
knew the issues, and he felt very confident when
he presented himself for his first formal audience as
chancellor.
  He had to wait more than an hour for it to begin,
because the river had frozen over. His Majesty was
off roistering at a court skating party, complete
with an orchestra and marquees set up on the
ice. Ale was being mulled, chestnuts roasted, and
whole oxen turned on spits. The former commander
wondered how many of the Guard could attend their
royal ward on skates, but that was one worry he
had been spared, in return for the many hundreds he
had acquired. Eventually darkness ended the joyous
occasion, sending the King back to the palace and the
council chamber.
  Durendal was relieved to see that the Blade
on duty by the door was Bandit himself--who had
guessed that Durendal was responsible for his
promotion and had almost forgiven him already. Bandit
would not tattle if his predecessor made an
unholy fool of himself in the next hour.
  However, finding Kromman about to follow him
into the council room also, Durendal said, "Out!"
and shut the door in the Secretary's face.
  Ambrose was already slumped in his chair of
state like a heap of meal sacks. He
straightened, glowering, as Durendal bowed to him.
  "What did that mean, Lord Chancellor?"
  "With respect, Your Majesty, I crave the
right to make my confidential reports to you
alone."
  "Or?"
  "No "or," sire. I merely ask that I
make my confidential reports to you alone."
He met the resulting anger squarely. He
could resign now, although it would hurt horribly.
  The King drummed fingers on the arm of his chair.
"We shall reserve judgment. For now, you
may proceed. What are you doing about my
marriage?"
  Even having watched the fencing at innumerable
council meetings, it still felt strange to be a
player. The question was designed to throw him off
balance, but Ambrose was not being deliberately
unkind to his tyro chancellor. It was just his
style. He treated everyone that way.
  "Nothing, sire." The real question was whether the
fat old man really wanted the fuss and bother
of a fourth wife at all, but he probably did
not know the answer himself. "Since no ships can
sail for at least a month, I wish to make a
humble suggestion that Your Majesty use the breathing
space to consider appointing a new emissary--a
fresh start to go with your new ministry."
  The King grunted, which was usually a good sign.
"Who?"
  "Have you thought of the Lord Warden of Ports,
sire?"
  "Why?" There was sudden threat in both the question and
its escorting glare. The King might consider the
warden the greatest bore in Chivial, but the man was
an aristocrat and a sort of relative; and no
upstart gladiator was going to make fun of him.
  "Sire, as a member of your family, he would
carry weight with the Gevilian royal house.
He is also an accomplished negotiator." And
Ambrose would love to send him overseas, far from
the royal ear.
  "Talks like a pigeon, you mean." The King
grunted again, meaning he wanted time to think about it.
"You have to go before Parliament tomorrow. What are you
planning?"
  This was the day's business, why Durendal had
come.
  "I ask Your Majesty's permission to tender
this brief bill for its approval." Durendal
extracted a sheet of paper from his case and offered
it. He had spent half the night with two
attorneys on that one page: A Bill
to Wreak Justice upon Those Responsible for the
Late Outrages at His Royal Majesty's
Palace of Greymere and Divers Other
Persons Transgressing by Conjuration Against the
King's Peace and Public Decency.
  Ambrose would not admit that he needed
glasses. He heaved himself out of his chair and
stomped over to the window. He read the offending
document at arms' length, then returned
it with a shrug of contempt. He began to pace.
  "Chicken drippings. Sparrow feathers. You
can't identify the culprits, can you?"
  "The inquisitors say that's a job for the
Conjurers, sire, and the College says it is
up to the Dark Chamber. They may be able to narrow
it down to a dozen suspects between them, that is
all. Even then, they're only going by--"
  "Don't blather. If you mean no! then say
no! Save the pig swill for Parliament.
Talk all you want there--although never, ever, tell
an actual lie, not even to some lowly, smelly
fishmonger."
  The King continued to pace, warming to his task.
No one knew more about directing parliaments without
letting them know they were being directed than
Ambrose IV, who had been at it for nineteen
years and was now starting to train the fourth chancellor
of his reign. "The second thing to remember is that
everything has its price. Parliament is a great
beast that gives milk only when fed. If it
wants redress, it must vote taxes. If we
want revenue, we must make concessions."
  Durendal wondered what Bandit was making of
this, his first insight into the innermost kitchen of the
state.
  The King turned at the window and stood with the
cold winter light at his back. "Tomorrow, they'll
start with a lot of huffing and puffing about the Night of
Dogs, with loyal addresses to me, demands for the
culprits' heads--the sort of drivel you just
showed me. Then they'll get down to business, and the
first thing you will tell them is that you have had
Montpurse arrested."
  So soon! Montpurse had warned him, but must
it be his first act? "Sire! But--"
  "I have not finished, Chancellor." Give him his
due, the King did not look as if he was enjoying
this. "I just told you, everything is done by trade.
We need revenue. We give them
Montpurse. If we don't, they'll pass
an Act of Attainder against him. Then he'll be
even worse off and we'll have gained nothing--
understand? And you're the new boy. We must make you
popular, the Champion of Parliament. If you can
just hang on to that for the first couple of sessions, you
may achieve something."
  "Sire, my loyalty--"
  "Is to me. The better Parliament likes you,
the better you can serve me. You've gone
over the books, I hope?"
  "I have had them explained to me."
  "That's what I meant. The Exchequer is
bankrupt. We shall have to give enormous
redress to win any additional revenue--your
predecessor's head will be only the start." The
King scowled and resumed pacing. "Our Great
Matter will be defeated now. They'll claim it
puts the stability of the realm at risk. You have a
hard campaign in front of you, sirrah! I
hope I have chosen a fighter to lead my
troops?"
  So here it came, the lunge he was counting on.
He might doom his career as chancellor with this one
suggestion. Or he might win a glorious
victory and even manage to save Montpurse.
"Your Majesty's counsel will be invaluable to me.
I have so much to learn. ... But may I presume
to ask ... to offer a proposition, which is
probably out of the question because of some legal snag I
don't appreciate, but which in Your Majesty's
greater experience may--"
  "You're blathering again." The King planted his
fat fists on his even fatter hips and eyed his
new pupil warily. "What would you do?"
  "That bill I showed you--it would authorize you
to close down any elementary which offends against
public decency. If it is approved, I shall
advise Your Majesty to prorogue
Parliament." That would save Montpurse.
  "What?" The King's jaw dropped onto a
layer of chins. "Go on, man, go on!"
  "Well, why just tax them if Parliament will
let you shut them down? You could confiscate their
lands entirely. Begging your pardon, sire, but
who needs taxes?"
  The King stumped over to his chair of state and
lowered his bulk onto it. Durendal waited to be
told that he was an ignorant blockhead with
congenital insanity. If the solution was so
simple, surely Kromman or Montpurse
or the King would have seen it long ago? Ambrose
was going to laugh him to scorn and in a few months
--just long enough that he would not have to admit he had
made an error of judgment--he would find himself a
new chancellor, one who did not advocate
absurdities.
  Yes, the King did begin to laugh, but he
laughed until his belly heaved and tears streamed
down his roly-poly cheeks into his
beard. When he managed to catch his breath, he
wheezed, "And I accused you of not being a fighter!
You're proposing outright war! Stamp them out!"
  This sounded promising. "They started the war,
sire. Of course, there will be considerable danger
when they realize what we are up to." The
Guard would have a thousand fits--Bandit already
looked as if he had just been kicked in the
duodenum.
  But Durendal had guessed his king would not shrink
from the prospect of danger and the supposition was
correct. The royal fist thumped on the chair.
"Blast them all! If we have to call on the
Destroyer General, we'll do it! How will you
proceed? Who'll bell this cat?"
  "The inquisitors will want to, of course, and
so will the College. I'd prefer to set up an
independent Court of Conjury. Investigate,
convict, disband, expropriate, and move on to the
next. Obviously, some of the orders are
beneficial--license them and let them continue.
I don't for a moment suppose you can reclaim the
entire one fifth that Secretary Kromman
mentioned, and you may glut the real estate market,
but I doubt that your treasury will run dry for a
year or two."
  "By the eight, I was right to pick you! A pox
on Parliament! This is sumptuous!" The King
smacked his lips, but then his habitual
suspicion returned. "Who's going to run this
Court of Conjury?"
  "Your Majesty will name the officers, of course,
but what I suspect you will need most is a band of
fighting men brave enough to storm these lairs of
evil. It will be close to war, I am sure.
And the obvious men to recruit, sire, are the
knights of my order. As you saw on the Night
of Dogs, sir, there are dozens of them still fit and
strong, loyal to Your Majesty--some married, some
not, some rusting away in Ironhall, many of them with
no real purpose in life. They will leap at such
a chance to serve you." That was the part of his plan that
appealed to him most, and he would give all his
teeth for the chance to lead the army. Alas, he knew
he could not hope for that.
  The King muttered, "Sumptuous!" a few
times. "By fire, we'll do it!" He seemed about
to heave himself out of the chair, then he paused. He
smirked at Durendal with his fat little mouth. "I
reward those who serve me well. What
do you need?"
  Montpurse safely out of the country?
Kromman's head in a bottle? Ten more hours
in the day? "I have given you only promises so
far, sire. Should not rewards wait until I can
show results?"
  The piggy eyes seemed to shrink and withdraw,
making Durendal think of two hot chestnuts on
butter. He wondered uneasily what was brewing
inside the sly, unpredictable mind behind them.
  "Blast honest men!" the King muttered. "I
could deed you a county and you'd stuff it in a drawer
and forget it. There must be some way to make you fawn
like the others!"
  "Your Majesty's approval is ample
recompense for what I have achieved so far." That
sounded like bootlicking, and yet it was true. On
his first bout in the political arena, he had
impressed this devious, lifelong schemer, and that
felt like winning the King's Cup.
  "Ha! I know what's wrong with you. Thought you
looked peculiar! You're running around half
naked." Ambrose peered around him. "Guard?
Oh, it's you, Commander, er, Bandit. Get me the
Chancellor's sword!"
  With an understandable blink of surprise, Bandit
opened the door and called to one of the Blades in the
anteroom, who were guarding Harvest as a minor
part of their duties.
  What?
  The King heaved himself out of his chair.
"Secretary!"
  Kromman scuttled in like a giant, unwinking
beetle. "Your Majesty?"
  "Make out a warrant!" said the King. "A
decree of ... Oh, make up a name.
Addressed to the Guard." He accepted the sword
from Bandit. "Henceforth, at all times and places,
Baron Roland may come armed into our presence."
  Durendal, Bandit, and Kromman all said
"What?" simultaneously.
  Then Kromman bleated, "But the readings,
sire ..."
  Bandit growled, "He's worth three of ..."
  Durendal protested, "Your Majesty, I
am not ..."
  The King silenced them all with a glare and
extended Harvest hilt first to Durendal. "No,
you're not bound now. We reward you with our trust,
my lord."
  Speechless, Durendal hung his sword back
in her proper place at his belt. Armed and
unbound! It was an honor he could not have dreamed
of--the only man in the kingdom so trusted. For
once, the Secretary's face was an open
book, and the fury written on it was worth a
dukedom. The King was smirking, so probably the
Chancellor was being fairly readable himself.
  Moments like those taught a man a lot about
loyalty.

                 

  Even the King had underestimated the fury in
Parliament. Merely throwing Montpurse in the
Bastion did not sate his enemies--it just whetted
their appetites. Suddenly the ex-chancellor was the
greatest villain since Hargand the Terrible, and
neither Lords nor Commons would debate anything
except a Bill of Attainder, condemning him out
of hand to the Question. Duly passed by both houses, it
arrived at the palace one snowy evening to receive the
King's signature and become law.
  The new chancellor slept very little that night and
doubted that his sovereign did either. To accuse
Montpurse of treason was absolute insanity
--incompetence perhaps, for all men made
mistakes. Indiscretion in accepting gifts from
inappropriate persons was possible, but he could
have done nothing to deserve what the act demanded.
Yet if the King refused consent, Parliament
might cut off his revenues. The decision was his
to make; his Chancellor must advise him.
By morning Durendal had almost convinced himself that
duty to King and country required throwing
Montpurse to the weasels. After all, although the
Question was very harrowing, it was not fatal and would
certainly clear him of the charges.
  Almost convinced himself.
  That must have been the right decision, though, because
Montpurse agreed with it. Even then he served
his King or his former friend. His signed confession
arrived not long after dawn, leaving Durendal no
choice. He took the bill into the King's
bedroom to be ratified.
  Later that day he rode to the Bastion,
accompanied by a squad of Blades. He had
adamantly rejected the King's offer to assign
personal Blades to him--quoting a precedent
set by Montpurse--but he could hardly
refuse an escort. The lads enjoyed the
unnecessary outing with their former leader.
  In less than a month, Montpurse had
aged ten years. His scalp showed through his hair, his
face was dragged down in pouches, his arms were thin.
Much more surprising was an apparent serenity quite
improbable in a man confined to a dark and
malodorous cell with chains on his ankles and
only a prison shirt and britches between his skin
and the cold.
  "You have absolutely nothing to fear,"
Durendal said. "You will throw their charges back in
their faces."
  Montpurse smiled sadly. "Everyone has
secrets, my lord. When will it be done?"
  "I'm hoping I can hold them off until the
King prorogues Parliament."
  "No, no! Get it over with, please. As
soon as possible."
  "As you wish. I'll see to it."
  Knowing the man, Durendal had anticipated that
request and had already given the necessary orders. He
did not need to countermand them, as he would have done had
Montpurse wanted a delay. He sat with the
prisoner and talked about the good old days, although
to him all past days must seem good now. And when the
inquisitors came, Montpurse was taken
by surprise.
  He drew one sharp breath and then said, "You are
efficient, my lord! Thank you for this."
  In a case of high treason, a member of the
Privy Council must attend when the suspect was
put to the Question. Durendal would not delegate that
terrible duty, but if it was not the worst experience
of his life, he could never decide what else
was. It went on forever. The elementary in the
Bastion was just another stinking dungeon, so small
that he must lean against a slimy wall with his toes
almost on the lines of the octogram. Montpurse
sat bound to a chair in the center, his face
mercifully concealed by the near darkness. Halfway
through the ritual, Durendal realized with fury that
one of the chanting conjurers was Kromman, but by then the
spirits were gathering and he dared not interrupt.
  The conjuration invoked water and fire, but mostly
air, until the silences seemed to whistle with
hurricane winds. Montpurse whimpered a
few times and writhed against his bonds. At the end,
he sat with his head slumped forward.
  "Have you injured him, you fools?"
  "He has merely fainted, my lord," Grand
Inquisitor said calmly. "Quite normal. Do you
wish us to throw a bucket of water over him?"
  "Of course not, you idiot! Put him to bed and
call a healer."
  "I hardly think that is necessary, Chancellor."
  Interpreting the regulations as liberally as he
dared and telling himself that he was merely being
considerate of his patiently waiting escort and
Montpurse's own feelings, Durendal left
and returned to the palace.

  Having to waste time on sleep was a nuisance.
Being deprived of it was a torment. Two days
later, he went to the King feeling as if his head
had been marinated overnight in vinegar. He
dropped an inch-thick statement on Ambrose's
lap.
  "Drivel!" he said. "Claptrap!
Picayune maundering! There is nothing in here
to convict a fox of stealing chickens. He accepted
gifts--but they never influenced his decisions. He
spoke harshly of you behind your back--what sort
of a man would he have been if he had not? I have said
much worse myself. He delayed carrying out orders
in the hope you would change your mind--which you did,
several times. He let you beat him at fencing.
When did flattery become a capital offense?
Sire, this man is innocent! You can never have had
a truer or more faithful servant."
  The King scowled at him with his piggy little eyes.
"Go and talk with him!"
  "What?"
  "Go and talk with the prisoner! That is a command,
Chancellor!"
  So Durendal rode back to the Bastion.
  He found Montpurse in the same dark,
stinking cell as before, frantically trying to write
in the near darkness--on the floor under the narrow
shaft that admitted what little air and light there
was, because he had no table. Heaps of paper
surrounded him.
  "Lord Roland!" He scrambled up eagerly,
rattling his shackles. "I am so glad you have
come!" He sounded close to tears.
  "I have read your statements and--"
  "But there is more, much more! So many things I
wanted to include and they would not let me! Oh,
my friend, I welcome this chance to tell you how I
betrayed you. I was jealous. I hated you
for your skill with a sword! When you defeated me in
the King's Cup I wanted to come after you with a real
blade. When you fenced with the King on your first night
at court, exposing us all as toadies and
lickspitters, I said such awful, dreadful things
to you! I detested you for my own shame, the disgrace
I had brought upon myself and the whole Guard. The first
time we ever spoke, on the night of my binding,
I came and thanked you, but not because I was in any
way grateful to you. No, only to make me
feel gracious and lordly. I was a detestable
person in those days. Do you know I played with
myself, back there at Ironhall? Oh, I know
every boy does, but that doesn't excuse all the
lecherous images and unclean thoughts ... Wait,
I have it all in writing here."
  He began to scrabble among his papers. He
would not, could not, stop confessing to every imaginable sin
or fault he had ever committed or even
contemplated, no matter how trivial. In
minutes Durendal was pounding on the door and
yelling for the guards to let him out. The change, he
was informed, was permanent.
  He went back to the palace. In silence he
took the death warrant to the King, and in silence the
King signed it.























                KATE
                 VI

                  

  The coach crawled interminably through the snowy
night, following the lackey who walked ahead with a
lantern to keep it out of ditches. Shivering even
with two of the three rugs wrapped around his old
bones, Lord Roland was tempted to reach for the third
also, because his young companion did not seem to need it.
Pride would not let him.
  He was brooding again. He must say something.
  "You know, it's almost exactly twenty years
to the day since the King made me his chancellor--
Firstmoon, 368. About the time you were born, I
suppose?"
  "Roughly." Quarrel's face was invisible.
His tone implied that it was shameful to be so young, so
another topic was required.
  "Not very far to go now. Ivywalls is nearer
Nocare than Greymere, of course."
  "It's a beautiful place. I look forward
to seeing it in spring."
  Would the malevolent new chancellor allow either
of them to see spring? Worry about that tomorrow. "When the
King suppressed the elementaries, it was my share
of the loot."
  "My lord!" Quarrel sounded almost comically
shocked. He would have been only a child during the
suppressions.
  "I speak crudely but not inexactly. It was
never used as an elementary itself, or my wife
couldn't go near it even now, but it was a fairly
typical case. The land had belonged to the Curry
family since the previous dynasty. ... The
house is much more recent. In his last illness,
old Lord Curry called in healers from the
Priory of Demenly. While they were
supposedly enchanting him back to health, they
enchanted him to leave his entire estate to the
priory. His wife and children were thrown out in the
fields."
  "Spirits! What? That's outrageous!"
  "Oh, we uncovered much worse things than
that--children turned into sex toys, men and women
enslaved or deliberately addicted so that they would
die or suffer horrible pain unless they paid for
fresh conjurations every day. Some of the ways the orders
used to fight back were equally vile. It wasn't
called the Monster War for nothing. Had
you been my Blade in those days, Sir
Quarrel, you would have had your work cut out for you. The
assassins usually tried for the King or Princess
Malinda, but they honored me a few times."
  The Night of Dogs had been only the start.
Fortunately, Ambrose IV had never been a
coward. The more they attacked him, the more determined
he became. No chancellor ever had better
backing.
  "I'd like to hear some of those stories, my lord."
  "Ah, old man's rambling! Ancient
history. The point is that we won. The King
brought conjuration under the rule of law, and a lot of
other countries envy us now. He did very well out
of it, of course. He sold off the lands,
usually; but sometimes he made gifts of them, and
Ivywalls was one of those. He gave it to me like
a huntsman throwing the entrails to his dog."
  "My lord! No! You weren't his dog. You were his
army."
  "Not I, lad, nor the Guard, either. It was the
Old Blades we called back who were his army,
and Lord Snake was his general. I was just the spider
in the attic, plotting where we would strike next.
In time we ran out of enemies and life became
much less exciting."
  After a moment, Quarrel coughed politely.
"It wasn't exciting this evening?"
  "Indeed it was!" Durendal said, abashed.
"Please don't think I am not grateful. You
may have set an Ironhall record--saving your
ward only three days after your binding."
  "I didn't even draw!"
  "You did exactly what was required, neither more
nor less. Few Blades ever draw in anger.
No, I am very grateful when I think where I
would be now without you."
  Emboldened, Quarrel said diffidently,
"Then ... I know a Blade should never question, but it
does seem ... I mean I don't see ..."
  The poor kid wanted to know why he was going to have
to die.
  "You're wondering why the King assigned a
Blade to me last week and today sent Kromman
to charge me with treason?"
  "It puzzles me, my lord, if you don't
mind my--"
  "I don't mind at all. It puzzles me,
too. Being unpredictable is an attribute of
princes, I suppose. His Majesty
certainly did not mention assigning me a Blade
the last time I saw him." To leave the story there
would be a snub. "I went to visit him just before
Long Night. You know he's at
Falconsrest."
  "I've been told of it, my lord. There's a
house on a crag and some other buildings below it in
the valley." Quarrel was demonstrating that
Ironhall's political lessons were up
to date. "Only the King and his intimates stay
at the lodge."
  Only idiots went there at all in
midwinter, but Ambrose had shut himself up at
Falconsrest a month ago. Was that the action of a
completely rational man?
  "He did not mention Blades. To be honest,
he was not at all pleased with me. Bestowing honors
on me was very far from his mind. He was rather curt,
I'd say."
  He was also dying, but no one said that.

                  

  As Sir Bowman came twitching and shambling
across the scenic spread of the Chancellor's office,
Durendal rose to greet him. He honored
any fellow Blade that way, and the deputy commander
was always amusing company. He was a gangly,
sandy-haired man, who gave an impression of
extreme clumsiness, as if all his limbs were
moving in different directions; but this was pure
illusion, as he had proved by twice winning the
King's Cup. He usually seemed ready to burst
into tears, yet he had a sense of humor
to rival Hoare's--whom no one remembered
anymore, of course.
  "Pray be seated, brother."
  "How may I assist, my lord?" Bowman
flopped into the chair as if he had tipped himself out
of a sack. He peered morosely across the desk
at the Chancellor.
  "A couple of things. First, I'm trying
to locate a place called Wizenbury. No
one seems to know where it is. But you have Guards from
all over, so if you wouldn't mind asking around
the--"
  "Appleshire," Bowman said gloomily.
"I was born near there." Blades never discussed
their past, but he had still a trace of the west in his
voice.
  "Ah, thank you." The Chancellor had found the
sheriff he needed for Appleshire, and he
suspected that Bowman knew perfectly well
why he had asked that absurd question. "The second
thing is a little harder. I must go and visit the
King. Do you think you could find a couple of
patient souls who might bear the tedium of
walking their horses beside my palfrey?"
  Bowman uttered a moan of ironic
disbelief. "Suicidal daredevils who might
just be able to keep up with you, you mean? I think I
have some crazies who may accept the challenge.
The entire Guard," he added with an abrupt
descent into ever deeper melancholy.
  Five days before Long Night, the palace of
Greymere ought by rights to be bespangled with
decorations and throbbing with jollity. This year it was
a drab barn of boredom, and the longest faces were
the Blades'.
  "You miss His Majesty. We all do."
  "Mice don't play when the cat's away,
my lord. They die of irrelevancy. I wish
Dragon would let us rotate the men, but he's
stopped doing even that. Useless wear and tear on the
horses, he said. He doesn't think of the rust
on the men."
  "Would you consider a suggestion?"
  "Very happily, my lord--from you."
  "Your livery's frowzy and old-fashioned. I
can say so, because I designed it myself, but that was
years ago. Something more modern would make them
feel better, liven them up."
  Bowman gave him an especially lugubrious
look. "You think His Majesty would approve it?
He doesn't even like to change his socks these
days."
  "No, I don't suppose he would, but ...
Never mind."
  "Yes. Well, my lord, I will very gladly
provide you with an escort. When?"
  "An hour before dawn. We'll be back for the
festivities."
  The Blade sighed. "I doubt if you'll
miss much if you aren't. Nothing more?" He began
to lurch upright.
  "Not for me. Anything I can do for you?"
  Bowman sagged back again quickly, as if he had
been hoping for such a question. His voice dropped to a
confidential murmur. "Well ... it isn't
really any of my business, my lord,
nor of yours either, and I know you'll pardon my
presumption saying so, but I know that Grand Master
has seniors stacked up to the roof. I just thought,
if you get a chance to sort of drop a word to the
King, maybe? We could use some young blood in the
Guard; but even if he doesn't want to go there
himself just now, he might assign them to others,
perhaps?"
  Durendal shrugged. It certainly was not his
business, because he was government and the Order was in the
King's personal prerogative. Ambrose was
very touchy about that distinction. "I'll see what I
can do. You don't have to tell me that he doesn't
answer his mail."

  At first light, Durendal rode out of the
gates on Destrier, in the company of three
boys. They would be furious if they knew he
thought of them as that, but their ages combined would not
exceed his by much. Their names were Foray, Lewmoss,
and Terror, and they were all glad of a chance to seem
useful. He noted that they were well mounted and all
had good seats, which meant that Bowman had sent his
best horsemen--probably with strict orders
to prevent any repetition of the embarrassing
incident that had marred the Chancellor's last
journey to Falconsrest, when a certain
geriatric Chancellor had shown certain young
Blades his heels. Well, he would see how
he and Destrier felt on the way back.
  A miserable wind moaned under a dreary sky,
once in a while throwing snowflakes just to warn that
it had plenty in hand. Falconsrest was an
all-day ride from Grandon, but they could stay
overnight at Stairtown if the weather turned
worse. Going two by two, his guards took
turns riding at his side, courteously wheedling
tales of the past from him, flattering him by asking about
the Monster War or even the Nythia campaign
--none of which ancient history could possibly be
of any interest to them.
  They were all hoping that Commander Dragon would
let them stay on at Falconsrest, relieving
three of the dozen or so men he kept there.
Durendal found this ambition amusing, because there was
absolutely nothing in those wild hills that should
attract spirited young men in the middle of winter. It
was their binding talking. They pined at being kept
away from their ward. When Foray even had the
audacity to ask why the King had shut
himself up in such a burrow over Long Night,
Lord Roland sternly suggested he ask the King
himself. The answer, alas, was that he hated people
watching him die.
  He questioned them about recent news from
Ironhall. They would not realize that it was none of
his business; as a knight of the Order, he was
expected to be interested. They confirmed what
Bowman had said about a surfeit of seniors
waiting for assignment.
  Between chats, he pondered the unfamiliar
future that lay beyond the King's death. For the first
time, he would be free to do what he wanted.
Travel, probably, because Kate wanted
to travel. He had friends and correspondents
all over Eurania now, and standing invitations
to visit. He would be a private citizen, but a
famous one, welcome in a dozen great cities.
Thanks to Ambrose, he was rich. It would seem
very strange.

  He led the way into the valley as the winter afternoon
faded out in despair. The group of thatched
buildings cowering under the snow-covered hills was
commonly known as the village, although it consisted
entirely of overflow accommodation. The lodge
on the rock that loomed almost directly above it was
the palace proper, but it had only four rooms.
There was something bizarre about the court of Chivial
sheltering in sheds.
  While he shed his cloak and stamped snow off his
boots, he was greeted by Commander Dragon, who
was a beefy, thickset man by Blade standards,
with a luxurious black beard and a swarthy
complexion that made him seem older than his
twenty-eight years. In complete contrast to his
deputy, Dragon had no sense of humor at
all. He was a plodder who would never question an
order or think for himself, which was precisely why the
King liked him.
  "Much the same, my lord," he said before
Durendal could ask the inevitable first question.
"I'll send someone to tell him you're here. A
posset to warm you now?"
  "Add some hot bran mash for my horse and
I will be in your debt till the sun burns out.
Although I think that may have happened already."
  "It will be back," Dragon assured him
solemnly.
  Shack or not, the barn-sized room was
bright and hot. Some amateur musicians were
screeching out dance music. Strips of colored
muslin added a seasonal gaiety above the long
tables at which people were guzzling great slabs of pork,
while the rest of the hog sputtered and sparked on a
spit. Durendal's insides rumbled
imploringly for attention.
  Sternly telling them to wait their turn, he
sent for the royal physicians and conjurers. They
would not commit themselves on their patient's condition,
perhaps deterred by the law that declared imagining the
King's death to be high treason. They certainly
offered no hope. He looked around the ring of
haggard, tight-shut faces and resisted the
temptation to try a royal bellow on them.
  "I trust you will give me as much warning as you can
of any change you foresee in His Majesty's
condition?"
  They nodded in noncommittal silence. He
went off to eat. Just when he was about to start on a
high-piled platter, a Blade with snow on his
eyebrows appeared to inform him that the King would receive
him at once. On his way out he had to pass
Foray, Terror, and Lewmoss, all chewing
vigorously with grease running into their beards.
He hoped they choked on their stupid grins.
  As he was donning his damp cloak at the
door, Dragon appeared again, glancing around
furtively.
  "My lord?"
  "Leader?"
  "If you get the chance to drop a word to His
Majesty ... I know he listens to you, my lord."
  "Sometimes he does. What can I do for you?"
  "The Guard, my lord." The Commander was
whispering, which was very unlike him. "I've got
twenty men I want to release, you see.
They're all well past due. I've mentioned
this, but ... well, he won't even discuss it with
me. It would be a nice Long Night present for
them, I thought."
  Durendal sighed. "Yes, it would. I'll
see what I can do."
  Obviously Ambrose was neglecting his
precious Blades, and that was a very bad sign.
Was he incapable of making decisions or merely
clinging to the past, the old familiar faces?
  Huddled against the snow, the Chancellor rode a
dogged little mountain pony up the steep track to the
lodge. Where the village had been
festive, the lodge was dreary as a tomb, although
it was crammed full of men. To cross the
guardroom he had to pick his way along a narrow
path through a clutter of bedding and baggage, passing
half a dozen Blades playing a morose
game of dice by the light of a single candle. The
stairs took him up to another dormitory, which was
little brighter and so congested with men that it was hard
to believe they would all find room to lie down
later. They seemed to be grouped into three snarly
arguments. He wondered who they all were:
cooks, hostlers, valets, doctors,
nurses, secretaries? He had seen no
women, but he had not looked into the kitchen, which
probably also served as a communal bathhouse and
another bedroom. People swarmed on a king like bees
on a queen--there might well be tailors,
musicians, falconers, vintners, or even
architects and poet laureates in attendance at
Falconsrest. Every one of them would fight for the right
to live in the squalor of the lodge rather than the
relative comfort of the village, just to prove that he
was of the indispensable elite. This is what happened
when monarchs tried to escape.
  At least the King's bedroom was not stuffed like a
fish barrel. It held a few chests and a great
four poster, whose faded purple draperies
rippled in drafts that rattled the shutters and
baffled the best efforts of a roaring fire. The other
rooms had reeked of bodies and overworked
garderobes, but here those stinks were overwhelmed by the
rancid stench of the suppurating ulcer that was killing
Ambrose IV. He sprawled back on
heaped pillows, a face of melted tallow above
an enormous heap of furs. were those just shadows
under his eyes or mildew?
  He had outlived four wives and his son; he
had never seen his grandsons. After a reign of
thirty-nine years, his realm had shrunk to this
windy kennel, and every gasping breath was a noisy
effort. Durendal knelt to him.
  His voice rasped disturbingly. "Get up,
fool! Can't see you down there. Sorry ...
drag you all this way such weather."
  "It is a pleasure to get some exercise,
Your Majesty. They tell me that your health is
improving."
  "Told you ... all I needed was a rest!"
The King glared defiantly. He was still not yet
admitting anything.
  With extreme annoyance, Durendal noted the
odious Kromman standing inside the closed door,
almost invisible in his midnight robes. He was
stooped now, a sinister cadaverous scarecrow, but
the fish eyes still held their sharklike menace.
  "What's this I hear," the King wheezed, "about
you steeplechasing, beating my Guard?" The question
showed, and was intended to show, that he had other sources
of information--Dragon in this case, of course, but
Kromman ran an efficient spy network quite
apart from the Office of General Inquiry. There were
undoubtedly others. Wily old Ambrose had
not loosed his grip on his kingdom yet.
  "Sire, if you must give me a horse like
Destrier, you cannot expect me to haul fish with
him." He could still flinch under the royal glare.
"On the way back last time I did suggest a
small race. My escort agreed, and I won
by a nose--purely because I had the best mount. It
was foolish and unkind to the horses." Luckily
Kate had not heard of the incident.
  The King gasped a sort of cough that was
probably meant to be a laugh. "Two fell
off, you won ... three lengths. Won't hurt
brats ... know best man still best." His tone
changed to annoyance. "Why're you here, bothering
me, interrupting vacation?"
  Durendal turned to look at Kromman.
  "Oh, let him be," the King snarled.
"Only eavesdrop in the crapper. Can't keep
secrets, this place."
  Why torture a dying man with a personal
squabble? "As Your Majesty wishes."
Durendal reached in his pack and brought out his
folder of papers. "I need your instructions about
a few matters, sire. The Nythian rebels
are the most urgent, as they are due to be hanged
in three days. A royal pardon at Long
Night is--"
  "Hang 'em."
  "Two of them are only boys, sire,
thirteen and--"
  "Hang 'em!"
  Very rarely in his twenty years as chancellor,
Durendal had gone so far as to kneel and offer
Ambrose the golden chain. There were some places
even loyalty could not go and hanging children ought to be
one of them; but his resolution failed when he
looked at the dying despot. Even if the King
had no pity for those rebel brats,
Durendal felt pity for him and could not desert his
liege lord now.
  "Yes, sire. Next item. The Exchequer
requests approval of this warrant."
  He held out the paper, but Kromman moved in
like a stalking cat to take it. He placed it on
a writing board and extended it to the King, offering a
quill. Ambrose signed without looking, a
wandering scrawl. The Secretary removed the
board and withdrew to the shadows. How much influence
had the former inquisitor gained over the invalid?
At least the privy signet was still on the royal
finger.
  After that, the King listened to the problems in silence
broken only by his labored breathing. Each time
he waited for the Chancellor's recommendation, then
nodded. Kromman obtained his signature and
took it away to seal.
  With rising distress, Durendal pressed on.
At first they had been teacher and pupil, then a
team--a quarrelsome but effective team--for almost
twenty years. Now he made the decisions and the
King approved them. Chivial was ruled by an aging
chancellor, which was not good enough. He wanted
to retire and enjoy a little of the private life he
had never known, but he could not abandon his post now.
It was hard not to curse or weep.
  At the end, he bowed. "There is nothing else
of great moment, sire. The rest can wait until
your return. Er, Parliament? It is summoned
to convene in three weeks, sire. Do you wish
to postpone--"
  The King barked, "No!" and was convulsed
by coughing. When he recovered, he just glared.
  "Then your speech, sire ...?"
  "Send me ... draft, what you need."
  He would never be well enough to journey back
to Grandon and address Parliament, but obviously
that was not to be said.
  Alas, the good old days! In his first ten years
as chancellor, Durendal had spoiled
Ambrose, letting him rule as an autocrat.
Squandering the wealth of the elementaries with mad
abandon, he had needed no taxes and brooked no
interference with his own will. When he had at last been
forced to summon Parliament again, he had run
into ten years' backlog of complaint. It hadn't
ended yet. Each Parliament seemed worse than
its predecessor.
  "That's everything, then, sire." One
last paper. "Oh ... It is not urgent, but you
still need a new sheriff for Appleshire. I was
wondering if you would consent to appoint Sir
Bowman. He would--"
  "Who?"
  "The deputy commander."
  The King recognized his slip and reacted with
anger. "You keep your meddling fingers off my
Guard, you hear?"
  "Of course, sire, I was merely--"
  "None of your business! I'll see to, all
that when ... get back."
  "No, sire. I realize."
  The invalid made a feeble effort to heave himself
higher on the pillows and then sank back with a
groan. "Did ... daughter reply ... your
letters?"
  "No, sire."
  "Did ... tell her I'm sick?"
  That question could kill a man coming and going. No would
mean that Durendal had not done enough to convince the
Princess. Yes would contradict the King's
official policy. Any hint of dying was
treasonous. "I did mention that your health was
causing some concern, sire."
  "Just want see them. Did ... tell her so?
One at a time, if won't trust me."
  Durendal sighed. "I have sent every message and
messenger I can think of. I have even dispatched an
artist, with a plea that he may be allowed to sketch
the princes. I haven't heard from him yet, but you
must make allowances for the weather at this time of year,
sire. No ships are crossing. Why not let
Secretary Kromman try writing to her and see
if he has any more luck?" He had nothing
to lose by making this suggestion, because it was certain
Kromman would have tried already, with or without
permission. Princess Malinda's feelings
toward Lord Chancellor Roland need not be mentioned.
  A tremor of the old anger shook the King's
moribund mass. "Take hostages. Seize
Baelish ambassador, merchants ..."
  "You don't mean that."
  "Cockscomb!" Color showed now on the
pale butter cheeks. "Upstart peasant! Think
you can run kingdom, when ... can't even manage
one stiff-neck slut? Willful biddy!"
  That was hardly fair when they were discussing his
daughter, who was also the wife of a foreign ruler.
There was much more to the Princess problem
than her personal spite. Parliament had always
detested the idea of a barbarian Bael succeeding
to the throne of Chivial, even if the marriage
treaty did stipulate that Malinda would reign
in her own right and her husband would be no more than
consort. Parliament had grave doubts that a
notorious pirate chief like King Radgar would
pay much attention to that legal nicety. Worse,
Parliament was going to be grievously concerned,
meaning mutinous, if the King was too ill
to address it in person while his heir was far
away on those barren rocks. There would be talk
of a regency, moves to tamper with the succession,
delegations sent hither and thither. Time was running
out for the part-time ruler--but Ambrose was shrewd enough
to know all that.
  "I have done my best, sire. I am sure that
your grandsons will turn up to visit you in the
spring, when the sailing improves."
  The King turned his head away. What
spring?
  "My business is complete, my liege. I
humbly beg leave to withdraw."
  Ambrose did not look around, but after a moment
he muttered, "Have safe ... ride home."
  Durendal lifted the pudgy hand to his lips.
It was as cold as the winter hills beyond the
shutters. "I won't go above a canter. You know
I never do."
  There was no reply.

  Kromman held the door open for the
Chancellor. Their eyes met as Durendal went
by, and he saw a gleam of triumph that twitched
his old fighting dander. Was that odious intestinal
worm gloating because the King was about to die and then
Lord Roland would no longer be chancellor? Very
likely! He probably considered himself so
indispensable that the new Queen would have to retain him
in her service. Good luck to her! And to him--they
deserved each other.
  Of course the King's death would also free
Durendal from his pledge of good conduct. He still
owed vengeance to Wolfbiter, but over the years his
anger had faded to sad resignation, a private
fantasy to amuse himself when the Secretary was being
particularly obnoxious. Justice belonged to the
King, and by failing to act against Kromman, the King
had effectively pardoned him. Durendal had
sworn his oath as a young and footloose
bachelor, a vagabond newly returned from
wild lands where blood feuds were common as fleas.
Now he was a husband, a father and grandfather, and a
respected elder statesman with rich estates, not
a man who would throw away his life and destroy his
family's happiness to so little real purpose.
Must he admit that he was just too old? That he
no longer had the juice in him to be an
executioner? No, the slug just wasn't worth the
scandal now.

                  

  Three days after Long Night, the courier's
bag that carried routine business back and forth between
the King at Falconsrest and the scriveners of the
Privy Purse at Greymere produced a
warrant assigning a Blade to Lord Roland--a
standard form bearing the King's signet and
signature, with the recipient's name inserted in the
King's hand. It was promptly sent along the
hall to Durendal, who puzzled over it for an
hour, wondering not only why the King had sent it but
also why it had not come to him directly. A
companion bag had brought him other documents.
  It might be a simple error. Ambrose's
illness had not dulled his wits so far, but if he
had decided to clear the backlog of seniors at
Ironhall by distributing them to ministers and
courtiers, as he sometimes did, then perhaps he had
inadvertently written the wrong name. An
inquiry to Privy Purse brought the response
that it had been the only assignment received.
  Other routine papers the King had dealt with showed
no signs of mental confusion. Eventually
Durendal took the riddle home to show Kate,
and they argued over it into the night. The most
plausible explanation they could devise was that the
King was at last preparing to die and knew that his
chancellor's reign would end as soon as the new
Queen could lay her hands on a pen and a stick of
sealing wax. Durendal had inevitably made
enemies in serving his sovereign; how could he
refuse such a farewell gift? Eventually
Kate persuaded him he must accept.
  The next morning she left to visit their
daughter and he set off for Ironhall. He
did not call at the palace to obtain an
escort--partly because it would have taken him out of his
way and partly because he had still not
definitely decided to go through with the binding. If he
changed his mind, he would not want the Guard to know
about the warrant. He went alone, confident that his
swordsmanship was still capable of dealing with any
reasonable peril.
  Besides, Deputy Commander Bowman was still being
difficult about what had happened to Lord Roland's
last escort.
  At noon, when Durendal reached the moors,
he was almost ready to turn back, but some deep
stubbornness drove him on. After all, he could
visit Ironhall without ever mentioning the warrant.
By the time he reached the doors, night was falling and
he knew that he was going to go ahead with the binding.
Whatever the King's motives, he was still the King,
and a lifetime of obedience was not to be set aside
now. It did seem a shabby trick to play on
some eager youngster, though.
  The current Grand Master was Parsewood,
whom he had known only briefly before starting his
trip to Samarinda, but who had distinguished himself in
the Old Blades during the Monster War.
Having never married, he had settled down at
Ironhall to end his days in teaching; the Order had
elected him its chief three years ago. He was
depressingly grizzled and had lost most of his
teeth, but he greeted the Chancellor with
enthusiasm and a very welcome mug of hot mulled
ale to drive away the winter chill. He must be
curious to know why Lord Roland was being assigned a
Blade now, after twenty years as chancellor, but
he did not ask. They settled on either side of the
fireplace in his private chamber.
  "Prime? Name of Quarrel. Rapier man."
He shrugged. "Nothing exceptional, nothing
to worry about. He'll never take the Cup, but a
good, sound lad. Very charming. He shines there. Will
break a few hearts, I'm sure, but that's the
legend, yes?" Grand Master sighed
nostalgically.
  If there was nothing exceptional about Candidate
Quarrel, then he could not hold the key to the
King's strange decision. "Can he ride?"
  "Like a centaur."
  That did not sound as if the King was just trying
to put an end to steeplechasing, which had been one of
Durendal's wilder theories.
  "He doesn't compare with Foray, Terror, or
Lewmoss, of course," Grand Master said in an
odd tone. "Superb equestrians,
all of them."
  "What are you implying?"
  "Story is that you wrecked half the Guard.
I heard three broken legs, one collarbone,
and a severe concussion. Assorted ribs."
  "An unfortunate accident! The hedge hid the
ditch completely, but that black of mine has
feet like a cat. I shouted back to warn them, but
I was too late. That's all. I was
extremely lucky."
  Grand Master leered and took a drink.
  Annoyed that such embarrassing tales were going
around, Durendal said stuffily, "I'm told you
have a surfeit of seniors just now."
  "Officially twelve. More, really. It could have
been worse, but we cut back enrollment about
five years ago, when the King's health began
to, er, cause concern. Lately we've picked
up again. Why are you smirking?"
  "That was not a smirk, Grand Master.
Chancellors never smirk. That was quasiregal
approval you detected. I was just thinking how
well His Majesty is served--hundreds or
thousands of people all quietly doing their best
to promote his interests."
  "His? The Crown's. When they think we're
not listening, the seniors refer to themselves as the
Queen's men."
  "This is not a frown," Durendal said, "it's
a quasiregal caution against imagining the King's
death."
  "Well, he is over seventy," Grand
Master protested, adding, "brother," as a
precaution. "How is his health, hmm?"
  "Not as good as he would like, frankly. His leg
bothers him a bit. Still sharp as a den of foxes,
though."
  "We'll all be the Queen's men one day, I
expect. The bindings translate, because we
swore allegiance to him and his heirs. You will
give the seniors a few pointers with the foils
tomorrow, won't you?"
  "Me?" Durendal laughed. "Grand Master,
my wind is hopeless these days! I'm slower than
a spring thaw."
  "But your technique, man! Ten minutes
watching your wrist will do 'em more good than a
month's practice."
  Oh, flattery! "If you insist. But not for
very long, especially on an empty
stomach."
  "Knew I could count on you." Grand Master
chuckled. "They have their own name for you, you know? They
call you "Paragon.""
  Paragon? Horrors! Didn't they realize
what politics did to a man? Paragon was
obscene! Durendal opened his mouth to call the
whole thing off, but Grand Master was already on his
feet.
  "Ready to meet your Blade now?"
  Suppressing his doubts, Durendal consented.
They went to the chilly little flea room, and in a
few minutes the Brat opened the door for
Prime and Second. It was all horribly
reminiscent of that first sight of Wolfbiter,
half a lifetime ago.
  Within Blade limits, Quarrel was tall,
much taller than Wolfbiter, but equally dark,
lithe like a rapier himself. Second was a stocky,
broad-shouldered redhead, probably a slasher--
Candidate Hereward. Babes, both of them. Had
they even been born the last time Durendal came
to Ironhall?
  The ritual words were spoken. The boys
turned, and Candidate Quarrel had his first sight
of the old man who would claim his absolute
allegiance--shock, horror, and dismay.
Durendal knew that he had made a mistake,
but it was too late to back out. The poor kid was
stuck with him now.
  The embarrassing moment passed as soon as the
antiquated visitor was named, when Prime
made a very fast recovery, feigning wild
enthusiasm. "Incredible honor ... never dreamed
... admired here in Ironhall beyond any other
..." He was wasted as a swordsman. He should
have gone on the stage.

                  

  The following night, Quarrel was bound. On the
third night after that, Kromman came
to Greymere with the king's writ. ...

  "Her ladyship returned this afternoon, my lord."
Caplin lifted the cloak from Durendal's
shoulders. Candlelight from the chandelier glistened on
the steward's shiny scalp and the bunched cheeks of his
smile. "An uneventful journey, she said.
She is in the library. May I take
that for you, Sir Quarrel?"
  "No worry." Quarrel tossed his cloak
over a chair, Ironhall fashion.
  It would not be tolerated there for long in
Caplin's demesne. His standards were much narrower
than his person, which almost rivaled the King's in
width and depth, if not in height. A jewel, was
Caplin--about twenty million carats. He had
shed his smile as he noted the absence of the gold
chain. "Her ladyship has already dined, my lord.
You did say you would be remaining at the palace
tonight."
  "A welcome change of plan. Have Pardon
attend to the horses and see that the coachman and the
lackeys are suitably boarded--can't send them
back tonight. Tell Churpen I want to clean up
and change, please. Then I will second Sir
Quarrel at one of those celebrated banquets
you call snacks. I think he can last another
half hour before he dies of starvation."
  His Blade flashed a winsome grin. "I
estimate just short of forty-two minutes, my
lord."
  "Come and meet my good lady."
  Durendal led the way through to the library, his
favorite room, scented by leather bindings and
wood smoke. A pine fire crackled merrily
on the slate hearth and rows of books smiled
down from tall shelves.
  He braced himself to break the tidings and did not
have to. She missed the chain instantly and hurried
to him, her eyes hunting out all the implications
before he could even open his mouth. Her hair had
never lost its golden shine and was well served by the
current fad for small bonnets. On the other
hand, her figure was too delicate for the tight
bodices worn with the newfangled farthingale, which
favored the voluptuous. Tonight she was rustling
voluminous skirts of a fiery red that would have
shocked her five years ago, but such was fashion.
Inside the shifting styles the basic woman never
changed--although tonight she did look a little fatigued
by her journey.
  He did not try to tell her what had
happened, just hugged her in silence. Then he
murmured, "Natrina and the children are well?"
  "Yes." Kate loosened her embrace just enough
to look him in the face. "Was this your idea or
his?"
  "His."
  "And who replaces you?"
  "Kromman."
  "That wretch?"
  He released her with a quick frown of warning.
"Dearest, let me present my honored
guardian, Sir Quarrel. Lady Kate."
  She rewarded the Blade's bow with a bob and a
flawless smile. "I have already heard of Sir
Quarrel! I came home to find all the
female staff staggering around and bumping into things because
their eyes were full of stars. Now I see why.
You are very welcome indeed, Sir Quarrel. I
am sure the service around here will improve
dramatically."
  Whatever the boy might have been up to with the maids
during the last two nights, he could not possibly
have any more experience of women than that; yet he
took the teasing with an easy smile, like a
seasoned gallant. "And I see that their
extraordinary tales of their mistress's beauty
were not exaggerated at all."
  Kate's laugh was still pure birdsong. "What
an outrageous untruth! Sir Blade, you should
be ashamed of yourself. But I thank you for it." She
rose on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Now
tell me about your binding. My husband's arm has
not lost its skill, I hope?"
  "He skewered me like the expert he has always
been, my lady--all over before I even knew
it. It is a tremendous honor to be bound to the
greatest swordsman of the century."
  "And an even greater one to be married to him, I
assure you! Now show me your sword."
  Beaming, he drew and went down on one knee
to proffer it as if he were pledging it to her. Kate
took it. She found the point of balance, then
held it correctly in a rapier grip, one
finger over the quillon.
  "You are a point man, Sir Quarrel!"
  "Few are as versatile as his lordship,
ma'am."
  "She is wonderfully light. What is she
called?"
  "Reason, my lady."
  Durendal had not thought to ask that and Quarrel was
glowing like a candle flame because Kate had. She
had stolen his heart as she could steal any man's.
His lordship could almost feel jealous--not because he
doubted her love, but because he knew he could not
charm a woman as she was enchanting this
boy.
  "A valiant name for a noble sword," she said,
returning it. "May Reason win all your
arguments, Sir Quarrel!"
  "We'll go and change, dear. I asked
Caplin to prepare a snack for us."
  Kate concurred at once. As he turned to the
door, he caught her eye and saw she was not
smiling anymore. She understood the problems.

  Quarrel, only three days bound, was still in
what Montpurse had called the bathroom
phase. (why did he keep thinking of
Montpurse tonight?) To spare him unnecessary
anguish, Durendal left the door open while
he bathed. While Churpen dressed him, he
stood where his Blade could see him from the tub, and
then waited for him to dress in turn--wondering with
amusement whether Quarrel would run after him naked
if he tried to leave. Together they returned to the
library, where a modest feast for six was laid out
on a portable table. Kate sat by the fire working
at her spinning wheel under the candlelight. She was
never idle.
  "I must drink to my release and retirement,"
Durendal announced. "You will have a glass,
Kate? No? Sir Quarrel?"
  "Just one, my lord. As you warned me, that seems
to be my limit."
  "Tell me what happened," Kate said without
looking up. It was unlike her to be impatient.
  "Kromman brought a warrant from the King. I
took off my chain, throttled him with it, and came
home."
  "I wish I could believe you." She rose and
came over to him. "The warrant was genuine, of
course?"
  He stared up at her in blank astonishment.
"Absolutely no question. Signed and sealed."
  "Seals can be stolen. The signature?"
  "The King's. I have seen it a million times.
Very firm."
  She removed the knife from his fingers. She
lifted his hand to lay it against her cheek. She
kissed it. Then she spun around and went back
to her place by the fire. What on earth?
  "Kate?"
  She started the wheel turning again. "You have a
serious problem, husband dear. You will have to leave the
country, of course."
  He glanced at his companion. Quarrel was
chewing lustily but missing nothing.
  "Cannot this wait until we have finished our meal,
dearest?"
  "I'm not sure it can, if Kromman is
involved. You may gamble your own life--you always
have. But a few days ago you accepted a Blade.
You must not throw him away so lightly."
  Quarrel said, "My purpose is only
to serve, my lady. I am of no other
consequence."
  "Rot. If the King's men come to arrest my
husband, what will you do?"
  "Kate!"
  "Die, I suppose," Quarrel said
quietly.
  "Exactly. Has he explained to you why he
accepted a Blade from the King now, after twenty
years of managing without one?"
  The boy's dark eyes looked from one to the other
of them appraisingly, and for a terrible moment he was
Wolfbiter--Wolfbiter almost thirty years
dead, Wolfbiter who would be over fifty now had
he lived.
  "No, my lady. Just that it was His Majesty's
decision."
  Durendal refilled his glass angrily.
Why was Kate in such an overwhelming rush? He
had entirely lost his appetite, but he must
allow Quarrel to satisfy his. He could feel
quite nostalgic watching the way the boy put away
food, although there wasn't a pennyworth of fat
on him.
  "Rubbish!" Kate said. She would not be
diverted when she was in this mood. "He has
refused the offer many times before. Is that not so, my
dear?"
  "Once or twice."
  "So five days ago the King honors you
by assigning you a Blade and today he fires you.
I think you owe your companion an explanation."
  "I wish I had one." Durendal swirled the
red wine in his goblet, studying the play of light
through the crystal. He forced himself to look up and
meet Quarrel's questioning stare, painfully
reminiscent of another boy's, long ago. ...
"The King is dying."
  He watched color drain from the peach-bloom
cheeks. No, Quarrel was not Wolfbiter. He
never would be. But he was a brave and
dedicated young man, decent and likable and in
deadly peril through no fault of his own--only because
a useless old man had accepted him as a gift
out of stupid sentimentality. Quarrel took
life less seriously than Wolfbiter ever had
or ever would have, but that did not mean he was any
less worthy. He would do his duty as
stubbornly. If necessary, he would die as
bravely, perhaps even more bravely, for he would
regret the need more.
  "Soon?" the boy asked.
  "Soon. He's over seventy. He's been
grossly overweight for most of his life.
Sometimes he can hardly breathe now. He has an
oozing ulcer on his leg, can't walk. A month
or two, no longer."
  Quarrel began to eat again. Life must go on.
"Surely healers can be found for a king, my lord?"
  "They have done all they can. Time and death yield
little to conjuring. He would have died five years ago
without the healers."
  "Princess Malinda?"
  "To the best of my knowledge, she is in good health."
If Durendal was not to eat more, he may as well
talk. "You are surprised that I am not sure?
Well, the Princess is no friend of mine, Sir
Quarrel." He twirled his wineglass. "Nor
of her father's. King Ambrose has his virtues,
but being a fond parent was never one of them. She was
as self-willed as he is and she never forgave the
callous way he discarded her mother. I earned her
dislike when I was still Commander."
  "You don't need to tell that story,
Durendal," Kate said flatly.
  "I think I do." Hearing a few of the sleazy
things a chancellor did in the course of twenty
years' service might cool Quarrel's
incandescent hero worship. "When Malinda reached
adolescence--I was still Commander--her father suggested
deeding her some Blades of her own. I looked
into the historical precedents and argued strongly
against it. It seemed that letting an unmarried
damsel bind a twenty-year-old swordsman was
not merely asking for trouble but virtually insisting on
it. I do not believe she was promiscuous
by nature, but she was young and she was surrounded at
all times by dashing young guardsmen."
  Quarrel smirked knowingly with his mouth full.
  "There are two ways of losing your head over a
woman, Sir Quarrel, and we are
discussing the permanent way."
  Quarrel sobered instantly, mumbling an
apology.
  "I chose her escorts carefully and made
sure every man jack of them knew about certain
obscure methods of committing treason. The
Princess fell head over heels for two or
three of them--in succession, I mean, not
simultaneously. They reported to me when the
fire got too hot for them, and I transferred
them to other duties."
  Neither the King nor Montpurse had known what
was happening, but Malinda had accused Sir
Durendal of spying on her, harassing her, and
meddling in her private life. Her enmity had
begun then.
  "Just after I was made chancellor, Dark
Chamber agents caught the Princess and her
current passion in compromising circumstances--
meaning together in a dark corner. There was very nearly
a major scandal. It was only to prevent one that
the King refrained from throwing Commander Bandit and
several other people in the Bastion--and me, too, when
he found out that this was not her first flirtation.
Kromman thought I was done for at that point. So
did I."
  "It was the stupid little honey's own fault!"
Kate snapped. "Why she should have blamed you for
it, I can't imagine."
  Durendal shrugged. "She thought I'd set her
up. She'd have done better to blame the
inquisitors. And don't be too hard on her.
Ambrose had her examined by a panel of
doctors and midwives to make sure she was still a
virgin, and no sixteen-year-old would
appreciate that humiliation. He decided
to marry her off as fast as possible, especially
because he was about to marry Princess Dierda of
Gevily, who was a month younger than she was.
He wanted no court jesters asking which was which.
Then the queen of Baelmark died and he saw a
way to end the war, kill two birds with one
stone." Better to offer his daughter than a
humiliating apology ...
  "What did she think of the idea?" Quarrel
asked thoughtfully.
  "Princesses marry whom they are told
to marry. Most of them do, anyway--I really
thought Malinda would have to be driven aboard the ship
at sword point, but no. She is her
father's daughter and she kept her dignity. She was
convinced that the match had been my idea, though."
  Quarrel tensed. "Does she still think so, my
lord?"
  "I'm sure she does. In fact, I argued
against it as strongly as I dared. The King told
me to mind my own business. Parliament might have
stopped him, but he didn't need to call
Parliament then, because Lord Snake was suppressing
elementaries all over the place and gold was
pouring in. He already had a son to succeed him.
He was convinced he could father a dozen others on
Dierda--he was not yet fifty. Besides, no king
of the Fire Lands has ever died of old age.
He expected Malinda to come slinking home to him
as a widow very shortly.
  "He was wrong on all counts. King Radgar
still rules in Baelmark. Dierda proved barren.
His son died that same year. Malinda has never
written him a note and will not receive his
ambassadors. He learned about the birth of his
grandsons from public reports. If she cannot
forgive her father, her feelings toward me had best
be left unspoken."
  Obviously the Ironhall classes on the
court had included little of this, for Quarrel's
eyes were wide. He was still eating, though.
  "Perhaps he keeps her chained in a tower,"
Kate remarked.
  "The Dark Chamber spies say not. She
seems healthy and happy and popular. Baelmark
is not nearly as primitive as most Chivians
believe, and Ambrose knew that. We assume
that when he dies she will come home to claim the
crown, but this may be wishful thinking. Her oldest
son is almost eighteen, so she may send him in
her stead. The only thing certain is that she will not
tolerate me as her chancellor for an instant. I
knew my term of office was drawing to a close
even before Hagfish came to call today."
  "Hagfish, my lord?"
  "Chancellor Kromman. He was nicknamed that
by ... an old friend of mine." Montpurse
again! Durendal's conscience hadn't died after
all. Today it had taken on a new lease of
life. Fertilized by fear, no doubt.
  The conversation veered to lesser matters then, because
Caplin returned, alerted by some stewards'
telepathy to the need to refill Sir Quarrel's
plate. The life-and-death question was whether
Kromman and Malinda were already in cahoots. Was
today's sudden dismissal the start of the Princess's
revenge?
  When the meal was over, Durendal settled
into his favorite seat by the fireplace and
watched Kate spin. Quarrel pulled up a
chair between them. It would feel strange having the
lad hanging around all the time, almost as if Andy
had never gone. But Andy was thirty now, wrestling
trade winds in the Pepper Islands. And this
quiet home life was not going to last very long
anyway.
  "Durendal, my love," Kate said, without
looking up from her busily whirring wheel, "you
described the Princess's career in great
detail for Sir Quarrel, but you did not
explain why it involves him."
  "Ah! Forgive me! Well, a few days
ago, the King sent that warrant assigning a
Blade to me, with no explanation. I was
puzzled. Angry, in a way. I eventually
decided he was offering me a sort of farewell
present. There are very few rewards he has not
bestowed on me. I have declined many more, for
excessive honors attract enemies. We have
fought and argued bitterly for twenty years, but I
always served his interests as best I could. Even when
he was most enraged at me, he knew that. Rank
and lands and wealth--everything he had to give, he
gave me. One exception was a Blade."
  Quarrel nodded, frowning slightly. At his
age, Wolfbiter had been led off by his ward
to the ends of the world, but he had to sit here and listen
to social gossip and talk of grandchildren.
Durendal could not forget the dismay that had flashed
across the boy's face when he turned to greet his
future ward. He had found an ancient,
broken-down politician, destined for the scrap
heap very soon. Although he had hidden that reaction
instantly and skillfully--and ever since had shown
no sign of resentment whatsoever--it must still
rankle. Antiquated Lord Roland could not be as
bad as the Marquis of Nutting, but he was hardly
a cause to dedicate a life to. What could a
fresh-minted Blade care about colic and teething
troubles?
  "It seemed that he was warning me not to count on his
protection much longer. If he was admitting that,
then he must have accepted the gravity of his condition
at last. I decided to accept, mostly
for his sake. I could have refused, because he is too
sick to fight me now, but I could not bear to. I
hope you will understand and forgive me."
  "There is nothing to forgive that I know of, my
lord!"
  "Flames, I do not need a Blade, lad!
When I look at you I see a thoroughbred
harnessed to a broken-down tinker's wagon."
  "I see one of the great men of the age, my lord,
and my heart swells with pride that I may serve
you."
  No comment was possible except, "Thank you."
How could one so young be such a polished liar? It was
disconcerting.
  Quarrel's eyes gleamed. "And with respect,
my lord, I think you do need a Blade. The King
thinks so. Aren't you in danger? Isn't that what
her ladyship meant? Wasn't Hagfish
threatening you in your office this afternoon?"
  "You can't fight the government all alone,
Sir Quarrel, and Kromman is the government
now."
  "Flee the country!" Quarrel said
triumphantly. "It is no shame, my lord.
You have done nothing wrong."
  A jaunt to Samarinda, perhaps? It was close
to midnight, so Everman must be almost as old as
Durendal, heading fast into his morning senility.
But at dawn he would be restored to youth--like
Quarrel: supple, vigorous, beautiful.
  Of course, Quarrel knew nothing of
Samarinda. Travel to him meant exotic
adventure, endlessly receding horizons.
To Durendal it implied purposeless exile,
waiting to die in some queer little foreign town, with
no company but strangers and Kromman's
assassins lurking in doorways. Flee the
country he had served so long?
  He seemed to have arrived back where he had
started. Could that be exactly what the King had had
in mind? But ...
  Kate said, "You have not explained to me why, after
all these years, the King should suddenly promote
Kromman to chancellor."
  "Because I don't know why. I can only
suppose that the man's whining finally wore him
down. They are shut up there together in
Falconsrest--have been for weeks. Or it may
be that he thinks a new chancellor will have better
luck making the Princess see
reason."
  She snatched up a skein of wool and hurled
it at him. "Durendal, you are being
excessively stupid!"
  "My love?"
  Quarrel's surprise flashed to high
amusement and then polite inattention.
  Kate's cheeks were flushed, which they had not been
a moment ago, so it was not the fire's doing. "There
is far more to this than you admit or even see. When
Kromman brought that warrant, did you touch it?"
  "Of course. I opened it and read it."
  "Have you handled anything else unusual today?"
  What in the world was troubling her? "Dearest, you
talk in riddles."
  Kate hugged herself as if she felt chilled.
"Your hands smell of enchantment," she said.

                  

  About a hundred possibilities flashed through
Durendal's mind and were discarded. "What sort of
enchantment?"
  "I don't know, but I certainly do not like it!
I have met it before somewhere. Sir Quarrel, my
husband was not entirely truthful with you, but then I
have not been entirely truthful with him. A week
ago, when the warrant for your assignment appeared,
he brought it home to show me. In twenty-five
years he has never once discussed state
business with me, because he is bound to secrecy
by his privy councillor's oath, but this was a
personal matter." Kate was obviously
annoyed that she had to make such excuses; she must
have a very good reason for doing so. She had never
behaved like this before!
  Quarrel nodded eagerly. Perhaps he thought the

Roland household was always this exciting. "Of
course."
  "He did not decide to accept the Blade the
King offered. I decided. I talked him into it."
  "I am very glad you did, my lady."
Nobly said! Quite convincing.
  "There was enchantment on that warrant, too."
  The men said, "What!" simultaneously.
  Kate clenched her lips angrily for a moment.
"I should have told you, dear, but it was very faint, so
I was not quite sure of it. I am now, because it was the
same enchantment I detected on your hands when you
came home tonight. Whatever it is, it is
no conjuration that ought to be around the court."
  "Some new healing?" Durendal suggested, but the
glare he received dismissed his question as an insult
to her intelligence.
  Quarrel's mind was more nimble or less
hidebound. "Are you saying that these documents are
fakes, my lady, or that the King himself has been
enchanted? Is he the source of the conjuration?"
  "I am saying that there is something seriously
wrong, and now Kromman has had my husband
evicted from court." Kate never galloped off
on wild byways of imagination like this.
  He must believe her. "Could Kromman be the
source of the enchantment?"
  She shrugged. "If he is, he should not be
allowed near the King. What are the White
Sisters doing?"
  "The King is at Falconsrest."
  Kate put a hand to her mouth in shock. "So
he is!"
  Quarrel glanced from one to the other anxiously.
  Kate explained. "The lodge had been used
as an elementary. What they did there I shudder
to think, but it absolutely reeks of conjuration.
The octogram is still there. I can't go near it,
even yet. No White Sister can."
  Candles were starting to gutter, and the library grew
dim. Durendal threw another log on the
fire.
  "I don't recall seeing any White
Sisters at Falconsrest, but I probably
did and just didn't register them. There must be
some!"
  "In the village, not the lodge," Kate
said, frowning.
  "But if enough enchantment is leaking out for you
to detect it here, then they would have to be aware of it,
surely?"
  She nodded reluctantly. "That sounds
logical. I wish I could remember where I
met it before. It is horribly familiar. One
of the suppressed orders, I suppose. You
took me to a few of them."
  "Can you go back to Falconsrest, my lord?"
Quarrel asked quietly.
  "I'm technically under house arrest."
Kromman would use any such move as an
excuse to have Durendal thrown in the Bastion--not
that Kromman needed any more excuses. He
tried to envision what might happen if
he did go. Would Kromman be there or at
Greymere? How would Commander Dragon react?
Even if Ambrose was informed that his former
chancellor had arrived--which was by no means certain--
would he not just assume that Lord Roland had come
crawling on his knees to ask for his job back?
"The King would not receive me."
  "Where is Mother Superior?" Kate asked.
"At Greymere or Oakendown?"
  "I have no idea."
  "You can't go to the palace, so I must go
to Oakendown. I'm the one who's blowing
trumpets, after all. If she isn't there
I'll dump the problem on the Prioress."
  He smiled at her admiringly. Even the
short carriage ride today had fatigued her,
yet now she was blithely talking of the much longer
journey to the White Sisters' headquarters, and in
midwinter, too. "A letter would suffice, dearest.
We can send Pardon with it." Quarrel would be
better, but Quarrel could not leave his side.
  "The King was quite normal when you saw him, my
lord?"
  "Not unless you call dying normal. But if
something happened--and I'm not convinced yet that
anything has happened--then it must have been about
Long Night itself, after my visit
to Falconsrest and before he issued the warrant for
your binding." The handwriting on that had been
surprisingly firm and legible, he recalled.
Was that significant?
  "Well," Kate said, "we must sleep on
it." She rose, the men jumping up also. "We can
sleep more soundly knowing we have a Blade to defend
us from burglars." She took up a candle and lit
it at another.
  Quarrel chuckled gleefully. "When you have the
second Durendal beside you, ma'am? He would
slaughter the whole gang of them before I could draw
Reason from her scabbard. It is well known that
that's why the King never bothered to waste a Blade
on his lordship."
  "He did have a Blade once. Didn't you
know?"
  "Well, yes. He died overseas somewhere,
didn't he? I haven't heard any
details."
  That innocently smiling young scoundrel had been
trying to worm the story out of his ward since they
left Ironhall. Kate did not know
that. What she did know was that Durendal had
written a detailed account of the Samarinda
adventure to be placed in the Ironhall
archives after his death. She was the only person who
had ever read it.
  "Up there," she said, "that black volume. You
can reach--"
  Durendal snapped, "No! I forbid it!"
He was still bitter that Wolfbiter had not received the
honor he deserved, but to spell out for his present
Blade how he had failed his first one would be an
intolerable humiliation. He turned to snuff out the
candles.
  Like the deadly bolt he was named for, Quarrel
flashed across the room and caught Kate as she
fell, scooping her up in his arms and stamping on
the candle she had dropped before Durendal had
taken a step. He strode over to the couch and set
her down.
  "Just a faint, I think, my lord. A healer
... but she can't, can she? Perhaps a cold
compress? Summon her maid to loosen her, er,
bodice, my lord?"
  "Ring the bell." Durendal knelt at his
wife's side, alarmed and furious at his own
dismal performance and even more furious that he was
worrying about that just now. All his life he had
been fast and proud of it.
  "No, I'm fine!" Kate said. "Don't,
please, Sir Quarrel. Just a slight dizzy
spell." She made a brave attempt at a
smile and reached down to adjust the rumpled gown
over her farthingale.
  "Wine!" Durendal said, jumping up.
Quarrel beat him to the decanter.
  "A cushion for my head, dearest? Thank
you." She was still pale, but she laughed and squeezed
her husband's hand. "My, it is nice to have men
dancing attendance on me like this. Relax, dear!
I'm not having a baby."
  Quarrel almost spilled the wine he was offering
her. In a moment, though, Lady Kate was
sitting up, composed and insistent that she was
recovered.
  Durendal sat on the couch beside her. "I've
never known you to do that before."
  "Neither have I! And you won't again." She
pressed her lips together for a moment, thinking. "I
got up too quickly. And the shock, I suppose.
I remembered."
  "Remembered what?"
  "Where I met that enchantment before. Give me
your hand again." She held it to her cheek. "Yes.
It comes from Samarinda."
  Durendal's mind shied away from the
implications. His flesh crawled. Not that horror
again, surely? Here in Chivial? "That's what you
sniffed? How could you possibly know?"
  She set her chin as she did when she was not to be
moved. "Because when you came back, you stank of it
for weeks. If I hadn't loved you so much and
wanted you so much, I couldn't have borne to be near
you. It faded eventually, but I remember it."
  "It was the gold. The gold bones."
  "I don't care what it was." Kate
shuddered. "Ghastly! But whatever contaminated you then
is back on you now, and I smelled it on the
King's warrant, too."

                  

  It was Quarrel who fitted the last piece in
the puzzle, but that came in the morning.
  Not for many years had Durendal found trouble
sleeping, but too much had happened too quickly that
day. As he lay wide-eyed in the darkness,
listening to Kate's soft breathing, he remembered
the book and knew that Quarrel would be tempted
to pry. The youngster had been officially given the
dressing room outside the bedchamber as his own, but
a Blade had no use for a bed. He might be
anywhere in the house by now.
  Which would be worse--having him learn all about
Wolfbiter's death or letting him know that his ward
was too nervous to sleep? Could Durendal
possibly get to the book first without being
detected? He slid gently from beneath the sheets,
found his dressing gown, and tiptoed barefoot to the
door. Sneaking around in the dark when there was a
freshly bound Blade in the house was not exactly
prudent, but it was worth a try. He eased the
door open. In the darkness beyond, a girl was
whispering, "Oh yes, yes, yes ..."
  Sighing, the master of the house closed the door
again.
  Blades did have a use for beds.

  He felt gritty-eyed and dejected when he
came down to breakfast. The winter day was as gray
as his mood, with casements rattling and
rain beating on the panes. Quarrel glowed like a
summer noon, working his way through a heaped plate
of ribs and a tankard of spruce beer. He
rose and bowed and beamed simultaneously. Kate
smiled a wary welcome.
  Evaluating her husband's expression in the
light of long experience, she tactfully informed
Caplin that they would serve themselves from the sideboard.
As the steward went out, Durendal was very tempted
to call him back, just so his wife could not talk
business, which was what she obviously had in mind.
They had never quite agreed on suitable topics for
breakfast conversation. He poured himself a beaker of
cider.
  "I read your book, my lord," Quarrel
announced cheerfully.
  Durendal roared. "You what?"
  The boy did not flinch an eyelash. "I read
your book about Samarinda."
  "I expressly forbade you to do any such thing!"
  "Yes, my lord. I heard you." He shrugged.
  "Dearest," Kate said gently, "you look just
like the King."
  "The King? I look absolutely nothing like the
King! What do you mean?"
  "I mean you are glaring at Sir Quarrel
merely because he has been attending to his duties
with exemplary diligence."
  With even greater diligence, Durendal took
himself off the boil. Perhaps there was some justice here;
he was being given a dose of the medicine he had
prescribed for Ambrose often enough. He
glanced at his wife's amusement, then at his
Blade's polite stubbornness. The boy must have
had a busy night. "I apologize. Of
course the book is now relevant to your
responsibilities, and you did right to read it.
What did you conclude?"
  Quarrel eyed him warily for a moment. "That I
have even higher standards to live up to than I
feared. I--I wept, my lord."
  That was absolutely the most effective thing the
damned kid could have said. Was he really an
incredible actor, or could he possibly be
genuine? Durendal grunted.
  Kate made a noise that sounded
suspiciously like a smothered snigger. "Would you care
for some ribs, Your Maj-- my lord?"
  "No thank you! And stop making jokes about me
and the King. Did you gain any valuable
insights into our problem, Sir Quarrel?"
  "Just that that enchantment is the most evil thing I
ever heard of. Immortality supported by endless
murders!" He stole a quick look at Kate,
as if hoping for support; but she had risen and
gone to the sideboard to clatter the silver covers.
"You know His Majesty better than anyone, my
lord. If Kromman offered him that conjuration, would
he have accepted?"
  Durendal almost yelled, "Why do you think I
couldn't sleep all night?" He said quietly,
"Not the king I have served all my life." The
silence festered for a moment--was he being dishonest?
"But when a man sees that last door opening before
him, the one that has nothing on the other side ...
when his life's work is threatened--Blood and
steel, lad! I don't know! And he may not have
had any choice. You must have read what Everman
told me, how they addicted him to the monstrous
feast with one mouthful. He was not the Everman I
knew at Ironhall--he looked just like him, but
his mind was twisted out of shape somehow. If
Kromman prepared the conjurement and then gave it
to the King ... But how would Kromman have known the
ritual? Can we reasonably suppose that he
sent another expedition back to Samarinda to steal
it? He's only the King's secretary."
  "Face facts, dear." Kate thumped a
heaped plate down in front of him and resumed
her seat. "He has had a quarter of a century
to arrange it. He is very close to the
inquisitors still, and if anyone can steal a
secret, they can. Perhaps the King himself--"
  "No! I will not believe that of Ambrose! And
I'm not hungry."
  "You need to keep your strength up. His health
began to fail about five years ago. That's just time
for someone to make a round trip to Samarinda."
  "Rubbish! If anyone had organized such an
expedition for him, I'd have heard of it." He
glared at her. If it had happened, it must be
Kromman's fault, not Ambrose's!
  "Pardon me," Quarrel said. "You met
Hereward--he was my Second, ma'am. His
grandfather was an inquisitor. He told me once
how the old man used to tell him stories. He
didn't read them--he remembered them. He could
repeat any book he had ever read, word for word.
Inquisitors are given a memory-enhancement
conjurement."
  When the cold, sick feeling had waned a little,
Durendal said, "I apologize."
  "Nothing to apologize for, my lord."
  "There is much. I should have seen that years ago.
If Kromman followed me into the monastery in his
invisibility cloak and witnessed the ritual, he
could have remembered it ..." Blood and fire!
Was that why Kromman had tried to kill both him
and Wolfbiter--so that he would be the only one with the
dread secret? Had the King known Kromman
knew the ritual, all these years? Or even
suspected? Could that be why he had put up with the
odious slug for so long?
  "What are you going to do about it," Kate asked,
ever practical, "in all this rain?"
  That was the question. He considered his options. Run
away, go abroad? Not now. Tell someone?
Who? Who would not just assume that he was spreading
such impossible lies about his successor in the
hope of getting his job back? If he had no
one but himself to consider, he would go and find
Kromman and kill him, as he should have done years
ago. But Chivial was not Altain. Killers were
hanged, so Kate would be a murderer's widow; and
if Quarrel guessed what he was planning, he
would try to beat his ward to it.
  "If Kromman's doing what we suspect,
he has to murder someone every day. How can he
possibly get away with that? Who would help
him?"
  "The Guard, of course," Quarrel said
angrily. "If a ward needs a body to save
his life, his Blade will provide a body." His
face paled, and he laid down the rib he had
been waving. "Or volunteer?"
  "Oh, no," Kate muttered. "No, no,
no!"
  The King eating his way through his Guard?
  "They couldn't possibly get away with it,"
Durendal said, trying to convince himself as much as his
listeners. "People don't vanish in Chivial without
being missed. If the King is doing that, then he can
only meet outsiders once a day, when he's
at about the right age ..." A little after sunset,
when he had received Durendal himself? No, the stink
of his leg had been genuine. It had happened
later--if it had happened at all.
  If the answers were anywhere, they must be at
Falconsrest.
  Quarrel knew that, too. "You're
under house arrest, my lord. Kromman has a
spy in your household."
  "I expect he-- You know this?"
  "The housemaid Nel, my lord." Actor or
not, he couldn't quite hide his delight at being so
efficient a bodyguard.
  "And who told you it was Nel?"
  "Er ... Marie, my lord. And Gwen."
  "Both? Separately?"
  "Oh, yes, my lord, of course! I mean
..." He was blushing at last.
  Kate slammed a hand on the table. "I shall have
a word with Mistress Nel!"
  "She more or less admits it, my lady,"
Quarrel muttered, even redder.
  "What? Are you debauching my entire staff,
Sir Quarrel? Because--"
  "Don't nag the man," Durendal said, "just
because he has been attending to his duties with
exemplary diligence." And incredible stamina.
  Quarrel grinned sheepishly.
  "Men!" Kate glared just like the King did. That
was not very fair, because her husband had warned her
exactly what would happen if they brought a
Blade into the house. She had even agreed that they
would have to take financial responsibility for
any unwanted results. "Very well! I shall
drive to Oakendown and lay the problem before the
Sisters."
  Quarrel said, "But ..." and looked at his
ward.
  "No need for you to go, dearest." Durendal
realized he had cleaned his plate and tried not
to show how annoying that was.
  "I see it as my duty. I shall take Nel
with me for company, and I may stay there a few
days to recover from the journey. What you men get
up to while I'm gone, I shall probably be
happier not knowing; and what I don't know,
inquisitors can't get out of me."
  Incredible woman!
  "Sir Quarrel, would you wait outside for a
moment, please?"
  His Blade frowned, then rose obediently and
headed for the door--checking the windows on the way
to make sure they were securely locked. The
heavy oak door thumped shut behind him.
  Kate waited defensively for her husband
to speak. She looked tired already, although it was
only morning; her thinness was more than just
an illusion of the current fashions. He had
been working fourteen hours a day during the King's
illness, but he should have noticed. Even more galling
was the obvious fact that the servants knew what
he had missed.
  "When Quarrel went to your aid last night,
my dear, he made a remark about healers. I
didn't pick up on it then, but now I know what
he almost said. He knows you cannot tolerate healing."
  "Many White Sisters can't."
  "But not all. How does he know you're one of
them? Obviously he has been gossiping with the
maids. Joking aside, part of his duty is
to understand my household. But why should they have told
him that about you?"
  Kate's chin came up stubbornly. "Bah!
Pillow talk. I expect they were discussing
childbirth."
  "I am quite certain Quarrel was not discussing
childbirth."
  "You must ask him--he is a man of many
talents. Meanwhile, my dear, we both have
duties to attend to. When the present crisis
has been resolved, I trust we shall have
leisure to discuss our future together."
  "Oakendown is--"
  "I am quite capable of journeying to Oakendown,
Durendal. I want that future of ours to be as
long as possible, you understand? So you will please deal
with Master Kromman--finally and expeditiously!"
She rose, defiance in every inch of her. "I do not
expect you to sit here warming your hands at the fire
while I am gone."
  He caught her in his arms before she reached the
door. "Won't you tell me?"
  "Later. Your problem is much more urgent than
mine."
  "Then take care, my dearest!"
  She laid her head against his shoulder. "And you,
my love. Come back safely. I don't
want to be alone."

                  

  The answer lay at Falconsrest, so there he
must go, although he could not guess what he would do
there.
  If a watch had been set on Ivywalls,
the drenching rain would be worse than a thick fog
for the watchers, and it had removed the snow
that would have held tracks. Leading the way on
foot through the orchard and the coppice, Durendal was
virtually certain that he was departing undetected.
On impulse, he asked Quarrel if he thought
he could handle Destrier and received the inevitable
answer. Annoyingly, the big black seemed
equally enthusiastic about the new arrangement--
fickle brute!--and the two of them were beautiful
together, moving like a single dream animal. That
left Durendal on Gadfly, who had no great
turn of speed or agility but would thump along
all day without complaint. A long, miserable ride
it would be.
  As the first cold trickle penetrated his
collar, he mused that the previous day he had
been effective ruler of all Chivial, and today
he became a felon just by leaving his house. For a
lifetime he had served his King with all his heart,
but now he was contemplating murder and treason.
Kromman ... if he had Kromman within reach,
would he kill the new chancellor? Perhaps. He had
owed Wolfbiter a death for too long. Only
thoughts of the inevitable consequences to Kate and
Quarrel made him doubt his own resolve now.
  He stayed clear of the main Grandon road,
lest he be recognized by some passing royal
courier--incredibly unlikely but a risk that
need not be taken. He had decided to avoid
Stairtown for the same reason, going south to Great
Elbow, which was slightly closer to Falconsrest
anyway.
  The weather made conversation on the road
difficult. It was only during a most-welcome
break for a meal in a wayside inn that he told
Quarrel what he had decided.
  "We need a base, even if it's only for
one night, and an old friend of mine runs a
tavern just outside Great Elbow. He calls
himself Master Byless Twain, but he's really
Sir Byless. He was my Second, so he's
another broken-down old ruin like me. Don't
smirk at your ward like that; it's disrespectful.
He may be able to help us and certainly won't
stand in our way. I warn you now--he's more than a
little odd. He's usually friendly enough with me, but he
has no love for the Royal Guard or even the
Order."
  Quarrel waited for an explanation, but it did
not come.
  "It's a couple of years since I
saw him. ... He has a very pretty daughter.
Let your conscience be your guide, of course, but
in my hunting days I regarded other Blades'
daughters as off limits. They're not so easily
impressed by the legend, anyway."
  "I understand, my lord. If I gave offense
at your house--"
  "No, I expected it. I did exactly the
same at your age. The legend's a side
effect of the binding conjuration."
  Furthermore, being a Blade was a job that
deserved its compensations. Of Lord Bluefield's
four Blades, one had died resisting his arrest.
The other three had been waylaid successfully
by Montpurse, but only Byless had survived the
reversion conjuration, and even he had not brought all
his wits back with him. Quarrel would be happier
not knowing the story, for Bluefield had been only
the first of King Ambrose's chancellors to fall from
favor.
  Another reason to use Byless's tavern as their
headquarters was that the King's Blades shunned it.
They disapproved of its name, The Broken
Sword.

  Never having called there in winter, Durendal
was dismayed to see how bleak and depressing it was,
a thatched hovel cowering by the road under dark and
dripping trees. He was even more dismayed
to realize how many years must have passed since his
last visit, for the woman in the doorway could
only be the formerly pretty daughter. She had
lost most of her teeth while gaining a great deal
of weight and at least three children, two of whom
clung to her like burls. She was suckling the
smallest and might be going to have a fourth in the
foreseeable future. Both her face and her hair
needed washing.
  She looked at Durendal without recognition.
"I can give you a meal and a bed, sir, if you
won't mind looking after your own horses. The men
have gone out. There's only me and the brats here."
  He agreed they would stable their own horses. As
they went to do so, Quarrel remarked acidly that his
conscience was in complete control so far.
  Despite her unprepossessing appearance,
their hostess produced a passable meal between cuffing
and scolding children, and the ale was tolerable. Having
served her guests, she dropped platters for herself
and her oldest at the far end of the long
table and she set her remaining teeth to work at a
gallop.
  Durendal talked horses with Quarrel
until the meal was done and then explained that they would
be making an early start in the morning but might
return to spend another night. He slid a
gold coin along the planks to her. He asked for
directions to Stairtown, thereby confirming his
impressions of the local roads and the way
to Falconsrest without actually mentioning its name.
Finally he asked, "And where is Master Twain
on this wretched day?"
  "Went with Tom, sir. My man."
  "Where to?"
  She wiped her platter with the last of her bread.
"Hunting for Ned, sir, over at Great Elbow.
Disappeared. They're all out looking for him.
He's simple, you see. Must have wandered off."
  Ward and Blade exchanged horrified
glances.

                  

  Durendal slept. Quarrel wakened him when
the second candle was two thirds gone. He
wrapped himself in his cloak and trudged out into the
night, shivering and still half asleep, to find that his
efficient Blade had already saddled the horses and
brought them to the door. Although the rain had stopped,
the night was dark as a cellar. That should be an
advantage when they reached Falconsrest, because
skulking around any place guarded by Blades was
a very dangerous occupation; but it made their chances of
ever arriving there much slimmer. As it was, the
horses could go no faster than a walk.
  They were on their way before he realized that he was
astride Gadfly again. Quarrel had held a
stirrup for him without a word and he had accepted
without looking. A very neat maneuver! He would not
be petty enough to make an issue of the matter now,
but if Junior thought that Destrier was to be his mount
from now on, he was grievously mistaken.
  "Just reconnaissance?" Quarrel asked as they
rode into the wind.
  "I hope so. If they're doing what we fear
they're doing, then it must be done in the lodge itself.
It has two rooms up and two down, separated
by chimneys, garderobes, and a stair. An
elementary has to be on the ground, of course, and
there used to be an octogram laid out in
the room they now use as a kitchen. It's
probably still there. The outside door's in the
other, the guardroom. Ideally, I'd like to creep
up to the kitchen shutters at dawn and listen. If
I hear chanting, we'll be certain. If I
don't, we'll know we're wrong."
  "You better let me do that, my lord. No
point in both of us going."
  Blast that binding!
  Receiving no reply, Quarrel muttered, "Must
we do this at all? That simpleton's disappearance
seems like pretty strong evidence to me. If we
asked around Stairtown and learned of any other people
gone missing, then we would know, wouldn't we?"
  "You're right, I suppose, but I ...
Curse it, this is the King we're accusing!
We're saying he's turned his Guard into a
wolf pack. I just can't be as logical as you,
I suppose."
  "It must be another side effect of the binding,"
Quarrel said indignantly. "I never used to be
logical or cautious or anything like that!"
  "Nothing wrong with logic, and you're only
cautious where I'm concerned. You'll be rash
to madness with your own life."
  "I certainly hope so."
  "Not necessarily. A good Blade uses his
head. There's a time to lunge and a time to recover,
a time to thrust and a time to parry. When Wolfbiter
and I were trying to escape from the monastery, I
didn't stop to argue that I was the better
swordsman and ought to bring up the rear. I let
him do his duty and ran like a rabbit. It's where you
get to that matters, not how."
  Having delivered himself of that profound homily,
Lord Roland promptly got lost. When the
clouds turned brighter before the slow winter dawn,
he managed to find a road that he thought was the one
he wanted. He had to leave the trail before it
reached the outer gate, for there would be a guard there.
Then he had to find a way through the patchy woods
that cloaked the hills, navigating by instinct and
hoping to come out somewhere near the lodge. He got
lost again. Curse Byless for not being available as
a guide!
  The sun was glinting between the clouds and the horizon
when he reined in at the edge of the trees above the
little cup-shaped valley. Below him, the lodge
stood on a spur that protruded like a ship's
prow from the steep hillside--a small
stone house and a wooden shed for horses. The
royal standard still flew from the flagpole. Down
on the flats, the village slept on, showing no
signs of life.
  He said, "Too late. If they did it,
they've done it already."
  "We can wait and see if they bring out a body
... remains of a body."
  "I'm not sure what they'll do with it. The
bones are too valuable to throw away."
  Growing steadily more chilled by the wind, they
waited to see what might happen. Soon a
carriage and two outriders emerged from the
village and crept slowly up the steep trail
to the lodge. A man came out to wait for it, then
scrambled inside. It turned and went back
down, then headed off along the road to the outside
world.
  "I would almost swear that was Kromman,"
Durendal said. "Wearing black?"
  "He moved like a young man, my lord. I've
only seen the Secretary once."
  Was the new Chancellor commuting to Grandon every
day? If he was now a Samarinda immortal,
then he would seem roughly his proper age by the time
he arrived at Greymere. He might be able
to spend two or three hours on business there and
depart before he became too old to manage the
journey. Would it be possible to ambush him on his
return?
  Down in the village, people were stirring, tending
livestock, heading to the mess for breakfast. Then
half a dozen men came out of the lodge and went
into the stable shed.
  "My lord, we should leave. They may have
spotted us."
  "I think I agree with that cautious remark,"
Durendal said, turning Gadfly's head.
  Infuriatingly, clouds hid the sun so
effectively that he managed to get lost again, or
at least became uncertain how far from the palace
they were. When they emerged from the trees onto the
road, he said, "I'm not sure we're outside
the gate."
  "Nor I, sir."
  "Let's take it gently, in case we have
to make a sudden detour."
  They rode at a slow trot along the narrow
trail, which wound through woods, roughly following a
noisy, rain-swollen stream. Quarrel
studied the ground with youthfully sharp eyes.
  "Horses have come along here since the carriage
did, my lord. There are hoofprints on top of the
wheel marks."
  "Relief for the guard on the gate?"
  "Possibly. Or those six may have gotten
ahead of us. You suppose they've gone hunting
another victim?"
  "Don't even talk about it! It makes me
ill!"
  In a few moments the road emerged from the dense
wood to cross an old clearing, now overgrown with
thick thorns and scrub, impenetrable to man or
horse. The trail was barely wide enough for two
abreast.
  "I think I know this spot," Durendal said.
"We're outside. Another couple of miles and
we'll be into farmland near Stairtown."
  They rode across the clearing, back into pine
woods, around a corner, and came almost
face-to-face with six mounted men, lined up in
two rows of three.
  Dragon bellowed, "Halt in the King's
name!" and spurred his horse forward. The others
came close behind.
  "Ride!" Quarrel yelled, wheeling
Destrier.
  Durendal copied. A second later he
decided that they had made the wrong decision and should
have tried to bull their way through, but by then they were into a
chase and it was too late. They were heading back
to Falconsrest. Through the clearing again, then pine
woods ... Hooves thundered, mud sprayed.
Quarrel was struggling to hold the black in so that
Gadfly could keep up. Durendal glanced behind
and saw that four of the pursuers were gaining, two
lagging behind.
  "Turn at the next corner!" he yelled.
"We'll double back."
  But the next corner was too late. Straight
ahead was the guardhouse. Three more Blades had
heard the approaching hooves and were mounting--on the
near side of the gate. Nine Blades were not good
odds. The trees rushed past, the gate raced
toward him.
  "Over it!" he shouted. He thumped his heels
against Gadfly's ribs with little effect, while
Destrier shot forward like an arrow. The guards were
drawing their swords, their mounts shying away from the
great stallion charging them. Quarrel had
drawn Reason, but there were two horses converging
on him and he had a gate ahead. Confused
voices shouted, "Spirits, it's Paragon!"
"Take them alive." "I know that horse."
"Stop them!" Quarrel parried one man's
sword, trying to dodge a stroke from the other and
gather his horse for the jump all at the same time.
Destrier flashed a bite at one of the horses,
then the beat of his hooves ended as he took to the
air. Oh. beautiful!
  Again Dragon bellowed, "Take them
alive!"
  Ignore the swords, then. Close on
Destrier's tail, Durendal gathered his reins,
sat down tight, dug in his heels, and whispered,
"Do it, Gadfly!" He knew she couldn't,
though. Even he could not put her over that gate.
  She tried her best. She might even have
succeeded, had not one of the guard's mounts cannoned
into her as she took off. She clipped the top
rail and pitched. He saw trees whirled against
the clouds and filthy black mud coming up and nothing
more.


                  

  The chant was familiar. So was the scent of
fresh-cut greenery. Yes, this was a conjuration for
healing wounds, the one the Guard used and
Ironhall used. And--Uh!--the surge of
spirits was painfully intense. The last time he'd
felt it this strong was when he'd broken his leg
fooling around on the armory roof with Byless and
Felix.
  There must have been an accident. He was lying on
a straw pallet in the center of the octogram.
He was the one being enchanted ... might explain
why he hurt, although not why hurt in so many
places ... couldn't have been fighting ... unless
chopped to pieces. Not falling off roofs again,
surely? He peered up blearily at a dim
plank ceiling and a whole army of men, swaying like
trees above him, far too many. Bare stone
walls, chimney, underside of a wooden stair.
Things were coming and going.
  The conjuration ended. Two round, pink,
identical faces peered closely into his
eyes. Fingers pried. A voice complained
fussily.
  "Well, that's the best we can do for him here. I
think he'll be all right in a day or so. How many
fingers am I holding up, my lord?"
  Eight fingers waved in front of Durendal's
eyes. The question did not feel as if it had been
directed at him, so he did not interrupt the
conversation.
  "Can you speak?" asked the two faces.
  Stupid question.
  The faces went away. The sixteen or so men
all looked down from an enormous height. He
ought not to lie here or he'd get stepped on.
Too much effort not to.
  "Let him rest for an hour or two," the
petulant voice said. "Then we may try again.
I really do not understand what has gone wrong with this
octogram. The balance of elements is very wrong,
very strange. It was all right last week, I know
it was." It grew confidential. "It is perhaps
just as well that His Majesty has chosen
to discontinue the treatments here. I do think you should
bring in a conjurer to attempt a realignment.
Now, you said there was another patient?"
  "A sword wound, Doctor. He's lost a
lot of blood."
  Durendal felt strong hands lift his pallet
and bear it away. His annoyance at this impiety
turned to interest as he noted corn mills,
chopping blocks, water butts--two of everything.
Shelves, bins. Two door lintels, even.
Another room, just as cold. Being set down again.
  "I don't think he's faking," said a new
voice, "but don't take your eyes off him for a
second. Just remember who he is. Even half
dead, he's still a match for any of you lubberly
lot."
  Someone draped another blanket over him.
Chair legs scraped on flagstones. Soon the
chanting began again, farther away.

  The mists cleared, swirled again. cleared again.
He was in the guardroom of the lodge at
Falconsrest--lying on the floor, not as close
to the fireplace as he would like and about as far as
possible from the outside door. There were four
Blades with him, two sitting, two standing--
guarding him, of course. He wasn't going to be
making any breaks for a while yet, though. Left
wrist hurt. Face hurt--mouth and left eye.
Ribs aching. Could have been much worse;
the old man not too fragile yet. Vision still
blurry, so better to keep eyes shut, listen
to the sounds of conjuration drifting in from the kitchen.
Quarrel being repaired, too? Two heads
better than one. Time to think of escape when they
were both mobile. Have to do it before breakfast time
tomorrow.
  He could drift off to sleep if he tried
...

  "Well, he's young," said the prissy voice.
The doctor had come into the guardroom. The chanting
was over. "He'll make up most of the blood
loss within a couple of hours. Plenty to drink,
plenty of red meat, and he'll be a tiger again in
a week. Now, I'll just take a quick look at
His Majesty and--"
  "His Majesty does not wish to be
disturbed." That was Bowman's voice. Where was
Commander Dragon? When had Bowman left
Greymere?
  The doctor made a sound of distress, although a
hushed and subdued one, because the King's room was
directly overhead. "But, Sir Bowman, its
over a week since he accepted any medical
assistance or advice at all! The dressing on
his leg--"
  "You saw him last night, Doctor."
  "Only, er, socially. I admit that his
appearance was extremely encouraging, but--"
  "And the way he threw you all out of the room was
almost like old times, wasn't it? Well, he
plans to go down and sup at the village tonight. I
expect you can thrust all the medicine and conjuration
you want on him then."
  "Thrust?"
  "Manner of speaking. Thank you for your help,
Doctor. Now Sir Torquil will see you
safely--"
  "Ah, I shall just have another look at Lord
Roland first."
  Fuzzy or not so fuzzy, Durendal knew
he could not fake coma to a doctor. He opened his
eyes and smiled. "Much better, thank you. Is
it permissible for me to sit up now?"
  "My, what a quick recovery!" muttered one
of the watchers.
  "He always was quick," said another, equally
sarcastic.
  The doctor beamed and knelt down
to investigate pulse rate and pupil size and
other phenomena. "Do as much as you feel able, but
don't force it. You had a very nasty tumble, my
lord. You remember?"
  "I fell off a horse?"
  "You did indeed. How many fingers?"
  "I assume three, although I can see about four
and a half."
  The plump man chuckled politely at the
lordly wit. "Vision still a bit blurred? Rest
today, and we'll see how we are feeling tomorrow."
  One or both of them might be feeling very dead
tomorrow. Obviously the doctor--his face was
familiar but his name was still at large--was not in on
the plot. His life might be hanging by a fine
thread at this very moment, depending on what
instructions had been given to Sir Torquil.
  As if he had read those thoughts exactly,
Bowman spoke from somewhere overhead. "Lord Roland
will confirm for you, Doctor, that his presence here at
Falconsrest just now is a confidential
matter."
  "Yes, indeed," Durendal said. "His
Majesty is most anxious that it not be known. Could
cause a great deal of trouble at this juncture."
  "Certainly could," Bowman agreed.
  The medic scrambled to his feet while spewing
out protestations that of course he understood
perfectly and had never doubted what the Commander had
told him and as a court physician he had always
observed the strictest discretion--blah, blah,
blah. He was hustled away by Sir Torquil.
The room brightened and then dimmed as the door opened
and closed. A gust of cold air swirled
smoke and flames in the fireplace.
  The ensuing silence felt ominous. Boards
creaked upstairs, and logs crackled on the
hearth. The wind rattled a window somewhere.
  "Flaming idiot, that one," Bowman said.
  Sparing his left arm, Durendal heaved himself
up to a sitting position. The room lurched
sickeningly and then steadied. He saw tables,
chairs, a couple of chests, but all the bedding that
had cluttered the guardroom on his previous
visits had disappeared, other than the pallet he
was sitting on. Inevitably everyone except the
conspirators would have been banished from the lodge.
The King and the Blades would be living here now,
probably Kromman, not likely anyone
else.
  He peered disbelievingly around the circle of
faces--six young men staring back at him as if
they wanted his funeral to be the next item on the
agenda. Fire! These were Blades! These were
Ironhall boys, like him, brothers. Never before
had he seen the King's defenders from the outside,
as it were, and the revelation was chilling. As
enemies, these youngsters were terrifying. For the first time
since childhood he was without a sword, and he

had fallen into a den of lion cubs.
  Bowman was in charge. When and why had he been
brought from Greymere? His presence was unwelcome
news, because he was a lot more subtle than
Dragon. Any swordsman who moved as if
he had spastic palsy and cracked jokes with the
solemnity of a professional mourner was certainly
paradoxical and probably capable of being
deliberately devious. Durendal had always
rated Bowman far ahead of the Commander. Bowman was
saying nothing, waiting for him to speak first.
  If his head would stop spinning, he might try
a bluff ... think up some reason why he had
come to Falconsrest, ask after His Majesty's
health. ... It wouldn't work; they would merely
wait for the inquisitor to return. So let them
say something. He waited.
  Before anyone said anything, the door from the kitchen
was flung open and a young man came hurtling into the
room as if he had been thrown out of a tavern by a
squad of bouncers. His doublet and britches were
blackened by dried blood from his chest to his
knees. He tripped over a chair and for a moment
seemed to hang there, arms out flung, chalky
face twisted in terror, then he sprawled on the
floor with a scream of agony. He curled himself
up in a whimpering knot. He was the second
casualty, the second patient to be enchanted.
But he was not Quarrel.
  Two more Blades followed him in. "Where do
you want this scum, sir?" asked one of them,
closing the door. Inexplicably, all the
burning anger in the room, which a moment earlier had
been directed at Durendal, was now aimed at
the boy on the floor.
  He wailed into his knees, "Why didn't you
let me die!"
  "Because you'll keep better this way till the
Fat Man's ready for you!" said the other,
preparing a kick at his back.
  Before he could deliver, Bowman
snapped, "That'll do, Spinnaker!"
  "Just tenderizing the meat, sir!"
  "I said that'll do! Get upstairs, Lyon.
And you," he told Durendal. "You'll be safer
up there."
  Safer for whom?
  One question was now answered--Ambrose was not in the
lodge, or no one would be talking about the Fat
Man.
  Another remained: Where was Quarrel?
  Durendal made a performance of struggling to his
knees, then to his feet, although this required no
great dramatic ability. The young Sir Lyon
took even longer and could not manage to straighten
at all, keeping his arms wrapped around his
belly. He was obviously still in terrible pain.
The onlookers made no effort to help either of
them. Side by side, they hobbled toward the stair.
  That cloak draped over that chair ...
  That was Quarrel's cloak. Durendal had
helped him choose it and had spooned out an
absurd number of gold crowns to pay for it, because
Quarrel had displayed both a grandiose taste in
clothes and very exalted ideas of what the Lord
Chancellor's Blade ought to wear. He had,
admittedly, looked exceedingly good in it all.
But now that costly, sable-trimmed cloak was a
mud-splattered, blood-soaked discarded ruin, so
the urgent question was answered. It should have been
obvious that no one could treat a Blade's ward
as Durendal was being treated unless the Blade was
finally, definitely, permanently ... dead.

                 

  Like the guardroom, the dormitory had been
tidied since Durendal had last seen it. Although
a Blade rarely slept, he shared other men's
need for a place of his own--to store his kit, to be
alone, to take a woman. Only the King could be
alone in the lodge at Falconsrest, but each
Blade had a token bedroll, sixteen of them
laid out in neat military rows, filling the
room. Sir Lyon hobbled over to one that must be
his, as far from the fireplace as any. He lay
down painfully and turned his face to the wall.
  Durendal crouched close to the smoking embers
on the hearth, looking up expectantly at
Bowman, who had followed them upstairs and now
stood awkwardly slumped against the door
frame, deceptively boyish despite his
fringe of sandy beard and habitually morose
expression.
  "What's for breakfast tomorrow?" asked the
uninvited visitor.
  Bowman's gaze wandered briefly in the
direction of Lyon and then back again. "Whoever was
on that horse of yours--Martin's gone to bring him
in."
  "You mean he escaped?"
  The Deputy Commander cocked a tawny
eyebrow. "We heard you bound a Blade a few
days ago."
  Who must therefore have been his lone companion.
"Name of Quarrel. Good kid."
  "Well, then."
  Well, then he's dead. Escaping wasn't
something Blades ever tried to do. "How?"
  Bowman's shoulders twitched in an
uncoordinated shrug.
  "Flames, man!" Durendal shouted. "What
happened?"
  "Torquil got him as he jumped. The
horse ran away with him. He must have bled to death
right after--he was leaving a trail a foot wide.
Don't worry, we'll find him."
  What they would do with him did not need to be
asked. The Guard's overriding concern now must be
to find a fresh body every morning. Durendal fought
a tide of nausea. Oh, Quarrel!
  "Where's Kromman?"
  "Grandon."
  "And the King?"
  "Gone for a gallop. He likes the
exercise. And there's a shepherd's daughter up
in the hills who struck gold a few days
ago."
  Durendal gazed into the fire for a moment, trying
to think. Nothing much happened, except he
decided that a decent man like Bowman must be under
enormous strain. He jabbed at that weak spot.
"How do you feel about all this?"
  The only answer he received was a mawkish,
pitying smile. How Bowman felt didn't
matter. He was ruled by his binding to save the
King's life, and now the King was in deadly peril
every day at dawn. His Blades had no choice
except the one Lyon had tried and botched.
  Durendal gestured inquiringly in the direction
of the smothered sobs.
  "That was your doing, I reckon, my lord."
  "Mine!?"
  "When he saw who we'd brought down. That was the
last straw. He fell on his sword--he just
wasn't man enough to do a proper job of it."
  Death and fire! "And was he the first to do that?"
  Bowman shook his head reluctantly.
  "Volunteer breakfasts? Fire and blood!
If more of you were man enough to do it, then this evil
wouldn't prosper."
  Bowman colored and straightened up. "That's
easier for some of us to say than others, your
lordship. You're special. Suppose the King
gives you a choice? Which end of the spoon will you
choose?"
  For a moment, that simple question left Durendal
speechless. He had not considered so appalling a
possibility. He licked his lips. "I
believe that immortality on such terms is
utterly evil, Sir Bowman. If I am
given a free choice, I hope I will have the
courage to refuse it. If I am forced
into accepting, I hope I will have the courage
to kill myself at the first opportunity, so that I do
not go on extending the evil. But a good friend of mine
was trapped into accepting and was not the same person
after, so I do not know if I shall be able to do that."
  "I think you have the courage, my lord."
  "Thank you."
  Bowman chuckled hoarsely, but his gray eyes
gleamed like steel. "Don't thank me, my lord--
it's my job to identify the King's enemies. I
know where you stand. You stay in this room, Lord
Roland, and behave yourself. No talking, no trying
to escape. Understand? I'll tie you up and gag you
if I have to."
  "I understand perfectly. Just one more question?"
  "What?"
  "Do the Blades on the menu qualify for the
Litany of Heroes?"
  The Deputy Commander bared his teeth angrily
and went slouching back down the stair. As he
disappeared, he began shouting names.
  Durendal rose and limped across the room to the
prostrate boy. He eased down on one knee.
"Sir Lyon?"
  The kid looked up. His eyes were red, his
lips almost blue.
  Durendal squeezed his shoulder. "You've got
more courage and honor than the rest of them
put together, lad. Don't worry, we'll find
a way to stop this."
  The boy whispered, "Sir ... my lord ...
they don't trust you!"
  "Never mind me," Durendal said. "I can
look after myself. Don't give up yet!" and
headed back to the fireplace. He had never
congratulated a would-be suicide before.
  Moments later, Spinnaker and two more men
came in to guard the captives. The stair was the
only way out, and there were more men down in the
guardroom. When Durendal tried to talk, he
was again threatened with being bound and gagged.
  By Bowman's estimate, he would not be eaten for
at least two days--Quarrel first, then Lyon,
then Lord Roland. He would prefer that fate to being
forced into the conspiracy and made to eat part of his own
Blade. Whether Kromman would agree with either of
these programs remained to be seen.
  It was odd that they were taking so long to find
Quarrel's body. There could be no doubt that he
was dead, after all. He would have crawled back
into the fight on his belly trailing his guts if
he weren't. Gone to organize a rescue? No
hope of that. Even if a Blade could act like that,
the lodge was guarded by the world's best swordsmen.
They could hold it for weeks against any force
except the Royal Office of Demolition, and
that would be no rescue. The rest of the Guard,
back at Grandon, knew nothing of what was going
on, would not believe it anyway, and was equally
bound to the King.
  Durendal stretched out on the nearest bedroll
to wait upon events, but however hard he sought
to make plans for his own extremely precarious
future, his mind kept wandering back to Quarrel,
that fresh-minted Blade, that meteor who had
flashed through his life and vanished before he could know
it. Had he been like that boy once--sharp and
sparkling diamondlike, not counting costs or
weighing alternatives? He could not remember.
  So much promise wasted.
  He was hard on his Blades. Wolfbiter had
lasted two years, and Quarrel only five
days.




               QUARREL
                VII

                  

  Quarrel parried a slash from the Blade on his
right, half dodged and half tried to fend off a
cut from his left. He felt a searing pain in his
shoulder, but before he took time to worry about that, he
put Destrier at the gate and was flying.
Wonder horse! Again a voice yelled,
"Take them alive!"
  Destrier came down with perfect grace, and
then it was reaction time. Spooked by the scuffle and
smell of his rider's blood, he laid back his
ears and fled off along the track as if all the
spirits of fire were after him.
  Quarrel must put Reason back in her
scabbard before he dropped her. He must do something
about the bleeding, or he'd never get back into the
fight. He must turn the horse, or the fight
would be over before he did get back to it. He
looked behind him just in time to see Gadfly tumble and
Paragon thrown free. By the eight, that was disaster!
Even Paragon couldn't jump up from a fall like
that and fight off nine Blades. Oh, turn,
blast you! But Destrier hurtled along the
track, heedless of reins and heels.
  First he must stop bleeding. He needed his right
hand for the reins. His left hand wasn't moving
properly. Spirits, but his shoulder did hurt now!
He let Destrier have his head for a moment while
he grabbed the left side of his cloak and tried
to pull it tight to staunch the bleeding, but then a
swerve by his horse almost threw him. His cloak
caught on something, tore its pin, and was gone.
Let it go. Forget the blood--he was going to die
anyway. He had to get back in the fight and
die there. No Blade ever ran away. Not one
single Blade had ever run away, not in almost
four hundred years.
  A wagon loomed up unexpectedly,
blocking the trail, its two ponderous cart
horses looking almost as astonished as the driver.
Destrier slid to a halt and reared, bucked a
few times and spun on two feet like a cat.
He took off again. Somehow Quarrel stayed on,
although by all odds he shouldn't have, and every impact
jolted fire from his wound. Now they were going back
to the fight. Except there wouldn't be a fight.
Paragon would have been stunned by the fall
at the very least, if he hadn't broken his neck.
Dragon had shouted to take them both alive, but
a Blade must never let his ward be taken alive
while he lived himself.
  He had failed horribly. Only five
days ago he had been bound to Paragon himself--the
second Durendal, Earl Roland, Lord
Chancellor, the greatest swordsman of the century,
perhaps the greatest ever, Ironhall's most
celebrated son since the first Durendal. Not
since he had been the Brat had he ever dreamed
of an honor like that--Paragon's Blade! He
still had a very clear mental picture of all those
green, green jealous faces at his binding, from
Hereward all the way down to the sopranos, just
drooling at the thought of being bound to Durendal
himself. After only five days he had let his ward
be killed or captured. Back into the fight!
He must die. There could be no life with such
shame, not an hour, not an unnecessary minute.
  There was his cloak in the road, staining the mud
red. Then five horseman ahead, coming after him.
He tried to reach for his sword, and Destrier
took the chance to leave the track altogether. Angry
shouts faded in the background as the big black
pelted across a meadow at full gallop, dodging
willows, dodging boulders. The pursuers shouted
and followed.
  Quarrel doubled up with his head alongside the
horse's sweaty neck to avoid having it
knocked off by branches. He tried not to scream.
He yelled instead. "Turn 'round! Turn
'round! That's twice you've done this to me, you
carrion brute! I've got to fight. I've
got to die with Reason in my hand."
  Destrier raised his ears for the first time since the
gate, appraising the river ahead: steep
banks, foaming white water, sharp rocks.
  "You can't!" Quarrel screamed, then gathered
up the reins and sat into the saddle and did everything
he could to help as the black took wing.
  They made it with about an inch to spare, but it
felt as if they landed on his shoulder and the world swam
in blackness.
  Loss of blood was making him feebleminded,
perhaps. He howled at his horse to turn back, but
Destrier refused. The Guard had balked at that
impossible leap and even at trying to ford the
torrent, which meant that Sir Quarrel, companion
in the Loyal and Ancient Order,
etc., had escaped when he was never supposed
to escape. He would be the first Blade in four
hundred years to run away and leave his ward
to die. Just dying of loss of blood in the woods
would still be a disgrace, if he couldn't do it nearer
his ward. But it would be better than nothing.
  The dog-food horse had found a game
trail to race along.
  If only he were certain that Durendal was
dead! Then he could dismount, unsaddle Destrier,
and happily bleed to death himself. But Dragon had
been shouting to take the fugitives alive.
Human sacrifice--they wanted Paragon so the
King could eat him. First Blade ever to run
away, first Blade to let his ward get eaten.
If they did take him alive, they might not
kill him until they were ready to do the conjuration--
dawn tomorrow.
  Rescue?
  He'd tried to die. If he hadn't been
wounded he could have controlled this worthless hack, and
then he would have died as he was supposed to. It
wasn't his fault that he was alive! But since
he was, wouldn't it be a sensible idea to try and
organize a rescue, just in case his ward was still
alive?
  Who?
  Having lost most of his terror, Destrier was
growing rather tired of all this exertion. He slowed to a
trot, which jarred hot knives into Quarrel's
shoulder. He kicked the brute back into a
canter.
  Who? Who would help a disgraced, wounded,
runaway, cowardly Blade against the King and his
Guard?
  The Queen's men, of course.
  Mad! Crazy! Absurd! They were half the
kingdom away. Delirium.
  He would never reach them. His horse had worn
itself out already. He was still bleeding and covered with
blood, so he'd certainly be challenged and
stopped by somebody. He would die and drop off before
he got close. Even if he made it, he
couldn't possibly convince them and bring them back
before sunrise tomorrow. They wouldn't believe him. The
masters and knights wouldn't let them do anything about
it if they did. They couldn't possibly achieve
anything against the Royal Guard.
  The fires they couldn't! A dozen of the best
swordsmen in the world?
  A time to thrust and a time to parry, Paragon had
said.
  He patted his horse's lathered neck.
  "Home, Destrier," he whispered. "Take
me home."

                  

  It seemed to Durendal that he had achieved a
sort of immortality already, for that morning went
on forever. His guardians would neither speak in his
presence nor let him speak. It was a commentary
on their tortured state of mind that they did not
even fall to playing dice, the Blades'
traditional pastime of last resort. He heard
men being relieved and sent off down to the village
to eat. He heard a meal arriving for the King, because
the royal household could not know that the dying man
had gone off to gallop a horse over the hills.
  He was startled to discover that there was another
reborn in the lodge. A pale-faced man, young
and stringy in servant's livery that seemed too
short for him, came scurrying out of the King's
bedchamber, shot a frightened, wide-eyed gaze at
the prisoner, and disappeared rapidly down the
stairs. It took Durendal several minutes
to realize that it had been Scofflaw, the King's
eternally ancient valet, who wasn't ancient
anymore. The pump down in the kitchen squeaked
for a while, then he came trudging back up with a
metal bucket in either hand. Without looking at
Durendal at all, he placed them on the
dormitory fire to warm, filled two more, and
took those into the bedchamber. Later he went down
to fetch firewood also, but he was no more
talkative in his youth than he had been in his
old age, and rather more obviously short of wits.
  It was past noon when sounds of horses
outside, then new voices down in the
guardroom, caused his guards to break into smiles
of obvious relief. The King had returned
safely.
  Memory: Before he was Durendal, on his
second night in Ironhall, when he had been
very new as the nameless Brat, very lonely, and very
frightened by this strange new life--things had turned
suddenly even worse. He had been informed that he
must participate in a conjuration, not merely with the
exalted Grand Master, but also with Prime
Candidate Montpurse, whom the rest
of the school almost worshiped already, and Crown
Prince Ambrose, who had come to bind Prime
to his personal guard. He'd been almost
thirty, just three years before his father died--a
domineering young giant, fiery and handsome, with
brilliant amber eyes, with hair and beard of
fine-spun red gold. He had filled all
Ironhall with his personality, rousing the
candidates to wild enthusiasm for the glory that would
come when he ascended the throne. He had not
noticed the Brat, and the Brat had been so
afraid of forgetting his lines that he had barely
noticed the Crown Prince.
  Heavy tread came up the stairs. First to enter
was Dragon, hairy and suspicious, a black
bear of a man. He looked the prisoner over and
then stood back beside Spinnaker and the others, his hand
on his sword hilt.
  Durendal stood up, having already decided on
his strategy. Whatever the ethics, Ambrose was
still his liege lord. Outright defiance would be
profitless, while unquestioning deference would not deceive
anyone who knew him as well as the King did.
Between those two extremes, he must be respectful
to the monarch and opposed to his actions. Nothing
new in that.
  In rolled Ambrose, restored to the prime of
manhood, virile and intimidating. There was even
something of that long-ago demigod about him once
again, but the conjuration had not removed his fat, so the
big man was a grotesque parody of what he
should have been. Nor had he yet had time
to acquire a suitable wardrobe. Even allowing
for the predictable horse sweat and grass stains and
general dishevelment, he was an untidy mess,
with clothes bulging in the wrong places and loose
in others. He stopped and stared at Durendal,
fat hands on widespread hips. What he saw
seemed to amuse him.
  Durendal bowed.
  "By the eight, you look old!" The fat man
laughed, but his laugh was heartachingly familiar as
the King's laugh, which no one had heard for almost
two years. It took all the sting out of the remark.
He had his charm back.
  "Your Majesty looks much better."
  The tiny boar's eyes seemed to stab through his
guard and scan his innermost thoughts. "And you are
pleased to see this, Lord Roland?"
  "I rejoice to find you in good health,
sire."
  "But the medicine disturbs you? Long live the
King!" His little mouth puckered in a smile.
"Say it, my lord. Say the words."
  It had not taken him long to demolish
Durendal's defenses and drive him back to that
one place beyond which he could not retreat. The King
is dead, long live the Queen? But that would be
suicide. The Blades were already glaring
dangerously. Bowman had come to join them.
  Durendal said nothing, waiting for the thunderbolts.
  But the King was in excellent humor, chuckling
as if he had expected that reaction. "Come on
in. We need to talk." He began to move, and the
Blades surged forward in a mass. "Not you!"
  Dragon hesitated. Bowman growled,
"Leader!" warningly.
  "This one's dangerous, sire!" the Commander said.
  "Dangerous? That old man? Here!" The King
pulled out his dagger and tossed it hilt-first to the
Commander, who caught it with a catlike flash of his
hand. "There! No weapons. Do you think I can't
handle him now?"
  He was a head taller than Durendal,
twice his weight, thirty years younger.
Chortling, he marched into the bedroom with his former
chancellor slinking at his heels like an aging hound.
Durendal closed the door, although he was certain
that Bowman would eavesdrop through the chinks in the
garderobe wall.
  "Took you long enough to get here!" The King
hauled off his coat, brushing away Scofflaw's
fussy attempts to help him.
  "Was that why you sent me that assignment
warrant, sire? To bring me running?"
  Off came the sweaty shirt, buttons flying.
"I thought it might. You always got loud and
impudent when I tried to give you a Blade.
But this time you accepted. Well, that kept you out of the
Bastion, didn't it? You should have heard Master
Kromman! Blast you, Scofflaw, can't you even
heat a bath properly?"
  The King proceeded to sit down in a copper
basin much too small for his blubbery mass.
Water cascaded over the brim and drained away
between the floorboards.
  "You didn't keep him long, sirrah!
Flaming waste of one of my Blades. Give
me the soap, man! I suppose you think he
belongs in the Litany, when he died
fighting his king? They haven't found his body yet.
Well, he can still serve me when they do!" The
piggy eyes glanced at Durendal, appraising
his reaction to this abomination.
  "Sire, how long have you known that Kromman
knew the ritual?" That was a gamble on the King's
good humor, for monarchs should never be questioned.
  Today he was too pleased with himself to take
offense. "I guessed right away. Surprised you
didn't. Memory enhancement's standard for
inquisitors." Ambrose lathered and splashed
for a moment. "Immortality didn't interest me
much in those days, of course. He brought up the
subject ... oh, about ten years ago, I
suppose. Parliament being stingy voting taxes.
Could have used the gold."
  "That would certainly have saved me from listening to a
lot of boring speeches."
  A throaty chuckle. "Ah, but you wouldn't have
liked the price! I wouldn't pay the price.
Kromman's price was always your head--old
man." The youthful king made an effort to bring one
fat pink foot inside the basin with him and gave
up. "Here, you wash 'em!" Throwing the soapy
flannel at Scofflaw, he leaned back,
sending more torrents into the guardroom. "I wouldn't
buy. Hope you appreciate that, my lord. Ten
years! But Kromman trapped me in the end. I
was dying last time you were here, yes?"
  "Yes."
  "Yes. He couldn't bear to think of the country
falling apart. That mad daughter of mine has no
following except Baelish barbarians and
Chivial would never stand for them. Don't know why
I listened to you when you talked me into sending her off
to live with those savages on their seagull-infested
rocks. There was going to be civil war after me.
Kromman could see that. He wouldn't let the
country suffer."
  Ambrose heaved his bulk out of the basin with a
display of youthful agility, swamping the floor
again and also Scofflaw, who had not been expecting
the move. The valet rushed for towels.
  "Master Kromman has always been loyal
to Your Majesty," Durendal admitted, lacking
any way to deal with the King's readjustment of
facts.
  "Yes, he has. He told the Blades how
they could save my life, right here at
Falconsrest. It was fortunate that we
had an octogram here, already seasoned, and none of
those snoopy sniffers in the house." The King
peered at his audience to see if he was being
believed.
  "And who was the first victim?"
  Ambrose leered with a full set of shiny white
teeth. "A murderer. A highwayman who robbed
and slaughtered travelers. He was hanged at
Stairtown right after Long Night. The Commander and
his men rode over and cut him down. Does this
trouble your conscience, Lord Roland?"
  Durendal shook his head--it didn't if it was
true. But what about Ned, the simpleton? Why
were Blades going mad and killing themselves? "I
suppose they made Kromman try it first?"
  "Oh, of course! When they saw what it did
for him, they slipped a taste of it to me. I
knew what had happened right away. Not that shirt,
you idiot!"
  So Kromman really was one of the reborn! He
had seemed more sprightly than usual on the night
he came to collect the chancellor's chain.
Durendal had noticed but assumed that it was just because
he was having fun.
  The rest was all lies. None of it could have
happened unless the court had come to Falconsrest,
which had certainly been Ambrose's decision.
Dragon was a stolid plodder--loyal as any
Blade, but bereft of imagination. He would never
have obeyed any order from Kromman until he
had cleared it with the King. On his lonely deathbed,
Ambrose IV had sold his soul and agreed
to pay his secretary's price. Now he was lying
about it.
  "So what happens now, Your Majesty? You have
a new chancellor."
  "Not those hose, blockhead! Yes, I do."
The King winked. "But not for long, mm? At the
moment, Master Kromman is in Grandon,
suppressing the White Sisters. Once we've
disposed of them, we can move court back
to Greymere without creating ripples. We don't
need him anymore, do we? The Blades know the
ritual. The only possible source of trouble is
Parliament, and Parliament won't ever tolerate
Kromman. You, they will. Even the Commons trust
you."
  So it was double-cross time. Durendal knew
he ought to be pleased and wondered why he felt so
ill.
  "I'm afraid I still don't understand why you
sent me that warrant, sire."
  The King just grunted, but his piggy eyes flashed
warning. He was afraid of the listeners. And that was
why he had not simply written Durendal a letter
--because he had been prevented. By accepting the
rejuvenation ritual, he had put himself in
Kromman's power. When the Blades had seen the
monster their ward had become, they had feared that the
people would find out and rise up to tear him limb from
limb. Kromman would have played on those fears,
and the King had found himself a prisoner of his own
guard at Falconsrest. It was obvious.
  How had the wily old fox managed to dispatch
even the warrant? Because those warrants were standard
forms and every Blade knew what they looked like. So
the royal rogue must have filled it out and handed it very
innocently to one of the juniors, perhaps even young
Sir Lyon, who would not think to question an
assignment when there were so many seniors waiting at
Ironhall. "Forgot this--just drop it in the
mailbag, will you?" So it had slipped
by Kromman and the Guard. Very simple and very
cunning!
  It had not quite worked. Instead of hammering
horseshoes all the way out to Falconsrest
to demand an explanation, Durendal had accepted
the warrant at face value. But now he was here
anyway. The only difference was a dead boy,
stiffening somewhere out there in the bushes.
  "The other jerkin!" the King snapped. "An
immortal monarch and an immortal chancellor.
Yes, you also, my lord. People don't like upset and
uncertainty. I've been king, and a good king, for as
long as almost anyone remembers." He considered
Durendal carefully. "Don't worry about it.
One mouthful will change your mind. I will see that you
swallow that mouthful--whether you want to or not."
He guffawed. "Tomorrow we may try a little fencing,
Sir Durendal! What do you say to that, mm?"

                  

  A wounded man, covered with blood, riding across
Chivial on a bleak winter's day should have been
stopped by now, or even robbed of his horse and
thrown into a ditch to die. He should have fallen off
a thousand times, for the world came and went behind black
clouds. He kept waking to find Destrier had
languished into a weary walk, so he would
kick him into a canter again. Oh, his stiffening
shoulder hurt! He wasn't even sure of the
way, but Destrier seemed to know it. Faster,
faster!
  He was roused by a whinny, then an answer and
dogs barking. Stupid horse was pacing into a
barnyard. The idiot, carrion brute had
scented a mare or just wanted company. Quarrel
tried to sit up and take charge, but the black
fog swirled closer and drums beat in his head.
Thatched buildings seemed familiar--Destrier
had headed back to the only warm stall he knew
within reach, the last place he'd been given
oats, The Broken Sword.
  "No! No! No!" Quarrel kicked and
tugged on the reins to turn him. Losing his
balance, he slid neatly off the stallion's
back and fell into the waiting arms of the innkeeper
himself, Master Twain.

  He was seated by a fire, wrapped like a parcel
in blankets, drinking something very hot with soup and
brandy in it, and being told to finish his story. His
arm had been trussed in an old enchanted bandage
that had belonged to the Guard once, very long ago, but
ought to have some power remaining, Sir Byless said.
Sir Byless kept shouting at the pregnant
woman, who shouted back, and the younger man, who was
twice his size, and the children, who were wailing in
terror.
  "Father, you're crazy!" the younger man said.
"He's bled dry; he's in terrible pain.
He's in shock and doesn't know what he's
talking about. Put him to bed and get a healer here
right away and he may just possibly have a chance.
Let him back on that horse and he won't go a
mile. You're going to kill him!"
  Sir Byless threw a platter at him--which he
dodged--and yelled at him to get the mounts ready
and yelled at his daughter to warm those clothes before the
lad put them on and yelled at the brats to shut
up. He kicked a dog out of the way, making it
yowl to frighten the children even more. The boy was a
Blade, he screamed, tough as steel. More soup,
wool socks. Keep talking, lad.
  Could this twitching, slobbering old wreck really
have been a Blade once upon a time?
Durendal's own Second? Paragon had said
so, and Byless himself had confirmed it--do anything for
Lord Roland, he said, and bugger the rest
of them. He had tufts of white hair sticking out
everywhere. His eyes rolled and he slobbered and he
was never still, never quiet. Keep talking, lad!
His clothes were a rummage of mismatched
patches, far from clean, far short of his bony
wrists and ankles.
  Quarrel swallowed, burning his throat. His
head seemed to be spinning faster and faster; it must
fall off soon. He was so weak he kept
weeping. "Did I tell you they're going to eat
him?"
  "Aye, that you did. Doesn't surprise
me. Nothing would surprise me about that gang of
brutes. Or that fat criminal who runs them.
Bring the lad more soup, I say! Makes up the
blood he lost. Let me get those boots
off." He hurled the empty brandy bottle at
the younger man, who dodged it as if he had had much
practice. "Thomas Peeson, you will do as
you're told or you will get your hulking carcass out
of my house and take all your ugly spawn with
you! Now saddle up the gelding for me and Sir
Quarrel's black and be quick about it. We leave
in three minutes or I take the horsewhip
to you."

                  

  Bowman spent the afternoon down in the village--
talking, listening, and frequently confirming that,
yes, His Majesty's health was much improved, and
yes, he did intend to come down there that evening and
eat a meal in court. Yesterday's summoning of the
doctors and their subsequent dismissal before they
had a chance to examine their patient had been a
master stroke, a brilliant preparation for the grand
reappearance. Rumors of the miraculous
recovery would have spread as far as Grandon already.
Tomorrow there would be bells ringing. Kromman had
orchestrated it all.
  Still, this evening's visit would need very careful
supervision. First, the King must be restrained from
making his entry too early, while he was still
visibly too young. Secondly, he would have to be
hustled away before he became too obviously
old. Kromman had suggested keeping him in as
small a room as possible and circulating the
audience through, but Ambrose never took kindly
to being managed. Tonight he would be his own worst
danger--he would glory in all the
praise and attention and want to stay on till
dawn. People would certainly notice when his hair and
teeth began falling out.
  Toward sunset, the deputy commander returned
to the lodge and went in search of Dragon.
Doubtless the Commander would be a solid performer at
massacre and mayhem. He was a stickler for
detail and never argued with the King, but when it came
to subtlety he couldn't draw his sword without
gelding himself. That was why Secretary Kromman
had brought Bowman out from Grandon to take charge
here. He had not believed a word of the story until
the following sunrise, when he had seen three
fading geriatrics transformed into kids again. The
King, Kromman, and the valet--just three so far,
but if the King had rewarded a mere sock washer with
eternal youth, then he would certainly confer it on
a faithful bodyguard when the need arose.
  Dragon was in the dormitory, staring
morosely into the fire. Half a dozen other
Blades sprawled around the room, not talking, not
playing dice, just brooding. It was not good enough.
They were all bound by oath and conjuration to preserve
their ward. They had always known, every one of them, that this
might involve killing. Why should they suffer from
scruples now?
  Paragon lay stretched out near the fire,
apparently asleep--which in itself was a chilling
demonstration that old age had not blunted his nerve
yet, for he must be aware of his peril. His wits
were still sharp enough. He was Danger Number One
at the moment.
  Bowman caught Dragon's eye and beckoned
with a nod of his head. Frowning, the Commander rose and
followed. Bowman clattered down the stairs to the
guardroom, but that was under the King's chamber. All
the walls and ceilings had more gaps than picket
fences--there was nowhere safe to talk in the lodge.
He went outside in the twilight and then around the
corner, out of the wind.
  "What by the eight is eating you?" Dragon
demanded grumpily.
  "They didn't find the kid's body, did
they?"
  "No."
  "So who do we serve up tomorrow?"
  The Commander tugged at his beard. "Lyon, I
suppose. Poxy little coward. It's what he
wanted."
  "What does the Fat Man say?"
  Dragon winced and glanced at the nearest
window, which was safely closed. "He says
Kromman."
  Bowman had expected that. "Why?"
  "Says he's getting too big for his
britches. Says Paragon's the better man and
he can't keep both of them any longer or they'll
tear the place down between them. At each other's
throats, he says. He needs Paragon
to handle Parliament, he thinks."
  "He's a fool."
  Dragon did not argue. He pulled his
cloak tighter around him and stared at the moon
sailing through the silver clouds. Lights were
twinkling in the village, where the great feast for His
Majesty was being prepared.
  Bowman said, "Durendal doesn't approve
of the new arrangement."
  "I'm not sure I do."
  "But you got no choice. Nor I. He
does."
  "He won't when we feed him the meat. King
says that'll change his mind."
  "But will it? King has a blind spot when it comes
to Paragon. Maybe you do, too?"
  Dragon turned quickly, showing anger. "What
are you implying?"
  "Would you die for a cause?"
  "Die for my ward if I have to."
  "Yes, but for a cause? A moral
principle? Never mind. I don't care if you
would or not. I don't know if I would. But I
think Durendal would. Even if he discovers
he's twenty again and can go on becoming twenty again
every sunrise for a thousand years--he'll give all
that up if he has to, won't he? If he
thinks it's wrong? Why do the kids all call
him Paragon?"
  "Same reason I do, I suppose."
Dragon did not understand rhetorical questions.
  "So let's play it safe. Who do we serve
up tomorrow?"
  After a long pause, the Commander said,
"Paragon."
  "I'll see to it." Bowman turned to go.
  Dragon shouted, "Not yet! Wait and make
sure Kromman gets back safely."
  "Right," said Bowman. "Good idea." The
Secretary would want to watch, anyway.
                                  
                  

  Marie began having hysterics again, and Cook
slapped her face again. Quarrel had been
carried in by Master Caplin and Pardon the
hostler, and was now lying on a couch by candlelight with
Cook holding a mug of something to his lips. It
tasted like scorched milk. Mad Sir Byless had
collapsed in a chair near the fireplace, all
wet rags and tufts of white hair and slobber.
  "We've sent for a healer, Sir Quarrel,"
the fat steward said. "Pardon's gone to fetch a
healer."
  Panic deadened the awful pain of weariness for a
moment. "No! Tell him, need horses.
Paragon in danger." He saw the blank
looks, fought for strength to explain again. "Told
you--Durendal. His lordship. Got to rescue
him. Need the book. Just came for the book. Go
on." He drank again, greedily. The doublet
Sir Byless had given him was so stiff with blood
that it crackled with his every move.
  "Stop Pardon!" Caplin said, sending Gwen
running. "Go where, Sir Quarrel?"
  "Ironhall. Take them the book. Rescue
Paragon." He grabbed the steward's soft arm and
squeezed. "He'll die! Got to rescue
him!"
  "He's out of his mind!" Cook protested.
"And that other one ..." She scowled at the
prostrate Sir Byless. "Go on? Tonight?
Blathers! They're neither of them fit to go another
step."
  "I'm sure Sir Quarrel will," Caplin
said. "He's a Blade, has no choice. We
don't have a coach, lad. I can borrow one, but
it may take time."
  "No time. Need horse."
  "It'll kill him!" Marie screamed.
  Caplin told her to be silent and bring the
first-aid box. "Pardon, saddle two horses.
Is your friend going on with you, Sir Quarrel?"
  Byless lifted his head and rolled his eyes in every
direction. "Course I'm going with him!" he
screeched hoarsely. "Just a tick weary. Got
any brandy? I'm sure my old friend Durendal
keeps some good brandy handy!"
  "Sir Byless," Quarrel explained, although
he thought he must have done so already. "Was Par--
his lordship's Second at
Ironhall."
  Caplin seemed to conjure a bottle of brandy
out of the air. He handed it to the visitor without even
suggesting a glass. Byless tipped it to his
mouth.
  "We have a conjurement for wounds, Sir
Quarrel, but you've lost a great deal of blood.
Never seen anyone so white. Cook, some hot
broth, please--quickly! What book? Gwen,
bandages, clean clothes."
  They lifted him back into a saddle--
Twosocks, this time, not Destrier. Sir Byless
managed to mount Patches with some help from
Pardon. Quarrel took the reins in his good hand
and led the way out of the yard.

                  

  As Dragon and Bowman headed back inside,
Durendal quietly closed the window. He had
heard few of the actual words, but the mood had
been obvious--and so had the intended victim. He
was in more danger from the Guard now than he was from either
the King or Kromman. He went back to the
hearth. None of the Blades showed any interest in
his actions as long as he stayed away from the stair
and the King's bedroom. Dragon returned,
looking windswept and chilled.
  About ten minutes later, Scofflaw appeared
and approached Durendal in a crabwise
shuffle, wearing an expression of extreme
alarm. He had lost his youth, and wisps of
loose hair on his shoulders suggested that he was
rapidly going bald under his hat. Also, his stoop
and wrinkles were starting to return. He opened and
closed his mouth a few times.
  "The King wants me?"
  Eager nod. The valet turned and shuffled off
again, while still contriving to watch Durendal and
make sure he was coming. The faithful half-wit
had given his king lifelong devotion, so now his
life had been extended indefinitely. A new
order of chivalry--the Cannibal Companions.
  Durendal followed. Most of his aches and
scrapes had gone now, banished by the healing; but
he felt badly off balance, missing the weight
of the sword he had borne for thirty-seven
years. He went into the King's room and closed the
door behind him. Scofflaw was already down on his
rug in the corner like a spaniel.
  All afternoon, Ambrose had been rummaging through
papers that Kromman had brought from Greymere the
previous day, probably just to keep him
occupied. Every hour or so, the King had sent for his
previous chancellor to question something. Now he was standing
in the brightness below a chandelier of a score of
candles, reading a sheet of parchment. He had aged
uncannily since morning--hair and beard
gray, breath wheezing. His ulcer had not
reappeared, though.
  He shot his visitor a suspicious
sidelong glance. "You were keeping things from me!"
  "Nothing important, sire."
  "Ha! How about this? Gaylea wants to marry
this ward of his. He's thirty years older than
she is, or I'm a chicken. But you've been
sitting on his petition for two months--and he's
a duke! You still bearing a grudge against him because of
that King's Cup thing?"
  "I won, remember?"
  "He can deliver a lot of votes in
Parliament."
  "That's why I was sitting on his petition. You
always told me that want was stronger than
gratitude."
  Ambrose grunted. "So I did." He
threw that document down on the littered bed and
took up another to query. The audience continued.
His wits were as sharp as ever. It was almost like old
times.
  Finally he abandoned the papers and began pacing
back and forth. "Your attitude displeases me.
I've been a good king so far."
  "A very fine one, sire."
  "And that crazy daughter of mine knows nothing!
She's been shut away for twenty years on those
islands, breeding barbarians. She's not capable of
running a civilized kingdom. Everything will go
to pieces." He waited for an answer. Not
getting one, he turned his full royal scowl
on his former chancellor. "Well? You deny it?"
  "She may make mistakes at first. So did
you. Isn't she entitled to her turn, just as you
were?"
  The King's face darkened. "Not now we have a
better alternative. Now a good king can continue
to be a good king forever. What troubles you? You think
I'm planning to hunt down innocent people and
slaughter my loyal subjects? Nonsense!
Felons, convicts--that's the answer!
Kromman estimates that more than two thousand men
are hanged in Chivial every year. What you will do,
my lord, is explain to Parliament that we have a
new conjuration to turn their bones into gold. The
corpses will henceforth belong to the crown. Simple,
yes? You won't need to mention rejuvenation yet.
That can leak out gradually. I think the Commons will
be pleased to hear that their beloved prince is about
to abolish taxation altogether, don't you?"
  "I expect they'll be happy for a year or
two." Durendal thought of that cellar in
Samarinda. "After that your gold will be as common as
sewage and worth less."
  "Bah! Details! The country will benefit.
If it's that pretty wife of yours who's
worrying you, then we can include her. What other
persnickety complaints have you got?"
  "Two, sire. First, mortal men won't
take kindly to being ruled by an immortal. I
don't think the country will stand for it."
  "The country can eat dirt. What's the
second?"
  "Change, sire. Variety. New blood.
Anything can go on too long. People go stale, even
kings. Even kings who eat human flesh."
  "Spirits! I could have your head for that!"
  "Then take it. I would sooner die than
watch Chivial wither under a permanent tyranny."
Durendal could imagine what the listeners in the
garderobe would make of that remark.
  The King dropped his voice to a needling
whisper. "Well I shan't give you that
pleasure! At dawn you will be reborn too and
then we'll see how you feel about life and death.
You've been a good chancellor, I admit--best
I ever had--and you can damned well go on being a
good chancellor till the sun cools. Get out of
here!"
  Durendal went back out to the dormitory. The
King thought rejuvenation would change his mind and
restore his loyalty. He hoped it wouldn't.
He did not think Kromman and the Guard would
give either of them the chance to find out.

                  

  The last many hours were a blank. He had been
riding in a daze, letting Byless find the road,
letting Twosocks follow Patches. Poor
brutes were staggering, but they had come
to Ironhall now. The lights were out. Of course.
It was after midnight.
  Quarrel roused himself. He was freezing, ice
to the core. "That window. Throw rocks." He was
too weak to sit straight in the saddle. He was
one agony from top to toe and the world was going up and
down, up and down. Twosocks had come to a stop,
head down in exhaustion.
  "Think I don't know the seniors' nursery?"
Byless mumbled.
  He fell flat on the ground when he dismounted,
and he needed four attempts to hit a casement.
Glass shattered. A moment later a face
appeared--Bloodhand's unfortunately, but then
Hereward was there beside him.
  "Quarrel," Quarrel said. "Need the
Queen's men. Rescue Paragon."

  Somehow they carried him into the dormitory without
waking any of the masters, the servants, the
knights, or even the juniors; and they laid him
on a bed. They reluctantly let Byless
accompany him, goggling at the idea that this
filthy, staggering scarecrow had been Second
to Paragon, as if Paragon hadn't needed a
Second like any other Blade. Byless flopped
down on the nearest bed and was asleep at once.
  A dozen of them gathered around in the candlelight,
most of them half naked, rubbing their eyes and
stretching. Someone fetched a few fuzzies who
ought to be seniors but were being held back.
Quarrel flogged his brain awake to explain as
much as he must: the King locked away in
Falconsrest, Samarinda, the book,
Paragon's secret mission before they were born--which
everyone had heard of but knew nothing about--
Wolfbiter likewise ... terrible conjuration,
eating human flesh, evil Kromman, the King
changed into a monster, dispossess the Queen,
rescue Paragon. His voice would die away in
a croak, and they'd give him another drink and
he would go on. A couple of them read rapidly
through the book.
  "He's raving," Crystal said.
  "He didn't cut his shoulder himself," said
Hereward, red brows clenched down in a frown.
  Another voice. "Paragon's book confirms
what he's saying."
  "Paragon must have needed a Blade for something,
after all these years." That was Crystal,
who was Second now.
  "He's an old man," Willow suggested.
  "He beat you at rapiers, didn't he?"
  Passington next. "If we try anything like
this, they'll fart the lot of us."
  "Queen's men," Quarrel whispered.
"Won't ever be a Queen."
  "You left your ward in a fight?" That was
Bloodhand, who was a dog's backside.
  He explained again about Destrier bolting and him
being wounded and Paragon thrown and Dragon wanting
him alive. And eating human flesh.
  "Got go," he said, heaving himself upright. The
room spun and would not steady. "You come or not, I
got be there a' dawn." He had been dreaming--
they weren't companions like him, just kids. They
hadn't had the sword through the heart, the final
forging. But they were all he had or could have had, because
they weren't bound to the King and all other Blades
were.
  "I'll come with you," Hereward announced, "for
Paragon. Anyone else wants to come, stay
close. The rest go back to the wall there."
  One or two began to move away. Then they
shuffled closer again. All of them. The Queen's
men. Quarrel wept with impatience while they
dragged on clothes and slung on their swords and
planned how they would break into the stables.
Falconsrest was hours and hours away and the night
was flying.

                  

  The King's coach arrived an hour or so before
midnight to transport him down to the village.
Most of the Blades went with him, but three
remained behind to guard Lord Roland and the despised
Lyon. Durendal slept, making up for two
sleepless nights. The weather turned stormy,
rattling the casements and blowing smoke from the
fireplace.
  The King's return seemed to fill the whole
lodge with noisy men, laughing and joking.
Obviously the public appearance had been a
great success.
  Dragon and Bowman helped the aging monarch
up the stairs. His bulk was as great as ever, yet
softer and flabbier now. His head was bald, his
white beard wispy, and he had trouble walking,
even while leaning on the Commander's
shoulder. At a guess, he was the equivalent of
about eighty. He paused to catch his breath at the
top of the stairs, rasping like a water mill.
  "Chancellor Kromman back yet?"
  "No, Your Majesty." Bowman shouted, as
if the King were now hard of hearing.
  "He's late! Send some men out to look for
him."
  "It's a nasty night, sire. I expect
that's slowed him."
  The antiquated monarch mumbled toothlessly.
"What time is it?"
  "About three hours until dawn, sire."
  "Get the octogram ready. I need some
sleep first, but remember to wake me in plenty of
time."
  "So's we can carry you down as usual?"
muttered a resentful voice in the shadows, but the
King did not hear. He lurched into his chamber,
leaning on the doorjamb as he went through.
Dragon followed, closing the door.
  "What does he look like by dawn?"
Durendal inquired of the dim room.
  "Like a dead pig," someone said.
  In a while the Commander came out of the other
room, having presumably tucked His Majesty
into bed. He disappeared downstairs. Half a
dozen men remained, sitting around the dormitory,
exchanging comments on the night's events. They were
vastly more cheerful than they had been all day,
confident that the deception had been successful and
might continue to be so in future. Gradually they
fell silent, waiting for dawn and the daily
conjuration. Young Sir Lyon cowered alone in a
corner, ignored and terrified. The pump
squeaked in the kitchen below as men attended to their
toilet.
  Durendal wandered over to the fire and stacked more
logs on it. The watchers watched, but none
objected. He had slept on his problem and found
an answer--not a very satisfying one, but one that his
conscience would accept.
  Even now, he could not kill the King outright.
After a lifetime of service, that was an impossible
thought. But he could block another rejuvenation--he
was certain he could bring himself to do that much, and he
knew how to achieve it. He might be choosing a
particularly horrible death for himself, but he was going
to die anyway, as soon as Kromman
returned.
  The conjuration was evil. True, the use of
convicted felons was more acceptable than the
Samarinda swordsman lottery. A hanged
man had no use for his corpse, and the rotting
bodies that dangled from gibbets all over
Chivial were disgusting eyesores. True,
Ambrose was a fine ruler and might continue
to rule well for many years--unless immortality
changed him. It had changed Everman. Equally
true, his daughter was an unknown quantity.
Durendal bore no especial love for
Princess Malinda, nor any great personal
loyalty either.
  So why did he feel he must play traitor
now and destroy his king? Who was he to oppose this
grand scheme? Was he wrong to think it wrong?
No, for he had one advantage no one else
had--he had seen the evil in full flower in
Samarinda. He wished he could discuss it with
Kate and benefit from her practical common
sense, but he was sure she would agree with him.
Kate could not even tolerate healing, so it was not
surprising that the rejuvenation conjurement repelled
her so strongly. In a strangely perverted
sense, that was another advantage he had. He
could not be tempted by rebirth when she could not share
it.
  No, the answer lay in something Grand Master
had said to him when he went back to Ironhall:
"We'll all be the Queen's men one day, I
expect. The bindings translate, because we
swore allegiance to him and his heirs."
  Several times in his life, Durendal had
sworn to be true to Ambrose IV, his heirs
and successors. That Ambrose was dead. The
person who inhabited his body was someone else,
an imposter who looked like Ambrose, talked like
Ambrose, and wore the crown that ought now
to descend to the Princess and eventually one of her
sons. This was slippery huckster talk, not the
sort of creed a former Blade should follow, but his
conscience needed a crutch.
  The fire was starting to crackle and blaze
brighter. Then a thumping of hooves and a rattling
...
  "The spider's back," a Blade muttered.
  Durendal rose. All eyes turned on
him, but the prisoner walked away from the stair and the
royal bedchamber, over to a window. He peered
out. The carriage he had seen depart that
morning squeaked to a stop below him, its two
lamps casting a bleary light through blowing snow--the
ground was coated white already. A couple of
Blades emerged from the lodge to greet it. They
opened its door and pulled down the steps.
  Kromman would be as old as the King, now. He
would probably have to be carried in. No.
Surprisingly, the black-clad figure was coming
out by himself, teetering unsteadily and not using his left
arm. He kept his head down, hardly showing his
milk-white face between his collar and his hat. He
reached the ground, staggered, and recovered, pushing
away an offer of help. A man in Guard
livery appeared behind him.
  The two outriders had dismounted. Three
footmen leaped down from the back of the coach, the
driver and another from the bench. The King's men
shouted and reached for their swords, and the newcomers
jumped them, bearing them to the ground. More passengers
sprang out of the coach, others were emerging on the far
side and running around. Several raced for the door
of the lodge.
  Whatever was going on, that was not Kromman who
had arrived, and obviously it was time for Durendal
to make his move. He took three swift
strides to the fireplace and grabbed up the tongs.
He lifted a glowing log and hurled it across the
room to land in a cascade of sparks. Then
another. Blades leaped up with howls of fury and
shock. Another, another ... A sword came
flashing toward him and he parried it with the tongs:
Clang!
  "Stop him!"
  "Never mind him--help me here!" shouted
another.
  "Fire!" roared another.
  Bedding was bursting into flames all over the
room, spewing smoke and a reek of burning
feathers. Men dived on the blazes, trying to smother
them with blankets, but Torquil and Martin drew
and lunged at Durendal. He parried them both,
tongs in one hand and poker in the other, standing at
bay with the fireplace at his back. Clang!
Clang! This was going to be it--once he might
have had a chance against two, but not these days. Not
unarmed. Clang! How many strokes could he
survive?
  "Leave me, you fools!" he shouted at them.
"Save the King!"
  His assailants were too intent on
vengeance to listen. Clang!--close one. Then
Lyon smothered Martin from behind with a blanket over his
head, dragging him down to the floor. Startled,
Torquil let his attention waver; Durendal
cracked the poker down on his sword hand and heard
bones break. Torquil screamed.
  "Thanks, lad!" Durendal raised his
voice. "Everyone save the King!"
  Coughing, spluttering, frantic Blades were
trying to stuff burning quilts and mattresses out
through the windows. The wind blew flames back in
their faces. But Bowman had hurled open the
door to the King's room and disappeared inside.
Others followed.
  Durendal stumbled, choking, to the stair. Lyon
dived ahead of him, making his escape. They went
down the precipice in a slithering rush and ended
on the guardroom floor. Half a dozen more
Blades were trying to fight their way out through the
invaders, but there was room for only two at a time
in the doorway. Whoever the newcomers were, they
had efficiently caught the Royal Guard with their
pants down--literally so in a couple of cases
--and bottled them up in the lodge.
  "Fire!" Durendal scrambled painfully
to his feet. He wanted only to make the
octogram unusable, not burn anyone to death.
"The lodge is on fire! Save the King!"
  The Blades spun around and ran past him, up
the stairs, all except the pair battling in the
entrance.
  "Put up your swords!" he roared. "In the
King's name, put up your swords, all of you!
Stand aside and let me deal with them."
  The defenders stepped back, and he took their
place, peering through the whirling snowflakes at a
dozen unknown and inexplicable swordsmen.
  Their leader shouted, "Come out with your hands up!"
  Durendal dropped the tongs and raised his
hands. "No more fighting! We must let them
rescue the King. Put up your swords, I
say!"
  "It's Paragon!" a voice cried.
  Overhead, part of the roof collapsed, blasting
flames skyward and making the scene bright as
noontime. Coughing, he emerged into the storm. He
wiped his streaming eyes and then stared with stunned
disbelief at the stocky boy clutching the
scimitar. He had lost his hat, and his red hair
shone like gold in the light from the blaze.
  "Hereward!"
  "Lord Roland!"
  He looked around at all the other youthful,
nervily grinning faces, and knew he was seeing the
seniors from Ironhall. Fire and death!
What were they doing here, battling the Royal
Guard?
  "We came to rescue you, my lord," Hereward
said. "Looks like we arrived just in time." He
laughed. "Stand clear of the door there."
  Durendal obeyed and impudent hands thumped his
shoulder as he went by. Two bodies lay in the
snow--dead or unconscious? More of the roof
collapsed. The horses panicked at the
flames and smoke, taking the coach off with a rush
into the night. A moment later it overturned on the
hill in a rending crash and screams of terror from
the team.
  "My lord!" croaked a voice. The
counterfeit Kromman lurched forward, a flutter
of black garments and a white face, one arm in a
sling. By the eight, it was Quarrel! He
fell into his ward's arms and buckled.
  Durendal hugged him, taking his weight, although
he seemed to weigh nothing at all. "You're
alive!" Blasted stupid thing to say! And was it
even true? How could any man look like that white
skull and live? "You're hurt!"
  "Been hurt a long time," Quarrel
whispered. "You all right?"
  "I'm fine. But what happened?"
  "Went for help. Got the Queen's men."
He tried to smile.
  Durendal lowered him to the ground and knelt there,
supporting his shoulders. "Ironhall? You rode
there and back?" That was not humanly possible, and
yet a dozen boyish faces were grinning proudly
down at him from man height all around. Even with the
benefit of surprise, who else could have given the
Guard a fight? They seemed to be waiting for his
orders.
  "Let the Guard out. Disarm them, though."
  "We're doing that, my lord," Hereward said.
  Choking and blinded men were staggering from the lodge,
being expertly overpowered and stripped of swords and
daggers before they could recover enough to object. The
stone shell was an inferno, white fire showing through
every window, half the roof gone. Harvest was in there
somewhere.
  A cheer greeted a band of Blades
struggling out of the lodge with a bulky package that was
presumably the King. That seemed to be the end of
it. Anyone left inside would be dead now, for the
floor beams were collapsing. The shed, too, was
ablaze, but someone had released the horses.
  "My lord?" Quarrel whispered. "Did I do
right?" The snow was clinging to his eyebrows and
hair.
  "Yes, yes! You're a champion! You saved
the day! You made idiots of the Guard.
Magnificent! You go on the Litany of
Heroes tomorrow."
  "Got something for you ..." Quarrel groped at
his soiled robe.
  "It can wait," Durendal said, still cradling his
Blade's head.
  Evidently it couldn't, so he reached where the
powerless hand fumbled, and in the pocket found a
loose collection of cold ...? Cold links!
He hauled out the lord chancellor's chain of
office, glittering like a fiery snake.
  "Your gold chain," Quarrel mumbled.
"Yours."
  Not ever again, but that did not matter. "Thank you.
I'll keep it safe." Durendal looked to one
lanky youth and groped mentally for his name.
"Willow, we must get a healer for him. Run
down to the village and ..." But a healer could do very
little without a conjuration, and the octogram was under the
blaze. He shuddered as he realized that his terrible
act had probably killed Quarrel. "No,
we'll have to take him to Stairtown."
  The Queen's men exchanged worried glances.
  Hereward said, "And the King, my lord? The
companions want their swords back."
  "No! No! Don't return them yet." The
emergency was far from over. There might still be time for the
Guard to rush the King to another octogram, although
shouts from the trail meant a hundred witnesses were
on their way. He could not imagine what sort of
confusion was about to result, what sort of charges and
countercharges would fly. More necks than his would be
laid on the block over this night's events, but
the fewer the better.
  "Look, Prime, I think you should all
disappear now. Take the Guards' swords with you,
but go. You did what you set out to do--you and your
army. I'm proud of you all. And I'm
especially proud of ... Quarrel? Quarrel!"
  Willow knelt in the snow and felt
for a pulse. He did not find one. "I'm not
surprised, my lord. It was only his binding that
kept him going. I think the rest of him died
hours ago."
  No, it was not a surprise, but it hurt.
Oh, how it hurt! In cold dismay, Durendal
laid the body flat. He closed the empty
eyes and folded the hands over the chest. There were
too many things to do now to spare time for mourning. Far
too many things. He had already believed Quarrel
dead, so why did it hurt so much more the second
time? If only he could have had a son like ...
  An animal scream howled through the night and was
instantly joined by others. He lurched to his
feet as the Blades began to rampage.

  The hero of the hour was Candidate Crystal, who
had been left with Bloodhand to guard the
confiscated swords. When he saw the inanimate
baggage that was the King being hustled out, he had the
wit to gather up the weapons and hurl them through a
window into the burning lodge.
  Compared to some former massacres, such as the
Blade Riot after the death of Goisbert IV,
the resulting battle was a brief and minor
affair. Less than a dozen of the Royal
Guard were still active, and they were all unarmed.
Even so, the fifteen Ironhall seniors on
hand were boys against madmen, reluctant to use
steel on unarmed opponents. Three of them went
down before Hereward and Durendal rallied the rest
and convinced them that this was a life-and-death matter.
  Lord Roland was the obvious target, of course.
The berserkers swarmed at him like starving weasels,
intent on tearing him to pieces, and he could do
nothing except hide behind his youthful defenders.
Eventually he gained a sword from one of the wounded,
but by that time most of the Blades had been disabled and
had collapsed into pathetic, weeping impotence.
The last one to fall was Bowman, stabbed through the
thigh. The brief horror was over. The Queen's
men had prevented catastrophe. For that, at
least, they could claim credit at their trial.
  Feeling drained and deathly weary, Durendal
went over to look at the King in the fading
firelight. The courtiers had all fled into the
night, but now they started creeping back like ants
to a picnic, and most of them came to where he
stood, to gaze like him in silent disbelief at the
remains of the man who had ruled
Chivial for so long. He seemed peaceful and very
old, although probably not so impossibly old that
anyone would suspect enchantment. The body bore
no signs of burns or injuries, so either the
smoke had killed him or his heart had given out
as he was being rescued. Perhaps Ambrose, who had
never feared anything, had died of fright. There were
to be no last farewells, no harsh words of
recrimination. The King is dead. I did this,
Durendal thought. I killed my king. Whatever
happened now, life would never be the same.
  Snow was drifting around the corpse already. The
storm was rapidly becoming a blizzard. Why was
nobody taking charge? He had no authority.
He just wanted to go away and weep, but someone must
restore order. He recognized the fussy
healer who had treated him in the lodge.
  "You! Gather a work party and take His
Majesty's body down to the village."
  The little man jumped as if he had been
asleep. "Oh, of course, my lord. Here! You
... and you ..."
  Feeling that all his bones had been turned
to lead, Durendal plodded back to the swordsmen.
The Queen's men were busy helping the Blades,
wrapping on makeshift bandages, offering what
comfort they could.
  There was someone missing.
  "Willow? Where is the Chancellor Kromman
--does anyone know?"
  "Oh!" said Willow, looking all around.
"He was in the carriage, my lord. Quarrel
recognized it and we stopped it. His guards got
hurt, but they'll live. We left them at a
farmhouse and brought him--tied up, my lord."
  The coach was a heap of wreckage, so
Kromman was very likely dead already. He would have
to wait.
  A kingless court was a headless animal. Still
everyone else was waiting for leadership. Durendal
drew a deep breath and bellowed over the hubbub.
"The King is dead! Long live the Queen!"
  The Ironhall candidates shouted approval.
"Long live Queen Malinda!" Courtiers
took up the cry.
  Dragon was sitting in the snow, recovering from a
blow to the head. His face was sooty and bloodied,
his doublet scorched; he had lost much of his great
beard, but sanity was back in his eyes again.
  "Are you ready for duty, Leader?"
  He nodded grimly. "But I don't take
orders from you."
  "I'm not trying to give orders, only
advice. It may be weeks before the Queen can
get here. There is no Parliament, for it dies
with the sovereign and a new one must be summoned.
There is no chancellor, for even if Kromman
is still alive, he cannot live past dawn. I was
officially dismissed, and your duty now is
probably to see me locked up in the Bastion.
Just at the moment, Leader, you are the government of
Chivial."
  The Queen's men reacted with snarls of
disapproval. Hereward raised his scimitar,
looking almost furious enough to use it. A youthful
voice shouted, "Paragon!"
  "Put that damned scythe away before you hurt
somebody!" Durendal bellowed. "Thank you!
Commander Dragon is in charge. All I can do
is advise."
  Courtiers were crowding in, eager to meddle and
participate in historical events. Soon there
might be far too many leaders. But Dragon
wiped a sleeve over his forehead and clambered
to his feet with some help from Hereward.
  "I'd appreciate your advice, my lord.
We must arrange for the body to be conveyed back
to Grandon."
  He was still confused. Dragon was not the man for
this. Durendal explained patiently, "No,
Commander. Normally the first priority would be
to escort the King's heir to Greymere so that she
could prevent a massacre when the rest of the
Blades hear the news. As that isn't possible,
I suggest you head for Grandon with as many men as you
can spare and disarm them one at a time. When old
King Everard died they did that. Catch each man
in turn in a net and have a dozen others around him
shouting, "Long live the Queen!" until he
comes out of shock and joins in."
  Dragon scowled. "It's my privilege
to take the King's signet to Her Majesty and
inform her of her accession!"
  What better way for a courtier to gain
advancement from a new monarch? The messenger who
delivered such tidings could expect an earldom
at the very least. But give Dragon the benefit
of the doubt--his binding must be burning like a rash,
driving him to find his new ward.
  "You going to walk to the Fire Lands?"
Bowman limped forward out of the flying snow, leaning
heavily on Spinnaker's shoulder. "No ships
sail in Firstmoon." Here was competence, even
if he was misinformed on that last point.
  "Yes, it is your right," Durendal told
Dragon. "And Baels can sail in any weather.
There's one of their ships standing by in Lomouth for just
this purpose. The captain's name is
Ealdabeard. The harbor master will direct you
to him."
  "Oh?" Bowman asked with quiet menace.
"And how do you know all this, Lord Roland?"
  "Because I arranged it with the Baelish
ambassador months ago, of course. We
knew something like this might happen. Ealdabeard will
get you to Baelmark if anyone can, Leader. In
fact, if you leave right now you may just be able
to catch the tide."
  Fortunately Dragon did not ask how
Durendal could possibly know how long the ride
would take him in this weather or when the tides ran
in Lomouth. He merely said, "Take charge
here, Deputy," and disappeared into the snowstorm.
  Durendal turned hopefully to Bowman.
  "Got advice for me, too, have you?" the
Blade inquired sarcastically.
  "If you want it."
  "Let's hear it."
  "First, seal this valley behind you so nobody
gets out for at least three days. The snow will
help. When you get to Grandon, find the Lord
Chamberlain or the Earl Marshall. The King's
will is in Chancery, in the top drawer of the crown
chest." Neither Ambrose nor Kromman should have
seen any reason to meddle with it in the last few
days. "It provides for a council of regency
until the new queen can arrive to take the oath.
Here--" He held out the gilded chain that
Quarrel had died for. "Give them this."
  Bowman took it as if he were afraid it
might bite him. It certainly did its wearers
little good in the long run. Apparently he was going
to do as Durendal had suggested.
  "Meanwhile," Durendal said, "half your men
are disabled. I suggest you put these admirable
youngsters under your orders for the time being."
  The Deputy Commander glowered at the
self-styled Queen's men. They grinned
cockily back at him.
  "Even if they have written an epic
chapter in the annals of Ironhall,"
Durendal added, "they are probably in no
hurry to go home and face Grand Master."
  Cockiness became apprehension, and grins
worried glances.
  "Good idea," Bowman said. "You're all
conscripted. You can start by giving us your swords."

  It was over. Now a man could break out in a
sweat and shiver. Durendal wandered off into the
darkness to be alone.
  The trouble had barely begun. And there were still
loose ends. What of young Lyon, who had been
only the first man to save his life this night? Where
had he run off to? Where was poor Scofflaw?
Had anyone rescued him? Even if he had
escaped the fire, he would die when the sun came
up. The rippling circles of tragedy would
continue to spread. But none of that was his concern now.
  Kromman. What about Kromman?

                  

  The carriage was a heap of twisted wreckage
lying on its side. Three horses had escaped
or been rescued, but the fourth had been put out of
its agony by someone who had apparently not thought
to look inside or had not done so carefully. When
Durendal clambered up and peered down through the
shattered door, his lantern at first showed only a
jumble of fallen benches. Then he identified
two bare legs protruding underneath, tied together
at the ankles. Climbing down without putting his
weight on the debris was no easy task in the
uncertain glow of the lantern. Balancing
awkwardly, he began to lift away the remains
and throw them out through the roof.
  Soon Kromman's glassy eyes stared
back at him. The face was a skull, plastered
with dried blood and wisps of white hair. It
might have been dead for years. "So you won!" it
said.
  Durendal almost dropped the bench he was
holding. "I don't feel as if I won.
I'll cut those ropes and get you out of here."
He cleared away the last of the wreckage.
  "But there is no octogram, is there?" The
familiar croak had shrunk to a sound like rats
gnawing rafters. "The lodge was burning."
  "No, no octogram. The King is
dead."
  "The reading was correct, then. I knew you would
kill him one day."
  "I think you killed him." Durendal drew his
borrowed sword. "You gave him that filthy
conjuration. The man I met today was not the king I
served all my life."
  "Hairsplitting. You seek to justify your
treason."
  "Perhaps." He cut the ropes binding the
spindly ankles, horrified at how cold the
flesh was to his touch.
  "You are wasting your time," Kromman whispered.
"How long till sunrise?"
  "About an hour."
  "Hardly worth the effort, then, is it? My
back is broken. I am in very little pain."
  Durendal moved the lantern closer.
Kromman's clothes were caked with blood. It was
incredible that this frail and brittle old man had
not died an hour ago, even if only from the
cold.
  Baffled, Durendal said, "I have to go and get
help. You take a lot of killing,
Inquisitor, but I daren't try to move you."
  The bloodstained mouth twisted in a grimace.
"If my pride allowed me, I would ask you
to use that sword. Would it give you a lot of
pleasure to kill me now?"
  Durendal sighed wearily. "None at all.
I grew too old for vengeance. You had nothing
to fear from me."
  "Only the death of my king."
  He was abhorrent and contemptible, but he was
dying. He could be pitied for that. There was certainly
nothing to gloat about.
  "I grant you that some of your motives were
honorable."
  "My, is that the best you can do? Well, if we
are making up, then I ask you, out of common
kindness, to put me out of my misery. I beg you.
I implore you, Sir Durendal. You would do as
much for a dog." The corpse eyes gleamed with
mockery. Even now he was playing his spiteful
games.
  "You want me to feel guilty, whether I
agree or not, don't you? Well, I don't
feel guilty about you, Kromman. I don't
hate you, I just despise you, because all you ever
wanted was power over other people--and when you
had it, you used it only to hurt. I don't think
you were ever really human. You certainly aren't
human now. I'll go and fetch some help."
  There was no reply. Leaving the lantern,
Durendal climbed out of the wreckage and trudged
back up to the lodge. He sent a healer and two
stretcher bearers, but the old man was dead when they
got there.

  When the sun came up, turning the blizzard
white instead of black, Durendal was standing in a
makeshift morgue in the village. The King
lay in improvised state in another room. This
one held the rest of the night's grisly toll:
Scofflaw, Kromman, four Blades, three
Ironhall candidates, one footman who had
been caught in the rampage--and Quarrel.
  They gazed in silence upon the hero.
  "He died saving his ward," Durendal said.
"Take his sword, Prime. Her name is
Reason. See she is put in her proper
place and honored forever."
  "That's your job, my lord."
  "I have other commitments."
  He was a regicide. He would be taken back
to Grandon to pay the penalty for high treason. In
himself he was unimportant, but he feared that the
entire seniors' class of Ironhall might
die with him, and that would be a tragedy.

                 

  The Lord Chamberlain was Durendal's
son-in-law. The High Admiral was his
neighbor at Ivywalls. Three other members
of the Regency Council were former Blades, and
two more had been his proteges in Chancery. The
Council's first act was to summon him
to Greymere and order him to resume running the
government. He moved back into his old rooms
as if nothing had happened. The country remained
peaceful, mourning Ambrose with more nostalgia
than love, plus no small apprehension for
what might follow him. His body was brought
to Grandon to lie in state and was then returned to the
elements with all due pomp and respect.
  The Baelish ship had sailed from Lomouth
while the storm still raged, much to the astonishment of
local manners. Commander Dragon's
introduction to ocean travel must have been
a memorable experience, but would a middle-aged
woman venture the return voyage at that
season, or would she send a regent? Or would
she, Durendal wondered in private, ignore
the summons and throw Chivial into chaos and civil
war?
  Three weeks to the day after Kromman had
brought him his dismissal, a meeting of the Council
was interrupted by news that a flotilla of
Baelish ships had been sighted on the Gran.
According to its minutes, the Council then voted
to adjourn. In fact its members stampeded out the
door and up the stairs to the south gallery, which
commanded a good view of the river. The Baels had
wasted no time. No one had expected a reply
for at least another ten days, but there they were--
sleek, beautiful, and sinister in the winter
sunshine; three long vessels being rowed against
both wind and tide into the heart of the capital.
Although Durendal could make out no details at
that distance, the Admiral asserted that they were indeed
dragon ships. The absence of dragon prows or
red war sails, he said, was a sign that they came
in peace. The largest of them was flying an
elaborate banner that might be a royal standard.
  Lord Roland retired to his quarters and
settled down to read a book. It was less than
two hours before a squad of men-at-arms arrived
at his door with a warrant for his arrest. It must have
been almost the first document issued in the new
reign, but somehow he did not feel especially
flattered.

  Lord Thernford, Warden of Grandon Bastion,
had once been Sir Felix and before that a close
friend at Ironhall. He greeted his new guest
warmly and installed him in a comfortable suite of
rooms--bright, airy, and large enough for Lord Roland
to bring his wife to stay with him if he wished, and
keep two or three servants as well. The
following morning fresh orders arrived and a
shamefaced Felix escorted him down to the
dungeons. He was locked up in the very same
cell Montpurse had occupied, many long years
ago. It was clammy and cold and dim, and also
infinitely boring, for he was allowed no
visitors and no news, but at least he was not
shackled as Montpurse had been. Queen
Malinda was not quite so malicious as the late
Inquisitor Kromman.
  Nine or ten days later, he was taken up to a
bright room and interrogated by Grand Inquisitor
and one of his men. Why only two of them? And why
did the interrogation last a mere hour or so? He
must assume that they had already decided to put him
to the Question and were trimming the preliminaries to a
legal minimum.
  Another two weeks went by. If the new
Queen chose to exert the full letter of the laws
concerning treason, not only would he be put to a very
shameful death, but Kate and the children would suffer with
him. His grandchildren would be left penniless orphans.
Malinda had nursed her hatred of Lord Roland
for many years, but now she could enjoy as much revenge
as she wanted. There was nothing she could not do to him and
his.

  One afternoon, with no prior warning, two warders
brought a bucket of warmish water and a bundle of
fresh clothes. Clean and respectably
dressed, the prisoner was taken back up to the world
of light and fresh air. He had to wait a long
hour in unnerving silence before he was led in to see the
visitor, but he knew that he would not have been
treated like this if he were to he put to the Question. That
might come later, of course.
  He knelt to await her pleasure, blinking
at the winter sunshine pouring through the window behind her.
She had always been a tall woman, heavy boned
and powerful. In bearing three children, she had lost
any trace of youthful charm, but at least she had
the sense to dress in sober, matronly style.
The diamond coronet that was her only adornment
added dignity to a face both cold and arrogant.
She looked convincing enough.
  "We have read your statement. You plead guilty
to murdering our royal father."
  "I did kill him, Your Majesty, with great
sorrow." His intention had only been to deprive
Ambrose of another rejuvenation, but that was
picayune hairsplitting. The intent and the
results condemned him.
  "Why?"
  "Because I believed that the monarch I had served
all my days was already dead. When he embraced that
terrible conjuration, he became something not human."
More hairsplitting, legal rubbish.
  There were only two other people present, both standing
behind the Queen, both wearing the livery of the Guard.
One was Commander Dragon, glowering
darkly, but the other was young Hereward, and he was
smiling. With that realization, hope twisted in
Durendal's heart like a dagger.
  "So we owe our throne to your regicide?" the
Queen asked.
  Almost anything he might say in reply to that
damnable question could kill him. "I did my duty
as I saw it, Your Majesty, which is what I have
always done. Your noble father was my liege lord but also
my friend, inasmuch as a master and servant may share
friendship. I shall honor his memory for whatever time
is left to me, forgiving him that one final error."
  "You rank yourself competent to judge your
sovereign's errors?"
  "Ma'am, he had access to that conjuration for
twenty years and chose not to touch it. He was
tricked into it during his final illness, when he was
in a very distressed state of mind. If I judged
him, then I judged him as my friend, not as my lord.
If I have done nothing else, I believe I have
preserved his memory from shame."
  The Queen pursed her lips.
  He persisted. "I know this sounds foolish,
ma'am, but I am sure in my own mind that the
man I served so proudly and so long--the father you
knew, ma'am ... I think he would have
approved."
  Silence. Then the Queen nodded almost
imperceptibly. "My father died in a fire of
unknown origin. A conjuration has been prepared
that will prevent you from ever saying otherwise. Will you
submit to that?"
  "Gladly, ma'am!"
  "Then we shall include your name in the general
pardon."
  Fighting back tears, he bowed his head. "I
am indeed grateful for Your Majesty's mercy."
He would see Kate again!
  Malinda had not done, though. "I have found little
cause to like you over the years, Lord Roland."
  "If I ever caused Your Majesty distress,
it was with deep regret, and only because I believed
that I was doing my duty."
  "It is only because I know that and respect you for
it that your head is going to remain on your shoulders,
my lord. And I am not ungrateful. Sir
Hereward, when the prisoner has submitted to the
conjuration we mentioned, you may give him back his
sword, but not before. Take him away."
  Durendal rose, bowed, and backed,
and bowed again. ... Hereward came forward
solemnly, but grinned again as soon as the Queen
could not see his face. At her back, Dragon
was smiling, too.

  Harvest, Hereward explained later, had been
located in the ashes and refurbished at
Ironhall. The new cat's-eye was less bright
than its predecessor and the armorers had some
doubts about the quality of the blade, but they
assumed that Lord Roland would not be putting it to any
strenuous use in future. Lord Roland agreed with
that prediction and kissed her.

  No longer welcome at court, he lived
quietly at Ivywalls with Kate until she
died in the summer of the following year. Thereafter the
mansion seemed an absurd extravagance for one
bored old man of almost sixty. He yearned for the
company of his peers and something useful to do. When
Andy came back from sea the next time and
announced that he was through with voyaging to far quarters
of the globe, his father happily gave him the house
and estate outright. He belted on his sword,
mounted Destrier, and rode off to the west.
























              EPILOGUE

  "That was very good," Grand Master said. "I did
not expect you to catch those last two."
  "Kids' stuff!" The boy sneered.
  "You think agility is of no importance to a
swordsman?"
  "Um. Suppose tis."
  "You are exceptionally agile. I think you would
do very well, but the choice is entirely yours, not
mine or your grandmother's. Yours. If you wish
to enlist, I accept you. If you do not, then I shall
tell your grandmother that I refused you. I warn you
that you will be embarking on a whole new ..."
  As he went through the set speech, he watched the
play of emotions on the pinched and sullen face:
fear, contempt, a distrusted dawning of hope and
excitement. The spindly limbs showed no signs
of rickets, so a few good meals would do wonders
for them, and a little pride would heal the wounded soul.
What boys of fourteen needed were fences to climb
over. If the gates were left open, they assumed
nobody cared. They could never understand that, though, and
if this young terror walked out of here today, he would be
hanged within a year.
  "Have you any questions?"
  "What about the other stuff?"
  "It doesn't matter. It's forgotten. Your
name is forgotten. What people think of your new name will
depend entirely on what you do in future."
  "Who chooses my new name?"
  "You do."
  "I want to be Durendal!"
  "Oh, do you?" Grand Master chuckled. "I'm
afraid you can't have that one yet. He's still
alive."
  "He is? But Grandmother says--"
  "He's very old, but still quite healthy. Master of
Archives will help you choose another. There have
been many fine heroes whose name you can take. Pick
a good one and try to live up to it."
  "Durendal was the best!"
  "Some say so. Now, what is your decision?"
  The boy looked down at his bare feet. Grand
Master held his breath. In five years he could
turn this young rogue into a first-rate swordsman.
If he didn't have five years left, others
would finish the work.
  "You really want me? After what she told you
'bout me?"
  "I do."
  "All right. I'll try. I'll try real
hard."
  "Good. I'm pleased. You are accepted.
Brat, go and tell the woman waiting outside that
she may go now."




















  Excerpt from Signal to Noise copyright
1998 by Eric S. Nylund
  Excerpt from The Death of the Necromancer
copyright 1998 by Martha Wells
  Excerpt from Scent of Magic copyright
1998 by Andre Norton
  Excerpt from The Gilded Chain copyright
1998 by Dave Duncan
  Excerpt from Krondor the Betrayal
copyright 1998 by Raymond E. Feist
  Excerpt from Mission Child copyright 1998
by Maureen F. McHugh
  Excerpt from Avalanche Soldier copyright
1999 by Susan R. Matthews

               THE END