LORD OF THE FIRE LANDS
      A Tale of the King's Blades

                  by
           DAVE DUNCAN


      Scanner'S NOTE

  Where ae or oe appears in text as
ligatured, we have altered it ae or
oe.

`ed Print symbol inciator and capital edh
  or eth.
`ed Print symbol inciator and lower-case edh
  or eth.
@th Print symbol inciator and capital
  thorn.
@th Print symbol inciator and lower-case
  thorn.
If somebody could replace these with their correct symbols I would appreciate it.



         BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

              FANTASY

  "Duncan is an expert at producing
page-turning adventure."
    Locus

  "SWASHBUCKLING ADVENTURE DOESN'T
GET MUCH BETTER THAN TH."
    Locus

  A ritual of magical steel thrust through the
heart binds them to their noble lords for eternity ...

          DAVE DUNCAN'S
         THE KING'S BLADES

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

         THE KING'S BLADES

  Once bound, a Blade's life is no
longer his own. Only death can break the gilded
chain of enchantment that binds the bodyguard to the man
he is sworn to defend. And never in living
memory has a candidate refused the honor of
serving his king ... until now.
  Young Wasp never intended to be a rebel.
Yet, at the sacred ceremony of binding, he
follows the lead of his friend Raider, and together they
spurn the wishes of King Ambrose himself. Now
Raider and Wasp are outlaws hunted by the very
Blades whose ranks they were a breath away from
entering, and joined together by a destiny that binds them more
securely than any knot tradition and sorcery
might tie. Amid the turmoil their "treachery"
has inspired, Wasp and Raider must undertake a
desperate journey into the heart of the dreaded
Fire Lands. And the outcome of their terrifying
confrontation with dark truth and darker magic in this
realm of monsters, ghosts, and half-men will
ultimately determine the fate of two
kingdoms.

  "Exceptional. ... Duncan can
swashbuckle with the best, but his characters feel more
deeply and think more cleverly than most, making his
novels, especially this one, suitable
for a particularly wide readership."
    Publishers Weekly (starred
    Review)

www.avonbooks.com/eos




















              Praise for
           DAVE DUNCAN
                  and the
             TALES OF
         THE KING'S BLADES

  "Just the sort of marvelous yarn that lured me
into reading fantasy."
    Anne McCaffrey

  "A fantasist of most sophisticated
subtlety."
    Locus

  "Duncan's people are marvelously believable, his
landscapes deliciously exotic, his
swordplay breathtaking."
    Publishers Weekly (starred
    Review)

  "The author's unique vision reinfuses the
genre with freshness and genuine wit."
    Library Journal


  "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 estimable Duncan manages, somehow,
to be in tremendous form every time out."
    Kirkus Reviews

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













  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are the products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously
and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, organizations, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.









                Also by
            Dave Duncan
         from Avon Books/eos

    The King's Blades
The Gilded Chain

    The Great Game
Past Imperative
Present Tense
Future Indefinite














                Warning

  This book, like The Guilded Chain, is a
stand-alone novel. They both cover much the same
time interval and certain characters appear in both, but you
can read either without reference to the other. The same is
true of the upcoming third volume, Sky of
Swords. However, the three taken together tell
a larger story. If you read any of the two, you will
note certain discrepancies that can be resolved
only by reading the third.





















  These days I seem to be accumulating grandchildren
faster than I write books, but I am very
happy to be able to dedicate the longest of the latter
to the latest of the former.

              This one is for
       Samuel Joseph Duncan

  May he enjoy it years hence and carry the
family name on into the far reaches of the next
century, or even beyond.

















I knew him, Horatio--a fellow of infinite
  jest,
of most excellent fancy. ...
    SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet, Act Very,
    Scene I










               CONTENTS

Notes on Baelish

I Ambrose
II Aeled
III Charlotte
IV Radgar
V Geste
VI Wasp
VII Yorick
VIII Fyrlaf
IX Aeleding
X Aftermath

Epilogue

      LORD OF THE FIRE LANDS

          Notes on Baelish

  An archaic form of Chivian, Baelish is
written much as English was written a thousand
years ago. The alphabet contains twenty-four
letters. Every letter is pronounced, even when this seems
impossible, as in cniht or hlytm.
  j, k, q, x, z were not then in use.
Three letters have since been abandoned: eth (`ed,
`ed) and thorn (@th, @th) are both pronounced
like the English th, while the ligature Ae is
a separate vowel sounded between a and e (roughly
a as in "bade," oe as in "bad," e as in
"bed").
  c: before e or i, c is pronounced like our
ch (cild was "child," after s pronounced like our
sh (scip was "ship"); otherwise, c was
pronounced k (Catter was "Kater").
  g: is tricky! It could be hard
(groeggos would sound very close to "gray
goose"), but it could sound like j, as in hengest
("stallion"); thus hengestmann was a stable
hand and gave us "henchman." If a lord arrived with
his stallion men, look out!
  The suffix coming (meaning "son of" or
"descendant of") was probably sounded like the
same letters in our word "finger," so Radgar
Aeleding would be "Rad-gar Also-ed-ing-go."
  However g before e was usually sounded as y as in
our "sign" or "thegn." Gea! survives as
"Yea!"
  (ge was a common and meaningless prefix attached
to many words such as refa in scir-gerefa. As
"shire-reeve," this metamorphosed into modern
"sheriff.")
  Some of the place names should now make a sort of
sense if you puzzle at them. Cwicnoll
means "quick-knoll," "live summit," which
seems apt enough for a volcano. Haligdom would
be pronounced "holy dome" and Su`edecg not
far from "South Edge."
  Many Old English words have gone out of use:
wer meaning "man" survives only in
"werewolf." Others have survived unchanged--a
hwoel is still a "whale." Cniht, which
originally meant "boy," (cnihtcild was a
"boy child") became "knight," and that k was still being
pronounced when English spelling was standardized a
couple of hundred years ago.
























              AMBROSE

                  I

                  

  "The King is coming!" The excited cry
rang out over the sun-bright moorland and was picked
up at once by a half-dozen other shrill
trebles and a couple of wavering baritones. Alarmed
horses tossed heads and kicked up heels. The
cavalcade on the Blackwater Road was still very
far off, but sharp young eyes could make out the blue
livery of the Royal Guard, or so their owners
claimed. In any case, a troop of twenty
or thirty men riding across Starkmoor could be no
one but the Guard escorting the King to Ironhall.
At last! It had been more than half a year.
  "The King is coming! The King is coming!"
  "Silence!" shouted Master of Horse. The
sopranos' riding classes always teetered
close to chaos, and this one was now hopeless. "Go and
tell the Hall. First man in is excused stable
duties for a month. On my signal. Get
ready--"
  He was speaking to the wind. His charges were
already streaming over the heather toward the lonely
cluster of black buildings that housed the finest
school of swordsmanship in the known world. He
watched to see who fell off, who was merely
hanging on, who was in control. It was unkind
to treat horses so, especially the aging,
down-at-heel nags assigned to beginners; but his
job was to turn out first-class riders. In a very
few years those boys must be skilled enough and fearless
enough to keep up with anyone, even the King himself--and
when Ambrose IV went hunting he usually
left a trail of stunned and mangled courtiers
in the hedges and ditches.
  There went one ... and another ... Ouch!--a
bad one. No matter, young bones could be
repaired by conjuration and the mounts seemed to be
surviving. Unrepentant, Master of Horse
rode forward to rescue the casualties. On this
blustery spring afternoon in the year 357, the moor
had masked its ancient menace behind a
deceptive glow of friendship, soft and green and
smelling of clover. The sky was unbelievably
blue. Broom was bursting into yellow glory.
There could be few things finer in all creation than
having a reasonably good mount and an excuse
to ride it flat out. As the race faded into the
distance, he could see that the piebald mare was going
to win, thanks more to her own abilities than the
skills of her rider, Candidate Bandit.

  Ten minutes after the sighting, the winner thundered in
through the gate and yelled out the news to the first people he
saw, who happened to be a group of fuzzies
engaged in rapier drill. "The King is
coming!"
  In seconds the word was everywhere, or almost
everywhere. The candidates--sopranos,
beansprouts, beardless, fuzzies, and especially
the exalted seniors who wore swords--all
reacted with indrawn breath and sudden internal
tenseness, but even the instructors narrowed their
eyes and pursed their lips. The Masters of
Sabers and Rapiers heard it on the fencing
ground, Master Armorer in the Forge. Master of
Rituals got the word in a turret room, where
he was studying arcane spells, and Master of
Archives in a cellar, where he was packing
ancient records into fireproof chests. All of
them paused to ponder what else they need do
to prepare for a royal visit. The answer,
in all cases, was absolutely nothing. They were
more than ready, because it had been seven months
since Ambrose had come to the school. In all that
time, only one candidate had been promoted
to Blade. The question now--of especial interest to the
seniors--was: How many would the King harvest this
time?
  The lowest of the low was the Brat, who was thirteen
years old and had been admitted to Ironhall
only two days previously. On the theory that a
man can get used to anything, he had concluded that this
must be the third worst day of his life. Down on
his knees, he was attempting to wash the main
courtyard with a bucket of water and a small rag
--an impossible task that had been assigned
to him by a couple of beansprouts because trying
to drive the Brat crazy was the juniors'
traditional pastime. Having all survived
Brat-hood themselves, they felt justified in
giving what they had received. Few of them ever
realized that they were being tested just as much as the Brat
was and would be expelled if they displayed any real
sadism.
  An elderly knight passing by when the shout went
up told the Brat to run and inform Grand Master.
Grand Master was the highest of the high, but the Brat
felt comfortable near him, safe from persecution.
Grand Master did not dunk him in a water trough
or make him stand on a table and sing lewd songs.
  The old man was in his study, going over accounts
with the Bursar. He displayed no emotion at the
news. "Thank you," he said. "Wait, though.
Bursar, can we continue this another time?" Then, as
the other man was gathering up his ledgers, he turned
back to the Brat and absolutely ruined his third
worst day. "His Majesty will undoubtedly bind
some of the seniors tomorrow night. You have heard of the
ritual?"
  "He sticks a sword through their hearts?" the
Brat said uneasily. It was a sick-making
thought, because one day it would happen to him.
  "Yes, he does. It is a very potent
conjuration to turn them into Blades. Don't
worry, they always survive." Almost always. "But
you will have a part in the ritual."
  "Me?" the Brat squawked. Conjury? With the
King present? That was worse than a hundred
water troughs, a thousand ....
  "Yes, you. You have three lines to say and you
lay the candidate's sword on the anvil.
Go and find Master of Rituals and he will
instruct you. No, wait. First find Prime and
make sure he knows about the King." Prime, after
all, must have more interest in the royal visit than
any other candidate, for his fate was certain now.
Whoever else the King took, Prime would be first.
"He'll be in the library."
  Regrettably, Grand Master was wrong. The
seniors were not in the library that afternoon. The Brat
had not yet learned his way around the school and was
too unsure of himself to ask for help, so he never
did deliver the message. By the time Raider
heard of the King's approach, the royal
procession was at the gates and escape had
become impossible.

                  

  Even before the King's arrival, that day had been
a memorable one in Ironhall. Two swords
had been Returned and three names written in the
Litany of Heroes. It was the Litany that was
special. Returns were common enough, for the school
had been turning out Blades for several
centuries and they were mortal like other men. Unless
a Blade was lost at sea or died in a far
country, his sword came back at last
to Ironhall to hang in the famous sky of
swords.
  Every newcomer began as the Brat. The ideal
recruit was around fourteen with good eyes and fast
reflexes, either orphaned or rejected by his
family, and at least rebellious--preferably
a holy terror. As old Sir Silver had said
on numerous occasions: "The wilder the better.
You can't put an edge on soft metal." Some
of them were driven out by the hazing, a few gave up
later, and very rarely a boy was expelled. Those
who lasted the full five years emerged as the
finest swordsmen in the world, companions in the
Loyal and Ancient Order of the King's
Blades, every one as sharp and polished and deadly as
the cat's-eye sword he was then privileged
to wear. The King accepted about half of them into the
Royal Guard and assigned the rest to ministers,
relatives, courtiers, or anyone else he
chose. To serve was an honor, and Grand Master
turned away many more boys than he accepted.
  It was only four years since Lord
Bannerville, the Chivian
ambassador to Fitain, had bound Sir Spender
as his third Blade. When Fitain had erupted
in civil war, Spender and his two brother
Blades, Sir Burl and Sir Dragon, had
managed to smuggle their ward out of the chaos, but the
latter two had died in the process. That morning
Spender had Returned their swords.
  Standing in the hall under that baleful canopy of
five thousand swords, the survivor told the
story to the assembled candidates, masters, and
knights. He said very little about his own part; but his
limp, his pallor, and the jumpiness in his voice
backed up the eye-popping stories of his
injuries that had been whispered around beforehand.
Everyone knew that a Blade defending his ward was
harder to kill than a field of dandelions. But
death was not impossible, and many of the juniors were
openly sobbing by the end of the tale.
  The hero ate lunch in private with Grand
Master and some other teachers. He wanted to leave
right after the meal, but Master of Protocol
persuaded him to stay and instruct the seniors on
politics. Prime invited him to do so in the
tower. Thus most of the seniors were in the tower that
afternoon, which was why the Brat did not find them.

                  

  Ironhall had never been a castle, but its
wild moorland setting had inspired some
long-forgotten builder to festoon parts of it with
turrets, loopholes, and fake battlements.
The most obvious of these follies was the tower whose
attic served as the seniors' private lair.
Generations of future Blades had idled in its
squalor without ever having a single thought of cleaning
or tidying. The furniture was in ruins and heaps
of discarded clothes and miscellaneous clutter
moldered in the corners. But by tradition--and
everything in Ironhall ran on tradition--no
one ever set foot up there except the seniors
themselves--not Blades, not Grand Master, not even the
King. No one had ever explained why any of those
men should want to, but the invitation to Sir Spender
was supposedly a great honor. It also kept
Master of Protocol out.
  Wasp was the first to arrive, trotting up the
stairs carrying a respectable ladder-back chair
for the guest, which he placed in front of the
fireplace. He rearranged a few of the
other chairs to face it and then nabbed his favorite
for himself, leaning back in its moldering excretions
of stuffing to watch the others arrive. Fox appeared
and made a dive for the second-best chair;
Herrick led in six or seven more; then there was a
pause while Sir Spender came up one step
at a time, escorted by Prime. More seniors
clattered up behind them, chattering like starlings. They
draped themselves on tables or rickety stools,
propped themselves against the walls, or just sprawled
on the boards.
  "Flames and death!" the guest declaimed.
"This place is still the same disgusting midden it was
when I left. Have those windows ever been cleaned?"
  "Certainly not!" said Mallory, who was
Second. "You can't break tradition that way in
Ironhall!"
  "Those look like the same ashes in the hearth."
  "They're traditional ashes," said
Victor, who fancied himself as a humorist.
"And the cobwebs are priceless."
  Spender limped over to the fireplace to hunt
for his signature, for all the paneling and the
steeply pitched roof and even parts of the floor were
inscribed with the names of former candidates. Wasp
was written near the door, very small within an
overlarge initial; and he had found two other
Wasp inscriptions, although Master of Archives
had records of only one Blade by that name, an
undistinguished member of the Royal Guard back
in the days of Everard III. The other must have been
even earlier and spectacularly mediocre. It
would be the third Wasp who made the name
memorable!
  Herrick was very dark, Victor unusually
blond, and Raider--who would not be coming--had hair
as red as a Bael's; but with that trivial
exception of coloring the seniors were as alike as
brothers: all lean and agile, moving with the wary
grace of jungle predators, neither too small
to be dangerous nor too large to be nimble.
Five years of constant effort, superb
instruction, and in most cases a dash or two of
conjuration had produced these fledgling Blades,
awaiting only their master's call. Even their
features seemed alike, with no extreme bat
ears or crooked teeth. Wasp wondered if he
was just noticing all this anew because Spender so
obviously belonged there, an older brother come
home to visit. Few Blades cared
to remember any other home. Wasp was an
exception there, but then he was exceptional in other
ways too painful to think about.
  Raider hurtled up the stairs three at a
time and strode over to flop down on the floor under
the south window, putting his back against the wall and
stretching out his long legs. He caught Wasp's
eye and grinned at his surprise. Wasp rose
and went to sit beside him, putting friendship ahead of
comfort and provoking a minor tussle as three men
simultaneously tried to claim the chair he had
abandoned.
  "Thought you were drilling beansprouts in sabers?"
  Raider's emerald-green eyes twinkled.
"I wrapped Dominic's leg around his neck
until he offered to help me out." He was lying,
of course. Giving the juniors fencing practice
was never the most popular of assignments; but only
Raider would rather listen to a talk on politics,
even with the Order's latest hero doing the talking.
Dominic would have agreed to the exchange very
readily.
  The door slammed, then Fitzroy came
clumping up the stair to announce that this was everyone.
Wasp looked around and counted two dozen seniors
present. Traditionally there should be less than that
in the whole class, but the King had assigned
only one Blade in seven months. Poor
Wolfbiter had been twenty-one by the time he was
bound last week. Bullwhip was twenty. The rest
were all eighteen or nineteen, unless some of them were
lying about their ages--as Wasp was.
  As Prime, Bullwhip made a little speech.
He was chunky by Blade standards, a slasher not a
stabber--meaning saber not rapier--sandy-colored, the
sort of man who would charitably be described as
"stolid." He was certainly no orator.
Spender thanked him, took the chair Wasp had
brought, and began to talk politics,
specifically politics that led to civil war.
  Master of Protocol and his assistants had the
unenviable task of preparing the candidates for
life at court. That included teaching them dancing,
deportment, elocution, etiquette, some
history, and a lot of politics. By their senior
year it was almost all politics--taxes,
Parliament, foreign affairs, the machinations of the
great houses. Frenetically active and athletic
young men would much rather be fencing or out riding on the
moors than listening to any of that stuff,
with the possible exception of the racy court scandals.
At least Spender was a novelty and hence more
interesting than the usual fare. The King of
Fitain had lost control of his barons and failed
to rally the burghers. Even kings needed allies.
And so on. Twenty-four young faces made
earnest efforts to seem attentive.
  Only Raider would not be faking, Wasp
decided. Glancing sideways he saw that his friend
was indeed very intent, nodding to himself as he listened.
He had the strange perversion of finding politics
interesting. He was probably the only man in the
room who cared a snail's eyebrow about what had
happened in Fitain. Everyone else just wanted
to hear about the fighting and how it felt to keep on
fighting when you knew you ought to be dead after having
your thigh crushed and a sword run through you.
  The sky was blue beyond the dirty panes.
  Back in Wasp's beansprout days he had
watched Lord Bannerville bind Spender.
Dragon and Burl must have been there, attending their
ward, but he could not remember what they had looked
like.
  No one had thought to open the windows and the room
held too many people; it was stuffy. Attentions were
wandering.
  At the far side of the room, Herrick stifled
a yawn.
  Suddenly Wasp's jaw took on a fearful
life of its own. He struggled desperately, but
the yawn escaped. That one Sir Spender
noticed.
  Sir Spender exploded. "Smug young
bastards!" he snapped. He heaved himself to his
feet. "You don't give a spit about this, do you,
any of you?" His already pale face had turned
white as marble. "You don't think it matters!
Doesn't concern you, any of you, does it?" He
glared around the room, eyes flashing with fury,
left hand steadying his scabbard as if he were about
to draw. "You insufferably stuck-up unbearable
latrine cleaners, all of you!"
  Twenty-four seniors stared up at him in
horror. Wasp wanted to die. How could he have
done that? Yawning! What a crass,
imbecilic, childish thing to do!
  But Spender's rage was not just against him--it was
directed at all of them. "I know what you're
thinking!" He grew even louder. "You all think
that the King takes the best for the Guard and
it's only the failures he assigns as
private Blades. Don't you? Don't you?
Just nod!" he said, dropping his voice to a
menacing growl. "If that's what you think, you young
slobs, just nod once and I'll give you a
fencing lesson with real swords. I'm a
private Blade and proud of it. Burl and
Dragon were my brothers and they're dead! They
didn't rank second to anyone!"
  Wasp stared appealingly at Prime and so did
everyone else. Say something! A week ago
Wolfbiter had been Prime and Wolfbiter would
have known exactly what to say. But Wolfbiter
had gone, and in Bullwhip's case the sword was
mightier than the tongue. He had straightened up
off the wall, where he had been leaning. His mouth
opened but no sound emerged.
  Spender had not finished. "You all think you're
going into the Guard, don't you? Nothing but the best!
Well, I tell you being a private Blade
is a thousand times harder than lounging around the
palace with a hundred others. It's a full-time
job. It's a lifetime job! None of this
ten-years-and-then-dubbed-knight-and-retire
nonsense. We serve till we die! Or our
ward does."
  Bullwhip's freckled, meaty face remained
locked in an agony of embarrassment.
Mallory, who was Second, seemed equally
frozen, unwilling to upstage his leader--good
manners but not good sense when a hero started having
hysterics.
  Wasp jabbed an elbow in Raider's ribs.
"Say something!" he whispered.
  "Hmm? All right." Raider flowed to his
feet, unfolding like a flail. He was third in
line, after Mallory. He also stood almost a hand
taller than any other man in the school, long and
lean; with that copper-red hair and green-green
eyes he was never inconspicuous. Everyone
looked, including Spender.
  "With respect, sir, I certainly do not
believe that. I doubt if anyone here does.
Wolfbiter is the finest fencer Ironhall has
produced since Sir Durendal and just a few
days ago we all saw him being bound as a
private Blade. He put all of us to shame
with steel, yet the King assigned him to someone
else, not the Guard."
  Twenty-three throats made earnest
sounds of agreement.
  "In fact," Raider added, perhaps hoping
to change the subject, "he assigned him to Sir
Durendal and none of us can imagine why."
  Spender stared at him in silence for a moment. His
color flamed swiftly from its corpselike
white to brilliant red. Wasp relaxed.
Everyone did. They had been taught that pallor
was the danger sign. Blushing meant apology or
bluff. The hero sank down on his chair again.
  "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Sorry,
sorry, sorry!" He doubled over.
  Bullwhip waved hands at the stair, meaning
everyone should leave. Raider made contradictory
signs--stay where you are!--and everyone stayed.
No one ever argued with Raider, not because he was
dangerous but because he was always right.
  "Sir Spender," he said, "we are sorry
to see you distressed, but you should know that we continue
to admire you enormously and always will. We are
proud to know you, and when we become Blades ourselves
we shall be inspired by your example and what you and your
two companions achieved. We think no less of
you for being human."
  Nobody breathed.
  "The last entries in the Litany," Raider
continued, "were made two years ago during the
Nythian War. Sir Durendal saved the
King's life outside Waterby. He defeated
a team of four assassins single-handed and did not
suffer a scratch. I mean no disrespect to him,
Sir Spender, but he is so close to a legend
that he hardly seems human. You inspire me.
He makes me feel horribly inadequate.
Your example means much more to me than his does,
and that is because I know that you are flesh and blood, as
I am." Nobody else could have taken over from
Prime without giving offense, but Bullwhip was
beaming gratefully.
  The Blade looked up and stared at Raider.
Then he straightened and wiped his cheeks with a
knuckle. "Thank you. That was quite a speech. It
means a lot to me. I'm afraid I've
forgotten which one ..."
  "Raider, sir."
  "Thank you, Raider." Suddenly Spender was
in charge of the room again, sustained by the four or
five years he had on all of them. "Sorry
I lost my temper." He smiled ruefully,
looking around. "Blame the King. He
ordered me to come here and Return the swords. I
shouldn't have let old weasel-tongue Protocol
talk me into staying on. I haven't been away
from my ward since the night I was bound. Commander
Montpurse gave me his solemn oath that he
would assign four men to keep watch over His
Lordship day and night until I get back, but
it isn't the same. And after what happened in
Fitain, I'm extra sensitive. It's
driving me crazy!" He smiled at their
horrified expressions. "You didn't think being
a Blade was easy, did you? You don't care
about rebellion and civil war. Why should you? It
isn't going to happen here in Chivial. And I
need to be with my ward. So, if you'll excuse
me now, I'll be on my way. The moon will
see me back to Grandon." He was talking of an
all-night ride and he looked exhausted already.
  When Bullwhip tried to speak, Spender
stopped him. "You have other things to attend to. I
promised not to warn you, but in return for the honor
you have done me, I will. The King is on his way.
He should be here very shortly."
  Raider spun around but not before Wasp was on his
feet and looking out the window. Horsemen in blue
livery were riding in the gate.
  "He is!" Wasp screamed. "He's here!
The King is here!"
  His voice cracked on the high note. He
turned around to face the glares of a dozen men who
wanted to murder him on the spot.

                  

  By tradition--and tradition was law in
Ironhall--the King entered by the royal door and
went directly up to Grand Master's study.
There Grand Master waited, fussing around, vainly
trying to flick away dust with a roll of papers and
mentally reviewing his notes for the thousandth time. A
small fire burned in the grate, a decanter
of wine and crystal goblets waited on the table.
He was a spare, leathery man with a permanently
bothered expression and a cloud of white hair
reminiscent of a seeding dandelion. Foolish though
it seemed, he was presently as nervous as anyone
in the school. This was the first time he had played
host to the King. Usually the Blades' own rumor
mill ground out warnings of the King's visits, but this
time it had not.
  The previous Grand Master, Sir Silver,
had ruled the Order for a third of a century; but
half a year ago the spirits of time and death had
caught up with him at last. His memory still
haunted this room--his ancient furniture, his
choice of prints on the walls, even some of his
keepsakes still cluttering the mantel of the
fieldstone fireplace. His successor had added
a tall bookcase and his own books, plus a
large leather chair, which he had ordered made
to his specifications in Blackwater as a
celebration of his promotion. Nothing else.
  Long ago he had been Tab Greenfield,
unruly younger son of a minor family, which had
disposed of him by enrolling him in Ironhall--the
best thing that had ever happened to him. Five years
later he had been bound by Taisson II in the
first binding of his reign, becoming Sir Vicious,
enduring eight years of routine and futile guarding
before being dubbed a knight in the Order and so freed.
Having a longtime interest in spirituality, he had
enlisted in the Royal College of Conjurers and
had done some original work on invoking spirits of
earth and time to increase the stability of buildings.
He had even toyed with ambitions of becoming grand
wizard, but eventually the opportunity to merge his
two careers had brought him home to Ironhall as
Master of Rituals. Last Ninthmoon he had
been genuinely astonished when the Order chose him
as Grand Master and even more surprised when the King
approved the election. He was about to be tested in
his new duties for the first time.
  He had a problem, a candidate who did not
fit the pattern.
  The King was taking his time! Possibly he had
ridden round to West House to inspect the fire
damage. The noise of the carpenters working was
faintly audible even here, although Grand Master had
grown so used to it now that he never noticed it.
He looked around the room yet again. What might
a new Grand Master have forgotten?
  Flames, his sword! Only a bound Blade
could go armed into the King's presence, and Grand
Master should be the last one to forget that. Appalled
that he had so nearly made a major blunder, he
drew Spite and stepped up on the muniment
chest to lay her on top of the bookcase, out of
sight. His baldric and scabbard he folded
away in the chest itself.
  He was just closing its lid when the latch
rattled on the inconspicuous door in the corner
and in walked Hoare--a typical Blade, all
lean and spry. Until now his only distinguishing
features had been a grotesque tuft of
yellow beard and a vile juvenile humor, which his
chosen name did not deny, but now he sported the
baldric of Deputy Commander across the blue and
silver livery of the Royal Guard. Smiling,
he advanced with hand outstretched.
  "Grand Master! Congratulations!"
  "Deputy! Congratulations to you, also."
  Hoare had a grip like a woodcutter. "My,
we are coming up in the world, aren't we?" His eyes
raked the room. "How does it feel to be chief
keeper of the zoo?"
  "Very gratifying. How does it feel to step
into Durendal's shoes?"
  Hoare shuddered dramatically. "I expect it
would make me very humble if I knew what the word
meant." He shot a quizzical glance at the
older man. "Odd business, that! Did he
by any chance drop any hints while he was here?
Where he was going? Why the world's greatest
swordsman needs a Blade to guard him?"
  "Not a peep. I was sort of hoping you might
tell me."
  They exchanged matching frowns of frustration.
  Hoare shrugged. "Hasn't been a word from
anyone. Grand Inquisitor probably knows, but
who's going to ask her? The Fat Man isn't
talking. Never forget, Grand Master, that kings have
more secrets than a dead horse has maggots,
and most of them nastier. Even Leader swears he
doesn't know."
  Grand Master would believe that when Montpurse
himself told him so; he got on well with the
Commander. "Leader is not with you this time?"
  "Yes, he's coming. Janvier? Something
wrong?"
  There was another Blade standing in the doorway,
a younger one--Janvier, a rapier man who had
been Prime very briefly and bound on the King's
last visit, together with Arkell and Snake. He
had always been quiet, acute, and self-contained,
but why was he just standing there like that, head cocked,
frowning as if listening for something?
  Grand Master opened his mouth, and Hoare held
up a warning hand. He looked amused, but Hoare
always looked amused.
  Sir Janvier marched unerringly across
the room and stepped up on the muniment chest.
"There's a sword up there." He sounded more
aggrieved than surprised.
  Hoare grinned like a pike and waggled a
reproving finger at Grand Master. "Naughty!"
  Incredible! "How does he do that?" Many
Blades had instincts for danger to their wards, but
Grand Master had never witnessed sensitivity on
that scale.
  "Wait till you hear about the wood sliver under
the King's saddle! Tell Grand Master how you do
it, brother."
  Young Janvier had jumped down, holding
Spite, and was admiring the unusual orange
glint of the cat's-eye stone on her pommel.
He looked up blankly. "I don't know,
Grand Master. I heard it buzzing. It's you who
should be able to tell me."
  Buzzing? "There are some reports in the
archives. ... I resent the implication that my
sword is in any way a danger to His--"
  "Any sword can be a danger if it falls
into the wrong hands," Hoare said. "You're
supposed to set us kiddies a good example.
Put that wood chopper somewhere safe."
  Janvier headed for the corridor door, peering
at the inscription on the blade as he did so.
"Why Spite?"
  "Why not!?" Grand Master snapped. Seeing
another man handling his sword was a novel and
extremely unpleasant experience. Spite was
.his and he had not been separated from her in almost
thirty years.
  At that moment the door at the bottom of the
stairwell slammed. Hoare ran across
to Janvier and shot him out of the room, Spite and
all. He had the corridor door closed again and
was standing with his back to it and his face completely
blank when the heavy tread approaching reached the
top step.

                  

  The King ducked his wide, plumed hat under the
lintel and paused to catch his breath. He stood
much taller than any Blade and was visibly
bigger than he had been on his last visit, much
too large for a man not yet forty. The current
fashions made him seem gargantuan--puffed,
slashed sleeves on a padded jerkin of
green and red hanging open to reveal a blue silk
doublet, legs bulging in striped gold and green
stockings, green boots. The tawny fringe of
beard was flecked with silver, but Ambrose IV
of the House of Ranulf showed no signs of
relaxing the granite grip with which he had ruled
Chivial for the last eight years. His
amber-colored eyes peered out suspiciously between
rolls of lard.
  He acknowledged Grand Master's bow with a nod
and a grunt. As he unfastened his mud-spattered
cloak of ermine-trimmed scarlet velvet,
Montpurse materialized at his back to lift
it from the royal shoulders. Then the Commander turned
as if to hang it on a peg, but Grand Master had
been unable to think of any reason for that peg to be
there and had removed it so he could hang a
favorite watercolor in its place.
Montpurse shot him a surprised smile and
laid the garment over a chair. With flaxen hair
and baby-fair skin, he looked not a day older
than he had on the night he was bound. Spirits!
That was just after Grand Master came back
to Ironhall ... was it really almost fifteen
years ago ...?
  The Commander closed the outer door and took up
his post in front of it. Without removing his hat,
the King headed for the new leather chair and settled
into it like a galleon sinking with all hands. He was
still short of breath.
  "Good chance, Grand Master."
  "Thank you, sire, and welcome back
to Ironhall." Vicious reached for the decanter.
"May I offer you some refreshment?"
  "Ale," said the King.
  Grand Master strode to the other door and peered
out. Wallop and the Brat were waiting in the
corridor as he had ordered--the Brat looking
scared to death. But Janvier and Scrimpnel were
standing there also with the patience of mountains, and
Wallop held a tray bearing a large
flagon, a drinking horn, two pies, several
large wedges of cheese, and sundry other
victuals. Wallop had been a servant at
Ironhall since it was built, within a century
or two, and he obviously knew the present
king's preferences. Granting him a sheepish
smile of thanks, Grand Master took the tray
and bore it back to the monarch. He laid it on
the table as Hoare whipped away the wine
to make room.
  The King reached a fat hand for the flagon. "So
how are you settling in, Grand Master?"
  "With great satisfaction, sire. I welcome
this opportunity to thank you in person for the
extreme honor you--"
  "Yes. When will the repairs be completed?"
Ambrose put the flagon to his mouth and drank
without taking his shrewd, piggy gaze off Grand
Master.
  "By the middle of Fifthmoon, sire, they
assure me. We shall be ... We are looking
forward to it." The school was presently packed to the
rafters, although a dozen elderly knights had
been temporarily evicted to find other
accommodation. To point that out to a touchy monarch
might be dangerous, since the overcrowding was partly
due to his delay in harvesting qualified
seniors.
  "Thunderbolts in the middle of winter?" The King
wiped his beard with his sleeve and glowered
suspiciously. "You are satisfied there was no
spiritual interference? None of those batty old
pensioners experimenting with conjuration? Kids holding
midnight parties and upsetting candles?" His father
had always seen conspiracies where others did not.
Perhaps all kings did. Why else the Blades?
  "Thunderstorms can strike Starkmoor at any
season, sire. Some superstitious people tried
to relate the accident to the death of my
predecessor so soon before." Did the King's
scowl mean that he was one of them? "I do not
believe in ghosts, and if I did I could never
believe Sir Silver would return from the dead
to attack the Order he served so long and well.
The storm brushed Torwell also. It roared
half the night away here. We have some very deaf
old knights among us and I don't think one of
them was asleep when we were hit."
  The King grunted and reached for the drinking horn.
"So what have you for me this time? How many stalwart
young swordsmen, hmm?"
  "A great many, Your Majesty. A couple of
them are outstanding. I fancy the King's Cup will be
safe from outsiders for many years to come."
  "I'll have you drawn and quartered if it
isn't!" He laughed, and the famous royal charm
dismissed any threat in the words. "We don't have
Sir Durendal to rely on now."
  Ah! "We don't?"
  "No we don't." The King cut off that line
of conversation. "Start with Prime."
  Noting that he had not been invited to sit down,
Grand Master stepped away from the fireplace in
case he forgot himself so far as to lean an elbow
on it. He folded his hands behind his back and
prepared to perform like a soprano reciting the
Ironhall creed.
  "Prime is Candidate Bullwhip, my
liege. A fine--"
  "Bullguts!" The King glared as he filled
the horn. Foam spilled over his hand, but he
ignored that.
  "Sire?"
  "Bullballs! How shall I feel if I must
address one of my guards at court when he has
a name like that? In the presence of the Isilondian
ambassador, perhaps? I know you said Bullwhip,
Grand Master! I had occasion many times
to reproach your predecessor for some of the absurd
names he allowed boys to choose and that is an
egregious example! I hope you will display
better judgment!" Scowl.
  Hoare, standing safely out of sight behind the King,
stuck out his tongue.
  Grand Master bowed, recalling that two days
ago he had approved the registering of a
Candidate Bloodfang who stood less than
five feet high and had freckles. "I shall inform
Master of Archives of Your Majesty's
instructions." He wasn't going to change the
tradition, no matter what the King said. The right
to choose a new name mattered enormously to a
recruit. It was a rite of passage,
recognition that the old person was forgotten and from
now on he was who he said he was, to be whatever
he could make of himself. This was going to be a stormy
audience if Ambrose objected to a name as
innocuous as Bullwhip.
  "Well, carry on!"
  "Yes, sire. Bullwhip is an excellent
saber man."
  Silence. The King wanted more. He took great
personal interest in his Blades, like a horse
breeder in his stable.
  "Not truly outstanding with a rapier, but of course
that's speaking relatively. By any standards but the
Blades' he is superb."
  The King paused in raising the drinking horn
to his mouth. "The man himself! If I'm
going to have him under my feet for the next ten years,
I want to know what to expect."
  "Yes, of course--"
  "I can still assign him to my Minister of
Fisheries, you know!"
  "Er, certainly, sire. Bullwhip is,
hmm, solid. Popular. Not especially
imaginative, but very, um ... solid."
  Hoare rolled his eyes. Grand Master
resisted a temptation to throw something at him,
preferably a sharp knife. Hearing no further
comment from the King, he plunged ahead.
  "Second is Candidate Mallory,
sire." At least Ambrose could not object to that
name. "A rapier man, a very fine rapier man.
Personality ... lighthearted, jovial, well
liked. But not flippant at all, sire! Good
all-rounder, I'd say. No problems." He was
not doing well at this. In a year or two, when
he'd had more practice and knew what to expect
... He could feel sweat running down his
temples, and the King could probably see it. The
trouble was that all the candidates were good men. The
weaklings had long since been driven out. He was
expected to find fault where there wasn't any.
  "Umph. And third?"
  Wait for it ... "Candidate Raider."
  The royal glare chilled the room. "That is
another example!"
  Five nights ago, right here in this room,
Grand Master had asked advice from the
celebrated Sir Durendal, who was one of the
King's favorites and reputed to handle him
better than anyone except possibly
Montpurse. "Never let him bully you,"
Durendal had said. "If you don't know, say
so. If you do know, stand your ground. He
respects that. Give him an inch and he'll
trample you into the mud."
  "With respect, sire, perhaps not! I mean,"
Grand Master added hastily as the royal temper
glinted, "that "Raider" is certainly a
foolish name, but I cannot at the moment recall
whether it was ever formally approved. I never chose
to be called Vicious."
  "You didn't?" The King did not like to be
contradicted. He had probably been saving up
some pointed observations on the subject of Sir
Vicious.
  "No, sire. I wanted to be
Lion. I was entered in the rolls as Lion, but
the sopranos had already named me Vicious and it
stuck. When the time for my binding came, I had
grown into it. Candidate Raider is unusually
tall. Even when he was the Brat he was big, and
he has very, hmm, very red hair." The ground was
especially treacherous here, for Ambrose's hair
and beard had a decidedly bronze hue.
  "Oh, that one!" Ambrose said with welcome
signs of amusement. "Year by year as I've come
here, I've watched that flaming red head moving
up, table by table. I'll be interested to meet its
owner at last."
  "Hmm, yes, sire. At first sight they
called him the Bael, of course, because of his
hair. This was while the Baelish War was still
raging, and stories of atrocities were drifting in
almost every week--piracy, raiding, slaving. He
wore it long when he arrived, so the first night the
sopranos hacked it all off him. Naturally!
I mean, how could they resist? But it took six
of them to hold him down and when they thought the scramble
was over, he did not agree. One can start a
fight but it takes at least two to stop it.
Raider wouldn't stop. He broke one boy's
jaw and knocked teeth out of several others."
  "Broke his jaw?" The King raised his tawny
brows. This was exactly the sort of childish
tale that impressed him. "How old was he then?"
  "Thirteen, sire."
  "Broke a jaw at thirteen?" Ambrose
chuckled, releasing a gleam of the royal charm.
"No milksop, obviously!"
  "Far from it, sire. That was only the beginning.
By the time his term as the Brat was up, he'd cowed
all the sopranos and most of the beansprouts, and
I don't remember anyone else ever managing
that. He sabotaged their clothes and fouled their
bedding with horse dung. He woke them in the
night .... They could gang up on him, of
course, and they did, but they couldn't stay together in
a pack all the time. Whenever Raider could get
one of them alone, he would jump out and take his
revenge. One-on-one he could pummel any of
them. I have never seen so many black eyes and
split lips. It was a reign of terror. They
were scared of him, and it's supposed to be the other
way. They named him Raider, sire!"
  Ambrose roared out a thunderclap of laughter that
seemed to shake the building. "Feels good
to tell me that, doesn't it? All right, we shall
issue a royal pardon to Candidate Raider for
being Candidate Raider. He obviously earned
that name. If he ever goes near the coast with that
hair they'll lynch him. They have long memories
for those evil days. You suppose his mother was raped
by a Baelish raider? Tell me more about this
demon." He reached for a pie.
  Grand Master breathed a silent prayer of
thanks to the absent Durendal. "But the point is
that he isn't a demon, sire! He's affable,
courteous, sociable. Self-contained, inclined
to be meditative. Very popular and respected.
We find this often. No matter what their
background, once they've been through their testing as
the Brat, as soon as people start to treat them like
human beings, they begin to behave like human ..."
He recalled another of Durendal's tips:
Never lecture him. "Yes, well,
Raider's a future commander of your Guard,
sire. I'll stake my job on it."
  This threat to the royal prerogative caused the
porcine eyes to shrink even smaller. "You will, will
you? I'll remember that, Grand Master. By the
eight! I don't recall your predecessor ever
making so reckless a prediction." He emptied
the drinking horn and bit a chunk out of the pie.
  Hoare was grinning, so he had guessed what was
coming.
  "He made this one, sire. He made it
several times. A superb judge of men. And he
was taken from us before the night of the fire. It was
Raider who ran back into the building and made the
rescues. Two knights and one candidate are
alive today only because of him."
  The King must know all this. Grand Master's
reports on the seniors were officially addressed
to Commander Montpurse, but he certainly passed
them on. Ambrose could probably quote them
word for word if he wanted to.
  "So he's lucky and he's foolhardy. How
is he with a sword, hmm?"
  "Adequate."
  The royal scowl darkened the room again. "Is
that the best you can say about this paragon?
Adequate?"
  "I am confident his skills will not be found
wanting." The truth was that the fencing masters
refused to commit themselves on Raider's
swordsmanship. Fencing was an obsession
for most of the boys, but not for him. He was
easygoing, even indolent, practicing no more than
he had to and frequently letting his opponents
score--he admitted he did that, although holding
back was regarded as a major breach of the code.
Winning mattered more to them, he said. He had been
ranked as "disappointing." But one day, just once,
he had taken offense at something Wolfbiter did
or said, and then he had given the school wonder a
thorough trouncing with foils, around and around the
courtyard. It had been the talk of all
Ironhall for days. He had been unable
to repeat that performance since and nobody knew
whether he could do so in a real sword fight.
  The King had sensed the evasion but he let it go.
"Well, they can't all be heroes. Bullwhip,
Mallory, Raider ... Who's fourth?" He
reached for the second pie. There was gravy in his
beard.
  "Wasp, rapier man. Fine swordsman.
Popular, sharp ..." Grand Master hesitated
one last moment, and then said it. "I have reservations
about him, sire."
  "What sort of reservations?"
  "He's only a boy."
  "Shaving yet?" the King asked with his mouth
full.
  "Probably not. Wasp is not ready, but there
are a dozen first-class men waiting behind him. It
seems very unfair to hold them up because of him."
  That was the rule--candidates must leave in the
order in which they arrived. Awkward though this
ancient edict often was, it did encourage
cooperation in the Order. The faster learners worked
hard to help the slow ones. Any other arrangement
would make them compete against one another, leading
to bad blood and feuds within the brotherhood.
Thus was it done and thus shall it always be done.
  The King was scowling again. Monarchs liked to think
they were busy people, and Ambrose grudged the time
to come to Ironhall. It was a duty he could never
delegate, for a Blade must be bound by the hand of his
ward. "His fencing is good?"
  "He lacks the heft for the heavier weapons, but
with a rapier he's brilliant. He'll be even
better when he stops growing so fast--it skews his
coordination." It was his very skill that was the problem,
of course. He was too young to handle the deadly
abilities Ironhall had given him. A band
of drunken aristocratic fops poking
fun at a boy Blade might provoke disaster.
"I'm sure there's nothing wrong with the man himself,
sire. He's just immature--suffering from a bad
attack of adolescence. He can neither swim with the
tadpoles nor jump with the frogs. One minute
he expects to conquer the world, next minute he's
convinced he's human trash and a total
failure; or his friends have left him behind and life
isn't fair--that sort of thing. We all go through
some of it in our time, but he has a severe case.
His terrible experience in the fire set him back.
And he is an Ironhall swordsman!"
  Hoare was pulling faces again.
  Ambrose had started on the cheese. "How
old?" he mumbled.
  "He says eighteen, but he may have lied when
he came in. A lot of them do and it rarely
matters. He was orphaned by a Baelish raid
--must have been about the last one of the war. He
turned up at the gate here alone. Normally we
don't accept a boy unless a parent or
guardian sponsors him, of course. Wasp
claimed to have walked all the way from Norcaster.
He was in a very weak state--close to starvation,
feet bloodied, incipient pneumonia."
  "Are you accusing your predecessor of being
motivated by pity, Grand Master?"
  The Durendal gambit again: "I am sure
he was, sire, many times. But he very rarely
made a mistake." The ensuing silence was
encouragement to continue. "And in this case, he may
even have been anxious to find a Brat to replace
Raider before he devastated the entire soprano
class!"
  Ambrose munched for a moment, then took a
gulp of ale. "How did the rat pack deal with
him?" It was an unexpected question, a reminder that
a king who looked like a butter churn might yet
have a sharp mind.
  "They hardly touched him. Partly, I think,
they were sorry for him. Most of them are here because they
made the world too hot to hold them, but Wasp was
different. More important, Raider was still
resentful and opposed to the hazing. He put the
new Brat under his protection. They have been
staunch friends ever since." Grand Master saw that
Hoare had picked up the hint, so it was a fair
bet that Ambrose would raise the matter if he
tried to shirk it. "Inseparable friends."
  "Like that?" It was known that His Majesty
disapproved strongly of that.
  "No, not like that, sire," Grand Master said
firmly. "If it were like that, then there would be
jokes and gossip, and there aren't. You cannot keep
such secrets in Ironhall." Not easily,
anyway. "I'm sure they are just what I have
said, very close friends. It is common enough in the
Order. Boys arrive here rejected or
recently orphaned. The school is harsh--it is
no wonder that they reach out for friendship."
  The King grunted skeptically. Hoare rolled
his eyes.
  Grand Master said, "Wasp's misfortune is
that he was young when he came and he has turned out
to be a slow developer."
  And now he was inconveniencing his sovereign lord,
who was displeased. "You have conjurations to nudge them
along!"
  "They are not infallible, sire. Even the
ritual to stop a boy growing taller than
Blade limits did not work for Raider, although it
is one of our standards. There is a
maturation-enhancing ritual we could have tried on
Wasp, but I never risked it when I was Master
of Rituals and I will not allow it now. The
danger is that it invokes only spirits of time, and
such monoclinal adjurations risk perturbing the
diametric complement, which in the case of time is
chance, thus hazarding aberrant and unpredictable
eventualities. The College has records
of children dying of old age before the ..." The menace
in the King's face stopped him.
  "You're lecturing!"
  "Your pardon, sire!" Grand Master
hesitated and then decided that in fairness to the boy
they were discussing he must tell the rest of the story.
"There is more, sire. His entire family had
died in a fire, understand. When we had the fire
here, last Eighthmoon, he became separated from
the others. I suspect ... Well, there is no
doubt, really. He panicked. When everyone
else went down the stairs, he must have run the
wrong way or hidden somewhere. ... We counted
heads and discovered he was missing--this was after
Raider had already helped the two knights out.
We tried to stop him, but he went back a third
time to look for Wasp and carried him out just moments
before the roof collapsed. There is absolutely
no doubt that he saved the lad's life. The boy
has not quite recovered from that experience even
yet. He needs more time. ..."
  "Tragic!" rumbled the King. "But we cannot
let one boy's problems disrupt our Royal
Guard. I do not want tearful tales, Grand
Master, I want recommendations. This is a
difficult situation, one that your predecessor
faced more than once. I look to you for judgment."
  Grand Master sighed. "Yes, Your Grace.
It depends entirely on the urgency of Your
Majesty's needs. If Commander Montpurse
requires up to fifteen new Blades,
Ironhall can supply them, and fourteen will be
entirely satisfactory. Probably the
fifteenth will also perform as required and I am just
worrying overmuch, like a mother hen. On the other hand,
if three will tide the Commander over for a couple of
months, then I would recommend that this be Your
Majesty's decision."
  "Two months?" the King growled. "Sounds like
the boy needs two years."
  "With respect, sire, he will be Prime. That
is a considerable test for any candidate and those with
apple cheeks most of all. I suspect the
Commander could confirm that statement for you." He
glanced around, and the fair-faced Montpurse
grinned and nodded agreement. "Wasp will not have his
hero to rely on any more. The candidates behind him
will guess that he held them back and seniors can
make Prime's life utter misery if they
want. So can Grand Master, if he must. I will
guarantee, sire, that within two months,
Candidate Wasp will either have snapped like a cheap
sword and run away across the moors screaming,
or he will have hair on his chin. It may not be
visible to everyone, but it will be there. And in that case,
both Your Majesty and the Order will have gained an
excellent Blade."
  For a long, uncomfortable moment the piggy eyes
assessed Grand Master as if he were a juicy
acorn. "And if you're wrong?"
  "Minister of Fisheries, sire."
  The King leaned back in the big chair and
uttered a couple of deep whoofs that grew into a
sort of deep-seated chortling, a peculiar
eruption that made his bulk shake. "So you can be
ruthless? I confess I wondered if you were man enough
for the job, Grand Master. I am pleased to see
my doubts were unjustified. I need men who know
when compassion is no kindness. Commander, can you live
with just the three paragons for now?"
  "For two months, yes sire." Montpurse
had obviously been amused by the exchange. He
must have witnessed many similar sessions. "Longer
than that might be troublesome."
  "Then you have your two months, Grand Master.
Bring on your swordsmen. We shall leave the
Wasp in his nest for now."

                  

  Ever since the fire in West House, the
senior seniors' dormitory had been a room
in New Wing big enough for two beds but containing
six. Bullwhip's and Mallory's were next
door. Herrick and Fitzroy had to climb over
Wasp's or Raider's to reach theirs. The King's
unexpected arrival had thrown all the seniors
into panic until they realized that they were already
wearing their best outfits, which they had put on for the
Return that morning and had not had cause
to change. All that was required was some washing,
straightening, and combing. Herrick had shaved again,
because his jowls were permanently blue, but now six
men--five men and a boy--were stretched out on their
cots awaiting the King's pleasure.
  Herrick chewed his nails. Fitzroy
cracked his knuckles. Mallory was polishing his
boots for the fifteenth time. Bullwhip kept
getting up, looking out the door, closing it,
sitting down again .... And so on. The only
calm one in the place was Raider, silently
reading a book of poetry with his long legs
stretched out. Wasp, who was always being accused of
fidgeting, prattling, and making his bed squeak in
the night, was absolutely determined that this time he
would show no impatience whatsoever. None. He
had his hands behind his head so they couldn't tremble and
he was concentrating on not moving a single muscle.
Not a blink! Like Raider. Trouble was that all the
pressure seemed to be rolling into his stomach and
he was fairly sure he was about to explode and
sick up.
  Not that his fake calm was going to deceive anyone after
that farce he had staged when Spender announced the
King was coming--leaping up to look out the window and then
screaming like a kid! A dumb kid! What
sort of swordsman made a fool of himself like
that? And his voice cracking! Oh flames! It
was two years since his voice changed. It
didn't have to put him through that again. Not now,
please not now, with the King in the school.
  Bullwhip, Mallory, Raider, Wasp,
Herrick, Fitzroy ... Herrick and
Fitzroy wanted to lynch him at once. So
did all six men in the second seniors' dorm
next door, and some others might be talked into it.
All of them shaved or wore beards. Some of them
had hair on their chests, too--Herrick without his
shirt looked like one of the stable cats. But the King
would not bind a mere boy, so Wasp stood between
them and the Royal Guard.
  Soon the summons would come. At the very least it
would be a call for Prime and Second to report
to Grand Master, but after seven months the King would
certainly harvest more than one. However many he
wanted, Grand Master would summon them and one more.
That was the way it was done. Last week
Wolfbiter as Prime and Bullwhip as
Second. This week ... What Wasp feared
most was a summons for four: Bullwhip,
Mallory, Raider, and Wasp. Three to be
bound and Wasp to remain behind.
  Then he would be Prime! Oh, flames!
Mother confessor to a hundred candidates.
"Prime, why can't I move up to the
beansprouts' table?" "Prime, my neighbor
snores. ..." "Prime, why can't I keep
my hands off myself in bed?" And this Prime was
only a boy. The seniors would eat him raw.
Death! The sopranos would eat him raw. He
would be like that King of Fitain Sir Spender had
described, with barons and burghers and peasants
all after his blood at the same time.
  He couldn't possibly need to go pee again,
could he? At least he didn't wet the bed now,
as he had for the first few nights after the fire, but
he still woke up choking and sobbing, dreaming he was
back in the burning dormitory, flailing around
unable to see or breathe in the smoke, alone and
deserted, or even all bundled up in a
blanket, being carried out by a stumbling, cursing
Raider. It had been a fiendishly close
call, true, but what sort of swordsman
wept in bed? And so often it got all mixed up
with that other fire, the one he had almost managed
to forget. ...
  Raider closed his book and laid it down.
"The time has come, soldiers of fortune. I'd like
to tell you all that I've enjoyed knowing you and I'm
proud to have been your friend. May the spirits of
chance grant you all the success you have earned."
  After a moment's puzzled silence, Mallory
said, "I'm sure we all feel the same about
you, dread warrior, but surely we can storm the
palace together?"
  "No."
  "We six!" Fitzroy protested. "The King
will take at least all of us here, even if he
doesn't--"
  "No." Raider grinned but offered no
explanation.
  "What do you mean?" Wasp cried, and again
heard that stupid squeak. Once a man's
voice had changed it was not supposed to change
back!
  "Yes, what do you know?" Bullwhip was glaring
as if his honor as Prime was being threatened, but the
others were frowning too. If Wasp had spoken as
Raider had, then everyone would have assumed he was just
jackassing around, but Raider's pronouncements
always carried conviction.
  He smiled at each of them in turn, last and
longest at Wasp. "I can't tell you how I
know, but I do. For me this is good-bye. So
good-bye. Good chance to you all."
  Any further argument was blocked by a soft tap
on the door. Bullwhip reached it in one bound from
a sitting start, almost flattening Mallory, who
was there before him. Between them they hauled it open
to reveal the Brat dithering outside and about twenty
juniors goggling in the background.
  "Message for People-people-people-prime!" The kid had
not stammered yesterday.
  "Well? Let's hear it!"
  The Brat dropped to his knees and bent his
face to the floor--the sopranos had him well
trained already.
  "Never mind groveling," Bullwhip said, more
gently. "We know why you're here. How many of us
does Grand Master want to see?"
  The Brat looked up and licked his lips.
"From-from-from-from-four, honored sir."
  Wasp's world shriveled up and died.
  "You heard him," Bullwhip said harshly.
"Let's go. Second. Raider. Wasp?
Yes, Wasp." He sounded surprised, as if
he couldn't believe Little Peach-face was so
senior. "The rest of you kiddies can go back
to fencing."
  Wasp croaked, "Ready," and lurched
to his feet. His stomach writhed and then steadied.
It was probably waiting to do its atrocity
until it could shame him in front of the King.

  With the Brat trotting to keep up with those he was
supposed to be leading, they marched across to First
House and into the oldest part of that oldest building.
The corridors were dingy and dark, still clammy with
winter's chill. Halfway along the library
corridor, they came on two Blades waiting
at the bottom of a narrow staircase--Sir
Hoare and Sir Janvier. Those stairs led up
to the Flea Room, which was where Grand Master
interviewed applicants. It was also where seniors
met their future wards, so for most Blades it
marked the beginning and the end of life in Ironhall.
Yet Raider claimed that he had never seen it and
Wasp remembered only dropping in a dead
faint at Grand Master's feet.
  "Brat, you can run and help the cooks,"
Hoare said cheerfully. "Tell them you're ready
to start skinning the horse now. Prime!
Congratulations!" He offered a hand. They all
knew Hoare. His scathing humor was much admired
and quoted for weeks after his visits. "The
Guard's been waiting for you for too long and that is
not your fault. The same applies to you,
Second."
  The candidates mumbled thanks for the compliments and
moved on to be greeted by Janvier, who had been
Prime before Wolfbiter.
  "So you're Raider?" Hoare appraised
Raider. "You're not quite as tall as the Big
Man, but close. Congratulations on being
called."
  "Thank you. And congratulations on your own
promotion, Deputy."
  Only now Wasp noticed the narrow silver
baldric. Everyone but Raider had missed it.
  "Thanks. It's about time they got someone
competent," Hoare said. "And you're Wasp.
Tough luck, candidate. Next time we'll ...
Huh?"
  Janvier was ignoring Raider's offered hand,
staring up at his face with a puzzled expression.
  "Trouble, brother?" Hoare asked. His hand
slid to his sword hilt.
  For a moment there was silence and the dingy corridor
seemed to fill with menace.
  "Something," Janvier muttered. "It's
very faint."
  Raider spread out his hands, showing that they were not
near his sword. Very softly he said, "I can't
see how I can be a danger to Good King
Ambrose. I strongly suspect he is a
danger to me, so perhaps that's what your talent is
detecting, Sir Janvier."
  "How do you know about his talent?" snapped
Hoare.
  "Snake told me about it when he was here last
week." Raider's eyes never left
Janvier's face.
  "What talent?" Bullwhip demanded. He was
ignored.
  "Make up your mind, Janvier." Raider's
gentle manners went only so far, as everyone
knew. "If you want to try and kill me,
I'll enjoy making a sieve of you. If you'd rather
do it with fists, I'll be happy to reset your
face the way I did last time. Otherwise stand
aside, because I have business with the King."
  Janvier did nothing. He seemed to be
paralyzed.
  "Brother, why don't we carry on now?"
Hoare said. "We can mention your doubts to Leader
and Grand Master before the binding tomorrow."
  Reluctantly Janvier stepped back, still
watching Raider.
  "Fists for preference!" Raider looked
to Hoare. "I think I know what's rankling him
and it's no danger to His Majesty. Can we
move on? I have to dye my hair tonight."
  Hoare grinned. "I'm the joker here,
candidate. Off with the swords, lads. Stand 'em
up in the corner here and collect them when you
leave. Remember, it's Grand Master who's
summoned you. You go to him. When he presents you,
you turn your back, drop your hose, and bend
over. Anyone want to practice that now?"
  "I'll do it and say you said to!" Bullwhip
snarled.
  "Me? I told you to kneel and kiss the
royal fingers. Don't lick them, even if they
do have gravy on them. Any questions?"
  "Will he be hiding behind the door like Durendal
was?"
  "No," Hoare said patiently. "They only
play that trick with commoners. Otherwise you'd have
your backs to the King and that isn't proper. Spirits,
cheer up! You all look scared shoeless.
You're supposed to be swordsmen, not
milkmaids. This is what you've all been working
for all these years! Stick your chins out and swagger.
He's a growly fat old bastard, but he's a
fiery good king too, and we're all lucky to be
able to serve him. Ready?"
  "And I don't get asked, do I?" Wasp
said.
  "Not unless somebody drops dead. You get
to stay home and be Prime, you lucky lad. Come
along, kiddies."

  The Flea Room was small and cold, with two
unshuttered windows and an empty fireplace.
Dusk had arrived there already, for outside the
westward sky was turning pink over the moors and
stars shone in the east. As the four candidates formed
themselves into a line facing Grand Master, Hoare
closed the door with himself on the inside of it. The
King was watching from the corner--large and menacing, but
smiling and presently officially invisible. The
man lurking inconspicuously at the far end was
Commander Montpurse.
  "You summoned us, Grand Master?" Bullwhip
said hoarsely.
  Grand Master's swansdown hair rippled as
he nodded. "Yes, Prime. His Majesty has
need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
  This was the ritual. They had all heard tell
of it a hundred times, but Wasp had been
included so he would know exactly how it was done and
could carry word back to the next crop and thus
to generations yet unborn. Everything in Ironhall
was ritual, tradition, ancient custom.
  "I am ready, Grand Master."
  The old man smiled approvingly and turned
to bow, acknowledging the royal presence. "Your
Majesty, I have the honor to present Prime
Candidate Bullwhip."
  Now everyone could take notice of the King.
Wasp had never seen him close, only across
half the length of the hall. He was very large. In
his voluminous garments he made everyone else
present seem small, even Raider. The
plume on his hat almost touched the ceiling.
Bullwhip made a full court bow, then walked
forward and knelt to the sovereign.
  "Glad to have you, Prime," he boomed.
"Grand Master speaks very highly of your skill
with the saber."
  Bullwhip mumbled something appropriately
modest and was permitted to kiss the royal fingers,
rise, bow, step back into line.
  "Candidate Mallory," Grand Master
bleated, "His Majesty has need of a
Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
  "I am ready, Grand Master."
  One more and then Wasp could go away and begin his
ordeal as the Runt Who Wasn't Good Enough.
He wouldn't have his friend Raider around to complain to.
He would have no friends in Ironhall. Nothing was more
certain than that. In a week or so some vapid
aristocratic nobody would turn up with a warrant
from the King to claim him and turn him into a lap
dog. That was what they did with failures--palmed
them off on worthless courtiers who needed a
bodyguard like a third ear.
  The King had been well cued. "A fine
rapier man, I hear, to balance a saber one.
Welcome to our service, candidate."
  Mallory returned to Bullwhip's side.
  "Candidate Raider, His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
  Raider said, "No, Grand Master. I
regret to say that I cannot."
  That was not part of the tradition.

                  

  The King put his fists on his hips and seemed
to swell until he filled the room. Grand
Master's face turned as white as his hair.
Everyone stared at Raider as if doubting their
ears. There was no ritual for this, obviously.
There might not even be a precedent--had any
candidate ever refused his sovereign? A
private binding, maybe. That might be understandable,
although Wasp had never heard even a whisper of
any refusals, so they must be extremely rare
in the three-century history of the Order. And
to refuse the King!
  Why? After all these years of hard work and
effort? Any candidate was free to leave at any
time. They were all told that on the day they were
admitted, but they were also warned that they would walk out
empty-handed, wearing nothing but a peasant's
smock. Wasp had known many to disappear. But
to give up after five years, at the last possible
instant, in front of the King himself ...
  An astonishingly long silence.
  "If I may have your leave to withdraw, Grand
Master," Raider said quietly, "and an
escort past the Blades on the gate, then I
will leave Ironhall at once." He was
easily the calmest man present. He had not
been surprised, of course. This was what he had
been hinting at back in the dorm.
  Grand Master made a choking sound. "You
certainly will!" He was not having much luck with his
first harvesting.
  "Wait!" The King stepped forward until he
was right in front of Raider, almost nose to nose.
He was not much taller, but taller he was, and
bulky enough to make the boy look like a fishing
pole. "Radgar!" he barked.
  Raider flinched. It must be years since he
had needed to look up to anyone, but that did not
explain the flinch. Whatever the charge, he was
obviously guilty. "Your Majesty?"
  "Raider--Radgar! That's why you hung on
to that stupid name, isn't it?" The King smiled,
if every satisfied display of teeth must be classed
as a smile. "I want to hear more about this. We shall
talk with you later, young man. Stand over there.
Carry on, Grand Master." King Ambrose
spun around and stomped back to his place in the
rapidly darkening corner.
  "Carry on, sire?"
  "That's why you have Second, isn't it?
Isn't it?"
  Grand Master made a visible effort to gather his
wits. "Ah, yes, of course." He looked
doubtfully at Wasp.
  Eek! Wasp had become the center of
attention. Of course technically Second must
become Prime Candidate as soon as Prime
accepted binding--or refused it. And so on down
the line. That meant that he was now ... Eek!
Eek! Eek!
  "Candidate Wasp." Grand Master pulled a
face as if the name tasted bad. "His Majesty
has need of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
  Another silence ...
  Wasp wanted to look at Raider and see if
he could offer any hints, even just a nod or a
head shake, but Raider had been removed from
view. Whatever was Raider planning? He had
nothing: no money, no home, no relatives.
All he had ever said about his family was that both his
parents had died in a fire. That was something
they shared, because so had Wasp's. A peasant's
smock and nothing else. He did have his
Ironhall training. Any nobleman needing a
household guard or a fencing instructor would
jump at a chance to hire an Ironhall man.
So why let King Ambrose drive a nail through
your heart and serve him body and soul for ten years
or more? Looked at in that light, Raider had
made a very logical decision. Ungrateful,
larcenous, and rapacious, perhaps, but he could leave
at any time. Those had been the terms offered.
  Wasp's hesitation was becoming obvious. The
King was glaring. Grand Master was glaring.
  "Wasp!" Raider shouted from somewhere in the
background. "Don't be a fool! Don't do
it!"
  Why not? They could go together.
  "No, Grand Master. I am afraid I
cannot."

                  

  Blades did not approve of upstart sword
brats who insulted their liege lord. Hoare
cracked no jokes now, and Montpurse's
fair face was dark with anger. They removed
ex-Candidate Wasp from the royal presence,
jostled him along to the guardroom, and pushed him
into a corner with his face to the stonework. He was
told to stay there and say nothing. He was aware that
Raider had been similarly placed in the
opposite corner, because Raider tried to speak and
then cried out when someone struck him. After that there was
silence.
  King Ambrose was not an absolute despot.
Unlike monarchs of less enlightened lands, he
must observe the law and truckle to Parliament
to some extent. But if he chose to throw two friendless
Ironhall orphans into the rankest dungeon in
Grandon Bastion and leave them there to die of old
age, who would call him to account?
  As time dragged by, one thing became more and more
certain--Raider had not acted on the spur of the
moment. More than anyone else Wasp knew, he
always kept his head and thought things through. Having
decided to refuse binding, he would have counted on
at least a few hours' grace to make his
escape, because the King's visits were normally known
in advance. He had not intended to provoke a
confrontation. But he had, and then
dumb-kid Wasp had jumped in and turned it
into a conspiracy. They had insulted their king.
  Enraged their king.
  Guards came and went, for this was the Blades'
own room at Ironhall. Words were spoken--not
many, but enough to inform Wasp that a dozen astonished
seniors had been summoned to the Flea Room and
eleven had agreed enthusiastically that they were ready
to serve. The King was now dining in the hall.
Bullwhip and Mallory had been sworn
to silence. If refusals were treated as state
secrets, they might not be so rare after all.
  Perhaps they buried the bodies on the moor.

  Long after sunset the miscreants were fetched
to Grand Master's study, which Wasp had not seen
since his far-off days as the Brat. The King
stood in front of the fireplace, showing no
evidence that dinner had improved his mood. Behind
him logs crackled cheerfully on the hearth and
candle flames danced atop silver candlesticks
on the mantel.
  The prisoners were stood by the window, facing the
King but on the far side of the book-littered table.
Janvier was already guarding the outer door, and when
everyone else had departed, Montpurse took
up position before the inner one. That was all, just
five of them, no Grand Master, no witnesses.
Would the Guard commit murder on the King's
orders?
  Wasp had not had a chance to exchange as much as
a wink with Raider since this catastrophe began.
Raider must have reasons, or at least some
plans, so when the King finished his glowering and started
asking questions Wasp would have to take his cue from him.
  The King cheated--he began with Wasp. "When
is your birthweek?"
  "First quarter of Fourthmoon, Your
Majesty." His voice sounded very small, even
to him.
  "What year?"
  There was going to be a problem here. "Um,
340, sire."
  The King had very tiny eyes, and at that news they
seemed to shrink even smaller. "You aren't even
seventeen yet! How old were you when you were
admitted?"
  Gulp. "Eleven, Your Majesty."
  "And how old did you say you were?"
  Wasp whispered, "Thirteen ...
sire."
  "So you gained admittance under false
pretenses! For five years you have eaten my
food, slept under my roof, worn my clothes,
taken lessons from my instructors, and now you
think you and your friend can just walk away without paying a
copper mite?"
  There was no answer to that. Wasp hung his head.
  "Look at me, thief!" roared the King.
  Wasp raised his chin. As he had come
to Ironhall, so was he leaving. He was back
to being the Brat again. Raider had not kept all the
torment from him then, and Raider could do nothing at
all for him now. No one could shield him from a
bullying monarch with a phalanx of enthralled
swordsmen eager to satisfy his whims.
  "What's your real name?"
  Something rattled its chain, wanting out. "I
don't remember!"
  Raider cleared his throat in quiet warning.
  King Ambrose raised a fist. "Well,
boy, you had better start remembering, because
I'll get the truth out of you by whatever means it
takes. I can have inquisitors here before dawn, and
you can't lie to them. I can have you put to the Question. I
can have you tortured. Or I can do it the easy
way. Commander Montpurse, if I ask for
three or four volunteers to interrogate this
suspect, what sort of response will I
get?"
  "Enthusiastic, sire. Blades don't like
ingrates and renegades."
  "Some men never recover their health after that sort
of experience--you understand, boy?"
  "Yes, sire."
  "Then what's your name and where did you come from?"
  Even then the resentment straining at its chain
made him delay a moment before he answered, just
to watch the King's anger mount. "W. My father was
Kemp of Haybridge by Norcaster."
  "And what happened to him?"
  Not fair! Everyone knew that admittance
to Ironhall was a fresh start, that a man would
never be asked for his old name or details of his
old life. The slate was wiped clean. Even the
law said that, the charter. But the King was the King.
  "The Baels got him," Wasp muttered. His
father, his mother, his brothers, and a few older
relatives. It had been the last raid of the war
--in fact the war had been officially
ended and all Chivial celebrating with dancing and
bonfires, but one Baelish ship had either not yet
heard the news or had chosen not to listen. The King
was waiting for details. "The squire rallied
everyone into the big house, but the Baels burned
it." Wasp had been out in the hills, gathering the
cows for the evening milking. He had seen the glow of the
fire in the dusk. ... The raiders had come for the
cattle and looked for the herd boy. He had hidden
in a badger's sett, wriggling in feet first,
terrified the badger might start chewing his toes but
more terrified of the two-legged monsters hunting him
above ground. In the morning they had gone, but there
had been nothing of Haybridge left, nothing at
all. ... "I had nowhere to go, no one to turn
to. I walked here. I lied to Grand Master because
I didn't want to starve to death out on the
moor."
  The King's fat lips moved in and out as he
considered this answer. "And tonight? Why did you
refuse to be bound?"
  Now Wasp could look up at Raider for
help. But Raider was ignoring him, staring
glumly at the King.
  "My friend needs me."
  "Why?"
  "I ... I'm a better swordsman than
he is."
  "And why does he need a swordsman?"
  "Er ... I don't know."
  The questions flashed like rapiers. The answers
grew more and more pathetic until Wasp was reduced
to repeating, "He saved my life!" over and over
and the King shook his head in exasperation. "Grand
Master certainly nailed you in the gold. You're
an idiot child, Will of Haybridge! A
brainless, headstrong, immature brat!"
  Wasp's anger had all gone. He just hoped
he wasn't going to weep. Anything but that!
"Yes, sire."
  "You've thrown away everything and you don't even
know what you chose instead. What's your name,
Bael?"
  The switch came without warning, but Raider
smiled as if he had expected it. He glanced
over the audience--Montpurse, Janvier,
Wasp--and shrugged.
  "You guessed who I am, Uncle."
  Wasp jerked out of his misery and took a hard
look at that familiar bony face with its
invisible eyebrows and lashes, brilliant green
eyes. Same man as always. Uncle? Had
Raider simply gone insane? Had the King? Was
that what all this was about--craziness? Raider had
always denied being a Bael. How could he be the
King's nephew if he was really one of those
monsters? Aha! Wait a moment! Wasp
recalled a dim memory of Master of
Protocol mentioning some obscure and disgraceful
connection. ...
  The King scowled. "Why did you refuse
binding?"
  "Because binding would kill me. I am already
enchanted."
  Montpurse's sword flashed into his hand.
  Raider eyed him warily. "The conjuration cannot
harm anyone else. If His Majesty wishes,
I can demonstrate its effects."
  "Sir Janvier?" growled the King.
  Janvier seemed more puzzled than worried.
"He does feel like a threat to you, sire, but
only vaguely. ..."
  Ambrose dismissed this diagnosis with a
snort. "Show us."
  "Yes, sire," Raider said calmly.
"Commander, I must remove my doublet."
  Montpurse took a step closer, still
clutching Talon, and Janvier drew his sword
also. They watched like cats as the prisoner
stripped off his jerkin and then his doublet. Moving
deliberately, he rolled up his right shirt
sleeve, exposing an arm like any ordinary arm--
somewhat slender for a swordsman's perhaps, but a quite
respectable pale-skinned and boyishly hairless
forearm. "Now, Commander, if you would fetch me one
of those candles?"
  The King himself grabbed a candlestick from the
mantel and stood it on the table. Raider drew
a deep breath, set his teeth, and put his arm in
the flame.
  The King muttered an oath, but otherwise
everyone just stared in disbelief. Obviously it
hurt. Sweat streamed down Raider's face and
his lips curled back in a rictus of pain. His
arm trembled with the effort of will needed to hold it
steady, but there was no visible change where the flesh
should be blistering, turning black, smoking.
  "That will do!" said the King sharply.
  Raider snatched his hand away and wiped his
forehead. He held out his arm to confirm that
there was no mark on the skin. Now that the ordeal was
over, he was trying not to smile at the King's
obvious shock. Montpurse, resting a finger
over the candle, winced and drew it back
instantly. Raider rolled down his sleeve.
  King Ambrose scoffed, but he had been
shaken. "A clever parlor trick! What does
it prove? Are all Baels immune to fire?"
  Again Raider did not deny the insult. "No,
sire. But a massive enchantment like mine will
deflect any other conjuration, or at least
distort the balance of the elements in it. I'm sure
that's why Master of Rituals could not stop my
growth. If you thrust the sword through my heart I
will die. Besides, how would the sniffers at court
react to me?" He smiled ruefully at
Wasp. "I also showed you that my companion's
loyalty is misplaced. Yes, I carried him
out of West House, but I was in no danger. When
my clothes burned, it hurt but did me no
harm. I should not have claimed to be a hero when I
wasn't, friend. I am sorry."
  Ridiculous! "You didn't claim anything,"
Wasp protested. "What would have happened if
you'd been half a minute later? What if
we'd been still inside when the roof came down?
I'd have died under tons of blazing timbers.
What would you have done?"
  "I'd probably have used a lot of bad
language."
  "Silence!" roared the King. "Any more insolence
and I will have the Guard lay the rod on your
backs, both of you. You can do tricks with a candle,
boy, but you still have to convince me you're the lost
atheling."
  Raider raised his brows in impudent
surprise. "Gea! Ic wille mine
oe`edelu gecy`edan, poet ic eom miceles
cynnes. ..." * The King's glare made
even his cocksureness falter at that point. "I
will tell you of my noble kin, Uncle, for it is
true that you have granted me hospitality for the last
five years and a guest's duties--"
      * Yea! I wish my nobility made
    known, that I am from great kinfolk. ...
  "An uninvited guest! A freeloader, a
thief!"
  "Ah! Well, that depends."
  Wasp wondered what the two Blades were
making of this. He did not dare look.
He did not dare look anywhere except at a
king who seemed very close to explosion. Never had
he felt admiration for anyone more than he felt
for Raider now. In an impossibly unfair
contest he had brushed aside the King's attack
and drawn ahead on points. Not that it could ever be
a fair match, for the King could break it off at
any point and summon the inquisitors. His
talk of a beating was no bluff, either.
  "Depends on what?"
  "On what orders Sir Geste had and who
issued them."
  The royal eyes narrowed. "Geste? Who's
he?"
  "A former Blade, Your Grace. He was the
one who brought me to Ironhall."
  "Don't recall any Geste in the Order.
Do you, Commander?"
  "No, sire," Montpurse said. "Shall I
send for Master of Archives?"
  "Perhaps later, when we have finally extracted the
explanation we are still waiting for."
  Raider bowed. "Gladly I will give it,
sire. But my friend and I have been kept on our
feet for about three hours now. I very much need
to relieve myself. A drink and a bite of food
would be a generous gesture."
  The King scowled at Montpurse. "Send for
some water and a piss pot." As the Commander was
passing the word to someone outside the door, the King
sank into the big leather chair. He pointed at the
oaken settle opposite. "Sit there and
explain how you got here."
  The command did not specifically include
Wasp, but there was room for two on the bench and no
one objected when he squeezed in beside Raider.
  "How I Got Here?" Raider said
thoughtfully. "I suppose the greatest blame should
be laid on Gerard of Waygarth. A nice enough
young man, I understand, yet sadly misguided.
He was of no real importance in himself, but back
in 337, during your father's--"
  "Never mind him! You need not go that far back."
  Wasp felt peeved. Why would the King not let
Raider tell the whole story? What could have
happened twenty years ago that he still wanted
kept secret?


                AELED

                 II

  The story Raider wanted to tell would have
gone something like this. ...

                  

  Ambleport was a town of about a thousand souls on
the southwest coast of Chivial. It thrived on
trade, fishing, a little whaling in the spring, and more
than a little smuggling. By day its inhabitants
bustled about in its crowded little harbor and by night
they slept unworried within its walls of
honey-colored stone.
  One foggy dawn in the spring of 337, four
dragon ships floated into the mouth of the Amble
River. They advanced with muffled oars, silent as
trout in a pool, gray as ashes in the murk.
The cold watchmen in their shack at the end of the
breakwater rang no warning bell, because their
throats had been cut a few minutes earlier
by three wet, naked men who had climbed up the
stonework with knives in their teeth. The hunters
passed unchallenged into the harbor and tied up
alongside the fishing boats. Two hundred
well-trained raiders swarmed ashore without a
word.
  Brawny arms hurled grapnels, and these
made some slight scraping noises as their teeth
gripped the edges of the honey-colored walls but
nothing loud enough to alert the town watch. The first men
over opened the gates for the rest.

  Everyone knew about Baels. Everyone had
heard of the mindless havoc--women raped in the
streets and screaming naked berserkers slaying every
living thing. What happened in Ambleport was very
different--well-trained troops following a
plan with steely discipline. A band smashed in the
door and rushed through the house, looking for
opposition. If they found none, one or two
remained, demanding loot, while the remainder
continued to the next house. Many of the raiders
spoke fluent Chivian and the rest could parrot,
"Do not resist and you will not be hurt." If the
residents quickly handed over some jewelry, a
few gold coins, perhaps a silver candlestick, the
raiders would grin politely and depart, taking
anything else that caught their fancy--
weapons, good textiles, metal pots. Only
if they met resistance or found nothing of value
did they resort to violence, and then they could be as
nasty as the legends said.
  Dealings were less civilized when youngsters were
present. Adolescents and older children were ordered
outside and herded down to the harbor for future
consideration. In much less than an hour,
Ambleport was stripped bare of valuables, and its
young people stood in a terrified huddle on the quay.
There had been almost no resistance.
  Almost none. Gerard had been fast asleep in
the Green Man, blissfully dreaming of
Charlotte. He was wakened by someone kicking in the
door of the room next to his and had just enough time
to leap out of bed and snatch up his rapier. When his
own door was smashed open by a red-bearded raider,
he attacked.
  He had never been in a fight in his life and
had never expected to be. But he was a
gentleman, and gentlemen sported either rapier or
short sword. To gird on a weapon one could not
use was folly, so he had taken lessons at a
very respected school in Grandon--not many
lessons, for his means were limited, but he was
nimble and accurate. Alas, in this instance, also
rash. The only crazy naked berserker in
Ambleport that morning was Gerard of Waygarth. His
victim looked more surprised than hurt when the
steel point went through his beard and up into his
brain, but he folded to his knees and collapsed
on his shield and ax in an entirely
appropriate manner.
  Another Bael filled the doorway behind him--
younger, shorter, and broader. With a blood-chilling
scream he leaped over his fallen comrade. His
shield brushed Gerard's rapier aside like a
twig and slammed its owner back into the wall hard
enough to stun. The fight was over even before the raider
brought up his knee. This technique was not taught
in the gentlemen's fencing schools.

  By the time Gerard had stopped retching long enough
to breathe again, the Bael had stripped his fallen
comrade, piling ax, shield, dagger, helmet, and
other equipment on the bed--even the man's
boots. He had also searched the room and found the
pouch containing Lord Candlefen's gold.
  "This?" he demanded incredulously. "You killed
a man for four crowns? A thegn's
wergild is twelve hundred!"
  Gerard could only moan and hope for a quick death.
To his blurred vision the monster was a vague
impression of broadsword, breeches, boots,
steel helmet, close-cropped copper beard,
and a truly murderous green stare. And a voice that
said, "Put on warm clothes. You're coming with
me."

  As an added indignity, Gerard had to carry the
blanket containing the dead man's gear plus his
own rapier and document case, although he would have
walked doubled over even without that load. The inn was
put to the torch because a Bael had died in it. No
other buildings were burning, but as he staggered down
the muddy track to the harbor gate, he saw he
had not been the only would-be hero. Four or
five men had tried to defend their loved ones; their
bodies had been thrown out of windows to discourage
any further resistance.
  The raid over, the raiders returned to the
waterfront to load their booty. A large part of
that booty consisted of the young people of Ambleport,
huddled into a terrorized flock within a ring of
glittering steel, but the first shock was starting to wear
off. As the horror of their plight registered, they
were growing restless and milling around, girls easing
into the center and the older boys moving to the outside.
The slavers selected one of the largest and ordered
him to lead the way aboard a ship. He refused
and was hacked down on the spot; then the rest did
not argue. The astonishing discipline still prevailed
--no raping, no wholesale arson, just clockwork
perfection.
  As the sun burned off the mist, the dragon
ships spread their oars and departed on the ebb
tide. They rounded the headland and were gone. They
took Gerard with them, because he had slain one of their
own and must suffer for it.

                  

  Baels were savages inhabiting mountainous
islands a few days' sailing northwest of
Chivial. Perversely, they were also the world's
finest traders, offering infinite diversity of
riches: silk and jade, pearls and fantastic
shells, sable and ermine, spice and perfume,
ivory, precious metals, peerless weapons.
Their ships were little bothered by the pirate
scourge that made distant seas so treacherous for
other nations. That was because most of the scourging was done
by the Baels themselves, and the locals had learned not
to meddle with them.
  Whatever they got up to in distant waters, they
marauded the coasts and sea lanes of Eurania
at will. Baelmark's closest neighbor,
Chivial, suffered more than most, seeing every year
three or four ships vanish, a town or two
raped. The Baelish King was very sorry, always;
he did try to control the pirate gangs, so if
the victims would just give him the culprits' names
and say exactly where on his wild shores they had
their lair, he would take appropriate action.
No one believed him, but reprisals against
Baelmark itself always ended in disaster. Once in a
while Euranian authorities would catch a
raider red-handed and hang the whole crew in a
line, but not often. Some governments tried to buy
safety by paying tribute, although even that did not
always work. All monarchs benefitted from excise
taxes on Baelish trade, and their courtiers
had insatiable appetites for the exotic
luxuries only Baels could provide.
Commerce and slaughter ebbed and flowed in uneasy
balance, rarely open war and yet never quite peace.
  The distinction was moot to the Baels. When the
ships that had sacked Ambleport rounded the headland
and caught the wind, the crew shipped oars and
unfurled a square sail on the single mast--not
a red war sail, but an innocent brown one bearing
an emblem of a goose in flight. The
dragon's-head posts were removed from prow and
stern. Unless inspected at close range, the
ship was now a trader, and who could ever run down a
Baelish ship to inspect it?
  Gerard had been put in the lead ship. He
thought it was also the largest but could not reliably
judge size in a watery world bereft of
landmarks. It was about three spans wide at its
widest part and perhaps five or six times that in
length, an open box with no covered decks. People
and booty filled it like a herring barrel, except
for a small area at the stern where the pirate chief
stood holding the steering oar, exposed to the wind and
spray as much as anyone. He ruled a crew of
about fifty and now almost as many captives, who were
all crammed together in the bow. The reason for
putting the landlubbers at the downwind end became
obvious as soon as the ship began
to roll, although most of the Ambleport youngsters were far
better sailors than Gerard proved to be. Within
minutes he was so deathly seasick that he no
longer cared what happened to him.
  Far from displaying the wholesale brutality
attributed to them by the legends, the raiders were
considerate of their valuable and fragile
livestock. They slung awnings across the width
of the ship like very low tents as protection from the
weather; they passed out furs and blankets. They
themselves were well bundled up in garments of leather and
oiled cloth. Near nudity was acceptable for
warriors ashore--as an efficient garb for
fighting or a means of intimidating enemies--but
at sea they wrapped up warmly.
  By evening the wind was a screaming gale, whipping
spume from the waves and churning the sea
into mountains. Sailors who could speak Chivian
assured the captives that the wind was good because it
meant a faster trip to Baelmark. The merits of
that argument depended on one's point of view.
Next day the weather was even worse and the crew
even happier.
  Needless to say, the prisoners were in despair.
They all knew that Baels enchanted captives
into mindless thralls and either set them to work in the
fields or sold them in slave markets far
away. Gerard suspected they would have worse
tricks to try on people they seriously disliked.
Unlike his companions, he was not being mourned.
His parents might not notice his disappearance for
weeks or months, and the senior heralds of the
college would do no more than curse the
unreliability of gentlemen employees.
Nobody knew he had been in Ambleport that
night. Enriched by his unexpectedly generous
honorarium from Lord Candlefen, he had decided
to return to Grandon by the coast road. The
priory in Wearbridge was reputed to own some very
old manuscripts, and if he could win permission
to make copies, the college archivists would pay
well for them. Alas, he had never reached
Wearbridge and now never would.

  On the third day the wind dropped, and the sea
grew calmer. The awnings were removed so the crew
could clean up and tidy the ship. The stronger,
fitter prisoners were set to bailing. Even
Gerard had accepted that life was possible in a world
made up of green-glass hills and
shadowed valleys. He had grown used to the reek
of over-crowded bodies, constant creaking from the
cables, the clink of the ever-shifting cargo, muffled
sobbing among the captives. Around noon word was
passed forward. A raider hauled him to his
feet--and held him there, else he would have
fallen. At the rear of the ship, the leader nodded.
  "Sciphlaford @the gehate@th," the
pirate said. "@thu ga him."
  Gerard could not speak Baelish, but he could
understand some of it. Baelmark had been discovered
by Chivian sailors and settled by Chivians, and
many of the words the crew spoke among themselves
resembled the archaic Chivian on the old charters
and documents he worked with in the college. The
sailor pronounced sciphlaford much like "ship
lord," so his meaning was obvious enough, especially
when he pointed at the helmsman with one hand and
gave Gerard a shove with the other.
  Gerard set off along the ship, a course that
alternated between uphill and downhill, clambering
the whole way on hands and knees over sacks of
loot, trying not to jostle any men who were
sleeping, lest they lash out with fists like mallets.
Yet the journey was informative. He had already
seen that the sailors' garments were beautifully
made and frequently bore embroidery and
strips of beadwork. Now he noted buckles and
brooches elaborately decorated with gold and
precious stones, like the hilts of the weapons that
lay always ready to hand. The ship itself was put together
with a clockmaker's craftsmanship, its oaken
planks perfectly fitted, smoothed, and in many
places embellished with low-relief carvings of
whimsical sea monsters that served no
practical purpose. Nothing could be more
utilitarian than the chests on which the men sat
while rowing and in which they stored their personal
effects, yet even those were carved and inlaid with
ivory or mother-of-pearl, as if to defy the harshness
of the elements. That slavers might be rich was no
surprise, but he had not expected savages
to be lovers of art.
  The ship lord was the blocky young man who had
captured him. Although he had held the steering oar
for at least two thirds of the time since leaving
Ambleport, he showed no signs of weariness. In
the worst of the storm he had needed the help of two
other men; even now, when the gale had tapered off
to a stiff breeze, steering was clearly
hard work, for he had to move the oar up and down on
its pivot as the ship rode the swell, straining
constantly against the pressure, holding her close
to the wind. That explained those shoulders.
  He wore a long-sleeved, knee-length
smock of green wool, gathered at the waist by a
gold-studded belt. Below that showed cross-gartered
leggings and soft boots; over it all he had a
fur-trimmed cloak, pinned at his left shoulder
with a gold brooch whose gems might well be
emeralds and rubies. The hood of his smock was
thrown back so his copper-bright tresses could blow
out like a banner. Baels were said to regard any
baby born without red hair and green eyes as
seriously deformed, and would rush it to the nearest
octogram so it could be enchanted to acceptable
coloring. Certainly every man aboard flaunted
hair somewhere between tawny and chestnut and they all
wore it long, either loose or braided, although
none of them could outdo their leader for sheer intensity
of color.
  Gerard gripped a stay to steady himself and waited
to hear his fate. The raider studied him for a moment
without expression. He had a broad, strong
face to match his chest and shoulders, certainly not
handsome, but plain rather than ugly. If he had one
distinctive feature it was that his mouth seemed too
large, giving him a deceptively jocular
expression. He looked like a man who would be the
life and soul of a party--any party, for love or
mayhem.
  "I am Atheling Aeled Fyrlafing, tanist
of the ealdormann of Catterstow and
sciphlaford of Groeggos."
  "Er ... Yes, sir."
  The stare softened slightly. "Aeled son of
Fyrlaf. Atheling means my father was king.
Catterstow is the largest and richest shire in
Baelmark, and the tanist is heir to the
ealdormann--what you would call the earl." A
corner of the big mouth twitched in amusement as he
saw his prisoner's reaction. If he was telling
the truth, he must be one of the most powerful men in the
country. "None of which means much, but at the moment
I am ship lord of Gray Goose, and that
lets me do anything."
  "I am Gerard of Waygarth, Your Grace."
  Aeled beamed, displaying many fine large teeth.
"Gerard of Waygarth is a pretty name. Tell
me more about Gerard of Waygarth, Gerard of
Waygarth, because all I know of Gerard of
Waygarth is that he slew my brother."
  That last information helped not at all. "I am
twenty-three, unmarried. I have no family,
no estates. I earn my bread as a gentleman
scholar, doing minor tasks for the College of
Heralds."
  The tanist laughed. "Gerard of Waygarth, you
are in really serious trouble, you know? Killing one
of my brothers was bad enough. That puts you in
blood feud country, even if he was only a
half brother and I have more of those than I need.
What is really worrisome is that he was one of
my thegns. I usually kill seven men for every one
of mine who falls. You should not have done it, Gerard
of Waygarth, you really shouldn't! Now tell me
what you can do to make it up to me."
  Was this a serious negotiation, or was the Bael
just taunting a man he intended to kill in some
especially horrible way?
  "Nothing," Gerard croaked. "I mean, what
could possibly console you for a brother's death?"
  The coppery eyebrows soared high. "Oh,
lots of things. I told you twelve hundred
gold pieces is a thegn's wergild. I might
settle for tapestries. Bags of jewels.
Or a dozen beautiful virgins. Be inventive!
And quick about it."
  "Ransom, you mean?"
  "Blood money. If you cannot pay the wergild,
then you will be wite`edeow."
  That was no term Gerard had ever met in the
college archives. "Meaning?"
  Aeled sighed. "A guilty man sold
into slavery so the money may go to the dead man's
family."
  "You are trying to scare me." And succeeding
marvelously.
  "I am trying to save you, Gerard. We must
find a way for you to pay off your debt."
  "I told you. I'm only a poor
artist-clerk. I can paint portraits for you or
inscribe your family tree in a fair hand."
  "Provided I don't burn out your brains
by enthralling you, you mean?"
  "I suppose so."
  Aeled shook his head. "Not enough, Gerard of
Waygarth. Not nearly enough."
  Gerard tried to think.
  That was a mistake, because the fact that he
was trying to think implied that he had something to think
about. Spray hissed across his face as
Groeggos lowered her stern and raised her prow
to the next swell.
  Aeled turned to look over his crew and then
bellowed, "Steorere? To`edbeorht!" A
man the size of a bull rose on his hind legs
and came to take the oar. The captain showed him where
to keep the shadow of the mast, then laid a hand on
Gerard's shoulder to urge him over to the other side
of the deck. Gerard could no more have resisted that hand
than he could have thrown the steersman overboard.
He gripped the gunwale and waited to discover if
the tanist was about to throw him overboard. He would
not put anything past this soft-spoken, smiling
killer.
  "Do not think I do not mourn Waerferh`ed,"
Aeled said. "It was not easy for him, because his mother was
a thrall. The thrall-born are rarely smarter
than jellyfish. But Waerferh`ed had the run
of the palace, and I always liked him and spoke
to him. I helped him. When his beard grew in I
loaned him a heriot--war gear--and found him a
place among my werod. He was trying hard and
learning to be brave. He would have been a good
thegn. You killed him."
  Perhaps it was time Gerard learned to be brave.
"What of all the men you killed in Ambleport?"
  "What of them?" The pirate's green eyes
widened. "Had they done as they were told they would still
be breathing."
  "Given up their children without a fight?"
  Aeled shook his head sadly. "It is ours
or theirs. Baelmark is a small, poor land,
Gerard. We cannot raise enough crops to feed our
families, and weeks go by when the fishing fleet
cannot put to sea. We must earn our bread
by trade, and slaves are the most profitable
cargo. Do you think there are no Chivian slavers
in the world? I assure you that there are! It is
true you do not market people openly in Chivial itself
or enthrall them openly, but there are peasants
tied to the land, yes? If you had enough money and
wanted an ever-willing bed partner, some elementary
in Grandon would sell you a pretty thrall,
surely? These captives will be well fed,
highly valued, and they will never worry about anything
ever again. There are worse fates."
To emphasize that point, he laid a hand over
Gerard's on the rail. A rower's hand was
twice the size of an artist's. "You know why I
speak Chivian so well?"
  "I suppose your mother was a slave?"
  "Ah, you are a clever man, Gerard. Do you
understand how we Baels choose our kings?"
  "No." Why did that matter? Gerard did not
dare try to pull his hand free--he was afraid the
other's might tighten and crumple his to paste. The
last three days had left him far too weak
to match wits with this glib monster. He could not
even meet those inhumanly bright green eyes. It
was no help that his last encounter with the thug had left
him unable to stand straight even yet, and nausea still
throbbed in his gut. He felt horribly
vulnerable.
  "You Chivians are satisfied to take the first
male in the royal litter. We Baels insist
on a man who is not only cyneboren but also
cynewyr`ede. That means he must be of royal
birth--we have several royal families, not just
one. He must also be cynewyr`ede, worthy to be
king."
  "And how is that decided? By this month's civil
war?"
  "That is decided by the witan and sometimes
by personal combat."
  "Your family is royal, I assume?"
  The tanist's hand tightened over Gerard's.
"I am a Cattering! We Catterings are the
most kingly, because we descend from Catter,
discoverer and first king of Baelmark. We have given
Baelmark more kings than any other family.
Times are out of joint when a Cattering does not
rule in Baelmark."
  "As now, I assume?"
  Aeled smiled. He removed his hand and patted
Gerard on the shoulder as he might have comforted a
horse. "A clever man! You see the problem.
My father fell in the Gevilian War when all his
sons were very young. The witenagemot elected a
Tholing; and the present king is a Nyrping, which is
even worse. To be true to my manhood and my
forefathers, I must win the throne back for the
Catterings. You will assist me. This is how you will
pay wergild for poor Waerferh`ed."
  "You are crazy! I am a penniless clerk.
How can I possibly help?"
  "You will think of a way. I will help you
concentrate." With no visible effort, the ship lord
picked Gerard up and dropped him
overboard.
  The world was green agony and icy cold. Gerard
struggled violently and blew bubbles. Moments
before he was about to drown, daylight brightened and he was
slammed face first against the planks of the ship's
side as the water dropped away, leaving him
hanging head downward. He managed to gulp in
air and was plunged again back into bottomless
ocean, battered and rolled along the hull by the
current. The iron band around his right ankle must be
Aeled's fingers.
  Four waves later, he was hauled back
aboard--half aboard, because he was left doubled
over the rail, draining water and blood back
into the ocean. His nose would never be the same again,
and the rest of his face seemed to be full of
splinters or barnacles. He had ripped his
hands and arms on the timbers.
  The tanist leaned a heavy arm on him to help
expel the water. "I can keep this up all the
way home, Gerard of Waygarth. Can you?"
  "My father owns some land," Gerard mumbled, "but
only two hides and a half share in a
watermill."
  "Gerard, Gerard! You stay in the best room in
the inn. You wear gentlemen's clothes--or they were
gentlemen's clothes, no one wants them now. You
have been taught the rapier. Your hands are soft as
butter and your skin pale as cream. Your leather
box is full of scrolls in strange scripts
and many colors that must be very potent spells.
Most men in your position would be bragging how rich
they are, not how poor. Think more, Gerard!"
  His struggles had no effect whatsoever. Again
he went overboard, dangling there for another dozen
waves. The kid must have an arm like an anchor
chain and probably could keep it up all day, as
he said, for he did not sound at all winded the
next time he let the water drain out of his
victim's ears.
  "Any ideas yet, Gerard?"
  Gerard croaked, "Two hundred crowns?"
  Aeled chuckled appreciatively and ducked
him again, but now he held him lower, so he did not
always get his head out in the troughs, and when he
hauled him up to question he did not even give him
time to stop choking and spewing. "No progress?
Well, keep trying. Concentrate!" Down again.
  Gerard realized that the thug was quite prepared
to continue this torture until he got
what he wanted or his victim died, which was
becoming more probable with every ghastly minute. One more
death would be nothing on his conscience and he might be
doing all this just to entertain his crew anyway. No
man could be expected to endure both repeated
drowning and the constant battering. When he was about to be
sent down for the fifth or sixth dunking, Gerard
flailed his hands wildly and managed to make
croaking noises between spasms of vomiting
seawater.
  "You have thought of something already?" Aeled inquired.
  Gerard nodded vigorously. "Arrrh arrrh
arrrh!" He was left hanging there upside down
to drain, but it was several minutes before he had
coughed enough ocean out of his lungs for him to croak
anything intelligible. "I'm King Taisson's
cousin."
  The Bael flipped him inboard and hugged him like
a long-lost brother, drenched though he was.
"Dear Gerard! Why didn't you say so at the
beginning?"




                  

  Nothing was too good for the King of Chivial's
cousin. A band of slavers stripped him, toweled
him till he glowed, dressed him in dry wool
garments. A villainous-looking thegn with a
delicate touch packed his battered nose to stop
the bleeding, rubbed salve on his scrapes,
bandaged his hands. The ship lord himself wrapped the
prisoner in soft blankets and emptied half a
bottle of fine brandy into him. That brought the day
to a peaceful close.
  Next day Gerard was one raw bruise from
knees to ears, but the pirates treated him like a
valued senile invalid, a rich grandfather who had
not yet made his will. They kept him aft, under a
canopy far from the other prisoners, and pampered
him as much as was possible in the middle of the ocean.
A freckle-faced talkative youngster named
Brimbearn tended him all day long, changing his
dressings, swilling beer into him, feeding him
by popping morsels of hard bread and pickled fish
in his mouth.
  "I goodly speak Chivian," Brimbearn
explained, "because my mother was Chivian.
Never she was thrall-made. Thrall-wrought?
Enthralled! Thank you. Likewise not was Aeled
Tanist's mother. Thrall mothers raise stupid
childs." He leered. "I like woman with fight in
her."
  That was probably just an innocent joke, but
Gerard dared not ask for details. He wondered
what Charlotte would think if she could see him
now.
  Young Brimbearn went on to claim that he,
too, was a Cattering, although from a minor branch
of the family that had produced no kings for so long
that it could no longer be considered royal. He
worshiped Aeled as a paragon of thegnhood who
gathered more loot with fewer losses than any other
raider currently active. He also shared it
fairly, worked as hard as anyone, avoided
fights when he could but fought like a hurricane when
he must. He was already being compared to legendary
heroes like Wulfstan, Smeawine, or even
Bearskinboots. He had won his place as
tanist the previous fall and was sure to challenge
for the earldom itself very shortly. "Not good is,"
Brimbearn admitted, "when earl and tanist from
same family not sprung."
  "I can see that," Gerard remarked. However
perilous his own present state, it probably
compared favorably to that of an earl with a
designated successor like Aeled waiting in the
shadows. The constant scratch of knives being
sharpened must grow hard on the nerves eventually.
  His efforts to learn more about the election of kings
foundered on Brimbearn's lack of interest. The
kid was not stupid. Despite his youth, he had
visited half the countries of Eurania and many
far-off lands Gerard had never even heard of. He
spoke with apparent truth of brown people and yellow
people, of seeing palaces of ivory, whales longer
than Groeggos, single stone buildings bigger
than all Ambleport, monstrous land animals with
tusks and humps. He obviously had a very
shrewd knowledge of trade goods and markets. When it
came to politics, though, his only concern was
to back Aeled Fyrlafing to the hilt, whether
figuratively or otherwise.
  He spoke eagerly enough about the ship lord himself.
Although Aeled had mentioned having many half
brothers, it seemed that they were all thrall-born,
like the late Waerferh`ed, and such men were regarded
with contempt. They could never be considered
throne-worthy, so the political ambitions of the
Cattering family depended on Aeled and his one
full brother, Cynewulf, surviving sons of the
late King Fyrlaf by a Chivian captive who
had not been enthralled. That made her a loet,
a slave--well above thralls, but below ceorl
commoners.
  "Aeled is king-worthy?" Gerard could not
imagine anyone better qualified to rule a
nation of gangsters and brigands.
  "Aeled is especially throne-worthy,"
Brimbearn agreed. "Fyrlaf King married was
when he was born. A fine lady, Maud
Queen, much honored still. You go her see in
Waro`edburh. Most throne-worthy! Men fight
to join Aeled's werod and win booty and
honor."
  "So Aeled is legitimate, but he has an
older brother who isn't. Must a man be born
in wedlock to be throne-worthy?"
  Brimbearn looked puzzled. "That is no
matter," he muttered. "It is Cynewulf
himself that ..." He glanced around uneasily to see
who might be listening, then changed the subject.

  Several times the tanist came and sat beside his
prisoner. Like his crew, he seemed to spend most
of his off-duty time talking and combing out his hair.
He offered his captive more of the excellent brandy
but took no offense when it was refused. He
chatted pleasantly, apologizing when his
Chivian failed him, which was rarely. No topic
seemed to be off limits.
  "There are more than a thousand islands in
Baelmark," he explained. "Most are only
rocks awash at high tide or stacks the
gulls and terns use. About two score are
inhabited. Fyrsieg is the largest. Three
shires share Fyrsieg--Catterstow,
Eastrice, and Graetears. Catterstow is the
richest of all shires in Baelmark and
Waro`edburh the biggest town."
  "And who is earl of Catterstow these days?"
  "Ceolmund Ceollafing." Aeled smiled
without explaining what was funny.
  "Not a Cattering?"
  "His family is not even royal!" The
scorn would have melted bronze.
  "Am I right in assuming, Your Highness,
that--"
  "Not "highness," Gerard! You Chivians have
too many foolish titles. I am not high. I
am shorter than you are, if somewhat wider and
deeper. We address our king as "lord" and
nobles as ealdras. You call me ealdor."
The big mouth spread in an appealing grin. "Come
to think of it, that means "old one" and I am
younger than you."
  "Yes, ealdor."
  "And I have prettier hair." Mockery danced
in the green eyes.
  "Yes, ealdor, very beautiful hair. If
times are out of joint when the King of Baelmark is
not a Cattering, the entire universe is out of
joint when even the Earl of Catterstow isn't?"
  Aeled grinned bloodcurdlingly. "I knew
right away you were a clever man, Gerard! A king's
cousin! You are royally born!"
  Gerard shivered and decided to get it over with.
"Far from it. My great-grandmother was a sister of
Queen Enid, the wife of Everard IV. That
makes me a third cousin of King Taisson, but
I have no royal blood in me. I've never
been presented at court. If you demand ransom
for me, he'll have to ask the College of
Heralds who I am. My father isn't even a
baronet, let alone a noble. I wasn't lying
about the two hides of land. In your terms I'm
barely a thegn--born free, of the class that owns
land but is not noble. What do you call that?"
  He expected an outburst of maniacal
Bael fury, but the tanist just laughed. "You
wore a sword! No ceorl would rush into danger
as you did. Only a true thegn would have the
courage to slay honest Baels going quietly
about their business, and now tell me to my face that
he lied to me. You were not lying. You were trying to find
a way to pay off your debt. I can see you
haven't solved all the difficulties yet, but
I'm sure you will." He patted his prisoner's
shoulder comfortingly.
  "No! I can't help you. I'm useless to you.
Why don't you just kill me and get it over with?"
  The raider shook his head, swinging his copper
tresses. "I'm not going to kill you, Gerard.
I'm not even going to enthrall you, because then you would be
just another biddable body. You must be able to think
to make me king."

                                  
  In order to think, a man needed information.
Gerard set to work to learn more of Baelish
society. He found it extraordinarily
complex, combining many class distinctions with a system
of rewarding ability that was completely alien to his
Chivian experience. A sharp line was drawn between
the free and the slaves, as he had expected, but
there was an even more important distinction between
commoners and the warrior class. Young
Brimbearn's distinguished ancestry had
qualified him to bear arms, but he had still
required permission from his earl before he could
actually do so and be trained in the use of
weaponry. Aeled had given him a berth on
Groeggos, but he had been required to prove
himself to his shipmates. It had been they who
voted him into the fyrd, the fighting men of
Catterstow, and thus made him a fully
qualified thegn.
  Aeled's rank of ship lord seemed to depend in
various measure on noble birth, family wealth,
and the approval of his crew. The men served him
voluntarily because of his skills as trader,
sailor, and fighter. In fact a werod was a
private war band, as willing to swing swords as
oars, and in Aeled's case comprised the crews of
all four ships. His rank of tanist somehow
depended on the approval of the entire fyrd, as
did that of the earl himself.
  So far so good, but this was a much-simplified
picture. If Baels selected all their
leaders by such absurd popularity contests, then the
system for choosing a king must be even more
complicated.

  "Look, Chivian! Wake up!" Powerful
hands shook Gerard awake.
  He made bewildered noises.
  "Look! You must see!" Without even
unwrapping his blankets, Brimbearn dragged
him out from under the awning and stood him upright, too
excited to be considerate of his bruises.
"See? Light!"
  Dawn had not yet come, and Groeggos
battled over high waves in a stormy night.
As his warm covers fell away and exposed him
to the sea wind, Gerard shivered hard enough to shake out
his teeth. When the ship crested, he made out
three lanterns shining at mastheads, so the rest
of the flotilla was still in close formation
behind; and after four days of almost continuously rough
weather that must surely be a miracle of
seamanship.
  "Wrong way!" the Bael protested.
"Missed it. Wait."
  Many of the sailors were on their feet and
chattering, excited about something. As the ship raised
its stern to slide down into the next trough, Gerard
looked where Brimbearn was aiming him and made out
a reddish glow, about where the horizon ought to be.
  "Cwicnoll!" the boy crowed. "Aeled brought
us right home! Straight to the door! What other
navigator could do that? No Chivian, yes?"
  "What's burning? Signal beacons?"
  Before Brimbearn had stopped laughing at this
display of ignorance, the salt-scented wind brought
Aeled's voice out of the darkness. "The mountain.
Cwicnoll is the mountain of Catterstow,
Gerard. Don't let it frighten you.
Cwicnoll's a big softy. He's been doing
that for ten years now and never burned a homestead.
Some of the other peaks are more sporting.
Fyrndagum buried a village on
Wambseoc last year." The steering oar creaked
on its pivot.
  "Boel means "fire"?"
  "And mearc means a mark, or boundary, or
territory."
  "So Baelmark is the "land of fire"?"
  The pirate chief chuckled. "Unless it is a
corruption of bealu, which means "evil." The
march of evil?"
  "What did your ancestor call it?"
  "Catter? He called it Fyrland. And
he called himself Hlaford Fyrlandum, lord
of the Fire Lands. When you have helped put me on
the throne of my fathers, Gerard of Waygarth, that is
the title I will take--Hlaford
Fyrlandum!"
  "I can't help you," Gerard moaned. "How can
I possibly do that?"
  "You will find a way." Aeled did not mention
an alternative.

                  

  The sun rose blindingly over the edge of the world
to illuminate a landscape of rugged glory
directly ahead. Although there were other faint peaks
visible to the north and south, at this distance
Baelmark appeared to be a single mountainous
mass with Cwicnoll's smoking cone looming
gigantic above and a montage of pasture and forest
below. As Groeggos rode the whitecaps
closer, boiling white plumes of spray marched
like guards along the base of what seemed to be a
solid wall of cliff, shrouding the coast in
mist.
  Swathed in a sable-trimmed cloak, Aeled
leaned against the stern post, having yielded the steering
oar to the giant To`edbeorht. Thirty-two
rowers sat ready to run out their oars, and the rest of the
werod stood at their posts, watching intently
for the ship lord's signal. The rest of the flotilla
was following in file, tracking Aeled's course
between foaming shoals as he headed to certain
destruction under the cliffs ahead.
  "Gerard! Come and enjoy the scenery with me. This
will be an interesting homecoming."
  Gerard obeyed, staggering over the rolling deck
and lurching against the rail. "You just want everyone
to see how frightened I am."
  "A swordsman who takes on two hundred
Baels single-handed does not know the meaning of
fear."
  "I do now. Does Groeggos have wings?"
  Aeled smiled. His present good humor was
ominous, but his anger would be more so. "No. I
hope we shall not need them. The most direct way
into Swi@thaefen is by Eastweg, so we are going
that way. It is a good passage except in a
northerly."
  Gerard checked the sun and the streamer at the
masthead. "Then it's fortunate the wind is heading
straight south." He would call it a gale, although
the sailors might not.
  The ship lord cocked a red eyebrow. "Your first
voyage, is it? It has been a fine
foering. We ransomed two towns in
Isilond, rescued three Gevilian coasters
from unworthy owners, and harvested some slaves in
Chivial. I believe in spreading my blessings and
never outstaying my welcome. We lost only one
man. And we captured the King of Chivial's
cousin." Groeggos shifted uneasily in the
cross swell as the coast broke up into islets
around her. "I will make my challenge
to Ceolmund soon." He bared his big teeth
joyfully.
  "Personal combat?"
  The ship lord shrugged. "No. Ceolmund is
too wise to fight me himself. But I will be earl,
and then times will be not quite so out of joint." He barked
an order and activity boiled through the ship.
Nimble youngsters swarmed up the mast and stays like
squirrels while other men hauled on the lines
or ran out the oars. In seeming seconds the
sail had been brailed into a roll along the yard
and Groeggos was being rowed. The topmen came
sliding down. Aeled began beating a mallet on
the gunwale, giving the rowers the stroke. Then he
set them singing, so they could row in time.
  He turned to watch the other ships copy. "It
is a pity about Waerferh`ed. were it not for losing
him I would be more confident. The older thegns may
use his death as an excuse to side against me.
On the other hand, they will be impressed if I
lead in King Taisson's cousin in chains. What
do you think, friend Gerard? Should I brag about you now
or should I keep you out of sight like the knife in
my sleeve?"
  Gerard turned away from the piercing green stare.
He did not think the tanist was at all lacking in
confidence. The real question was something else.
  "Well?" Aeled demanded.
  "Why ask me? Why would you trust the advice
of a prisoner?"
  Aeled snapped orders. Another helmsman,
even larger, jumped to To`edbeorht's aid and
together they swung the ship around a cape and into a
gloomy channel between beetling cliffs. Wind
howling through the gap made her pitch heavily and
forced Aeled to shout his reply. "Because you are my
wita in this--my wise one. Speak!"
  "I think you should keep me a secret."
  "Then I shall." He laughed aloud, excited
by the maelstrom his ship was now riding and the fact that
the rest of his flotilla was managing the turn after
her. "You have worked out the answer!"
  "No."
  "But you are beginning to see its shape! This is
good!" He honored Gerard with a friendly thump on
the shoulder that almost drove him to his knees.
  How could a bloodthirsty killer be so
perceptive?

  were such a thing as a map of Baelmark
possible, Aeled had said, it would resemble
shattered glass. With a few outlying exceptions,
every island of the thousand lay within bowshot of
several others. Between them ran uncounted channels,
inlets, fiords, bays, harbors, straits,
roadsteads, sounds, and gulfs, all
interconnected and known collectively as
Swi@thaefen. Sheltered from waves and tempest,
those peaceful waters offered clear sailing in any
weather. The trick was to get in there.
  Under the eyes of his crew, the ship lord put on
a show of nonchalance as he guided Groeggos
through the perilous maze, but Gerard was close enough
to see his concern when he watched the other ships
attempting maneuvers he had just made seem
easy. Driven by a surging tide, the flotilla
wound and twisted between towering stacks painted gray with
guano, past weed-shrouded rocks lurking in the
breakers, and under cliffs of strange columnar
structure like gigantic organ pipes.
Islets could be flat and fertile or so
precipitous that ancient cedars slumbered on
hillsides untroubled by the woodsman's ax.
Some bore farmsteadings and herds of cattle,
while always a blizzard of white seabirds
wheeled and cried overhead. Periodically Aeled
would bellow orders through a speaking trumpet to the
double line of sweating oarsmen, and several times he
had to add his muscle to the efforts of the two
giants heaving on the steering oar. His control over
his ship was incredible. He could turn her in her own
length, or move her backward as easily as
forward, or hold her in place until he found
exactly the wave he needed. Then Groeggos
would bound forward on cue, shipping her oars moments
before jagged teeth on either side could snap them off.
  When death seemed merely probable instead of
imminent, he would chat calmly with his honored
passenger. "It isn't always this choppy." The
tone was disparaging, but the green eyes danced with
excitement.
  "Would a sane man even try?"
  Aeled took that as a compliment and loved it.
"Of course not. You see the secret of our
success, Gerard of Waygarth? You see how we
get away with our pranks?" Pranks meaning
rapine, piracy, slaving, and wanton murder
...
  "Your islands are impregnable."
  "Completely. At one time or another every nation
in Eurania has sent fleets against us and done
nothing but fatten the lobsters. You see how the
winds bank off the cliffs? The eddies
and shoals? You have to be born a Bael to wend these
channels." He laughed aloud. "Gevily
managed to land an army on Fyrsieg back in
my father's time, but what can an army achieve?
Burn houses? The people have already taken their
valuables elsewhere, and there are scores of other
islands that you can't get to. Meanwhile, our
navy has just ambushed yours and sunk it. Invading
Baelmark is futile."
  "You're like mosquitoes. We must bleed and
bear you."
  Aeled guffawed, brandishing a fist the size of a
ham. "Some mosquito! No, we are bees.
We bring honey home to the hive and we can sting."
  "What happened to the Gevilian army?"
  After a moment ... "A fyrdraca got
them."
  Before Gerard could ask if a fyrdraca was the
sort of monster it sounded like, the ride again grew
too rough for talk. He clung grimly to the
rail, thinking bitter thoughts. He ought to hurl
himself overboard to drown or be smashed in the surf,
because it was true that there might be a way he could
help Aeled move closer to the throne, if the
system worked the way he thought it did. It would be
a fearful gamble for the Bael, but he was a gambler
through and through, a jungle predator--deadly and
irresistible, cunning and beautiful. Knowing neither
fear nor scruple, if he did become King of
Baelmark he would be a frightful foe to all the
civilized lands of Eurania; and if Gerard had
helped him gain the crown he would have betrayed
everything: honor, family, the fealty he owed his
king. Aeled denied planning to enthrall him--and it
was probably true that such a spell would render
Gerard useless for his purpose--but there were other
ways to command loyalty or even just cooperation.
Hot irons, for instance. Anyone but a coward would
leap over the side and die with honor.
  He was a coward, then, because he was still aboard when
Groeggos and her three goslings emerged on the
calm waters of Swi@thaefen. Then the sail was
unfurled and the oars shipped. Roaring with an
excitement that betrayed the fear they had been
concealing, the sailors threw open the chests and
stripped in a wild blizzard of clothing.
Laughing and jeering, they donned leather breeches and
steel helmets, resuming their bare-chested fighting
guise, only now they flaunted golden torcs
and arm rings, jeweled buckles and
clasps. The hilts of their swords and daggers
glittered with gems, weapons far too showy ever
to be used in combat. When Aeled took the steering
oar for the landing, he was dressed as befitted a
triumphant warrior prince, with golden
embroidery on his smock, a fortune in jewels
on his belt and baldric, gold trim on his
helmet.
  Groeggos rounded yet another bend and entered
a land-locked bay a league across, silver water
so smooth that it mirrored Cwicnoll's towering
complex of glaciers and black rock in the
background. Trailing ripples, the four ships
headed for long beaches where land and water met and a
settlement spread over gentle meadowed slopes
--not the squalid pirates' lair Gerard had
expected but a shining city.

                  

  "The trouble with homecomings," Aeled said as
Groeggos neared the strand, "is that the men all
want to rush home and tell the kids to go play
outside for a while. I will be busy. You wait
on the beach and if anyone asks tell them you are
my prisoner. Say, Ic eom Aeldes
hoeftniedling. I'll send someone to take you
to the elementary." His eyes twinkled green as he
saw Gerard's alarm. "For a healing."
  So Gerard found himself standing on the shore in
bandages and borrowed clothes, trying to adjust to the
idea of being a slave. He had no
possessions, no rights. His own garments had been
thrown overboard; his rapier and document case
confiscated; and his body belonged to Aeled, who could
still steal his soul with conjury if he wished.
  One battered-looking prisoner was of no
interest to the multitude that had come rushing down to the
sea to welcome the returning heroes--wives,
children, parents. Their joy and excitement when they
heard the details of Aeled's foering showed
how great a triumph it was. Despite his
jest, the sailors did not hurry off home. The
captives were herded ashore, the cargo unloaded,
and then the gratings were raised to reveal even more
booty down among the ballast--bags of coins and
bars of gold that must be ransom paid by the
Isilondian towns for the privilege of not being
burned and looted, plus whatever the hijacked
Gevilian ships and their cargo had
fetched when traded off in one of the little coastal
states. Spirits alone knew what the waiting
slaves were worth, but the material wealth heaped
on the black sand would have bought an earldom in
Chivial. And this was a little more than a month's work
for two hundred men and an admittedly talented
leader! Piracy paid well for those who survived.
  "Gerard?" The speaker was a shortish, plump,
and--what else?--red-haired man clad in
outstanding finery, a smock of green lawn reaching
to his knees and gathered at the waist by a jeweled
belt, a fur-trimmed cloak of velvet. A
gold-hilted sword hung at his side, his
leggings were cross-gartered with golden ribbons,
golden buckles shone on his boots. The soft
pinkness of his face was very different from the weathered
roughness of the sailors'. Four lesser Baels
stood at his back, one of them leading a horse and
another a shaggy pony on which sat a boy of
five or six. The boy stared curiously at
Gerard's battered face.
  Gerard bowed. "Ealdor?"
  "Atheling Cynewulf. The tanist did a good
job on you, didn't he?" Cynewulf was
probably ten years older than his brother and where
Aeled was blocky, brawny, and pugnacious,
he was fleshy, florid, and supercilious.
  How was Gerard expected to respond--as a
slave or a captive gentleman? Better
to aim high and be struck down than to surrender
without a fight. "His arguments convinced me
eventually, ealdor."
  At that moment a great outburst of cheering
distracted both of them. The applause was coming
mostly from the werod, but also partly from the landlubber
spectators, and the object of their approval
seemed to be Aeled.
  "May I inquire ...?"
  Cynewulf scowled. "My spendthrift
brother has just waived his right to a third of a
third. Unnecessary extravagance! He has no
need to buy their loyalty, for he already has it."
  But others would hear of the gesture and choose
to support a generous leader. Even a Chivian
could see that. Gerard remembered Brimbearn
praising Aeled as a giver of treasure, and also
his odd and unexplained dismissal of his older
brother. "May I ask what they are doing now,
ealdor?"
  Obviously Aeled was supervising the
division of the booty into three roughly equal parts
--three heaps of bullion and three groups of
prisoners--but the loot had also attracted men
who seemed to be important, in that they sported
helmets and mail shirts as well as swords.
They were busily peering into sacks, looking over the
captives, and generally inspecting the take.
  Cynewulf had a lip quick to sneer. "I am
a thegn, not a trainer of slaves, loet."
  "Pardon my presumption, noble atheling. Your
brother hoped to gain some profit from me and I cannot
advise him without knowing the customs of the country."
  The pudgy little man considered the prisoner with
calculated distaste. "Yes, he mentioned that.
He sometimes has strange fancies, not always
to be taken seriously. What you are seeing is
tax collection. Aeled divides the take
into what he considers three equal shares. The
King's shire reeve gets first choice. Then the
house thegns pick one for Earl Ceolmund."
  "And me?" Gerard asked nervously.
  "You and all your heriot are excluded. You are
wergild for our brother."
  Curiously, it was a relief to know that he still
belonged to Aeled, who at least considered him
valuable. "So the men who risked their lives
to collect that booty share only the last third?"
Obviously, and it would normally be two ninths
without the ship lord's cut. "But I believe I
now comprehend, ealdor, why your King finds it
so difficult to suppress piracy."
  Aeled's smiles were shared mirth, but his
brother's were private amusement. "Do the
tanist's ambitions make more sense to you now,
Chivian?"
  "And those men?" Gerard asked in horror. A
gang of porters had come shuffling forward to load the
booty on their shoulders. They wore only rags
and their hair was not red. Even at a distance he could
see the strangeness of their gait and the inhuman
blankness of their faces.
  "Thralls, of course. Don't worry about
them, loet. The men are long dead. Their
bodies have been preserved as biddable tools,
nothing more. You will see when we arrive at the
elementary." Cynewulf beckoned for his horse
to be brought. He frowned at the boy on the
pony. "Sit up straight, Wulfwer."

                                  
  The shore was a long, buzzing market of ships
being loaded and unloaded, others being built,
slave stockades and warehouses, fish-drying
racks and heaps of lobster pots; but the atheling led
the way inland. Hobbling along behind his horse,
Gerard trod roads paved with hexagonal stone
tiles and thronged with pedestrians, horse
wagons, and thrall-drawn carts. Chivian
cities were stinking, verminous firetraps because they
were cramped inside high walls. Only Grandon
itself had spread out beyond its ancient fortifications;
and even Grandon's streets were dark tracks
carpeted with refuse, winding between houses many
stories high. Waro`edburh spurned walls,
sprawling like a thistle patch in the sunlight with
all its buildings safely separated by wide
streets and even by herb or vegetable gardens and
tree-filled parks. He saw numerous water
troughs and women filling their jugs. He also saw
inexplicable clouds of steam, but the atheling's route
did not go close to any of them.
  The buildings were the greatest wonder of all, for
every surface was carved with fantastic monster
images and brightly colored; even the shingles on
the roofs sparkled with rainbow tints like dew on a
sunny morning. Although none stood more than one
story high, the larger edifices were as extensive
as minor palaces; and yet they were obviously
family residences, with children and washing in view.
Some included workshops or displayed wares for
sale. In Chivial only very prosperous
families occupied more than two rooms, no
matter how great their burden of children, but this was
clearly not the case in Waro`edburh. Aeled's
protestations that Baelmark was a poor land were about
as reliable as one should expect from a pirate.
  Gerard would have liked to linger and look. Even more,
he would have liked to have walked slowly, for
Cynewulf was setting much too brisk a pace
for him. His crotch felt ready to burst
into flames.
  "Loet!" Cynewulf waved him forward
to walk alongside his stirrup, then peered down
at him suspiciously. "Assuming my madcap
young brother does not miscalculate and land himself
in an impossible duel to the death, and assuming also
that he then persists with his insane ambitions to win the
throne, just how do you imagine you can assist him?"
  Gerard had no intention of revealing that, not
to Aeled nor this disdainful brother. "I
don't know, ealdor. I fear he is making
too much of my family connections, although I have
assured him I am not of royal birth."
  Green eyes stared down distrustfully. "You
killed Waerferh`ed. I would have made an
example of you. If Aeled dies I still may."
He rode on for a while without speaking and then,
surprisingly, laughed. "Do you know what his name
means--Aeled? It means "firebrand"!"
  "Appropriate, ealdor."
  "Q. No wonder he is headstrong. A few
months ago he gambled by challenging the tanist,
who had grown too cautious for the younger thegns. The
fyrd sided narrowly with Aeled, and the tanist
yielded without even a token fight. In other
words, my brother was very lucky. He now
assumes that this same brashness will carry him to the
earldom itself, and that is another matter altogether. You
understand how it works? Any thegn may challenge the
tanist, but only the tanist may challenge the
earl. Ceolmund is well regarded, a wise
and cautious ruler. I am afraid that Aeled
is in for a very nasty and possibly fatal
surprise." His lip settled into its customary
sneer.
  Curious! Atheling Cynewulf would have been
head of the family until his younger brother won
promotion. Now he must be outranked. Was he
merely jealous of Aeled's success, or did
he have legitimate worries about reprisals
if Aeled's insurrection failed?
  "Instruct me, I pray you, ealdor. If
the thegn moot sides with your brother, then the earl
must accept the challenge and fight, yes? What
happens if the thegns vote the other way?"
  Cynewulf laughed contemptuously. "Then
Ceolmund remains earl and names a champion,
which means he hires the best fighter in the fyrd
to render justice. Aeled is good, but far from
invincible. Even if by some miracle he
survived, he would have incurred blood debt and
gained nothing. The odds are staked in favor of the
incumbent, naturally."
  "Naturally. The rules for challenging the king
are similar?"
  "More or less. Only an earl may
challenge, and the witenagemot decides whether the
king must fight in person."
  "Witenagemot? The witan are the king's
chosen counselors?"
  Again the sneer. "Yes, but they just talk. The
only ones who vote are the earls, rulers of the
twenty-one shires."
  Which was much as Gerard had expected. "I do not
know how your brother expects me to aid him,
ealdor, but the Catterings have always given
Baelmark its strongest kings. As a loyal
subject of King Taisson, I can do nothing
to restore that state of affairs. It is in
Chivial's interests that the present ineffective
rule continue."
  The Prince gave Gerard another long stare and
then smiled narrowly. "That assurance might be
worth a ticket home, loet."
  "You are most gracious, ealdor."
  If Cynewulf would betray his own brother so
readily, then any ticket he provided Gerard
would buy only a one-way trip to the lobster
beds. Forced to trust one of the two sons of
Fyrlaf, Gerard would choose the raider every time.

  At that point they were overtaken by a line of
trotting children and adolescents, at least forty of
them, all wearing metal collars attached to a
long rusty chain. Guards on ponies rode
alongside, urging them on with sticks. The youngest
captives were gasping from the effort of keeping up,
being helped along by larger neighbors. Gerard
recognized some of his former shipmates and knew that
this was part of the human loot from Ambleport. He
assumed that their drivers were professional
slavers. The gruesome procession went past and
disappeared into a cluster of buildings just ahead.
  Moments later he drew close enough to make out
faint sounds of chanting, and his gut knotted as he
realized that he had arrived at the elementary. There
were at least half a dozen buildings in the
complex, most of them circular and low for their
width, all extravagantly inlaid with
mother-of-pearl and brightly colored stones. The
central dome was enormous, and the last of the
captives were being driven in through its wide doors
like cattle to the slaughter. Flunkies came
hurrying over to greet the new arrivals.
  Cynewulf dismounted gracelessly. Tossing his
reins to one of his own men, he went to the boy on the
pony. "Wast @thu hwoet @this hus is,
Wulfwer? Woere @thu her beforan nu?"
He spoke in the plodding tones used to the very young
or very stupid, so Gerard could understand:
"Know you what this building is, Wulfwer? Have you
been here before?"
  The youngster gave him a surly look. "Na,
ealdor."
  Cynewulf backhanded him across the face, almost
knocking him out of the saddle. "Hwoet
geclipast @thu me?"--"What do you call
me?"
  "Foeder." The boy blinked back tears.
The tip of his tongue crept out to lick his bleeding
lip.
  "When you behave like a slave you are whipped like
a slave. Now listen. This is the Haligdom.
Here spirits are conjured. What is it called?"
  "The Haligdom, where spirits are conjured ...
Father."
  "Again?"
  "The Haligdom, where spirits are conjured."
  "Correct. Come inside and watch. And try
to learn." He turned away, making no effort
to help his son dismount.
  Gerard limped along behind. The Haligdom was
larger than any elementary he had ever heard of,
echoing with the doglike howls of the prisoners. Its
domed roof was supported by an elaborate
system of trusses, a further example of the
magnificent Baelish woodworking skills.
Most of the floor was occupied by the largest
octogram he had ever seen, tiled in many
colors and obviously intended for mass
processing slaves, for it contained a ring of eight
head-high posts, to which the Ambleport captives were
now being secured.
  A tubby, bald man in flowing black garments
reacted with exaggeratedly amazed delight upon
seeing the newcomer. He waddled forward, bowed
repeatedly, and gabbled greetings. Although his
exact words escaped Gerard, the meaning was clear
enough: profuse welcomes to the noble atheling and how
might he be served? Cynewulf obviously was
demanding an enchantment for the prisoner his thumb was
pointing at. The conjurer then tried to lead the
honored lord off to one of the smaller elementaries and
Cynewulf refused, wanting to witness the
enthrallment ritual they were about to perform on the
prisoners. Bowing and fawning again, the bald man
lauded the prince's gallantry and forbearance.
  Gerard fought down nausea as bad as any he
ever had known on the ship, trying not to imagine himself
in there, chained like a brute. What if
Cynewulf decided that the easiest way to stop the
cryptic Chivian from aiding his upstart brother's
march to the throne was to enthrall him here and now?
Terribly sorry, Aeled, I
misunderstood.
  The eight conjurers in their black robes took
up positions on the points of the octogram and
began chanting in Baelish. The prisoners
screamed at the tops of their lungs, trying
to drown them out, but the spirits heard the summons
regardless. As far as Gerard could tell, the
enchantment was mainly a revocation of the two
elements, air and fire, that were the main components
of soul. He did not want to watch, but sheer
horror held him frozen like a fascinated
rabbit while the victims' screams and abuse
faltered, then died away to confused mumbling.
Expressions faded from furious to puzzled, and
finally eyes drooped shut. Starting with the smallest
and ending with the young adults among them, they staggered,
sank to their knees, then to the floor, finally lying
still. Forty youngsters lay like corpses.
  The conjurers paused to catch their breath.
Cynewulf gave Gerard a shove. Gerard very
nearly swung a punch, but checked himself in time.
"Ealdor?"
  "Get in there. They are about to be taught the
language. One more won't hurt." And
probably the enchanters would not dare charge the
atheling anything. Shivering, Gerard raised his chin and
stepped boldly into the octogram to stand alongside
the unconscious prisoners. Conjuration began
again, this time taking longer, with air and fire
apparently the main elements invoked. He felt
nothing, not a prickle, but near the end he looked
down and saw to his dismay that the thralls now had
their eyes open, staring blankly. As soon as it
was over, he moved back to safety outside the
lines.
  "Rise!" shouted one of the slavers. "Stand up
now!" With a great clattering of chains, the slaves
climbed to their feet and then just stood, waiting for
further orders.
  "See?" Cynewulf remarked cheerfully.
"Their bodies remain behind unharmed, while their
spirits are returned to the spirits." He pulled his
son's ear to turn his head. "Look! These are
new-caught slaves, Wulfwer. See how much
better they behave, now they have been made
into thralls? See how they don't talk
unless you ask them a question? This is why your mother
doesn't speak to you much."
  The obsequious conjurer reappeared, lugging a
sack of coins he had just accepted from the chief
slaver. "How else may we have the honor of
serving you, Ealdor Fyrlafing?"
  Gerard now understood Baelish.
  "Heal this loet for me."
  The conjurer frowned at the prisoner as if
surprised that anyone would waste good money on
him. "I am forced to inquire as to the cause of his
injuries, ealdor. He had an accident?"
  "Oh, no. He was being questioned."
  The conjurer beamed. "That makes things simpler,
much simpler! Virtual spirits are hard
to influence, you understand. Especially elementals of
chance. They are so unpredictable! By definition,
of course. Deliberate damage, involving
only the manifest elements, is much easier
to reverse. How exactly was he tortured?"
  "He was given a face wash."
  "The noble atheling will forgive me, but I--"
  "Nautical term. He was hung upside
down over the ship's side and banged about in the
wake until he stopped misbehaving."
  "Ah! Then a major revocation of water should
clear up most of the problem. A minor addition of
fire to speed the healing."
  "He also had a bad bang on the
beallucas," Gerard remarked, with feeling.
  "Specific treatments for that injury are
complex," the conjurer said cautiously, implying
expensive.
  Cynewulf shrugged. "Then don't worry about
it. We do not intend to use him for breeding."
  As the young thralls obediently trudged away,
the conjurers returned to their stations on the points
of the octogram, and now Gerard stood alone in the
center. He had experienced minor healing before and
he was impressed by the Baels' skill. When the
ritual was finished, even the throb in his groin was
barely more than an unpleasantness. The only
side effect he noticed was a raging thirst.

                  

  With two of his men assisting, Cynewulf heaved
himself up into his silver-studded saddle; he had
clearly lost interest in Gerard, at least for the time
being. "That's done. I must go and see if
dear Aeled wants me to clean his boots next.
He said you were to wait for him at Cynehof.
Don't expect him soon, because he plans
to visit Waeferh`ed's mother to break the news. That
makes as much sense as lecturing a rack of
lamb--thralls can't mourn. A complete waste
of time. Gu`edlac, show him the way to Cynehof and
then run home. If you take all day about it, you
know what will happen to you."
  Gerard watched the atheling depart with his son and the
other three attendants. Now he understood young
Brimbearn's unspoken criticism of
Cynewulf. It took something more than high birth
and a strong arm to make a man throne-worthy and that
one did not have it.
  He turned to find his ginger-haired companion
watching him with a sardonic expression. He was of
middle years, stocky and weatherbeaten. Why
amusement in a man just threatened with a beating?
  "Would you describe the atheling as
throne-worthy?"
  "Would never say he wasn't." Gu`edlac
turned his head and spat.
  Gerard smiled for the first time since he killed
Waerferh`ed. "And his brother?"
  "Ah." The Bael considered him thoughtfully, as
if wondering how far to trust. "There's a
stallion for a big herd!"
  "Q. Shouldn't we be on our way?"
  "What's the hurry? You fancy a swim?"

  Baelmark was a place of infinite
surprises. The steam clouds Gerard had
observed earlier marked natural hot springs within
the town. These were used to supply public bathing
pools, some of which were open to the slave classes,
and he was soon lolling naked in steaming hot water
with a hundred other men. The only payment
required was that he tell Gu`edlac his story, which
soon gathered a large audience--slaves'
lives lacked entertainment. In the desultory
discussion that followed, a strange conversation between
floating faces speaking to the steam overhead, he
learned that most of his companions had been born in
captivity, although some had been captured in other
lands when too young to require enthrallment. Very
few had red hair.
  "I was a thegn," Gu`edlac asserted, "over
on Su`edmest, south of here. Five generations,
my ancestors bore arms."
  "What happened?"
  "Killed a man in a brawl." He made this
seem a minor misfortune that might happen
to anyone. "So I was wite`edeow."
  "Why didn't your werod pay the wergild?"
asked a voice somewhere in the steam.
  "Or your lord?" demanded another.
  "My lord wanted my daughters. Liked
girls young. He bought them at the sale. My
wife was bought by her brothers, but they couldn't afford
the kids."
  There were no more questions. Gerard was left wondering
how much the audience believed the story, at least the
last part, and what Gu`edlac had done to be so
unpopular with his mates. He clearly felt no
loyalty to his present owner, being happy
to waste his time, which of course belonged
to Cynewulf. But he did admire Aeled, or
so he said. "He is considerate of his men. He
hoards their lives and is liberal with treasure."
  "How will he fare when he challenges?"
  Other voices answered.
  "Good."
  "Yea, the thegns will welcome a Cattering
earl again--"
  "Who might bring the crown back here
to Waro`edburh ..."
  "Ceolmund's too cautious."
  "Niggardly!"
  "An earl's wealth," Gu`edlac said, making
an effort to assert superior knowledge stemming from his
warrior birth, "lies in the strong anus of his
thegns, not bags of silver in the cellar. He's
been relying on his crony Cynewulf to keep
Aeled under control. Something went wrong about the time
the kid started shaving."
  "And if Aeled succeeds," Gerard asked,
"what are his chances of becoming king?"
  "Depends on the other earls, of course.
Kings are rarely deposed without cause. I
don't think Ufegeat is unpopular."

  Even after he and Gerard had dried, dressed,
and resumed their journey to Cynehof, Gu`edlac
followed a leisurely, circuitous route.
He showed off much of the city, including the markets.
The stall keepers could tell at a glance that the
two men were not potential customers; they shouted
abuse and threatened to ask the next passing thegn
to chase them away. Gu`edlac paid no
attention and let Gerard marvel at the many
magnificent things on sale--ostrich feathers,
exotic metalwork, patterned silks, and dozens
of other luxuries from distant lands. He was
especially impressed by some magnificent
illuminated manuscripts, which must have been
looted from much closer to home.
  Once, distant thunder announced that Cwicnoll
was blowing out fire and smoke.
  "He does that every few hours," Gu`edlac
explained off-handedly. "When the wind blows this
way, he can spray Waro`edburh with ash."
  "Don't the houses burn?"
  "Sometimes."
  "Why not build them of stone, then?"
  His guide looked shocked and disbelieving.
"Houses of stone? What happens when the earth
shakes?" Apparently earthquakes were a much more
serious problem than fires.
  "What," Gerard asked, recalling Aeled's
tale of the Gevilians, "is a fyrdraca?"
  Gu`edlac shivered and lowered his voice. "You
know that each of the eight elements has a special
place in the world, a home where the spirits dwell.
Baelmark is the home of the fire elementals;
Cwicnoll is one of their nests. Sometimes fire
spirits mate with those of earth and birth a
firedrake, which is monstrous and most deadly,
seeking out men to destroy them. The scops sing
epic tales of great heroes fighting
firedrakes, like Aeled's grandfather, King
Cu`edblaese, who fought one on the slopes of
Hatstan."
  "I heard that one destroyed an invading army."
  Gu`edlac spat, his standard way of indicating
disapproval. "In the days of King Fyrlaf,
Cu`edblaese's son. Instead of fighting the
drake, he drove it against the Gevilians and
burned them up."
  "Sounds like a smart move."
  The former thegn showed a rare flicker of emotion.
"Smart can be shameful! Honest fighting men should not
be treated as kindling. The witenagemot felt so
disgraced that it shipped the survivors home without
charge." Apparently there were depths to which even
Baels would not sink; and Gerard recalled that
Aeled had hesitated before mentioning the incident--and
had not alluded to his father's part in it at all.

                                  
  They came at last to Cynehof, whose name meant
"king's hall," although for the last twenty years it
had been only the seat of the earl. It was a single
high-roofed building backed by a fenced compound of
many smaller buildings. Those were not truly houses
--Gu`edlac called them cabins--because their
occupants were mostly transients and ate in the
hall. In ancient times an earl's thegn had
been required to sleep in his hall, but nowadays
only the cnihtas had to. Most thegns owned
houses of their own in the city or on estates
scattered throughout Baelmark.
  Cnihtas?
  Gu`edlac had halted at one side of a
courtyard, whose far side was the front of
Cynehof, wide stone steps up to a great oaken
fa@cade. "Boys with swords. See those over
there? Stay away from them if you can, friend!"
  "Why?"
  All afternoon, Gu`edlac had been having trouble
understanding Gerard's ignorance of what servitude
really meant. He stared incredulously. "Because
you're a loet, that's why! And they're thegn
colts."
  "'Fraid I still don't understand."
  The Bael sighed. "When a thegn-born's
beard starts showing he goes to his earl, and if his
birth is good enough, the earl accepts him as a
cniht. For training. You can tell the cnihtas
because they wear swords and helmets but not mail.
The ones with the chain mail are house thegns.
They're the earl's bodyguards and enforcers, his
personal werod, understand? They keep order in
the hall and the town under the command of the marshal."
  Only house thegns and cnihtas could take
weapons into Cynehof itself, Gu`edlac explained.
"But cnihtas can get uppity with trash like us,
friend, so that's where you're going and I'll head off
now and find my supper if you don't mind."
Gu`edlac studied Gerard for a moment. "Is it
true what Cynewulf said--that you could help
Aeled win the throne?"
  "I--I am not sure."
  Even that weak evasion impressed the Bael.
"I suggest you put your mind to it, friend! Any
man who helped Aeled Fyrlafing mount the throne
of his fathers would surely be buried in gold. He
would hold lands as far as the eye could see and eat
off plate till the end of his days."
  Gerard thanked him for all his help,
wondering how he would have reacted a week ago had
anyone told him he would take an honest liking
to a Bael. Whatever his past, the slave bore his
present situation with commendable resignation. His
obvious dislike of Cynewulf should also be counted
in his favor.

  The five bored cnihtas slouching on the
steps regarded the newcomer with contempt, he being
unarmed. At a guess they ranged from fifteen
to eighteen in age, and in size from shoulder height
to enormous. Each wore a sword and helmet.
They heard his story, then their leader sent the
smallest to fetch Leofric, whom Gu`edlac had
described as the tanist's closest friend and most
trusted helper.
  Leofric soon arrived. He was no older
than Aeled himself, but taller and slender, and although
he would have been called a redhead anywhere else,
his hair was blond by Baelish standards. A jagged
white scar disfigured the right side of his face, the
eye socket hidden by a silver patch bearing a
single huge emerald. That was either a joke or a
challenge, because the remaining left eye was much
closer to blue than green--reputably a
serious impairment among Baels. It seemed
sharp enough as he appraised the newcomer.
  He led the way to an outlying cabin furnished
with a cot, chair, and storage chest. Gerard
looked around it in disbelief, seeing finer
accommodation than the Green Man in Ambleport.
  "A slave gets his own quarters?"
  Leofric's smile was doubtless intended to be
reassuring, but it held more menace than most
men's scowls. "Tanist says you are to be
treated as a war captive. You were thegn-born in
Chivial, and he will not put you among loetu and
thralls. Do not try to wear a weapon here,
though."
  "Of course not!" Gerard said hurriedly,
wishing he had never touched a rapier in his life.
  "Aeled left you some gold, for clothes and so
on. I will show you where to obtain a woman when you
need one."
  Thrall woman? Gerard shivered and shook his
head at that offer, but he could think of nothing to say
about the rest except, "He is very generous!"
  "Always!" Leofric said emphatically.
Suddenly his smile made him seem boyish and
harmless. "A true giver of treasure.
One day I could not ride because my mare had
foaled, so he gave me two horses. It is
his way. He is truly throne-worthy, a leader
fit to die for."
  Or kill for? Gerard thought that Leofric had not
been told to make that speech; he really meant it
and would back up his loyalty by doing anything at
all for his hero.
  When he had gone, Gerard peered in the chest
to see how much a giver of treasure provided for a
man who had killed his half brother. Although he
could not be certain of the weight of the coins, they must be
worth at least twice what Lord Candlefen had
paid him for a week's work and two weeks'
travel. More important, they were lying on the
lid of his precious document case, which he had
never expected to see again.
  He took it over to the bed, where the light was
best. The contents had been shaken about, which was
hardly surprising after that voyage, and a couple of
his pens had suffered, but the ink bottles had not
spilled and nothing at all was missing. His best
sketch of Charlotte, which he had placed at the
bottom of the papers, was now on top. He sat
and stared at it until his eyes blurred with tears.

                  

  Twice in the next two hours Gerard felt
the earth move. The second time he was in the city,
busily spending his new wealth. He was
impressed by the total lack of panic, even
among small children. Cwicnoll's antics were
ignored like a minor breach of manners in a
genteel salon.
  At sunset the war horns' chilling wail
summoned the fyrd to the feasting. By that time Gerard was
ravenous. Dressed in his new Baelish garments
and armed with his equally new knife and drinking
horn, he headed purposefully to the great hall,
but paused when he reached the paved yard to take
stock. In Chivial he had visited houses where
the main door was reserved for the nobility and even
an artist-clerk from the College of Heralds must
use a servants' entrance. Here he was much less
than a clerk; but the Baels seemed to have no such
rule, for all sorts of people were trekking in and out
of the big archway, even slaves carrying
provisions and barrels of ale to the feast. The
only restriction he could see was that
thegns had to surrender their swords to the cnihtas
on duty in the porch. Reassured, he strode
over the black flagstones, mounted the wide
steps, and was allowed to enter unquestioned.
  He paused again just inside the door, letting his
eyes adjust to the dimmer light, gaping at the
barbaric splendor. In truth the hall was no more
than a shed on heroic scale, but its soaring roof
was supported by an intricate trellis of
spidery smoke-blackened rafters, and the high
walls were festooned with antique weapons and
ancient war trophies, anonymous under layers
of soot and grease. Its only door was the one
by which he had entered; its only windows were the two
gable ends, left open so wind could waft away
smoke. Along either side stood tables and benches
for feasting, with a gap in the center for four great open
hearths, set safely distant from the walls and
manned by sweating thralls turning whole carcases
on spits, exactly as the old tales demanded.
A low platform at the far end supported another
table that must be reserved for the nobility, for it was
furnished with stools and a high-backed throne. He
felt as if he had been misplaced several
centuries in Chivian history; he reminded
himself sternly that this was now and a slave's wergild
was trivial. The advice Gu`edlac had
stressed above all was that annoying a thegn-born
could be a fatal mistake; being a loet was still
better than being just plain dead.
  When the scent of cooked meat put him in
grave danger of drowning on his own saliva, he
headed for the nearest tables. There was plenty of
space and the thralls served anyone who sat down.
In moments a trencher loaded with thick slabs of
bread and crisp-roasted pork and beef was thumped
down before him. He began to gorge. A woman
filled his horn with cold bitter ale and the world
got even better.
  He was starting to see that apparent misfortune could
be turned into opportunity. In Baelmark an
earl's counselor might live very well.
  A well-dressed couple entered with an
entourage of armed followers, all heading for the high
table, but no drums or horns announced them and
none of the diners paid much attention. The man took
the throne and so must be Earl Ceolmund. He was
about forty and had a marked stoop. Put him in a
sword fight with Aeled and the money would all be on
the tanist. His silver-haired companion
seemed about twenty years older than he, but that was
normal, a sign of many children.
  Few people were yet ready to eat, apparently, for the
hall remained remarkably empty, far below
capacity. Atheling Cynewulf strutted in,
nodding in bored fashion to friends, and took a seat
at the high table. Aeled must belong up there also,
but he might be planning a hero's entry for
later.
  "What is the world coming to?" inquired a voice
at Gerard's back. "There's dirt on this
bench!"
  "And on the table too," said another. A
sword flicked Gerard's trencher into his lap,
food and all. It clattered down to the flagstone
floor.
  He twisted around to face a pair of
red-haired youths, both armed and grinning. The one
who had drawn had not yet sheathed his sword.
Now, too late, Gerard registered the slaves
and servants sitting on the ground just inside the
door and knew where he should be dining.
  Gu`edlac had warned him.
  "On the floor, slave!" said the tall one.
"Dogs eat down there."
  Gerard considered his options, which did not take
long. "I am Aeled's captive," he said--
Ic eom Aeldes hoeftniedling. That was
what Aeled had told him to say, but now that he
knew the language he could see that while
hoeftniedling certainly meant prisoner, it
also meant slave. So did wealh and hoeft
and niedling. Clearly Baels made little
distinction between prisoners and slaves, and these two
cnihtas obviously did not, for their eyes were
gleaming at meeting refusal, with its obvious
opportunities for sport. Gerard spoke again,
at a slightly higher pitch. "The tanist gave
me quarter in Cynehof because I am thegn-born in
my own land. Do you seek to overrule the tanist?
Is that how you treat guests in Catterstow?"
  The boys' confidence wavered slightly. "You
lie, ni`ed'-+!" said the one holding the
sword, but he took a quick glance at the high
table to see if Aeled was watching.
  Aeled had still not arrived, unfortunately.
  "I slew Waerferh`ed Fyrlafing, the
tanist's brother, and the tanist honors me as a
warrior. He appoints me his wita, but you
insult me. Are you so much greater than
Aeled Atheling?"
  The cnihtas exchanged worried glances.
Gerard gambled on a chuckle, hoping it would not
emerge as a nervous snigger. "I will forgive your
ignorance this once. You did not know. See, the
thralls have brought food. Come, sit, and, while
we feast together, thegns, I will tell you of the fight
in Ambleport, when I slew the atheling."
  They clearly disliked the thought of sitting beside a
foreigner, but the prospect of hearing his news
overcame their scruples. Warily they sat,
both on his left and farther away than courtesy
would normally dictate. If their friends discovered
them, they could deny being with him.
  The crisis was over for the moment, but Gerard's
hand shook when the ale woman filled his drinking
horn; he emptied it in one long gulp. He
introduced himself, and so--reluctantly--did
Wulfward Wulfwining and Boehtric
Goldstaning. Between mouthfuls he told the story of
Waerferh`ed's death, spinning it out, making a
fight out of it but not downplaying his own crushing
humiliation at the hands--or knee--of Aeled.
By that time the ale was working its way up under the
carroty hair and they found that ending very funny
indeed.
  But puzzling. "He really appointed you his
wita?" demanded Wulfward, the tall one.
  "Why would the tanist expect wisdom from a
Chivian ni`eding?" asked Boehtric,
oblivious of the possibility that a foreigner might
resent an insult that would have him on his feet
instantly, sword in hand and ready to die.
  "When he arrives you can go and ask him. I'll
introduce you, Goldstaning. But I am not
familiar with your customs. Will scops sing tonight of the
tanist's foering?"
  The ale was potent. The sons of Goldstan and
Wulfwin explained as well as they could shout
while chewing that to welcome home the victors there
would certainly be songs and speeches and distribution
of treasure and drinking to oblivion.
  "Is it possible," Gerard said uneasily,
glancing around the hall, "that the tanist will decide
to challenge the earl tonight?"
  "Never!" Wulfward proclaimed. The night
after a ship returned was always a night for jollity
and feasting.
  Why was the hall so quiet then?
  "Tell me what happens when he
does choose to challenge."
  Then, the cnihtas explained, talking in
counterpoint, the tanist would march in bearing arms.
He would refuse an offer of mead. He would
recite a formula, which they quoted, couched in such
archaic Baelish that Gerard's enchantment failed
to translate it, although the boys might not have it
right. After that, they explained, the earl would set a
date for the thegn moot to meet, usually the next
day, and then the fyrd would decide whether the earl
must answer the challenge in person. The vote was
literally a siding, each man going to stand by the man
he supported, so a head count could decide the
issue.
  The boys began arguing over the earl's choice
of champion.
  The hall was even quieter. Men were moving around
--gathering in little knots or even walking out the
door. Atheling Cynewulf rose, bowed
to Ceolmund, and strutted out. That one would know a
sinking ship when he saw one. Others followed.
  This was to be the night.
  "Thegns," Gerard said, and managed to catch their
attention at the second repeat. "You think a
Chivian cannot be wita? I offer you wise roed
--go now, go quickly. Where is the tanist? Where is
the fyrd? I think you should be on the winning side,
thegns."
  There was a painful pause as the boys worked it
out--as they realized that Cynewulf and his
companions were almost at the door, with men rising
everywhere to follow. Boehtric and Wulfward
leaped to their feet and sprinted, dinner forgotten.
  Gerard retreated to the underlings' corner, where the
coerls and loetu had gathered to watch the drama.
It was probably very typical of Aeled to play
by his own rulebook and not wait a few days as
custom demanded. Ceolmund handled the situation as
best he could--sitting alone with his wife at the
high table, chatting peacefully and ignoring the
empty benches. When only house thegns
remained, he beckoned to them to come up and join
him. His wife herself served them ale. The scene
had time to grow quite poignant before Aeled marched in
at the head of his werod. He was in full war
gear, shining with gold and steel; the rest of the fyrd
followed, several hundred of them, filling the
hall. Big Brother Cynewulf and the one-eyed
Leofric were near the front.
  Aeled halted when he reached the
central hearths. The earl's silver-haired
wife stepped down from the dais with a horn of mead,
and came to greet him with admirable grace. He
returned her smile but courteously refused the
horn. She went back to her husband's side.
Aeled called out the formula of challenge, but in a
tone that showed it was only a formula and the personal
insults were not intended to hurt.
  The stooped earl responded with equal
dignity. He did not ask for the support of his
fyrd, for the result of a siding would be a foregone
inevitability. He straightened up as well as
he could, then retraced his wife's path until
he reached the tanist. There he knelt to clasp the
upstart's hands and swear loyalty. The hall
erupted with a noise that Cwicnoll might have
envied. Aeled's closest followers lifted him
shoulder high and bore him to the throne.
  Then began cheering and feasting, wholesale drinking
and distribution of silver and gold, riotous
celebration that went on beyond dawn. The hugely
grinning new earl handled himself well, naming his
predecessor as his chancellor and loading him with a
minor fortune in bullion to salve his wounded
honor and pay off his house thegns. Aeled made
other appointments, too, the only two of which
meant anything to the watching Chivian were Leofric
as marshal and Cynewulf tanist. Of course an
earl and his tanist should be close relatives and
there was no one else. Besides--Gerard concluded
cynically--if no one liked Cynewulf, he
could not be a threat.
  After twenty years, a Cattering was Earl of
Catterstow again. Now it was up to Gerard of
Waygarth to make him King of Baelmark.














              CHARLOTTE

                III

                  

  For the next three days Aeled was much too
busy to interrogate his prisoner. He had
to exchange oaths and gifts with every thegn in the
shire, from landowners of enormous wealth to young
sailors who did not own even their swords. He
had to appoint his witan and enlist house thegns.
  Gerard wandered the city at will, thinking hard. He
wrestled with his conscience until he wanted
to scream or just punch a thegn on the nose and
die. He went over the arguments a thousand times.
He owed no loyalty to King Taisson! His mother
had petitioned her royal kinsman several times,
seeking office or advancement of some kind for her
son, but the only response had been one terse
note expressing His Majesty's best wishes,
penned by some anonymous palace flunky. The
Waygarth family was not merely not royal, but
over the generations it had been tainted by various
scandals until the House of Ranulf wanted
nothing to do with it.
  Aeled, though, was offering him the chance of a
lifetime. There were only two roads to security
in life and a man without inheritance had to rely on
the second one, an influential patron.
To become advisor and close confidant to a
future king of Baelmark would be incredibly good
fortune, the sort of opportunity men dreamed of.
Aeled himself was the sort of inspiring leader they
dreamed of, too. Gerard's fortune would be made.
  More important--he would be able to rescue the
woman he loved.

  On the fourth morning the sun rose into a blue
sky and he was shaken awake by a cniht sent
to tell him the Earl was coming. He had barely time
to dress before he heard hooves and went out to watch
Aeled ride up on a magnificent black,
leading a saddled chestnut mare. Should it be a
surprise that the Earl was as skilled with horses
as he was with ships? He looked down on his
captive solemnly, his customary wide grin
totally absent.
  "Gerard of Waygarth, you owe me wergild for
my servant Waerferh`ed Fyrlafing. In
requital of that debt are you prepared
to tell me of some feat that will raise me in the
eyes of the earls so that the witenagemot will favor
my challenge to King Ufegeat?"
  Unpleasantly aware of crossing a bridge
that allowed no returns, Gerard said,
"Ealdor, I can think of one such deed. I do
believe it has a chance, although the risks would
appall any other man I have ever met and I
certainly can't promise--"
  The raider frowned. "I don't like risks."
  Gerard opened and closed his mouth a few times.
...
  Aeled's green eyes stared icily down at
him. "Stupidity is not courage. Brains are not
cowardice. I never take unnecessary risks; I
plan my moves and weigh the costs. My motto
is "When you hunt the wolf, beware the
she-wolf!" [Wigest wulfe, wylfre
ware] She is rarely far away. Had you
remembered that in Ambleport, you would have realized that
Waerferh`ed would have many she-wolves at his
back."
  "Yes, ealdor," Gerard said, chastened.
  "But I will take risks if the prize is
worth it and the odds are reasonable. Go on."
  "Thank you, ealdor. The hunt I
propose may make you king or kill you, but if
you fail I don't think men will laugh at you."
  Then came the grin, bright as the rising sun.
"That is important! Mount up. Let us be on
our way, lest the shire reeve come hunting me
again, for if I throttle him as I want to,
then good King Ufegeat will be seriously annoyed."

  At first he set a pace that made conversation
impossible, but as they were leaving the sprawling
fringes of the city behind, heading inland through grain
fields toward the ice-capped cone of
Cwicnoll, he let the horses slow to a trot
and Gerard was able to draw level.
  "Is it safe for you to ride out like this without
guards?"
  "Me? House thegns?" Aeled snorted
contemptuously. "Like Taisson the Frail, you
mean? A hundred swordsmen around his sickbed?"
  "You have won the richest shire in the country. You
must have acquired enemies to go with it."
  Such talk made Aeled smile. "Of
course. King Ufegeat, for one. But
assassinating me would just start a blood
feud. If someone kills Taisson, the
Chivians will automatically be stuck with
Ambrose. Here we have better ways. When the
fyrd of Catterstow decides it wants to be
rid of me, there are means available."
  Put like that, the peculiar system seemed less
barbaric, almost rational. "What about the oaths of
loyalty everyone has been swearing to you?"
  "What about them? I respond by swearing to be a
strong and just lord. If I get greedy or
vicious or too decrepit to swing a sword,
then I have broken my side of the bargain and they are
free to find a better man." The grin flickered
back, briefly. "And if I haven't, let
traitors beware! I mean to be king, though, and
then I will make Catterstow rich and happy.
Tell me your plan."
  He slowed the pace to a walk as the trail
left cultivated plains behind and began climbing
through steep pastures. Cwicnoll had withdrawn from
view, retreating behind ridges and lesser peaks.
  Gerard gathered his thoughts. He had rehearsed this
often enough. "You need to do something different, not just
another foering, because you have shown you can do those
better than any. Nor just shedding a lot of
blood."
  Aeled nodded impatiently. "Any fool can
make a massacre. Violence usually stores
up trouble for the future, so I use it only when
I must."
  "I will remember, ealdor. This should not need
violence, or very little. I was in Ambleport that
night because I was on my way back to Grandon from
Candlefen. That's on the Wartle, about a day's
journey west." A shrug told him the raider
had never heard of it. "There are old records of
Baels raiding upriver as far as Wartcaster and
Tonworth, but back in Goisbert the Third's
time they built a highway along the coast there and
bridged the Wartle. The fiendish Baels
couldn't get their ships up the river anymore."
  Aeled raised his copper eyebrows
skeptically. "No?"
  "Or they haven't tried. Candlefen Castle
has fallen into ruin. It's deserted. The
family lives in Candlefen Park, about three
leagues inland. That's a very fair mansion, but you
could jump the wall. I told you I am--was--
a gentleman scholar for the College of
Heralds. I do odd jobs for the
nobility. Lord Candlefen is marrying his daughter
to the Duke of Dragmont, who owns half of
Westerth. There will be a huge celebration. I was
sent out from Grandon to advise them--who must be
invited, who is presented to whom, who sits above
the salt, who can bring men-at-arms. How many
servants. All that."
  He could have done it in three days. He should have
done it in a week. He had spun it out for two.
  "Lots of loot at the party?" Aeled said with
no great enthusiasm.
  "Loot? I suppose the fat ladies will be
wearing their weight in pearls. The Duke of
Dragmont is a swine. I called him Dreg
Mouth behind his back until I was terrified I
would do it to his face--his breath will kill a
horse at fifty paces. He also has a
disgusting rash on his neck and hands, and I assume
everywhere else from the way he scratches, and he's
three times as old as the bride. He has
grand-children almost her age! But he's the king of
beasts in Westerth--powerful, spiteful,
vindictive. The Candlefens daren't do a damned
thing to--" He was almost shouting and Aeled was
looking at him oddly.
  He took out the tube of paper he had tucked
inside his tunic, untied the ribbon around it, and
passed it across. Aeled glanced at it and handed it
back.
  "Yes, I saw that. You are very talented. I
wondered if she could be real."
  "It doesn't do her justice. Not close
even. She's seventeen. She's--she's
perfect! Witty, spirited, considerate ..." And
she was to be married to that human sewage. He had
promised her he would not go back for the ceremony.
"The wedding is set for the fifteenth of
Seventhmoon." Realizing that the Baelish
calendar might be different, he said, "That's the
day of the full moon closest to the summer
solstice. I watched you beaching Groeggos. That
bridge would be no obstacle at all. You'd just
push your ships around it, across a road. About as
far as here to that rock."
  "We could do it with rollers." The Earl was not
impressed so far. "If the tide's in and the
river's navigable and the weather's favorable. We
could be back at the coast before any troops get
there. It would have to be well scouted in advance.
She's very lovely, and I understand why you
disapprove of the match, but I can't risk the
lives of hundreds of men just to kidnap a rich
old duke from his wedding. The fat ladies'
jewels are tempting, I admit. It would be a
riotous caper and every mead hall in Baelmark would
shake with laughter, but--"
  He broke off with a frown because Gerard was
laughing. Rather a high-pitched laugh, teetering on
the edge of hysteria.
  "Sorry, ealdor! I'm not experienced at
this roed'-giving. I forgot to mention that
Charlotte's mother's mother is Princess
Crystal, a daughter of Ambrose II.
Charlotte is first cousin, once removed, of
King Taisson, and thus second cousin of
Crown Prince Ambrose. She is a generation
closer to the throne than I am. I'm just connected
by marriage. I'm not royal and she is.
Charlotte is of the blood. She's seventh in the
line of succession."
  Aeled's grin reappeared. It grew wider and
wider and wider. "Let me see that sketch again!
Oh, yes! Oh, yes, yes. Speak on,
wita!"
  "You'd have to marry her," Gerard said in sudden
terror. "Just carrying her off and raping her wouldn't
do! You must marry her!"
  "Yes, Gerard. I'd marry her." Aeled
took a deep breath. "Yes, I will marry
her! Cousin of the King of Chivial! And the greatest
beauty of the land. To go to the witenagemot with her on
my ... This would be truly throne-worthy! You
give vintage roed, wita. Speak on!"
  "There is one she-wolf lurking."
  "I can see at least six!" Aeled said with the
glee of a child counting cakes.
  "She is close enough to the throne that they must
invite the King to the--"
  "Taisson will be there?" Baelish eyes
flashed.
  "No, no!" Gerard said hastily, remembering
he was trying to steer a killer who might well
prefer to go to the witenagemot with the King's head under
his arm instead. "His health won't let him.
He wouldn't go anyway, because a reigning monarch
eclipses the bride and groom. And don't
look disappointed, ealdor! Kings of Chivial
have Blades! Two or three Blades could cut
your whole werod into fish bait."
  "Maybe."
  "Truly! The snag is that Crown Prince
Ambrose may accept the invitation. He's been
doing a fair bit of traveling since he came
of age, and he hasn't been to Westerth yet: I
warned them that they might have to put up with Tin
Trumpet. That's his nickname. He's a young
blowhard. And he has some Blades too, so--"
  "How old is he?"
  "Twenty. Well, he'll be twenty next
month."
  "Oh? What week?"
  "Er, second."
  Aeled's grin returned, bigger than ever.
"Coincidence! We're the same age." He
rode on, staring down at the grass, while his
wita waited breathlessly. Then the Bael looked
up with a very, very dangerous gleam in his eye. "How
much ransom would Chivial pay for its Crown
Prince?"
  "He may not be there!"
  "But if he is? How much silver would
Taisson pay?"
  "How many men would you spend? I told you
Ambrose has Blades of his own; and he may
bring some of the Royal Guard as well, because
they're going crazy guarding a sickroom. You'd
lose a hundred men before you could lay a hand on
him--and he fancies himself as a swordsman, so
he's likely to die in the melee and then you gain
nothing. How many of the witan would support you after
that kind of massacre?"
  Aeled chewed his lip for a while, then sighed.
"Too few and I would not be one of them. You are
right. I give you my word I will not move against the
Prince. You sound as if you had fallen in love
with the girl yourself." His green eyes raked Gerard.
"Did she spurn you, friend? Is this your revenge
--to have her carried off by raiders?"
  "No, of course not!"
  "What is she to you, then?"
  "Nothing!" Gerard insisted. "Just a pretty
girl. I've only known her a few days,
ealdor, truly. I pity her having to marry that
stinking old goat, that's all."
  Aeled said, "Hmm? Well, I swear to you
I will make her my wife and queen and then any
other man who as much as catches her eye will wish
he had never been born. You do understand that part of
it, don't you?"
  "And I swear to you, ealdor, that no
such thought--"
  "Of course. Now there is much to plan, and a
myriad things that could go wrong." He looked up
at the cliffs ahead. "I am on my way
to visit a man who is something of a soothsayer.
Whether he will agree to see you or not, I cannot
tell, but he can give wise roed on this. I
don't think we can pull this off without some spiritual
assistance. If anyone can solve the problems for
us, it is Healfwer."

                  

  Some nights later, just before moonrise, a
dory containing three men passed under the bridge
at the mouth of the Wartle and headed inland. By dawn
it had scouted upriver as far as Candlefen Park
and returned to the sea. There Aeled ordered that
preparations for the foering proceed. He and
Leofric then sailed away to their rendezvous with
Groeggos and their voyage back to Baelmark,
but Gerard walked along the shore to Wosham and
purchased a horse, telling tall tales about his
own having gone lame and being left with a farmer.
Three days later he reached Grandon
by stagecoach, having encountered no problems
except a tendency to speak and think in Baelish.
An ealdormannes wita ... er, earl's
counselor ... certainly need never worry about
sceatt ... money. ...
  Gentleman scholars were not expected to toil
by the clock like artisans' apprentices, so no
one in the college commented on his reappearance or
how long he had been gone, certainly not Eagle
King of Arms, a kindly octogenarian whose thoughts
were permanently several centuries behind the times.
Lord Thyme, the ancient archivist who actually
kept the college moving at its glacial pace
mumbled that Lord Candlefen's latest letter had been
most complimentary about Gerard and regretful that he
would not be able to return for the wedding itself.
  "My other plans have fallen through," Gerard
said. "I'll take the assignment if you want."
With turbulent feelings, he watched his name being
written in the appointment book. For almost anyone
over the age of thirteen, marriage was a simple
matter of a declaration before two witnesses, but
families holding lands or titles usually had
their children's unions registered by the heralds. This
duty was unpopular in the college because
fathers of brides were commonly so close
to destitute by the time the celebration arrived that they
notoriously failed to reward the registrar,
sometimes not even reimbursing his travel
expenses.
  Gerard had promised Charlotte he would not be
the one to marry her to the Duke of Drain Mud.
Well, he wasn't going to, was he? Oh,
spirits! Don't even think about it. He was
sleeping badly.

  The next few weeks were a prolonged agony
of deception. He visited his parents but dared not
tell them they would probably never see him again.
When he hinted that he might have found a rich
patron, they became very excited and peppered him
with questions he could not answer--his mother, especially,
lived in dread that her son might ultimately
sink to the level of trade. He made discreet
inquiries of Greymere Palace, and received the
standard response that the Prince's travel
plans were never announced in advance. There was no
news from Candlefen and would be none unless the wedding
were canceled and perhaps not even then. He dared not trust
himself to write to Charlotte. He shied at
shadows. He shunned his friends. He lost his
appetite.
  He found consolation in work. A certain rich
merchant had discovered traces of blue blood in
his veins and wanted the College to provide him
with a complete family tree back to the mists of
antiquity. Surprisingly, Gerard identified
a couple of quite interesting branches. He prepared
a multicolored vellum scroll festooned with
armorial crests and blazons, one of the best things
he had ever done. It was finished by the start of
Seventhmoon and he still had some days to kill, so his
fevered imagination began running wild, and he
filled in gaps with fictitious links to memorable
Chivian traitors and ancient Baelish
monsters like Smeawine and Bearskinboots. On the
evening of the ninth he left the completed and ruined
project on Eagle King of Arms' desk--
hoping it would not make the old gentleman die of
shock in the morning--and left the College for the
last time. The next day he packed a few
souvenirs and caught the western stage.

  At sunset on the thirteenth, he came
riding along the beach under Candlefen
Castle. Most of the walls had been quarried
away by local builders and sand had drifted
into what remained. He could see no signs that
anyone had visited it in years, which would mean that
Aeled had abandoned the foering. The wild
surge of hope that almost choked him was proof, had
he needed any, that he was not cut out to be a spy,
traitor, or conspirator. Nevertheless he must
make sure of that change of plans, so he rode
up the slope, taking care to stay on loose sand
where the wind would remove his tracks. When he
noticed the tall red-blond man standing in the
shadows watching him, his heart almost jumped out of his
mouth.
  Of course it was Marshal Leofric, the Bael
of another color, and his single eye had seen
Gerard a long time before Gerard's two had seen
him. He was dressed in ragged Chivian garb,
nondescript yeoman garments that would normally
escape attention, but if he had been prancing
around the countryside with that sword at his side, it
was a wonder he had not been questioned. At least the
patch over his empty eye socket was of plain
leather, not silver and emerald.
  "Day after tomorrow!" Gerard blurted as he
dismounted.
  "That's how our numbers come out too. Bring that
horse in here before anyone sees it." He had a
small camp set up inside the hollow shell
of the keep.
  "How long have you been here? Has anyone seen
you? Has anyone been asking you what--"
  "I come and go," Leofric said. "Vagabonds
and trash use this place all the time. Not
horsemen."
  "Aeled?"
  "He'll be around when he's needed," the thegn
said guardedly. "Sit there." He pointed to a
fallen stone lintel.
  Gerard obeyed uneasily.
  Aeled's werod ranked Leofric a better
killer than Aeled himself, because he had fewer
scruples. He handed his visitor a slate and a
piece of chalk. "Write, "I have not betrayed
Aeled.""
  "Why? Is this some sort of test? If you
don't trust me, then--"
  The Bael folded his arms in a way that put his
right hand very close to his sword hilt. "I will
trust you when I have seen you write. Are
you frightened to write what I told you?"
  It seemed to be a perfectly ordinary
piece of slate, but Gerard's fingers shook
slightly as he obeyed orders. I have not
betrayed Aeled. Nothing happened.
  "Rub that out. Now write, "The Crown
Prince is not coming to the wedding.""
  Gerard wiped a damp hand on his jerkin. "I
won't. I don't know whether he's coming or not."
  Leofric shrugged. "Write that, then." He
dictated a dozen more sentences before he was
satisfied and took back the slate.
  "What would happen if I had written a
lie?" Gerard asked hoarsely.
  The big man smiled. "You will never know." He
hurled the slate against a wall, shattering it. The
whole thing had been a bluff, then--or perhaps not,
because his mood was less threatening now. "I have been
wanting to throttle you for months, but Aeled says
this is the most wonderful foering he has ever
attempted. You have not been to the park yet?"
  "No."
  "Lots of wagons in and out the gate all day
today. A swordsman in blue livery and one in
green--I think those were Blades!"
  "Very likely. Advance scouts for the Prince?"
  "And a coach containing a woman in white wearing
a foolish pointed hat?"
  "A sniffer?" Gerard covered his face and
howled. "They never said they were going to call in the
Sisters! This is the end. We can't do it without
enchantment of some--"
  "It's a small snag, but we foresaw the
possibility."
  "I didn't," Gerard admitted. "I should
have." Bringing in White Sisters to inspect any
building where the King or his heir would be staying was
probably the Blades' standard practice.
"If she just looks around and then goes before he
arrives ... that isn't very likely, is it?"
  "No. And I like the look of the weather even
less. Off you go now to the Park, and we will talk
again tomorrow night."
  Panic! "No, wait! It's impossible!
I can't go slinking in and out under the eye of
Blades! Nor can I ever smuggle conjurements
past White Sisters! Suppose they have
inquisitors there as well?"
  He saw he was not going to change Leofric's
mind on anything. If Aeled ordered the
marshal to eat a longship he wouldn't ask for
salt.
  "Why should they?" The man of action sneered at
the scholar's timidity. "Listen. At sunset
tomorrow take out one of those boats they keep tied up
at the waterfront. Take a woman with you if you
want--I expect that's what they're for. When you
reach the old mill, lose an oar. Drift
downstream a little way, pole ashore with the other
oar, and then walk back to the park for help. The
right bank, the one on the north, understand? Leave
the woman, if any, to wait in the boat. I'll
catch you on the road."
  "What's the plan? Why not tell me now?
What about the enchantments? What--"
  "Tomorrow, laet. What you don't know you can't
let slip."
  "I'm not a slave! Not in Chivial."
  The tall raider did not even bother to look
annoyed, merely contemptuous. "Ceorl, then.
I thought you wanted to go up in the world?"
  "I promised to help Aeled."
  "Then do as I say." For the first time Leofric
offered a smile, although a singularly unreassuring
one. "And win your reward! You should worry less
about what Aeled will give you than about what I will
if anything happens to him."

  Darkness was falling by the time Gerard reached the
gates, which were being guarded by men-at-arms in the
Duke's livery. Although private armies were
forbidden in Chivial, such rules never applied
to royal cronies like Ditch Muck.
To Gerard's extreme annoyance they would not take
his word for who he was; he had to unpack one of his
bags and bring out his herald's tabard before he was
allowed to ride on up the driveway. His anger
faded when he realized that many of those men were doomed
to die when they were hit by the horror of the Catterstow
fyrd. And not only they--the grounds had become a
small city of tents and pavilions, in
expectation that the three hundred guests would
certainly bring at least twice that many servants,
plus horses and guards. Trying to imagine the
chaos when several werodu of Baels came
charging through, he was appalled, nauseated. To think
that all this sorrow had flowed from his folly with the
rapier in Ambleport, a single stone of evil
becoming a landslide! It was too late to back out
now, for Aeled's fleet must be somewhere
close and if he found the wedding guests fled he
would seek out other prey. It would need a real
army to stop him, and there was no army within call.

  Gerard had expected to be billeted in a tent
himself, but he was shown to an attic room. It was
considerably less imposing than the quarters he
had occupied the last time, understandably, but
considerably more than he felt he deserved. He
was going to betray his hosts' hospitality, and few
crimes ranked lower than that.
  Nor did it help his feelings that Lady
Candlefen was one of the most charming persons he had
ever met, straight-backed and yet warm, witty
but dignified, a silver-haired ideal of what
mothers should be. That she and her husband were marrying her
daughter to a toad must distress her deeply, but
the toad had forced their hand. She did not discuss
such matters with strangers. She greeted Gerard
in the great hall, which he recalled as an echoing
empty place and yet now was bustling with people, for
numerous impoverished Candlefen relatives would
not miss a chance to arrive as early as possible,
stay as long as possible, and eat as much as
possible. She ought to be almost frantic at this
stage in the preparations, but her greeting was serene
and cordial.
  "Charlotte was so pleased that it would be you
recording the vows, Gerard!"
  He doubted that very much. "I am happy to have the
honor, ma'am. She must be very excited."
  Lady Candlefen was well aware that her
daughter and the gentleman scholar had fallen
hopelessly in love within ten minutes of their first
meeting. She sympathized, it was unfortunate, but
chance was elemental and such things happened. They had
to be kept under control, that was all.
  "I think she is too busy to know what she is
feeling. You will join us for dinner, sir herald."
  He tried to refuse and was overruled.
College recorders were annoying anomalies,
neither servants nor gentry, but most noble
families expected them to eat in the kitchens.
  "If you'll excuse me," Lady Candlefen
said, glancing around, "I'll tell them to set one
more place. ... Ah, Sir Yorick, Sir
Richey! Have you met Master Gerard?"
Callously abandoning him to two predatory
Blades, she departed.
  Richey wore the blue and silver of the
Royal Guard and Yorick the Crown
Prince's green and gold. Yorick was
fresh-faced and eager, while Richey in his late
twenties, nearing the end of his service, seemed more
cynical. Apart from those details, they could have
been brothers, both to each other and to any of the other
dozen or so Blades Gerard had met in the
past. Until that moment he had never considered
Blades as anything more than exotic flunkies,
but suddenly he was very much aware of their stealthy
menace and the dangerous swords they wore.
  The Blades politely wanted to know who he
was and why he was there and they were going to get answers.
When he told them, they thawed a little, and he was
reassured that he must not seem one thousandth part as
guilty to them as he felt. Perhaps he could discover
how badly his plans were collapsing--
  "Can I assume from your liveries that this house
will be honored by both your principals tomorrow?"
  It was the young one who answered. "No."
  "Oh." He hoped his smile conveyed
amusement and not panic. "I can't or it
won't?"
  "Yes."
  The older Blade chuckled softly. "He
means neither. You can't assume, but no, His
Majesty is not coming."
  Yorick snorted. "There you go, giving out
state secrets to all sorts of suspicious
characters. The College of Heralds is probably
riddled with subversion."
  "Rheumatism mostly," Gerard said.
"Spirits! Is that a White Sister?" It was an
idiotic question, because her tall white hennin loomed
over the tallest heads and no one else wore those
anymore.
  "Either that or the family ghost." Was
Yorick's interest in Gerard increasing or was that
notion just a figment of his terrified imagination?
  "They never told me they were going to bring in a
sniffer!" He tried to sound like a petty
bureaucrat with an out-of-joint nose, which ought not
to be difficult. "What are they afraid of?"
  "The Candlefens?--nothing," young Yorick said.
"It's a piece of antiquated hocus-pocus
that the King insists on. Sniffers can find a
conjuration if it's in plain view in an empty
field. In a crowded building like this one, they
wouldn't recognize a love spell if there were
naked bodies writhing all around them."
  "Oh, come," Richey objected. "The King
is too fond of his treasury to throw away
money. He wouldn't have the White Sisters
patrolling his palaces at all unless they did
some good."
  Gulp. "You mean they actually do uncover
conjurements directed at His Majesty?"
  "Certainly," said Yorick. "All the time.
Are you finding it over warm in here, Master
Gerard?"
  "What? No! No, if anything I think
I'm a little chilly. The damp, you know ...
Why, there's the bride and I haven't paid my
respects yet ... do please excuse me.
Been great fun chatting with ... do it again some
..." Gerard fled like a hare.



              CHARLOTTE

            III (continued)

                  

  "By the way, Charlotte darling--while I
remember--an army of rapists and slavers will
invade the house on your wedding day to carry you off,
but their leader is a dashing young fellow with lots of
muscles and while he's a bloodthirsty monster
he does have a big smile and he says he will
marry you and make you Queen of Baelmark one
day. So don't worry, you'll be much happier with
him than with that disgusting old duke."
  That was what he ought to say, but of course
family and admirers were fussing around the bride like
midges, and even if she had been alone, the
message would have had to be passed with more tact.
Considerably more tact!
  She was taller than most women but still as slender
as a child. Blue was always her best color and tonight
she wore a rustling dress of sapphire silk,
whose voluminous skirts accentuated her tiny
waist. Her thick and high-piled hair shone in the
rich tones of honey fresh from the comb, she had the
amber eyes that so often showed up in the House of
Ranulf, and her neck was the longest he had ever
seen on a woman--she favored low necklines
to display it. He could stare for hours at the
perfection of her ears and nose and delicately
pointed chin. She had the fragility of a
porcelain doll and rode to hounds like a hussar.
A word of praise made her blush hotter than
a smith's forge, yet he had heard her
blaspheme worse than a blacksmith hitting
his finger.
  He lingered on the fringes of the swarm for some time
before she acknowledged him with a brief smile, and
all the time she kept up the required pretense
of happiness and cheerful chatter. He had seen her
in a myriad moods: Charlotte festive;
Charlotte wistful; Charlotte reflective;
Charlotte elated as she put her horse over
gates and hedges, daring him to catch up;
Charlotte laughing as she chased the spring lambs;
Charlotte witty; Charlotte mischievous at
cards; Charlotte graceful as moonbeams in
minuet or gavotte--a woman of
constant variety--and yet he had never seen
Charlotte somber, not even when she spoke of her
abhorrent future with the repulsive duke.
"One makes the best of things," was as far as she
would ever go to admit unhappiness.
  At last she introduced him and brought him into the
conversation. "It was Master Gerard's inspiration
to hold the ceremony in the rose garden." The
gentry nodded without pretending any interest in a
mere heraldic scribbler.
  "I distrust the weather now, my lady," he
said. "We may be forced indoors."
  "Oh, I am certain it will be glorious on the
day." She would never stoop to pessimism.
  Then came the summons to dinner, and her brother
Rodney offered his arm to lead her in. Of course
Gerard was seated far below her during the meal. He
did contrive a face-to-face meeting later in
the evening, but only when they were back in the crowded
hall, amid scores of possible onlookers, so
their faces smiled while their whispers were bitter.
  "Why are you here?" Smile, smile. "You
promised you would not come."
  "I was terrified you might have changed your mind.
If you have, then there is still time. We can run away
together."
  "Gerard! Oh, Gerard, have you forgotten that you
are about to marry me to one of the wealthiest landowners in
Chivial?"
  "I have thought of nothing else for months. You
don't have to go through with it. We can flee
to Isilond or Thergy and be together always."
Aeled's money would just cover the fare, with nothing
left over.
  She laughed as if he had just made a joke,
but her eyes denied the mirth. "Living on what,
Master Gerard? I do not know how to mulch pigs
or brew gruel."
  "I'll find work! I'd work myself to death for you,
Charlotte."
  "That really does not sound very practical.
Perhaps I can learn to clean fish on the docks.
Will you take my family with us? Or how will you
defend them?"
  Alas, there was the root of all the trouble! As
seventh in line of succession, she was so close to the
throne that she needed royal permission to marry, and the
Duke of Dung Murk was a lifelong pal of
old King Taisson. That was where the pressure was
coming from. If Charlotte refused the
match her whole family would be ruined; and if she
eloped with Gerard, both he and her father might die
under the headsman's ax. Only outside
Chivial could she ever find happiness--with Gerard
in poverty, or as a future queen of
Baelmark. Her family could not be blamed for a
Baelish raid.
  "Oh, poor Gerard!" she said. "I do
understand, I really do! We just mustn't think of it."
  "Of course you mustn't think about sharing your"--he
almost said "bed"--"life with a diseased old--"
  "Fourteen major estates and castles,
Gerard. Of course we shall live in Grandon most
of the time, and I shall be a frequent visitor at
court. Jules has the King's promise that I
shall be Mistress of the Revels next Long
Night!" Her brave smile invited him to share
her happiness, and yet he had seen her be
physically ill after an hour of being pleasant to the
disgusting lecher. He dared not explain the
alternative he had devised.
  She turned away to greet an ancient
uncle.


  He tossed and twisted the night away in his
attic, but his aching conscience was not his only
torment. With his nose almost touching the roof he could
hear the rain and the wind, and he kept remembering
Leofric's prophecy of bad weather. The
Baelish fleet might have been driven halfway
home already or piled up on rocks.
Uncertainty only added to his woe; he
worried that he might be worrying
unnecessarily.
  By morning the midsummer storm showed no signs
of departing, and even the wedding was in jeopardy.
Roads would be impassable, bridges washed out,
horses injuring feet in water-filled
potholes; and out in the grounds tents were
collapsing by the dozen. Guests would start arriving
by noon, soaked or cold or both, and this could
only add to the confusion in the already overcrowded
mansion. He offered to sketch Charlotte in her
wedding gown.
  "A splendid idea!" her mother said. "That will be
a nice peaceful interlude for her. It has been
so hectic around here, and the next two days are
going to be very stressful!"
  Lady, you cannot imagine. ...
  An hour or so later, Charlotte stood in
an upstairs drawing room, staring out the
rain-streaked window as Gerard had posed her,
while he chewed his tongue and struggled to make
pencil lines convey the subtleties of fabric.
Her brocade outer dress of midnight blue
swept out from narrow waist to a wide hemline; it
was open at the front to reveal the scarlet satin
of the inner dress just as her neckline was cut to the
waist to show her pearl-encrusted bodice. She
seemed even taller than usual, so she must be
wearing platform shoes, and her voluminous
headdress hid her hair. The face was no
problem. He could draw that in his sleep, with all
the fine bone and the perfect skin, teeth, lips.
... Yet all of those were lit from within by fires of
vitality faceted like diamond, and there his skill
failed absolutely.
  Her mother, being understanding--too understanding--dispatched
the servants on various pretexts, but she herself
remained, fussily checking lists at an
escritoire, not quite out of hearing. The conversation was
stilted, naturally, and Gerard did have
to concentrate on what he was doing. Elopement being
now out of the question, all he could hope to do was drop
some comforting hints, but the minutes flew by, his
allotted time dwindled fast, and it seemed he would
have no chance. Then Charlotte gave him the cue
he needed.
  "So where have you been since you left us?"
  "Abroad," he muttered.
  Her cry of wonder made her mother look up in
equal surprise.
  "What?" She had turned in alarm, forgetting
her pose but no doubt recalling his mention of
Isilond and Thergy. "How exciting!" she added
more cautiously. "Where to? What were you doing?"
  "Oh! I shouldn't have mentioned ... but if you will
promise not to tell anyone ... and you also, my
lady? Absolute secrecy! Even the Prince
may not be privy to what is happening." He
had better not be! "And even if he is, he will
not wish to discuss it. We heralds sometimes get
called upon to initiate discussions with foreign
governments. Of course I am not yet trusted with
any major assignments." He was babbling, but
he had told no lies so far.
  "You are modest, Gerard! Can't you drop us just
a teeny hint?" Charlotte teasing.
  "Well, I had occasion to pay a very
brief visit to Baelmark."
  The ladies chorused their horror.
  "Those monsters!" Charlotte said. "You must have
heard! Just after you left us--they raided
Ambleport and kidnapped scores of children and young
people. Men slaughtered! Brutality! It was
unthinkable!"
  Gerard nodded soberly. "My visit was not
unconnected with that event."
  "Oh!" Lady Candlefen clapped her hands.
"How wonderful! You were negotiating ransom for
those unfortunate captives?"
  "I cannot reveal the substance of my discussions,
ma'am. But it was a very memorable experience. I
was truly surprised. Of course I only saw
one city, Waro`edburh, but a most beautiful
place! I expected naked savages living in
caves, and found a prosperous, cultivated people.
Their houses and clothes are richer than most of
Chivial's." He smiled at their incredulity.
"I met a young prince, for example, about the
same age as Crown Prince Ambrose.
Honestly, he is one of the most charming people I ever
met. He may well become the next King of
Baelmark."
  "He is welcome to it." Charlotte icy.
  "I do think the Baels have been rather slandered. I
admit they are aggressive at times, but so few
foreigners ever visit their country--"
  "Why would anyone want to? Gerard, you are
talking about slavers, killers, pirates, men
who assault defenseless women." Charlotte
angry.
  "The violence is not all on their side.
Chivians can be slavers too, although we never
hear about that. A Baelish vessel was seized at
the quay in Ambleport and the entire crew hanged!
Did you know that?"
  Mother and daughter exchanged disbelieving glances.
  "No. When did that happen?" Lady
Candlefen demanded.
  "About fifty years ago. The Baels have long
memories." Gerard saw he wasn't making a
great deal of progress.

  By noon more guests were arriving, and Crown
Prince Ambrose was one of the first. He brought more
Blades with him, making a total--although it took
Gerard some time to establish this--of six from the
Royal Guard and ten of his own. Unless
his father's health improved he would likely take
most of Ironhall's output in future. He
set up court in the great hall in front of the
fireplace, dominating everyone. He was loud,
he was big, and he had a young woman with him who was
very obviously his mistress--the two of them
sniggered and made eyes at each other. Compared
to Aeled he seemed a vastly overgrown and
spoiled child.
  Gerard retreated to his attic and worked on his
sketch while the roof creaked in the wind. The
Blades would have been a sickening problem if the
weather had not already ruined everything. Even Baels
could never land an army in this storm, not with the
split-second timing that would be required. He
had failed to rescue Charlotte and failed
to satisfy the man he had hoped would be his new
master, so he would sink back into obscurity where
he belonged and abandon dreams of being a king's
counselor. The Blades were irrelevant.
Love was irrelevant. Everything was
irrelevant.

  By sunset the overcrowded house had become such
a bear baiting that merely going out for a walk in the
mud would not be seen as evidence of insanity.
Taking a boat would be, for the Wartle was a racing
brown flood licking the tops of its banks.
Gerard set off into the rain, pausing only to chat
with the men on the gates and see who could curse the
weather hardest. There was no one else on the
road. As he approached the old mill he
began to whistle, but when a voice hailed him it
came not from the mill but from a hedge on the
opposite side of the road. He climbed over
a stile, where a path trailed off into the woods.
  "Down here." Leofric was sitting on the ground
under a spruce.
  Gerard scrambled in beside him like a child playing
king's men and outlaws. The ground was dry close
to the trunk, and the air pungent with the aromatic
tree scent. "It's all off, isn't it?"
  The silver patch was back, a giant's eye
burning in the gloom. "Not that I've heard.
Report."
  "But Ambrose is there already and Aeled swore
he wouldn't move against him!"
  "He won't, but he may move around him.
What else is happening?"
  Gerard groaned. "Everything is going
ahead as planned. There may be fewer guests
than they expected, that's all. Half the tents
have collapsed and the rest are awash. If this rain
keeps up, he'll be able to sail Groeggos
right in the front door. You're not seriously
expecting him to go through with it, are you?"
  Leofric showed his fangs. "I've known him as
long as anyone, and never seen him fail at
anything yet. He took you through Eastweg in a
howling northerly, didn't he? No one else
would dare try. Keep talking."
  "The ceremony is still to be held mid-morning
in the great hall. Then the banquet, and I
expect that'll go on long into the night. The
Prince has sixteen Blades with him!
Blades are invincible when they're defending their
ward, Marshal!"
  "No they're not. All men are mortal. How
many sniffers?"
  "Just one." And now Gerard realized that he had
not seen the White Sister since he had been on
his way to breakfast. "She may have left. I'm
not sure."
  "You should be sure, but we have to risk it
anyway." The Bael reached under his cloak and
produced a flat package wrapped in oiled
cloth. "There are two sheets of paper in here.
One bears a watermark of a heron, the other of a
ship. Write something on them so that you know them at
a glance. If you put them in with your other papers,
you can always claim you don't know where they came from,
but Healfwer doesn't think a sniffer can detect
them while they're not active, not without actually
handling them. Keep your distance from her and you should be
all right. To release the enchantment, you tear the
sheet in half."
  "Tear it in half? And what happens then?"
More than the water trickling down Gerard's neck
was making him shiver.
  "The one with the heron will scare all the birds within
half a league, maybe farther."
  "And you will notice. What's the message?"
  "That the wedding party has entered the hall. That's
our signal to move in. If Aeled hasn't
come, then nothing happens. The birds go back
to their nests and you just carry on with the marriage."
  "And if the White Sister is still there?"
  Leofric shrugged. "She probably has a
fit. At close range she may be too
stunned to know who did what where."
  "Your confidence is really comforting!" Gerard
yelled.
  The Bael lunged forward and caught Gerard by the
throat, half choking him and dragging him forward
until wolf teeth snarled right in his eyes. "This
was your idea, ni`eding! You knew what would
happen if you threw an idea like that at Aeled.
If you didn't, you should have. And I swear if
anything happens to him because of you, you burbyrde
boedling, [Low-born weakling] I will
see you take a month to die! Understand?"
  Gerard made choking noises, and the thegn hurled
him away one-handed as if he weighed nothing. He
rolled on some painful roots, banged his head
on a branch.
  "Ready to listen some more?"
  Gerard sat up and dusted dirt off his palms.
"Yes, ealdor."
  "You tear the paper with the ship at the last moment
--either just before you complete the marriage or when
there's enough noise outside that the meeting's about
to break up in confusion. Understand? This is
important. Too soon and we won't be there
yet."
  "How long do you need?"
  "As much time as you can give us. You'll
probably hear when we are getting close. A
Blade or two going out to see won't matter,
but we don't want panic. The last possible
moment!"
  Gerard groaned and nodded. "And then what
happens?"

  "It will create a diversion. Everyone
presently in the room will be frozen to the spot.
It's harmless and it won't last more than two
hundred heartbeats, so Healfwer says. By the
time it wears off, Aeled will have control of the hall.
We hope."
  "Or there's a free-for-all."
  "That's true." Leofric smiled as if his
earlier anger had never been. "It may be quite a
ruckus."
  "Suppose something goes wrong? What if the
sniffer detects the conjurements?"
  Leofric shrugged. "I told you--you protest
that you had no idea those pieces of paper had been
enchanted and you cannot recall where they came from or
how they got in among your effects. If they
haven't beaten the truth out of you or chained you to the
rafters, then when the ceremony is about
to start, run out the front door and keep going
down the drive to the gates. We'll do the best
we can without you. Repeat your orders."
  "Heron means come to the house. Ship means come
into the hall." Gerard could hear the swish of the
headsman's ax already.

                  

  An abduction would have been much easier out of
doors, although that had not been the reason Gerard
suggested, back in Fourthmoon, that Charlotte be
married in the rose garden--he had merely
concluded on his first glimpse of the great hall at
Candlefen Park that it was an exceedingly ugly
barn. She had supported the proposal
enthusiastically. So had her mother but, knowing the
climate of Westerth and lacking her daughter's
perpetual optimism, Lady Candlefen had
suggested they make backup plans to hold the
affair indoors just in case--fortunately so, because
sheets of mist and rain were still marching relentlessly in
from the ocean.
  That morning everyone was going around wrapped in the
warmest clothes they had brought with them, complaining of
being cold. Gerard was more chilled by the realization that
the gale had dropped to a bitter breeze, so the
foering might well be possible again. Rain and
fog without much wind were ideal Bael weather; and
unless Aeled had been driven to the farthest corner
of the world, he could probably bring his ships right up
to the paillemaille lawn before anyone even
noticed them. Even the ducks would be staying
indoors today.
  The hall was about eighty feet long, with the great
main door at one end and the minstrel gallery and the
staircase up to it at the other. No musicians
ever played there, the Candlefens admitted, because the
sound echoed so badly. Admittedly the hammer
beam roof had some merit, but throw in the fake
armor and make-believe banners on the walls and
you still had a very ugly barn. So be it--the true
artist made the best of his materials and Gerard
had devised a workable plan, indeed several of
them, depending on whether or not Prince
Ambrose came or even the King. At the time
he drew those up, he had not contemplated inviting
a Baelish army also.
  As the guests filed in, they had the windows on
their left and two kitchen doors plus
the monumental fireplace on their right. The first
third of the hall was filled with tables, which servants
were hurriedly setting for the banquet, and the center
held rows of seats facing the gallery. Gerard was
the last to enter, resplendent in his multicolored
tabard. The bone-jarring thump of the great doors
closing behind him was a signal to the principals that
it was almost time to appear, but two Blades had
done the closing and remained outside to guard.
Another four were standing at the far end, keeping an
eye on everything, and a fifth in the gallery
replaced the servant Gerard had stipulated.
Blast pompous young Ambrose! At least there was
no white hennin in sight, no White Sister.
  He dodged between the domestics, walked along
the narrow aisle between the rows of chairs, and came
to the small table that had the last third of the hall
to itself. He turned briefly to bow to the guests,
then opened his document case and laid out the items
he would need. When everything was ready he looked
up and nodded to the Blade in the gallery. The
Blade went out to send in the wedding party.
  Gerard had never married a duke before and would have
been nervous even without his knowledge of impending doom.
As it was, when he took up the paper with the heron
watermark, on which he had written some meaningless
notes, it trembled so hard that he had to clutch it
to his belly. Either the Bael fleet had been
driven hundreds of leagues away or it was on
its way upriver at this instant.
  The first to appear on the gallery was the odious
Duke of Dog Meat himself, who had elected
to come alone, although he could have squired any of
three daughters or several granddaughters. The
audience rose to its feet. As much time as you can
give us, Leofric had said. The ceremony had
started. Gerard ripped the paper in two. Between the
fog and the rain streaming over the windows, his view
of the trees in the park was too vague to show anything
smaller than eagles and he sensed nothing at
all happening--unless that had been a slight breath
of wind on his face? He had never been
sensitive to spirituality, but he was very close to a
powerful conjurement and birds were creatures of
air.
  As the groom was descending the staircase, the
sixteen witnesses began to parade in along the
gallery. Ambrose led the way, of course,
escorting ancient Princess Crystal,
Charlotte's grandmother and his great-aunt.
So far everything was going perfectly. They had all
been rehearsed less than an hour ago, and even
aristocrats couldn't forget anything so simple in
that time. Uncles, brothers, sisters, children ...
  Had Aeled allowed for the rain, or were his ships
wallowing helplessly in the flood?
  The Duke in his fancy silks arrived on the
far side of Gerard's table, with the Order of the
White Star blazing like a sun on his hollow chest
and his hose padded to disguise spider-thin shanks.
The leprous folds of his neck were hidden inside
one of the high jeweled collars that were the latest
fad among young dandies in Grandon. He looked
over the assembly with satisfaction, ignoring
Gerard. Oh, what a surprise he had coming!
  The witnesses lined up in a row across the hall,
Prince and aged Princess in the center.
Charlotte appeared in the gallery on her father's
arm, the Blade coming in behind her and closing the
door. Again there were five Blades in sight, which
meant eleven prowling the house or the grounds,
unless some were off-duty--but Gerard had a nasty
suspicion that Blades never went off-duty.
Blades weren't really human. Charlotte was
cautiously descending the stairs in her cumbersome
gown--take all the time you want! This was not the
magnificent entrance parade he had designed,
but it was not bad under the circumstances. It would have
been more imposing if they had let him rebuild the
staircase as he wanted.
  Charlotte arrived at the Duke's side and
released her father's arm. She was taller than the
bridegroom; she barely acknowledged his smile
of welcome, staring fixedly over Gerard's head.
She would not descend to hypocrisy by pretending
to enjoy herself.
  He waited as long as he dared. The
spectators fidgeted, the servants clinked
dishes. Aeled, where are you? Eventually both
bride and groom were frowning at him and he had
to begin.
  "Your Royal Highness, Your Highness, Your
Graces, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen
..." If Aeled could take just this collection of
blue blood witnesses and hold them to ransom,
he could buy the throne of Baelmark. Perhaps the
brawny lad was planning to do exactly that, or
worse. He had not necessarily confided his
true intentions to Gerard. "You have gathered here today
to witness the"--rape of--"marriage of
Jules Claude de Manche Taisson
Everard, Duke of"--get it right!--
"Dragmont, Companion of the White Star ..."
and on and on, a huge list of honors and
titles and estates. The Dragmont family
fortune sprang from a notorious robber chief
two dynasties back, a man probably
worse than Aeled. It had been ruthlessly
increased by generations of peasant-grinding barons.
"... to the Lady Charlotte, eldest daughter of
..."
  Charlotte had demanded the shortest possible
ceremony. He was making it the longest possible.
were the Baels disembarking yet? When they were
sighted and the alarm went up, how long would it be before
the racket was detectable inside this stone
mausoleum? What if nothing at all happened
and he had to complete this awful farce? The next
item was supposed to be the taking of the vows but that was
the actual marriage and he must not let things go so
far. The alternative was to name the witnesses first.
  "... in the presence of His Royal Highness,
Crown Prince Ambrose Taisson Everard
Goisbert of the House of Ranulf ..." and so
on. Charlotte was glaring at him. The Duke of
Dirt Muck was scowling. And so it went. Without
a flaw, unfortunately. And it could not last
forever. He came to Charlotte's youngest sister and the
list was over. He must proceed now to the actual
rites.
  "Repeat after me: I, Jules Claude de
Manche Taisson Everard, Duke of Drain
Mouse, Viscount ..."
  The smelly old man did not seem to notice
the slip. "I, Jules Claude de Manche
Taisson Everard, Duke of Dragmont ..."
  Panic! Somewhere in among his notes, Gerard
had lost the paper with the ship watermark. He
gathered the whole bundle and tried not to let them
shake.
  The groom repeated the final words of his oath.
Pity.
  "Repeat after me. I, Charlotte Rose--"
  There was a noise in the kitchens.
  Gerard stopped and frowned in that direction.
  Nothing more happened. Sigh. "Where were we? Oh
yes. Repeat after me, I, Jules
Claude--"
  "We already did that!" Dragmont flashed
fire at him.
  "We did? Oh, I am sorry. Well,
my lady, repeat--"
  There was another noise in the kitchens, louder.
Now everyone looked that way.
  The door in the minstrel gallery flew open and
two Blades came running in to join the one already
there. "Baels!" they shouted. "Raiders!"
Two of them raced for the stair and one leaped over the
rail, landing like a cat. The four against the wall
surged forward, all frantic to reach their ward.
The audience screamed. Gerard ripped the sheets
he was holding--
  --and froze.
  He could not even move his eyes. He could
barely breathe. The moving Blades pitched
headlong, with the two on the staircase rolling and
sliding horribly all the way to the bottom.
Ambrose and many others were caught off balance and
toppled over. From the servants at the far end of the
hall came a fearful crashing of glassware. In
the resulting silence, faint screams and
metallic clatters drifted in from the rest of the
mansion. A low, stifled moaning arose from the
congregation, the best that frozen throats could do.
  The Blades broke free. As a duck's
plumage repels water, so their binding resisted
the conjuration. Like men fighting their way out of
molasses they struggled to their feet and in moments
they were all active again, except for one of the two
who had fallen down the stairs. The rest swooped
on the petrified Prince and lifted him
bodily.
  "The window!" one shouted, but they moved only a
few steps before they came to a cursing halt.
Gerard could not turn to see what they were seeing, but
he assumed the grounds were filling up with redheaded
raiders. One of the kitchen doors crashed open and
three more Blades raced in, swords drawn.
They, too, converged on their ward; through the
doorway behind them came sounds of chaos and
slaughter.
  The giant To`edbeorht came marching out on
the minstrel gallery, huge and terrifying with his
shield and battle-ax, his steel helmet concealing
his face, his great chest and shoulders matted with wet
red fur. Behind him came half a dozen men armed
with crossbows.
  "Blades!" he roared. "We intend no harm
to your ward." Aeled must have chosen him for volume,
because his voice reverberated like thunder.
"We have not come here to molest Prince Ambrose.
Stand him in a corner--"
  Two of the Blades raced to the stair to get at
the threat, leaping over their fallen comrade. The first
was already halfway up when a crossbow cracked and
put a bolt through him and into the steps. He fell
forward on top of it. The other one stopped where he
was.
  "I said," To`edbeorht bellowed, "to stand your
ward in a corner and no harm will come to him. The
bowmen will stay up here. Look to your injured,
Blade."
  Glowering, the Blade on the stair sheathed his
sword and bent to examine his comrade. The rest
rushed their ward into the safe ground under the gallery
and surrounded him with a human shield. Their faces
were ashen with fury. In a moment two more rushed in from
the kitchens, one of them limping and trailing
blood, but they went to be with the others. Aeled had
foreseen this--the Blades would be no threat to him as
long as he left their ward alone.
  "As for the rest of you," To`edbeorht bellowed,
"we did not come here to hurt or kill or
enslave anyone. You will be released from the conjuration
very shortly. Stay where you are and you will not be harmed.
If you do as you are told you will keep your lives
and freedom." He glanced around at the couple
who had just appeared in the gallery and then boomed out
like a herald, louder than ever: "Her Majesty
the Dowager Queen Maud of Baelmark!"
  Her escort was Aeled, of course, in
smock, leggings, and cloak, a sword at his
side. Gerard had not met the tall woman on his
arm before, but he recalled hearing talk of her.
  The enchantment vanished as suddenly as it had
come, leaving a momentary giddiness. Gerard staggered
and leaned on the table for support. Others less
fortunate reeled and grabbed at neighbors, in
some cases dragging them down with them. Those who had
fallen earlier struggled to their feet, and a huge
wail of alarm reverberated back from the roof. The
witnesses rushed together into family groups--
Charlotte going with her parents and brothers and
sisters, and the Duke with his children. Scores of armed
Baels had taken control of the hall, herding the
servants into a compact huddle, blocking all the
doors, and even lining up at Gerard's back
to block any effort by the wedding party to join the main
congregation.
  Ambrose was on his feet, scarlet
and cursing, but firmly jammed into the corner by a
living wall of Blades, who would not let him
leave that spot as long as the bowmen remained on the
gallery overhead. Baels gathered up the wounded
Blades and delivered them to their comrades.
Gradually an uneasy quiet fell, as everyone
waited to hear what their captors wanted.
  Gerard caught Charlotte's eye. What he
saw in it was fury, although she was sickly pale.
She knew who had been babbling about Baels.
She could not know what was going to happen next. He
hoped that she would feel better when she did;
actual forgiveness might have to wait a long time.
  Aeled and his mother descended the staircase together.
Although it was centuries since Chivial had seen
such garments, their quality and richness were obvious.
Queen Maud was not young, but flowing veils concealed
her hair and neck, and her height and grace
made her the equal of any woman in the hall.
Her son, of course, was capable of dominating
all men. His belt, sword hilt, baldric,
and shoulder brooch flamed with gold and jewels.
His copper braids hung to his shoulders. On
reaching the bottom of the stairs, he paused and
looked to Gerard.
  "Herald!"
  Gerard's heart lurched; he hurried over and
bowed. "Highness?"
  "You may present these nobles to my royal
mother."
  After one glance at the seething knot of
Blades, Gerard chose to go no closer. Who
took precedence? He bowed to Queen Maud.
"Your Majesty, I am honored to present His
Royal Highness, Crown Prince Ambrose of
Chivial."
  She cocked her head expectantly.
Ambrose just glared. His bodyguard had not left
him enough room to bow anyway, but he showed no
signs of wanting to.
  Gerard tried again, although the college's texts
on protocol contained little guidance for such a
situation and the titles did not translate
exactly--an atheling was less than a prince,
an ealdormann more than an earl, about a
duke. ... "Your Royal Highness, I have the
honor to present His Highness, Atheling Aeled,
Earl of Catterstow."
  Aeled bowed.
  "Pirate!" Ambrose bellowed.
"You will pay for this outrage with your head."
  The pirate grinned. "I was twelve when I
learned not to make vain threats."
  Apparently he wanted the charade to continue, so
Gerard turned to the Candlefen group, which contained the
next in precedence, Princess Crystal. He
proclaimed her titles. Bless her!--the old
lady curtseyed solemnly to the visiting
Queen.
  Maud smiled. "We are honored by your
respect, Your Highness."
  "We are grateful to you for enlivening a most
boring morning, Your Majesty." The old
lady's eye twinkled.
  Aeled was presented and bowed low to her. Then it
was the Duke's turn, but his diamond-studded star
had disappeared and when Gerard tried to present him
to the atheling, he turned his back.
  Aeled bared his teeth. "If those are Chivian
manners, I will teach you Baelish. Goldstan,
take that man outside and throw him in the
cesspool. Empty his pockets first." As two
burly Baels hustled the screaming Duke from the
hall, the Earl raised his voice and the echoes.
"I came here on personal business. It is
my intention to marry--and take home to Baelmark
as my wife--the fair Lady Charlotte."
  In the resulting chorus of screams and wails,
he led his mother over to the bride and bowed to her. For a
moment they just stared at each other. Then Aeled
bowed again.
  "Word of your beauty has crossed the oceans,
my lady, although words cannot do it justice. I
understand that this hasty wooing must be a shock to you, but
I swear that my intentions are to treat you with all the
honor due the wife of an earl, to cherish you all
my days, and--if the spirits of chance favor me--
to make you queen in my land."
  Charlotte, still ashen pale, looked again at
Gerard and the accusation in her eyes needed no words.
He nodded and she turned her face away.
  Releasing his mother's arm, Aeled produced a
ring and held it up. The setting was gold. The
incandescent stone was a ruby the size of a plump
raspberry. "I offer you this for a betrothal gift,
my lady."
  Charlotte spoke for the first time since she entered
the hall. "And where did you steal that from, pirate?
Was it you who raped Ambleport last spring?"
  Her show of fire summoned back
Aeled's widest grin. "It was, my lady.
But the ring has been in my family longer than this
house has been in yours, I suspect."
  Lord Candlefen's face, always florid, was
dangerously inflamed. He had trouble speaking,
gasping for breath. "This is outrageous! You force
your way into our house to abduct my daughter?"
  "I would marry your daughter. There's a
difference. I abduct people all the time."
  "What choice does she have?"
  "What choice did she have before? Why did you not
defend her then?" Aeled's quiet questions silenced
the peer. "Recorder, come here."
  Gerard moved closer. Charlotte was not looking
at him now. He started to whisper, "You can
trust--"
  "Perform the marriage!" Aeled snapped.
  "Yes, ealdor. Your Majesty, Your
Royal Highness, Your High--"
  "I will have no part of this rape!" Ambrose
roared from his cage.
  Gerard ignored him and completed listing the
witnesses. "Repeat after me: I, Aeled
Fyrlafing, Earl of Catterstow, of the House and
Line of Catter, take this woman, Charlotte
Rose ..."
  Aeled repeated the words in a voice that rang
from the hammer beams.
  Now Gerard had to look her in the eye again.
Now was heartbreak time. Now he must bind the
woman he loved to the lord he had chosen to serve.
She was biting her lip, staring at the floor,
fighting back tears. "Repeat after me: I,
Charlotte Rose ..."
  Silence.
  Whispers in the audience ...
  "The record can show," Aeled said softly, "that
the groom claimed his bride by right of conquest.
If that is what she prefers."
  Still no reaction.
  Into the silence crept the words of Queen
Maud, so gentle that only those very close could
hear. "I had even less choice than this, my
dear. I was carried off by force, just like those young people from
Ambleport. I was fortunate in that their leader
took me for his own and did not have me enthralled.
But I was his slave. I had no choice, neither in
bed nor anywhere else. I bore him a son before
he acknowledged that he loved me and made me his
wife. I gave him other children after that,
although only Aeled survived. I came to love
him dearly, for he was a noble man within the limits
of his breeding. I warn you that Aeled is sawn from
the same timber as his father and will let nothing
deflect him once he has set a course.
He will carry you out of here over his shoulder,
screaming and weeping, if you choose that way. But
he is offering you the choice of accepting the
inevitable with grace and maintaining your dignity.
It is no victory, but it may soften the
bitterness of defeat. And he will be beholden to you.
That is important, for he learned from his father
to pay his debts."
  Charlotte glared at the older woman for a
moment, then at Gerard ... at the armed brigands
that had violated her ancestral home ... and
finally she looked Aeled over as if she had not
really seen him before.
  "Beholden?" she whispered.
  He nodded. "Very much so, my lady. Grant
me this and you can demand almost anything of me for
evermore."
  Even softer: "King?"
  "I will win the crown of Baelmark or die in
the attempt. If I fail, you will be sent
home. If I succeed, you will rule at my
side as my queen."
  She drew a deep breath and then looked
to Gerard again. "Start over."
  "Repeat after me: I, Charlotte Rose
..."
  She raised her voice, high and clear, almost
as loud as Aeled's had been. "I, Charlotte
Rose ..."
  The audience gasped.
  "... do solemnly and most willingly swear
..."
  "... do solemnly and most willingly swear
..."
  She did not hesitate once.
  "Then I declare you man and wife under the laws of
Chivial," he said.
  Slops!
  It was not legal. Even without her need for
royal permission, a sword-point wedding could
never be legal. He did not bother asking for
signatures on the certificate, knowing that
Ambrose would refuse and no one else would then
dare to comply.
  Aeled was beaming. "Also under the laws
of Baelmark, as my werod is witness.
Thegns, hail Lady Charlotte of
Catterstow!" The Baels roared approval,
beating swords on shields, setting up a
reverberating racket. "Thus the betrothal."
He placed the great ring on her hand. "And the wedding
gift." From his sleeve he produced a shimmering
string of rubies and set them around her slender
white neck. "And the kiss."
  She did not refuse him. Nor did she
seem to encourage him, but when he released her he
looked wondrous pleased. "You honor me
greatly, my lady."
  Without a word, Charlotte turned to his mother and the
two women embraced. It was magnificent.
Even Aeled seemed impressed. He drew a
long breath and looked around the hall as if
wondering whether so great a triumph could be real.
  "Wife, we must leave quickly, for every minute
we delay increases the chances of bloodshed. Your
family may follow us to the ships to make their
farewells there if they wish. I give you my word
they will not be harmed or restrained. If you have
ladies or attendants who will risk this journey
with you, I give them safe conduct on my honor
as a thegn and swear that you will have means to reward them
richly and send them safely home." He raised
his voice to fill the hall. "When my men leave,
they will take hostages, but they will be released
unhurt when our ships cast off. Only my
wife will be taken aboard, unless any of you wish
to accompany her, in which case I promise you
safe return. I admit that the rest of you will be
asked to make donations to a wedding gift, but I
rely on your natural generosity to avert any
unpleasantness."
  He paused to look over at the Crown
Prince raging impotently behind his shield of
equally furious Blades, and all his teeth showed

in a grin. Gerard guessed what was coming and thought,
Don't do it, Aeled!
  Aeled did do it. It was out of character for him to be
petty, but he was exultant, ablaze with
victory on a scale few men would achieve
even once in their lives, and he could not resist the
chance to gloat. If he forgot the she-wolf once
that day, it was then.
  "Cousin? You don't mind if I call you that
now, do you, Cousin? Now we're related? We
were born in the same week, did you know?
Some boys grow up faster than others, of
course. Dear Ambrose, my wife and I will
be delighted to entertain you if you wish to come and
visit us. But do let us know in advance, won't
you? Our coasts are well defended."
  "I will come!" Ambrose roared. "I will bring
a fleet and burn out your nest, pirate. And you
I will hang from the highest branch in Baelmark!"
  Aeled bowed. "Words are for braggarts.
Princes should be men of deeds. Fare thee well,
Cousin. I like your Blades. They're very
pretty."
  He offered his arm. Charlotte took it, and again
the hall gasped in disbelief. Smiling, he
steered her toward the main door, walking within a
double line of thegns. Gerard, following, found himself
escorting Queen Maud. Studying her
profile, he saw no resemblance to Aeled in
it. Hard years and many troubles had engraved deep
lines, but they gave her face such character that he
longed to sketch it.
  "That is no easy voyage, mistress," he
said as they left the hall. "Your presence here
does you great honor."
  She glanced at him and then away. "No one
comes out of this affair with honor. The girl
displayed incredible courage while being publicly
raped, that is all."
  As they passed through the outer door, nervous
footmen fell into place alongside to hold
umbrellas over them, being encouraged to do so
by Baelish swords. Aeled and his bride were
leading the procession along the terrace path,
Charlotte now swathed in a hooded,
floor-length robe that looked as if it might be
ermine, in which case its value was incalculable.
  "Lady Charlotte could find no better
husband than your son."
  "You think so?" Maud said. "He treats
women like livestock and men like tools. So did his
father. I do not find this behavior admirable. It
is to my shame that I did not manage to talk him
out of this plan or bring him up to know better."
  Two dead Blades lay in full view on
the lawn, but marks on the grass showed where other
bodies had been dragged away, more than two.
Already the rain had faded the bloodstains.
  Gerard protested. "She detested the thought of
being married to that ancient, slimy Duke!"
  "There is shame enough for your King to share,
yes. My son behaved like a brute today, but what
about you, Master Gerard? You tell a woman you
love her and then you sell her?"
  They rounded the rose garden hedge and saw the
fleet ahead, eight long vessels tied up at
the bank of the Wartle. Dragon ships seemed a
nightmare delusion in the peaceful heart of
Chivial.
  "Never! I did what I did for her
happiness! She had been given no choice before.
I found a better man for her, that's all."
  "What right had you to make that choice? Why did
you not let her decide? Yes, you could! You could have
told her this morning what was going to happen. Then
she could have fled or stayed, whichever she wanted.
She could have been waiting at the river mouth when the
ships arrived--but that wouldn't have worked, would it? That
would not have provided the drama, the romance of the
handsome pirate chief arriving in the nick of time
to steal the royal maiden from the lecherous old
aristocrat under the very nose of the Crown Prince.
Oh, no! Think not that you did this for Charlotte.
You wanted to be the little gray spider. Your
ambitions do you no credit."
  Unfair! "He is a third the age of that
old degenerate. He offers a greater title,
probably more wealth. Charlotte will learn to be
happy with him, just as you learned to love his father. I
found her a better future." Now that the tension was
over he was starting to shake, but his own future
seemed most wonderfully bright, too.
  "Of course we foolish women will love whoever
warms our beds, won't we?" said Queen
Maud. "No brains required as long as you have
a pintel. I have heard blind people laugh. Even the
maimed can learn to be happy again. But Charlotte
might have been happier in a bed of her own
choosing, Master Gerard. Nothing can excuse what
you have done. Fortunately, I see no profit in
it for you."
  The procession had reached Groeggos, whose
gangplank had demolished a fine rosebush.
Charlotte stopped and turned to look back.
  "I fear that your family has chosen not to come and
see you off, mistress," Aeled said.
  "Did you ever think they would?"
  He shook his head, studying her face with
wonder. "Not really. And thus I am even more
grateful to you for your acceptance. Your courage
astounds me. I swear again that I will
strive evermore to be worthy of your love, my
lady."
  She was recovering her color, unless that was
only the chill wind burnishing her cheeks, or the
contrast of the snowy fur framing her face. The
robe was indeed ermine. "Beholden? Is that the word
you used, my husband?"
  Aeled smiled. "Ask for anything in the world and
it is yours, mistress."
  "Divorce?"
  "Anything except that!"
  "I shall remind you of this vow in future, perhaps
often."
  He laughed. "You will never find the need." Then
the atheling's green eyes turned on Gerard and their
merriment chilled into cold appraisal of
unfinished business. "What of that one, wife?
He is a friend of yours? A close friend? I am
thinking that his friendship is strange."
  "Too strange for the name!" Charlotte said
quickly. "You wound me by suggesting it. The man
deceives himself. He is a flunky, a lowly
scribbler who mistook courtesy for affection and
could not be misappraised of his error. My lord
husband, I swear to you that I never gave him the
slightest encouragement."
  "Then you do not wish to take him with us?"
  "I should much prefer never to set eyes on him
again. Is he not in your pay?"
  Aeled's smile was back manyfold. "I
promised him nothing. He owed me wergild for a
thegn he slew, but he has requited his debt and
now we are quits."
  Horror and disbelief had kept Gerard
paralyzed through this exchange. Now he lurched
forward. "No! You said I would be your wita. You
are a giver of treasure!"
  Aeled shoved him so his feet slipped away and
he crashed on his back in the mud. The pirate
looked down with contempt. "I never promised
to take you as my man. You are already traitor
to one king, so how could I ever trust you? Your life
was forfeit in Ambleport. You have won it back, so
begone and be grateful." He looked around.
"Osric, keep watch that this Chivian does not
board. By your leave, my lady ..."
Effortlessly, he scooped Charlotte into his
arms.
  She smiled at him for the first time. "You are very
strong, my lord."
  "You are very fair, my lady." He carried
her up the plank.






















               RADGAR

                 IV

  "How I Got Here?" Raider said
thoughtfully.
  "I suppose the greatest blame should be laid
on Gerard of Waygarth. A nice enough young man,
I understand, yet sadly misguided. He was of
no real importance in himself, but back in 337,
during your father's--"
  "Never mind him! You need not go that far back."
  Wasp felt peeved. Why would the King not let
Raider tell the whole story? What could have
happened twenty years ago that he still wanted
kept secret?
  "I was merely going to explain how I caused
the war--"
  Raider was interrupted by a tap on the door.
Commander Montpurse took delivery of a pitcher
of water and another receptacle that led to some
embarrassing moments. When that one had been
removed and both Wasp and Raider had enjoyed a
drink from the other, Raider began his tale.

                                  
                  

  "The witenagemot is like your Privy
Council, sire, in that the witan are the king's
advisors, appointed by him. But it is also like your
House of Lords, a formal summoning of all the
earls. The earls are the only ones who vote and the
only vote that ever matters, or is binding on the
king, comes when one of them issues a challenge.
If the others support him, the king must
abdicate or fight. If he wins the vote,
then woe to the upstart!
  "My father's exploit in carrying off Your
Majesty's cousin from Candlefen was hailed throughout
the land as the finest foering in generations, full
worthy of a Cattering, but it did not
automatically make him king. Far from it! First of
all, many of the earls had unpleasant memories
of the strong rule Catterings had imposed in the
past and preferred the looser hands of a Nyrping
monarch. Second, it is almost impossible for the
witenagemot to assemble without the king's summons.
King Ufegeat was in no hurry."
  Raider seemed perfectly relaxed, enjoying
the conversation. Wasp now understood his friend's interest
in politics, and Ambrose was listening intently.
  "His hand was forced in Tenthmoon of that same
year, when the Chivian ambassador presented
an ultimatum. On pain of war, he demanded that
the Lady Charlotte be returned immediately and her
abductor handed over for trial in Chivial. You
will forgive my mentioning, sire, that in Baelmark
everyone assumed that the trial would be brief and the
execution leisurely. It seemed an
excessive response to an amusing caper, but
since the alleged pirate was the most powerful earl
in the country, Ufegeat had no choice but
to summon the witenagemot. My father took Mother
with him to Nor`eddael, which was Ufegeat's city on
Wambseoc and the then capital of Baelmark.
She took me, although not from choice, I
suspect."
  Wasp's expanding grin shrank rapidly when the
King noticed it.
  "Boy, that caper you are talking about cost the
lives of five Blades and some men-at-arms."
  "I am aware of that, sire," Raider said
somberly. "I have heard their deaths described in
the Litany. If you will pardon a momentary
digression, what is not known in
Ironhall is that the other side lost
twenty-five men in that fight, all of them slain
by Blades. This was repeatedly charged against my father
in the debate. Perhaps Commander Montpurse could have
that fact added to the record."
  "I will see to it myself," the King growled. "The
Commander will repeat nothing he hears in this room."
  Neither, Wasp suspected, would Wasp.
  "Thank you, sire," Raider said. "As for
Gerard of Waygarth, I recall hearing my mother
speak of him. I think she eventually repented of
her anger and decided that he had acted from nobler
motives than she had at first believed, but I
never did hear what happened to him."
  No one questioned a monarch, and that comment darkened the
royal countenance. "I really cannot recall at the
moment." The King's show of indifference was very
unconvincing. "Do you remember, Commander?"
  "Before my time, sire," Montpurse said.
"According to Guard tradition, he died while
resisting arrest. Bled to death from a large number
of wounds, I believe."
  The threat might be moonshine, but it made
Wasp shrink a little deeper into the corner of the
settle. Raider hastily resumed his story.
  "Four earls found excuses to stay away and
send their tanists. The ambassador presented his
demands, the wise men mumbled cautions, the young
firebrands thundered. My father made a masterly
speech. With his life at stake, he somehow
managed to convert the debate into a challenge and then
won by the narrowest possible margin, eleven to ten.
King Ufegeat was still throne-worthy, a man of
strength, and he chose to fight rather than yield. The
scops still sang even in my day of their battle.
Father never claimed it was an easy victory, but
in the end he managed to bring Ufegeat down. He
spared his life, which was condemned as a piece of
foolhardy sentimentality.
  "Had my father lost either the vote or the duel,
he would certainly have died. He maintained--and I
do not think he was entirely joking--that it was I who
made the difference. I had been conceived in the
dragon ship, on the voyage home from
Chivial, and by the time of the witenagemot my mother's
condition was known. Visible to the women, not the men,
he would say; but it was common knowledge, and he drew
attention to it in his speech. If the witan chose
to knuckle under to the Chivians' demands, they would
be handing over an innocent, unborn
Cattering to hereditary foes. How could Baels
ever descend to such shame? I suspect the earls
were more worried about an outbreak of civil war than
about me, but perhaps I made a difference. If I
carried even one vote, I changed history, because
of course the new king's first act was to make the
Chivian ambassador eat his ultimatum in
public, seal and all. Trade between our two
nations ended and random piracy became all-out
war."

                  

  To the Baels, it was always Prince
Ambrose's War. They believed he had fanned
the indignation in the Chivian Parliament and
bullied his ailing father into launching a conflict he
had been resisting ever since he came to the throne.
Ironically, King Taisson's health soon
rallied and he reigned for almost a dozen years
more. Long before he died, the Chivians were cursing
him for what they called Taisson's War.
  There was never any serious prospect of the
Crown Prince being allowed to see action, so the
fleet he had promised Aeled he would bring
sailed without him. It raised the peaks of
Baelmark on the first day of Fourthmoon 338,
and that night it was blown onto the reefs called
Cweornstanas, the Millstones. Only a tenth
of the men aboard ever made it home to Chivial.
The rest drowned or went to the slave markets.
From then on Baelmark had no fear of invasion and
Chivial was fighting a defensive war.
  News of the disaster--or good fortune, depending
on point of view--was proclaimed in
Waro`edburh on the very day Queen Charlotte
gave birth to Atheling Radgar. Her labor was
hard and he was never to have any brothers or sisters,
but the babe was healthy and the mother survived. The omen
of the timing was widely noted and Baelmark rejoiced
that her King had an heir to continue the line of
Catter.

  Like many thegn-born, Radgar grew up speaking
Baelish to his father and another language to his
mother without realizing that there was anything unusual about
that arrangement. His mother was beautiful, and his father
wore a sword--little else mattered.
  His first world was his parents' favorite country
home at Hatburna, a sheltered glen
on the southern slopes of Cwicnoll, and
especially their private cabin, which stood a little
farther up the valley than the main buildings and which
his father forbade anyone else ever to approach. It
was no larger than a ceorl's hut, a single
room with a stair up to a sleeping loft. The
boy's earliest memories were a composite of many
late, gloomy dawns with rain beating on the roof
louder even than the distant drone of the waterfall
and his parents' voices drifting down, while he
lay snug in bed wondering whether it was safe
to climb out into the chill air and totter upstairs
on his short legs. If all went well they would
pull him in between them and all three would cuddle
together for a long time, for life ran slow in a
Baelish winter. Rarely he would be sent away
again. If they were talking, the decision rested on his
mother's voice, which might be happy or angry, for
his father's was always the same deep, reassuring
rumble. If they were playing tickling games, as was
frequently the case, he could be certain of a warm
welcome if he waited until they had finished.
  Even when living in Waro`edburh, in the royal
quarters on the north side of Cynehof, King,
Queen, and atheling slept in close proximity.
Mother had an adjacent cabin where she entertained
friends and where her maids lived; Father had one on the
other side where he held private meetings.
Uncle Cynewulf, the tanist, lived in the
largest with Cousin Wulfwer and a varying succession
of women, and others nearby were occupied
by Chancellor Ceolmund, Marshal Leofric, and
numerous house thegns. Leofric's son Aylwin
was Radgar's age and became his best friend as soon
as they were old enough to admit friends into the scheme of
things.
  In summer he ran wild, growing brown as
old leather, and every summer his world expanded. At
three he had a pony. At six he was sailing
boats with Aylwin and a dozen others, all
amphibious as frogs. About then he began
to realize that he was different: he was royally
born. They were sons of thegns, coerls,
loetu, or thralls, but he was an atheling. The
only difference that made, his father explained
frequently, was that he must be the best at everything.
This he staunchly believed and not infrequently
achieved. Around then, too, he began recording
distinct incidents, single events that would remain with
him when he left his childhood behind.
  There was the time he fell off a cliff and
broke both legs so badly that they took a
week to heal, even with the best enchantment.
  There was the time he almost killed Aylwin, although
Aylwin outweighed him handily. He was not
to recall what had caused the fight nor even the
fight itself, but he remembered his father's terrifying
anger. "You are an atheling!" the King said. "You
must learn to control that temper of yours. You cannot
even save it for battle as other men may, because you
will be a leader and leaders must be able to think clearly
at all times." Radgar never forgot the beating that
followed--not the pain, but his father's tears when it was
over, when they embraced and wept together.
"Promise me, son, that you will never make me do
that again!"
  He did, though. Older boys who tried
to pick on the King's son discovered that they had
roused a dragon. On three separate occasions
his opponents had to be taken to the elementary for
healing and one lost an eye in spite of it.
Eventually the unwisdom of provoking him became
known, and his father realized that beatings were not going
to solve the problem.
  There was the time he and Aylwin took a
sailboat out through Leaxmu`ed and back in through
Eastweg in a nor'wester. They had just turned
eight. Their hysterical mothers insisted they be
punished for that stupidity and so they were, if a
few halfhearted slaps on the butt could be
counted as punishment. Somebody told
Sigebeorht the scop the story, and that night in
Cynehof he sang it to the fyrd as if it were an
exploit of legendary heroes. The thegns put the
pair of them up on a table and cheered and pounded the
boards as if they had just come back from a great
foering with half the wealth of Chivial. That was
worth all the beatings in the whole world. Mother was not
amused. Father got very drunk.
  Then there was the first time he met Healfwer.

                  

  It began when Aylwin outgrew his pony and was
given a horse. Radgar complained to the highest
authority about the unfairness of this. Obviously
an atheling should be better mounted than his thegn, although
by then he knew enough not to put his grievance in those
terms. He just said, "Father, I need a horse."
  King Aeled did not even look up from
the dispatch he was studying. "You can have a horse when
you can read."
  Radgar withdrew to consider the terms. They
seemed irrational--what had reading to do with
horses? On the other hand, there was no trap
involved that he could see. Anyone could learn
to read; he had just never tried, that was all. He
found his mother writing letters. Despite the war, she
still corresponded with friends in Chivial, sending the
mail through Gevily.
  He said, "Mother, teach me to read ... er ...
please."
  "Yes, dear. Bring me a book."
  She was not surprised? That made him
suspicious, but he brought a book. Soon she
was surprised. For three days he gave her no
peace at all, and in the end she squeezed him in
a big hug and said, "You are a wonderfully
clever boy. Go and show your father."
  He marched into Cynehof, where the King and
Uncle Cynewulf and Chancellor Ceolmund
were conferring with the Gevilian ambassadors. He
went to the high table where the men sat, deep in
conversation. He waited.
  After a few moments his father frowned at him and
said, "What do you want?"
  "A horse."
  The King passed him a sheet of paper. He
read the first paragraph aloud, slowly but without a
mistake. The King took it back.
  "Which horse?"
  "Cwealm."
  "He'll kill you!"
  This reply opened dazzling prospects, because
Radgar had been so certain of outright refusal that
he had a list of six backup choices ready.
"You asked me!"
  "I should know better by now. Show me you can
manage Steorleas and you can have Cwealm."
  Steorleas had been his third choice. Radgar
yelped, "Yea, lord!" and sprinted for the door,
wondering why the men were suddenly laughing.

  He showed that Steorleas, despite his name, could
be steered. Again he demanded Cwealm, this time as a
matter of right. To his astonishment--and his mother's
horror--Father consented. To everyone's astonishment
and relief, Cwealm also failed to live up
to his name, in as much as he did not murder
Radgar, or at least he had not done so
by the end of the first week when he and Aylwin went
riding up into the hills. He was considerably
bruised, but alive. Undoubtedly his string of
successes had made him overconfident and he was
looking for another challenge.
  As they climbed, distant peaks came into view
--Seolforclif, Hatstan, and Fyrndagum--and
also other major islands, Hunigsuge,
@thaerymbe, and Wambseoc. The land grew ever
more rocky. When at last they reined in, they had
reached Baelstede, a bare shoulder of mountain where
men had kept watch for invaders in the days long
past. Ruins of their shacks stood there still, but one
glance showed that there was nothing there worth exploring.
  Aylwin was pointing. "Eastweg!"
  Some of the glints of open water in the maze of
islets below certainly represented parts of the
channel, although there was room for argument as to which.
Ten-year-olds could not resist exploring any
room for argument, but before the discussion could become
heated they became chilled.
  "We'd better move the horses," Aylwin
said.
  "Yes."
  They turned to study the prospect they had been
ignoring. The ground was a rubble of sharp black
clinker, falling away sheer on two sides and
rising vertically on another, but there was a defile
in that cliff. They could go back down the trail
they had just come up, or they could go into that defile--
they had no other choice. The gap, which was visible
from the town far below, was called Weargahlaew and it
was one of very few places in the whole shire
forbidden to them. There was no room for argument on
this--Weargahlaew was off limits. Even a few
months ago, that would have been the end of the matter, but
there comes a time when a boy realizes that some
restrictions apply only to small boys and he
has outgrown them.
  The wind wailed through the cut, a sound to make a
scalp prickle; but the more Radgar stared at the
gap and the very faint track leading to it, the more he
managed to convince himself that he had gone there once,
maybe more than once, a long time ago. He
realized that Weargahlaew was why he had come.
  "Let's go and look."
  Aylwin had been waiting for this. "They'll
take Cwealm from you!"
  "Why? There aren't any wolves near here."
  "Then why is it called that?" Aylwin
said ominously.
  Hloew could mean "cave" or "grave."
Wearga meant either "of the wolves" or "of the
outlaws"--intriguingly vague. It was true that
there were scary stories of Chivian outlaws
lurking in the hills, either prisoners who had
escaped before they could be enthralled or castaways
still at large since the Great Wreck in the year
Radgar was born. It was also true that rank
disobedience like this might lose him Cwealm and the sun
was not far from setting, but when Aylwin put the
matter in terms of danger he was left with no
choice--for an atheling must never show fear, no
matter how dry his mouth.
  "Go home and learn to spin then."
  "No. We both go. Now, Radgar! My
dad says you're always getting me into trouble and
if I didn't follow you around all the time he
wouldn't always be having to switch me!"
  "Oh, it's a sore butt you're afraid
of?"
  Aylwin's face crumpled. "No."
  Radgar shrugged. "If I'm not back by dark,
tell Father where I went and why you did not come with
me."
  Aylwin shuddered. Better death than that! When
Radgar rode forward, he followed. He always
did.
  They were wearing only breeches, so the torrent
of air they met in the ravine made their eyes
water and threatened to freeze the tears on their
cheeks. If no one ever went to Weargahlaew,
then why were there horse droppings on the trail
to it? Why was there a trail at all? It wound up
and down and in and out in a labyrinth of fallen
boulders, but when it suddenly descended to the mouth
of a cave at the end of the ravine, Radgar was not
surprised. He knew of many caves around
Waro`edburh. They were usually long pipes, with
no branches or bigger chambers, just tubes that
eventually ended in rock falls. Some were used as
animal shelters; others made good play
holes. But now he had another misty memory
of a dark tunnel leading through to daylight somewhere
else, and none of the familiar caves did that.
  Aylwin howled. "You can't go in there!" His
teeth were chattering.
  "Why not? Only girls are scared of bats!"
  "Weargas!"
  "Weargas?" Radgar said
scornfully. "How can there be outlaws in there?
What would they eat?"
  How would they see? He dismounted, handing his reins
to his trusty retainer, and stepped cautiously
into the cave. There was a draft blowing out of it, so
his vague half memory of a tunnel was
probably correct--but he would not tell
Aylwin about it in case he was wrong. The entrance
was black as an icehouse and littered with jagged
pieces of rock fallen from the roof. Cwealm
wouldn't go in there. If this were Radgar's front
door, he would keep a tinderbox handy ...
somewhere easy to reach, out of the rain. ... He found
it in few minutes, also some old-looking horn
lanterns and a box of candles.
  "How did you know those were there?" Aylwin
squeaked.
  Radgar shrugged. "Had to be. Do I light
one lantern or two?"
  "Two," Aylwin said miserably.
  "You sure?"
  "Course I'm sure!"
  So was Cwealm, when he was granted some light.
He let Radgar lead him into the tunnel as
happily as if it were the palace stables. Even with
this example of model horsiness to follow, the
normally docile Spearwa gave Aylwin a
lot more trouble. The passage was more than high enough
to walk along. Fallen rocks had been cleared
aside and the worst holes filled in with gravel
to make a level path.
  "What happens if Cwicnoll shakes while
we're in here?" Aylwin demanded, his voice
quavering oddly in the echoes.
  "Perhaps the cave'll close behind us." Now there
was a skin-shivering thought! On the other hand, it could
be that falling rocks were all that parents were fussing
about and there weren't any weargas at all.
  The way curved into total darkness and then
brightened, returning to daylight at the top of a
short scree slope within a small, almost
circular, valley enclosed by high black
cliffs. The cave was at treetop height,
providing a view over a wild, shaggy forest.
Here and there steam clouds promised hot springs,
but there were no signs of buildings.
  "This is the real Weargahlaew!" Radgar
explained as if he had known all along what
to expect.
  Again it was almost-sort-of familiar,
especially the precipitous path down the slope
in front of his toes--and he would not even try
to imagine what might happen to a horse caught
on there by a tremor. If he injured Cwealm,
he would never get another horse, not ever. And
just inside the cave mouth stood three sacks of
meal, two unopened, one still half full, and also
a small stack of empty sacks weighted down
with a rock. The explorers exchanged shocked
glances.
  "Somebody's feeding the weargas!" Aylwin
squealed.
  Four lanterns stood in full view on a
ledge, plus what was certainly another
tinderbox. Fresh droppings. Cwealm whinnied
and was answered. Down in among the first trees
stood a horse. It had been hobbled and left
to graze, and the pack saddle was still on its back!
  "He's still here!" The fear in Radgar's
belly was an agony and also a glorious
excitement. His mouth was so dry he could hardly
speak, and wonderful shivers ran up his arms.
"Whoever brought that horse is still here!"
  Aylwin was sickly pale. "Let's go!
Now, Radgar! Please!"
  "You go. My father must know about this. You go and
tell my dad--or your dad, I suppose.
Bring the house thegns! I'm going to stay here and
keep watch, so we know who the traitor is."
  His trusty thegn put up a few more protests,
but his heart wasn't in them. It was very
important to take word back, Radgar said; and
Aylwin would not be running away when he was ordered
to go. For once, Aylwin didn't even question his right
to give such orders. He led Spearwa back
into the tunnel.
  Radgar scrambled up on to Cwealm's great
back. Feeding outlaws was an unfri`ed, a
breach of the King's peace, so he was right
to investigate. It was a wonderful chance to do something
interesting and not be punished for it; but even without that
excuse, curiosity ate at him like a plague
of mosquitoes. He still had the lingering sense of
having been here before, so there were two mysteries or
even three--because Cwealm had obviously known the
tunnel too. Cwealm had been one of Dad's
own mounts, but other men in Cynehof had ridden him
--the hands who exercised him, for example.
Suppose the traitor turned out to be someone in
the palace itself!
  The precipitous track down the scree brought
him to the tiny meadow where the packhorse had been
left to graze, but beyond that stood real forest--huge
cypresses and cedars hiding the sky. Very little
undergrowth could flourish in that gloom, but the ground was
so hummocky that he could rarely see more than two
or three trees ahead. The path was clear, going
up over rocky knolls and down into mossy,
squelchy hollows. Whenever it divided, he let
Cwealm choose, hoping he would follow the scent
of the traitor's horse--Dad said horses went
by scent much more than people did--and that seemed to work,
because sooner or later he would find another muddy
patch showing hoof marks. There were too many marks for
just one horse and all going the same way he
was. He wished he could muffle Cwealm's
hooves like heroes did in stories, like Dad and
his men carrying the scaling ladders to the walls of
Lomouth. ...
  The heavy, soporific smell of the trees was
achingly familiar, but there was no forest like this anywhere
close to Waro`edburh. No one would log here because
there was no way to drag the trunks out. It was
creepily silent, without wind or birdsong,
only rarely a distant tattoo from a
woodpecker or the harangue of a squirrel. A
couple of times his nose caught the stink of hot
springs, and once he was close enough to see wisps
of steam drifting through the trees.
  Then he reined in his trusty steed on one of the
hillocks, looking down into a puddled hollow with
no tracks in the mud. "You made a mistake,
big one! We should have gone the other way at the
last fork."
  Cwealm raised his great head and twisted his
ears. The trees muffled sound, but then Radgar
heard, too--hooves! On the trail he had just
left.
  "Don't whinny, big one! Please,
please, don't whinny!"
  Amazingly the big fellow did not whinny.
Perhaps the heavy tree smells confused the scent,
but whatever the reason, he stood in silence as a
horse went by the junction. A fleeting glimpse
of the rider was enough to let Radgar recognize
Uncle Cynewulf.
  His initial anger was followed at once
by dismay--there was no great secret after all! Dad
would not be amazed and grateful to hear the news that
somebody was feeding the outlaws in
Weargahlaew if Uncle Cynewulf was the one
doing it, because Dad must have ordered him to. As
tanist he was Dad's main helper and ran the
shire whenever Dad was away foering or just being
king somewhere else. That might even explain how
Cwealm knew the tunnel, although the tanist was
notorious for always choosing docile mounts.
  So perhaps Dad himself fed the weargas sometimes!
Obviously there was a secret here that nosy boys
were not meant to know. He would be a brat, not a
hero. Aylwin would tip the fish out of the creel the
moment he got back to Cynehof--unless Uncle
Cynewulf caught up with him on the road, in which
case it would happen sooner. Either way, the
result would be sore-butt time and perhaps even
take-Cwealm-away time, which did not bear thinking
about; but when a man found himself in this much trouble, he
might as well satisfy his curiosity. Radgar
turned Cwealm around, kicked in his heels, and
said, "Move, monster!"

  He had ridden about three bowshots along the
other track when Cwealm let out a whinny that could
have been heard at the top of Cwicnoll.
Radgar had not even started to curse him before the
answer came, and round the next great rock he
found a treeless hollow wide enough to admit some
sunlight. It contained a pile of firewood, a
very small stream, and--at the sunny end--a
tumbledown thatched shack of poles and wattles that
blew war horns in his memory. Yes! He had
seen that shack before, when he was very small.
  The solitary horse tethered there was Sceatt,
Cousin Wulfwer's usual mount. That was really
annoying. At seventeen, Wulfwer grew pink
hairs on his lip and had almost completed his
cniht training; but he was still only the tanist's
son, and if he was trusted to keep a secret then
an atheling should be. Radgar slid to the ground and
hitched Cwealm alongside Sceatt. They were good
friends, which explained the whinny. Their owners were not.
Relations between the cousins had never been warm and had
recently become extremely strained.
  Wondering why no one had appeared to greet him
yet, Radgar headed boldly for the shack
to announce himself, then stopped in his tracks as he
realized that what was going on in there was very
probably forlegnes. That was a word he was not
supposed to know, the name of a game that grown-ups very
much disliked having interrupted. About a
month ago Radgar and some friends had caught
Wulfwer doing the forlegnes thing in the barns and
had raised the traditional uproar and
pandemonium, inviting everyone to come and watch.
Boys being boys and youths being youths, this was not an
uncommon source of amusement around the palace;
but in that case it had turned out that the woman was
another man's thrall, so Wulfwer had not only
been exposed to ridicule but also required to pay
a sizable compensation.
  Worse, having guessed that his young cousin had
been the ringleader--always a safe bet--he had
waylaid him one evening to administer justice.
Radgar, who would hold still for a beating from Dad but
no one else, had flown into one of his infamous
temper tantrums and managed to kick Wulfwer
in the eye before a band of house thegns came
to investigate the uproar and pull them apart. For
days after that Wulfwer's spectacular shiner had
prompted his fellow cnihtas to mock him for being
beaten up by a child half his size. He was
probably still hankering for revenge. Out here in the
wilds of Weargahlaew, discretion would be
advisable.
  As Radgar mulled over his options, he heard
a voice. It was not a forlegnes sort of
sound from the hovel. It was chanting, and it came from
somewhere in the woods nearby. Forget about discretion!
He went up the bank like a squirrel.

  He approached with care, slipping from trunk
to trunk until he could peer around one of the
closest and see what was going on. The open
space where the enchantment was taking place was a
flat clearing ringed by trunks like enormous
pillars. No sunlight reached the ground, and had
he wandered through the dim space by chance he might not
have noticed the tiny octogram marked out there
by lines of black pebbles half buried in the
loam. At the moment it was obvious because a small
horn lantern marked fire point, with a pottery
jug two to the right of it for water point, and a rock
opposite for earth. There was no easy way
to designate air or any of the four virtual
elements, and Dad had told him that even marking
those three was just a convenience for the mortal
operators, not something that influenced the spirits.
  What was an octogram doing here in the wilds
and out of doors? It was minute compared with the one in the
Haligdom, where prisoners were
enthralled, smaller even than the ones the healers
used. There was one person inside it and he was neither
chained up nor lying flat like a patient--he could
not have stretched out inside the lines of rocks
anyway. He was squatting on his heels with his
head down and his arms wrapped around his shins as if
trying to scrunch himself as tiny as possible. He
had no clothes on. From the redness of his hair he
was obviously a Bael. A very big one.
  Much more surprising was the chanter. First, he was
all alone, although conjurations were always performed
by eight conjurers, one for each element; and second
he was running around the outside of the octogram
instead of standing inside it. Third, he was a very
scary-looking person indeed, tall and misshapen,
although he would not stay still long enough to be studied
properly. Nothing of the man himself could be seen
inside a long drab robe; he wore a
baglike hood of brown cloth over his head.
He must have considerable trouble seeing anything at
all through the eye holes; and yet there he was,
lurching wildly around the clearing, wielding a
staff as tall as himself and shrieking out the invocations
and revocations in a voice as shrill and
discordant as a knife on steel. Back and forth
he flapped, sometimes pivoting on his staff from one
point to the next adjacent, sometimes lurching
halfway around the clearing, all the time calling out
to the various elements and raising puffs of dust as the
hem of his robe swept the dirt.
  Could this be a real conjuration? What good did
Cousin Wulfwer think he was doing being shouted at
by a maniacal scarecrow here in wild
Weargahlaew? Radgar's skin rose in goose
bumps. He had watched enthrallments often enough
to know that this was a much longer and more complicated
conjuration than that, if it was a real conjuration at
all. What was going on? Wulfwer's father had
brought him here and then gone away as if he did not
want to watch. Radgar was not alone in not liking
Cousin Wulfwer much--nobody did. His mother had
been a thrall, and he was surly and sullen, although
not as witless as most of the thrall-born. It was
common knowledge that he was having trouble finding a werod
willing to take him, in spite of his royal
breeding and his size. Could this ritual be intended
to un-thrall him somehow? Make him more
talkative and likable? Smarter? Could conjuration
give a man a sense of humor? Radgar had
never heard of such an enchantment, but neither
had he ever heard of one person managing a
conjuration all alone.
  Perhaps that was dangerous and the spirits might escape?
Or was this all just some crazy fake? Could one
man perform an enchantment? The light dimmed and
Radgar prickled all over with shock until he
realized that it was just the sun dipping behind the cliffs.
He must leave right away if he was to have any chance
of reaching home before dark. He didn't.
  Sudden silence. The conjurer had stopped his
chanting, leaning limply on his staff and gasping for
breath. Now his deformity was obvious. He had no
right arm and the hang of his robe suggested that he was
missing most of the shoulder also, which was why he seemed
so lopsided. But he had not finished the ritual.
He drew a deep breath and let out a huge,
cracked bellow: "Wulfwer
Cynewulfing!"
  Wulfwer moved for the first time, lifting his head.
He was blindfolded, yet he turned his head as if
looking for something.
  "Wulfwer Cynewulfing!" roared the
hooded cripple again.
  The big cniht unwrapped his arms and swayed
to his feet. He seemed confused, peering in all
directions but making no effort to remove the cloth
tied around his head. That rag was the only thing he was
wearing, for his boots, clothes, and weapons lay in
a heap on the edge of the clearing. Wulfwer's
face was much improved by being covered up, but
Radgar did envy his muscles. Although he would
certainly never admit this to anyone, he
secretly hoped that he would have a chest and shoulders
like his cousin's when he grew up. And some hair
on his chest, too.
  Again the conjurer roared out his name; and this time
Wulfwer turned to his left and took a step,
then stopped, irresolute. If he was drunk,
he was very drunk, barely able to stand. Had the
enchantment stolen his wits? Again and again the tall
conjurer shouted his name as if summoning him from a far
distance; but the more he called, the more bewildered
Wulfwer seemed to become, reeling around with arms
outstretched, ever more frantic, either trying
to escape or just hunting for the source of the
summons. It was absurd that so huge a man could
move so wildly and yet remain within so small a
space; at times he even seemed to be running,
his long limbs flailing, and yet he went nowhere.
  Then he did. He spun around,
tripped on the pot that marked the water point of the
octogram, and pitched over it, landing flat on his
face, right at Radgar's feet. Only then
did Radgar realize that he had left his hiding
place and walked out to stand in full view of the
hooded conjurer.

                  

  For a moment shock kept him rooted to the spot
as firmly as the trees--whatever had possessed
him? Wulfwer sat up, cursing and reaching for his
blindfold.
  "No!" the enchanter screeched. "Death and
fire! Wind and waters, wait! Look not
yet!" He cradled his staff in the crook of his
elbow and flapped his solitary hand in a go-away
signal. The eye holes of the hood were directed
at Radgar. Needing no further invitation,
Radgar vanished behind the nearest tree.
  Then he peeked.
  "All right, you can look," the old man
croaked. He came lurching around the octogram;
and now his deformities were clearer, for only one
horny foot showed under the hem of his robe. On
the right side he was balanced on a wooden post
and the hang of the cloth showed that he had only a
short stump of thigh left. He had been doing
all that dancing on a wooden leg!
  Wulfwer hauled off the rag. He twisted
around to study the octogram, his brutish features
screwed up in a scowl. "Water? Water! You
can proof against water!" He stood up. He was
taller than the tall conjurer and twice as wide.
  "Stupid earming!" the old man mumbled.
"Yes, I can proof against water. Death and
maggots, is water the answer? Wind gusts,
wave crests, weird will follow ... Who is
sure?" Even when he was not chanting, his voice was
discordant, muffled by the hood. "Water or
blood? Or wine, even?"
  "That's water!" Wulfwer kicked the empty
pot and then cursed because he had no shoe on.
  "But you knocked it over, you clumsy goat.
Fate, is that significant? Ah, death! From
the time it took you to find the way out, Slow
Wits, there's no urgency. I'll chant the
hlytm again next time you come ... and no great
loss if you die before then anyway."
  "Do it now!" The big youth's growl
usually got him what he wanted around Cynehof,
but it did not frighten the old man.
  "It's too late, brainless! See not the sun
its setting nears?"
  "Why does that matter?"
  The conjurer lurched at him and screeched right in
his ugly face: "It matters if I say it
matters!"
  Wulfwer recoiled, tripped over the pot
again, and went down like a falling cedar, almost causing
Radgar to burst out laughing.
  The conjurer struck him across the thighs with his
staff. "Do as you're told, ni`eding, I'll
leave you to drown. Put your clothes on before the
lice starve and get out of here--you stinking
ocusta."
  "Yes, Healfwer! Sorry, Healfwer!"
Wulfwer scrambled up, but his clothes lay at the
base of the very tree Radgar was hiding behind, so when
he hobbled over to get them he came close enough for
Radgar to hear him muttering, "Stupid old
goat," and other less polite descriptions.
His next move would be to go and collect Sceatt
and there he would find Cwealm. Radgar vanished
into the forest.

  Bats flitting through the trees were shrilling their
impossibly high calls as he walked back
to the cabin the next time. Bats did not scare
him; he just wished he could see as well as they
did, because he was having to rely on memory to find
the right paths, and the forest was very dark. The walls of the
crater cut off the long midsummer twilight;
there was no moon. Hidden in the trees, he had
watched Wulfwer lead Sceatt and the packhorse
into the tunnel. Radgar had unsaddled Cwealm and
left him in the little meadow where the packhorse had
been. The big chump wouldn't stray from all that
juicy grass.
  Once Radgar showed up at the palace he
would never be allowed back into Weargahlaew, so
he must satisfy his curiosity about it now, and
especially find out more about the mysterious conjurer.
Anyone who called Wulfwer a stinking armpit and
hit him with a stick must be admired for his good
judgment. Healfwer meant "half man,"
obviously a name bestowed after he lost his arm and
leg. He had sounded old, although he had been
nimble enough. Radgar could run very fast when necessary.
All the same, there was still enough danger in this
foering to produce that delicious
sick-creepy feeling in his belly again. While
Dad probably did know whatever it was that
Uncle Cynewulf and ocusta Wulfwer were
up to with the conjurer, he might not; and in that case
Atheling Radgar would be back in hero territory.
It was good he had sent Aylwin home to say where
he was. If he didn't show up by morning,
reinforcements would arrive.
  He had never stayed out all night before. Mother
would scream two octaves higher than a
skylark. If he wasn't in hero country, if
he was just a wayward brat snooping where he had
been forbidden to go, then the reckoning was going to be
terrible--good-bye to Cwealm, hello to mucking out
stables with the thralls for months and months and
months, and sore butt on an epic scale the
scops would sing about for centuries. He'd be
better off plugging up the tunnel with rocks and
living like another hermit here in the valley.
  The forest was so still that he heard thumps before he
even saw the lights. The cabin's doors and
shutters fit so badly, and there were so many chinks in
the walls, that it glowed like a starry sky. Smoke
was pouring out of it just about everywhere except the proper
smoke hole. Someone had cut the old man's
firewood for him, because obviously one hand couldn't
manage that great ax stuck in the chopping block;
but the periodic bangs coming from inside proved that the
old man was hitting something. Radgar tapped on
the door.
  Then he heard nothing except the fire
crackling.
  After a few spooky-long minutes, he
tapped again. Now the harsh voice cried out, "Who
wakens the dead? Here are rotting bones and
ancient hatred. Flee while you still can!"
  Radgar pushed the door open, squeaking on its
leather hinges. Smoke gushed out white in the
darkness, making his eyes sting, so he dropped and
crawled in on hands and knees, knowing the air would
be clearer down near the dirt floor. The hearth
was just a central circle of stones. The scarecrow
conjurer sat on the ground with his back to the entrance,
his real leg outstretched beside the wooden one, but the
bag over his head was caught up at one side,
revealing wisps of white beard, as if it had
been pulled on in haste. A small hatchet and
heap of kindling near his hand explained the earlier
banging.
  "Begone!" the old man croaked, "lest my
curses rot the flesh from your bones."
  Radgar kicked the door shut and moved some
baskets and a bucket so he could move closer
to the fire and sit down, legs crossed. "I
need to know when I'm going to kill Wulfwer."
He also needed something tasty to eat, of course,
and a comfortable place to sleep. The blackened
crock steaming and bubbling in the embers emitted
fine savory scents, but comfort was in short
supply. Even a thralls' barn had more of
it--no chairs or stools or tables, and the bedding
just a layer of branches with some mangy old furs
on top. The rest of the furnishings were crude
clay pots, a couple of oaken chests, no
shelves on the walls, although there was a sword
hanging up opposite the door--and a pretty
fancy one too, as far as he could tell through the
smoke. Some scrolls and books shared the top of
one of the chests with an inkwell and a heap of goose
quills ... how did the cripple sharpen a
quill one-handed? The conjurer must live entirely
at ground level, like an animal. Certainly with
only one arm and one leg, he would have trouble standing
up and sitting down. Now he had turned his head
to look at his visitor, but only darkness showed
inside the eye holes of his hood. At least there
were two eye holes, not only one, as there would be
if the half man had only half a face.
Shiver!
  "Spawn of slime, who sent you to torment a
dead man in his infliction?"
  "No one sent me, ealdor. Your hlytm
summoned me, didn't it?"
  "Torment, torment! Who told you of the
hlytm, Atheling?"
  Aha! Suspicions confirmed! If the
conjurer knew who he was then Radgar must have been
here before. "No one told me, ealdor. It was
obvious."
  "Don't give me titles. I am a dead
man, but if you must speak to my corpse call it
Healfwer." The conjurer's voice sank to a
disgusting phlegmy rattle. "Women wile with
whitened arms ... What was obvious?"
  Uncertain which women had entered the conversation,
Radgar decided to ignore them. "From what you were
doing, what you said. A hlytm is a casting of
lots, yes? You were casting lots among the
elements to see which one will kill
Wulfwer. When you had summoned them you stood at
death point and called him, and in the end he went
to water point so--you told him he would drown, but
really he knocked over the water pot, didn't
he, so it didn't count, and he was coming to me! He
came to me and fell down before me. I am
Wulfwer's bane, his weird!" Not many
ten-year-olds could have worked that out, but an atheling had
to be more clever than others.
  "Does that make you happy, pig-toad?"
  "You shouldn't speak to me like that."
  "I'll speak to you how I want. Answer me
before I make you scream with agony. Their white
arms ..."
  "And don't threaten me, either. I'm the King's
son."
  The old man raised a gnarled hand to his
hood. "Answer my questions, Aeleding, or I will
show you my face and then you will never sleep again."
  That was a new threat to Radgar, one that would need
some thought. "No, I don't really want to kill
Wulfwer, but I will if I have to. We're going
to be rivals to succeed Dad when he gets old.
I'd rather kill him than let him kill me. If
he stays out of my road I won't hurt him."
  The horrible old man shrieked with mirth.
"Earth and water! He could crush you with one hand,
little grub. Fire and fish so fair the song ...
Everything smells of music now. Why came you
here?"
  "Because I'm only ten years old." That
piece of impudence had worked on Dad once--
only once and the second time had turned out to be
unwise, but Healfwer had not heard it before.
  The old man growled in exasperation. "You may
never see another winter. You expect to eat my
supper and sleep by my hearth?"
  "Oh, thank you, ealdor!--I mean
Healfwer. A share of your food and a place by the
fire would be very kind of you."
  "Explain, worm! Weird and woe the
wylfen brings."
  "It was too dark to go after Wulfwer left and
if I'd gone ahead of him he'd have seen me."
  "I mean why did you come at all?"
  "Your conjuration summoned me, didn't it?"
  "You just want me to agree so Aeled won't
whip the skin off your ass, boy."
  "Partly," Radgar admitted. It would be a very
good defense: "The hlytm made me do
it."
  "How could it have summoned you when you came before
I started it? When you didn't know about it? What
really made you come?"
  Radgar shrugged. The smell from the pot was
making him drool so much he was drowning. There was
meat in there, which Wulfwer must have brought, for how could
a one-armed man catch game or even skin it?
  "I went foering on my stallion,
Cwealm, taking only my trusty follower
Aylwin Leofricing. I decided to explore
Weargahlaew and saw that someone was feeding the
weargas. That is an unfri`ed, so I sent
Leofricing back to tell the marshal to send some
house thegns. And I came on ahead myself
to investigate."
  The enchanter made a strange choking sound that
became a racking cough. He threw more sticks on
the fire. "Filth and death! Has not your father a
hundred times forbidden you to come here?"
  "Not that often. And the tanist brought Wulfwer--will
you chant the hlytm for me, too? I want to know
my weird."
  "Weird?" the old man screeched. "Your
weird is to die as I did! Die now, brat,
and save yourself suffering!" He snatched up a log
and hurled it at Radgar.
  It struck him on the forehead. Fortunately it
was a very small log, already split for kindling, but
the impact and shock were enough to knock him over. He
fell on his back, crying out at the pain.
  "You almost hit my eye!" He clapped a hand
over the injury and felt blood running.
  "More than that will I hit!" Healfwer shouted.
One-handed he grabbed up his staff and struck as
if swatting a fly. Fortunately the fire between
them made that a difficult shot; and Radgar saw
the pole descending in time to roll clear. The end
struck a heavy stone crock and shattered it. His
head would have been smashed like an egg.
  "You're crazy!" He jumped to his feet.
"I'm the King's son!"
  "You're dead! Dead like me!" The old man
tried another swipe with the pole, but Radgar could
dodge now. "Die, curse you!" Releasing his
staff, the conjurer hurled another log, then a
third, each larger than the last. By the time he
reached for the hatchet, Radgar was opening the door.
As he leaped out, the hatchet passed through the
space he had filled a moment earlier
and slammed into the wall--and stuck there.
  He was out in the night and running.
  He crossed the clearing in a dozen strides and
stopped in case he ran into something. Far behind him
the door slammed, cutting off the glimmer of the
fire and leaving him in total darkness. Cold and
shock together made his teeth chatter, and he hugged
himself tightly as he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The horrible old man really was crazy! Those had
been real attempts at murder. A man had
tried to kill him! He shivered at the memory of
that hatchet sticking in the wall.
  It seemed Weargahlaew had been put
off-limits for good reasons; his foering had not
been brave or clever, only very foolish. His
head throbbed. The cold began to bite, making him
shake more violently. A man could freeze in the
nights up here, and he wasn't properly
dressed. He could light a fire with the tinderbox
at the entrance tunnel if he could get there--and
if Healfwer had not gathered up all the loose
deadfall in the forest. Getting there would be the
problem. There might be other lunatics wandering the
valley. Or animals. Wild boars, bears
... Dad could never wipe out wolves because they
swam from one island to another.
  He soon realized he wasn't going anywhere;
he couldn't. Filmy clouds obscured all but the
brightest stars, so even within the clearing he could
barely see his hand in front of his nose. The
track through the trees was as dark as any cave, quite
impossible to walk. He was stuck here until
dawn. His head still hurt and seemed to be still
bleeding, because it felt wet when he touched it ...
but it was an honorable wound, an honest attempt
to kill him. It might leave a good scar and then people
would ask him where he got it. His teeth chattered.
He was freezing! He jumped up and began
walking back and forward across the clearing, from almost the
door of the shed to the point where overhanging branches
hid the sky at the other side. He cursed
Healfwer under his breath.
  Why did the madman have to go and react like that?
Just because Radgar had asked to learn his weird?
Wulfwer had been told his. No, Wulfwer
thought he had, but the answer had not been clear.
When Healfwer had called him to death point,
Wulfwer's weird had drawn him to water point
instead--or else to Radgar. Obviously
Radgar could not be anyone's bane if
he was destined to freeze to death here in the woods
before morning. What sort of answer would the
hlytm give a man if his weird was to be
frozen to death? This was something to think about while he
did just that. Cold was not one of the eight elements,
although it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered
at the moment. The opposite of fire in the
octogram was earth. So if Healfwer had chanted
the hlytm for Radgar before Radgar froze
to death, would Radgar have been summoned to earth
point? Who would guess that earth point meant
freezing? If the hlytm had told him earth was
his bane, he'd have thought that meant a sword or a
house falling on him in a quake. Except people
buried by earthquakes often died of lack of air
and the opposite of air was water. Could air be a
man's bane? If he was hanged, maybe, so
he had too much air underneath him.
  It was all stupid! There were too many ways
to die and not enough elements.
  Spirits, it was cold!
  The manifest elements were bad enough--so he
decided as he stalked to and fro, slapping his
back to keep warm--but the virtual elements
might be worse. Suppose a man went to time
point? How could you die of time? Hmm--you could
die of old age, too much time. And chance would
mean an accident. So maybe the virtual
elements actually made more sense as predictors
than the manifest elements did. ... How about
death point itself? If Wulfwer had gone straight
to death point when Healfwer called him?
Suicide, maybe? Yes, that could mean
suicide, or death very soon. Love? A
weird of love would have to mean treachery. If you were
doomed to die at the hand of a loved one or someone
you trusted, then love was your bane. So the
virtual elements actually did make more sense
than the manifest ones! Hanging, fever,
drowning, falling--almost any sort of death he could
think of could be reduced to an excess of a single
element! Except freezing. He cursed
Healfwer under his breath again.
  How long until his fingers started dropping off
from frostbite?
  And while he froze to death that madman was
sitting there in his hovel all cozy by his fire,
and now doubtless eating that juicy-smelling meat
stew. Next time Radgar's progress brought
him near the wall of the shack, he crept
closer and peered in one of the crevices where the
smoke was coming out. Yes, there he was. Healfwer
had taken the crock from the fire and was vigorously
shoveling stuff into his mouth from it with a big horn
spoon. He had removed his hood, of course.
At first all Radgar could see was the back of his
head, but that was quite enough. On the left side
wisps of silver hair hung from ordinary pink
scalp, but on the right the skin was all white scar
tissue with no hair at all, as if he had
been flayed or terribly burned, and the line
dividing the two was straight as an arrow, right down
the middle. His right ear, even, had gone. When he
turned slightly to toss another log on the
fire, Radgar caught sight of a long silver
beard on the left of his face.
  The spy must have made a noise then, for the
monster twisted around to stare at the wall right where
he was. Despite the two eye holes cut in
the hood he'd worn earlier, he did have only
one eye. One side of his face was that of a haggard
old man; the other was white ruin, like cheese.
Even his mouth was half gone.
  Radgar recoiled from the horrible sight,
remembering the conjurer's threat that he would never
sleep again. Well, he wouldn't if he froze
to death! He crawled away and resumed his pacing,
although his legs shook with weariness. Short as
summer nights were, dawn must be hours away
yet. No matter that he had seen the madman's
mutilated face, he would fall asleep on his
feet and freeze. There were hot springs in
Weargahlaew--he had seen the steam from them and
smelled the sulfur--and even an eel-brain like
Healfwer would surely have chosen a site near a
hot spring for his home. The first problem would be
to locate it in the dark, the second would be finding
a safe shallow place to lie in so that he wouldn't
drown if he fell asleep. Some hot springs
were mere seepages in the beds of streams, but others
were shafts going down to the bottom of the world. Wading
into one of those in the dark would not be a pleasant
fate. Sadly he discarded the idea of soaking
himself in hot water all night.

  He lost count of time. It seemed half his
life had been spent walking in that clearing, blowing
on his hands, sometimes running on the spot. Ears,
fingers, even toes ached. The cold would not give
up--and it must win in the end, because his
strength would not last until morning. What a
stupid, stupid way to die! He was not used
to thinking of himself as stupid.
  Eventually he noticed that the lights twinkling
from the chinks in the conjurer's hovel were growing
fainter. If Healfwer was letting the fire burn
down, that meant he had gone to bed, or was about to.
Why should that evil old cripple be allowed
to sleep in peace when he had refused succor to a
worthy traveler? All peoples everywhere
respected the laws of hospitality, even
savages in far-off Afernt--so Dad had told
him. He hurried to the woodpile and selected a
stout branch, seasoned but not brittle. Back
to his spy hole again ... Although the interior was
darker now, the conjurer was visible as a shapeless
heap in the area of the bedding.
  Radgar crept around to that side. He swung
the branch as hard as he could. Bang! Had the
cabin been built of heavy logs, the impact
would have been barely audible, but it was only a
ramshackle construction of withes and plaster. The
wall shook. He heard a few fragments fall
and could guess that more had showered down on the inside.
Again--Bang! Bang!
  "Healfwer!" he yelled. "Wake up!" When
he heard shouts of anger in reply, he stopped
banging and took another peek. The cripple was
sitting up, faint light from the embers of the fire
glinting on the leprous-white side of his head.
  "You're not going to sleep tonight!" Bang!
Bang! "Dance, cripple! Chant your
spells!" Bang! Bang! The wall was
losing the fight, flaking off in chunks. At this
rate he could wreck half the cabin before morning.
He paused to listen to the screams of rage.
  "Worms and waste your weird shall be! Boy,
I will kill you!"
  "No you won't!" Bang! Bang! "You
had your chance earlier and failed." Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
  He stopped then, partly to catch his breath--for
he had been putting all his strength into the
exercise--and partly to sneak a look at his
victim. As might have been predicted,
Healfwer seemed to be strapping on his wooden
leg. He had poked up the fire and added sticks
to it. Radgar set to work again, battering at one of the
shutters. Just as it collapsed into ruin, he heard
the squeak of the door.
  By the time the enchanter came lurching around the
cabin, cursing and raving, his tormentor had
disappeared. When the old man completed the
circuit and reached his door again--and was
silhouetted against the fire--a jagged lump of
black rock streaked out of the darkness and struck the
back of his head. Another bounced off the cabin as
he stumbled inside. A third hit his back before
he could slam the door.
  Now both sides had drawn blood and the
score was even. Radgar, having been raised on
battle songs and the bragging of drunken thegns, had
an innate grasp of tactics in such a situation
and knew the value of pressing an advantage.
Screeching every threat and rude word he could think of,
he resumed his attack on the shack, smashing
away chunks. This time the old man tried fighting
back. Firelight was streaming from so many holes in
his walls now that he could see Radgar almost as
well as Radgar could see him. Wielding his
staff like a spear, he lunged through one of the gaps
at the boy outside, but with only one hand he
lacked control. Radgar saw the move coming.
Healfwer screamed as his precious staff was
snatched away and vanished out into the woods.
Caught off balance, he fell heavily,
narrowly missing the fireplace. Moments later,
a renewed attack on his walls showered him with
plaster.
  "Stop! Stop! What do you want!"
  "A blanket! Two blankets!" Radgar
considered asking for a pot of stew and decided not
to push his luck. If he miscalculated now and
let the old man get within grabbing range of him,
his weird would be settled very swiftly.
  "Then you'll give me back my staff? I
can't live without my staff!"
  "Yes, I'll give it back. Hurry!"
  "I need it to get the blankets."
  "You think any son of Aeled Fyrlafing would
be that stupid? Push them out through the wall here."
  Mumbling furiously, the old man did as he
was told--he was only crazy when it suited him
to be! Radgar dragged the blankets out through the
wall and gloatingly wrapped himself up. They
smelled terrible but they were warm on his skin.
  "You can have your staff back in the morning!" He
marched away from the conjurer's wails and howls,
crossing the clearing to the place he thought the path
should start. He found it by waving the long
pole to and fro, then managed to go along it a little
way without walking into any trees. When he could
no longer see firelight, he lay down and
rolled up in a cocoon. He fell into sleep
almost immediately, gloating over the fact that Radgar
Aeleding, the future great warrior-king of
Baelmark, had just won his first real fight.

                  

  Morning was bad. He awoke at first light
feeling cold, stiff, hungry, thirsty, sore
everywhere, and dizzy from lack of sleep. The wound
on his head was swollen like an egg and throbbed
worse than anything. Scops never sang about
heroes feeling sorry for themselves on the day after the
battle.
  Having given the matter thought, he did take
Healfwer's staff back to the cabin--a thegn could
be magnanimous to a beaten foe. He lost his
way in the forest because the sky wasn't light enough yet
to tell him which way was east, and when he finally did
reach the little meadow, Cwealm perversely refused
to be caught. Either he liked having a valley
all to himself or he didn't trust the pale
bloodstained waif in the smelly blankets.
Radgar chased him and chased him, pleading,
threatening, and finally almost weeping; and Cwealm
merely swished his tail and kept his distance. Just
about the time Radgar was ready to give up--but
fortunately hadn't quite done so--he saw a
horse and rider coming down the path from the tunnel.
It was Dad, riding Wiga.
  The sun rose over the crater walls and the world
brightened.

  Dad jumped down from the saddle and gave him a
hug to break his bones, then a kiss, and finally
held him at arm's length to look him over. He
shook his head and said, "Oh, if your mother could see
you now!" in a man-to-man sort of way.
  Radgar, shamefully, started to cry.
  Fortunately Dad did not seem to notice.
He swung up into Wiga's saddle and hoisted his
wayward son up behind him. "Hot bath and
breakfast?" he said, kicking in his heels.
"Fresh clothes? And a long talk?"
  Radgar blew his nose, wiped his fingers on
one of Healfwer's blankets, and said, "Yes,
sire." Whatever punishment was in store
for him, he would feel more able to bear it when he had
some breakfast inside him.

  "Strip and jump in," Dad said. "I think
this is my favorite hot spring anywhere. Very
hot this end, very cold over there. About there's
usually just right."
  The pool was small and shallow, steaming
quietly in the middle of a rather swampy clearing.
The little surface stream that varied its
temperature had also given it a sandy bottom
to lie on, which was unusual. Radgar obeyed
orders eagerly, submerging until only his
face showed, feeling all his joints melt in
bliss. He resumed his story, telling about his
fight with Healfwer.
  While listening and sometimes shooting questions, Dad
tethered Wiga to a stout bush, removed the bit so
he could graze, loosened the girth, and then began
unpacking the saddlebags. He seemed to have thought
of everything: towels, fresh clothes for Radgar, and
especially food--cheese and bread and
hard-boiled eggs and some meaty ribs, all of which
he laid out on a handy tussock. Then he
laid his sword there also, pulled off his clothes,
and came to lie in the pool alongside his son.
  He made no comment about Radgar's folly,
or at least not yet. He certainly wouldn't
wait long. Justice should be quick, he always said,
or it wasn't just. He chose a beef rib and
pointed it at the sky as he chewed his first bite.
  "See that eagle? There's always an eagle
over Weargahlaew, sometimes two."
  "Cwealm knew the way here."
  "We keep the inmates fed," the King
explained with his mouth full. "Usually a house
thegn brings the rations, but I may come if I have
business, or your uncle, and now Wulfwer.
Weargahlaew isn't secret, but it isn't
widely talked about, either. Grown-ups know
better than to come here. Small boys must not, but
few of them have horses capable of the ride."
  Oops! Radgar thought he knew one who
wasn't going to have such a horse much longer and
wasn't going to want to sit on one for quite a while
either. "There's more people live here?" He eyed the
sword, left within reach.
  "It varies. Only six at the moment. Some
are witan who just want to be alone to study.
They're hermits by choice and can leave
if they want to. Others are weargas,
banished by royal command--dangerous, crazy people,
or thieves and murderers I chose to exile
instead of enthrall, for one reason or another.
They must stay here or pay the other penalty. There
have been people so ugly that other people cannot tolerate them,
and some with strange diseases the healers can't conjure.
Other earls have their own places of exile,
prison islands."
  Radgar swallowed the remains of his fourth egg
and reached for bread and cheese, trying not to get them
wet. Eating in a hot pool was trickier than
he'd expected. He knew of nothing in the world more
fun than going a-foering with Dad, who always
seemed to have new places to show him and new things
to do, and he would be enjoying every second of this
bizarre picnic enormously if he didn't have
his unknown punishment hanging over him.
Good-bye, Cwealm!
  "Healfwer isn't the worst," Dad said.
"He's only crazy some of the time, and he never
threatens a strong man like Wulfwer. Children or
vulnerable people seem to enrage him, and yet I know
he's truly sorry afterward. He's the most
brilliantly clever enchanter anywhere. No one
else can conjure elementals the way he does,
all by himself. If I need something special in the
way of enchantment, he can almost always manage it for
me. He can't help being crazy--wouldn't you be
if you were crippled the way he is? He must have a
lot of pain, too."
  "What happened to him? Who was he before he
became Half Man?"
  Dad chewed for a moment, and the copper stubble on
his jaw glinted in the sunlight. "That's his
business and one day perhaps you can ask him. You're not
going to talk about Healfwer or Weargahlaew at
all, understand? To no one."
  "Yes, my lord. I promise!"
  "On our best behavior suddenly, are we?"
Dad chuckled and cracked an egg on his elbow.
"Your job, Son, is the same as any other
boy's of your age, and that is to make as many
mistakes as possible while you're young enough to be
either forgiven or walloped. You're ten, and that's the
age the law starts treating you as an adult, so
you're almost out of time. Soon you will be judged
wicked instead of ignorant. What have you learned
recently?"
  Here it came. "I knew
Weargahlaew was out of bounds, so I was disobeying
when I came here."
  There was a pause, then Dad said, "That's
all?"
  "Well, the hlytm that Healfwer--"
  "We'll get to that. About Weargahlaew itself."
  Radgar thought. "I broke the rules."
  "Nothing wrong with breaking rules, provided you
know why the rule is there and what will happen if you
do break it. I've broken lots of rules in
my time. Rules are usually made to protect
either you or other people, and the king's law is there
to punish people who hurt other people by breaking rules.
But if a rule is unfair or wicked, then it
is your duty to break it! I'm really proud of the
way you broke this rule, riding in through the
tunnel, then sending Aylwin back and staying yourself
when you thought there was something wrong."
  Radgar released a long sigh of wonder. "You
are? Proud?"
  "I'm proud of your courage. Your stupidity
is another matter altogether."
  "Oh."
  "You didn't know why the rule was there, but you
broke it anyway. I've always told you
to remember the she-wolf, but you didn't even
look for the wolf. That was stupid! Staying inside
the crater was stupid--you could have waited outside
to see who left with the packhorse. What else have
you learned, if anything?"
  Radgar decided he was full and didn't
want to eat any more. "The hlytm? Healfwer was
trying to find out what Wulfwer's weird is."
  Dad sighed. "Yes. What about it?"
  "It doesn't give clear answers."
  "Sometimes it does. Did you notice what
point Wulfwer went to?"
  "Water."
  "That's not a bad one. Some elements can mean so
many things that the hlytm is no real use. It
doesn't help much to be told that chance is your
weird, for instance. And it only works once. If
Wulfwer's weird is water, then Healfwer can
ward him against water. Then he probably won't
drown after all, but he's going to die someday
anyway, just as we all are. He'll meet
another bane and the hlytm can't warn him against that
one. It won't work once he's warded. You can't
be warded against a second element, either."
  Then Radgar had to explain how he
had walked out in the open and Wulfwer had maybe
come to him, not the water. Dad did not look
pleased.
  "Wulfwer doesn't know that?"
  "No, lord. Healfwer signed me to go away
before he let him take off his blindfold. And I
don't see how the hlytm could have summoned me
up to Weargahlaew because they hadn't even started it
when I came in through the tunnel."
  "It's time to go. Wash that blood off your
face." Dad stood up and waded over to the
towels. "I can't see it either, but conjury is very
strange at times. If I were Wulfwer I
might make sure of things by running a sword
into you. So the rule about not telling anyone about
Weargahlaew applies doubly to the hlytm,
understand? Please don't mention it to your mother!"
  "Yes, lord." Radgar began drying himself.
He was limp as string after the long soak. He
wanted to sleep for a month. "Healfwer said he'd
chant the hlytm for Wulfwer again some other day."
  "Good. I may keep you tied to your bed until
he does." Dad smiled to show he didn't mean
that. But what else did he have in mind, apart from
taking away Cwealm?
  "Do you suppose he'd chant it for me? After
what I did to his house? Has he ever done it
for you--chanted the hlytm?"
  "If you caused him half as much trouble as
you've admitted, young man, I won't let you
near the old horror until you've grown twice
as big as Wulfwer. The hlytm may not work for
you anyway, because stupidity is not an element,
although it ought to be. There's more pure stupidity in the
world than almost anything else." Dad's grin
disappeared as he pulled his smock over his head.
He emerged frowning. "I expect one day
he'll chant it for you, if I ask him to. And,
yes, I know my weird, and, no, I won't
tell you what it is. I don't tell anyone
that. Gather up that food and I'll take it
to Healfwer as a peace offering."
  Radgar was dressed now. He was fed and warm--
and very sleepy. Why was Dad making him wait for the
bad news?
  "Bring that," Dad said, taking the other bag and
heading for Wiga. "I'll take you to Cwealm and
see you mounted and into the tunnel. I want you to go
straight to the elementary and ask Conjurer
Plegmund to heal that cut on your face
before your mother sees it. I'll have the money sent
to him."
  "And you?"
  For a moment Dad didn't answer, being busy
tightening the girths. Then he said, "How badly
did you damage Healfwer's cabin?"
  Radgar hung his head. "Dad, I really
smashed it up. It'll have to be rebuilt, I
think, but it was the only thing I could think of to--"
  "Good!" said the King. "I've been trying
to get him to move to a better place for years, the
stubborn old loon; and now he'll have to, so
that's what I'll do now. There are some fine,
solid log cabins nobody's living in.
Tell Leofric and your mother that I won't be
back until tomorrow." He swung up into the saddle
and held out a hand. "Up?"
  "Tell me!" Radgar yelled. "Please,
please, don't keep me waiting any longer!"
  Dad stared down at him in surprise.
"Waiting for what?"
  "What are you going to do to me? I don't mind
sore butt, as many whacks as you want, and
I'll muck out stables or cut corn with the
thralls or do anything, anything at all, but
please, please, please don't take Cwealm
away!"
  "Oh!" Dad pursed his lips and studied the
cliffs for a moment. "Well, Son, you were very
foolish, weren't you?"
  "Yes, lord. I'm sorry, really I am."
  "I'm sure you are. I've warned you never
to catch more than you hunt, yes? You went hunting
a little mischief and you almost froze to death, you almost
got murdered. You had to go a whole day without
eating, and you were more frightened than you've ever been.
Yes?"
  "Yes, lord."
  Dad grinned. "So you punished yourself. See,
grown-ups don't have dads to paddle their butts,
but they do have to pay the penalty, whatever it is. I
can't do anything to you worse than what you did
to yourself and I should never want to. Cwealm's
yours, Son. I won't take him away."
  It was absolutely shameful, but as Dad
pulled him up on to Wiga's back, Radgar
began to cry again.


                                  
                  

  Little more was said, except by Aylwin. He had not
been punished for the Weargahlaew escapade either
--much to his surprise--but he did want to know
what had happened. When Radgar wouldn't tell
him, there was a certain amount of shouting, shoving, and
punching. The coolness passed in a few days, as
it always did, and the friends found new trouble to fall
into together.
  It was more than a week later that Dad inquired
whether Radgar would like to go surf fishing, just the two
of them--a very foolish question for a king to ask. So they
sailed over to Blodenclif, and while they were standing
on the rocks with their lines out and the waves foaming
all around making so much noise that it was almost
impossible to hear, Dad suddenly shouted over
to Radgar--
  "Healfwer chanted the hlytm for Wulfwer
again."
  Radgar had something on his line just then,
probably a fat bass, so he wasn't much
interested in the affairs of his ugly cousin. "And
what?"
  "And water was his bane again. So you were just an
accident."
  "Good," Radgar said and concentrated on the more
important matter of landing that bass.

  The matter came up again very briefly when they
were sailing home that evening. Radgar had the tiller
and the setting sun was painting scarlet ladders on the
ripples of Swi@thaefen. He had caught more
fish than the King of Baelmark and the world was as
perfect as could be.
  "I was thinking," the hero remarked, "about the
hlytm. I think the worst weird of all would be
love! That would be terrible--to know that you were going to be
killed by someone you loved!"
  After a moment Dad said, "I'm sure you're
right, Son."

                  

  When Radgar was eleven, the Chivian King
Taisson died and Crown Prince Ambrose
succeeded. This seemed like a good opportunity to end
a war that had dragged on far too long, but
Grandon sent no overtures for peace
to Waro`edburh. Next spring, therefore,
King Aeled launched the heaviest offensive of the
war, harrying the Chivian coasts and strangling its
trade. Month after month the booty and good news
flooded back to Baelmark, but casualty lists
came, too. Wives need husbands and children fathers.
A land frets when all its young men are absent for
prolonged periods, and by fall the mood of the
country was growing sour.
  It was then that Atheling Radgar went on a
royal procession, accompanied by Aylwin and a
few other twelve-year-old boys and girls,
all dressed in court finery of purple and
ermine. Their armed escort was made up of
cnihtas only a couple of years older. They
visited eleven shires, not counting Catterstow, and
in every capital were made welcome by the Earl or
his tanist. The celebrations included a feast, of
course, and other sorts of pomp, such as singing,
horse races, and martial competitions between the
visiting cnihtas and the locals.
  This zany performance was the brainchild of Queen
Charlotte, organized by her and the earls' wives.
When the idea was first proposed, Regent
Cynewulf turned it down flat, but he had
never been noted for his sense of humor. Aeled,
appealed to in a letter, wrote back overruling his
tanist, and as usual his judgment was sound. The
sight of children traveling the land unmolested was a
fine contrast to the news from war-savaged Chivial;
the mockery of the ways of royalty exactly
fitted the spirit of the time. The nation laughed
uproariously.
  "That atheling looks just like his father," everyone said
admiringly. "Never know what he's going to get
up to next, either."
  The jester king and his train sailed home
to Catterstow from Twigeport on the thirtieth day
of Ninthmoon, arriving in a chill, misty
drizzle. Had theirs been a genuine royal
progress, it would have ended with a parade and a
welcome-home feast in Cynehof, but Uncle
Cynewulf had refused to play along. The
juvenile courtiers muttered about the regent's
sourpuss attitude, but in fact they had tired
of the game and were not sorry that the joke was over.
Being polite and gracious for almost a month had
proved to be unbearably wearing. And when
Waro`edburh came in sight, they saw the beach
covered with longships and more than half the population
teeming around them. The campaigning
season was over also. Joyful turmoil acclaimed
the return of the fyrd, and there would be feasting after
all.
  Radgar was the first to leap ashore. A shouted question
told him that Dad was safe. He ran all the
way to the palace, which was in an even greater state
of uproar, but the only welcome he received was a
thorough licking from Brindle. He had to ask
several people before he learned that Dad had ridden off
to Hatburna, his favorite home. That was very
strange, because he must have huge amounts of business
to see to. Normally when he returned from a
foering he would just send word and Mom would come
hurrying back to the capital to greet him. It was
only when Radgar asked more questions that someone mentioned
the firedrake in Wambseoc. He yelled for
Cwealm to be saddled up, ordered Brindle
to stay behind, and took off for Hatburna as fast as
he dared push his horse.

  He was as well mounted as any man in the
kingdom and weighed less. The rain had softened the
track, but sure-footed Cwealm made record
time and would certainly have caught up with the royal
party had the road been just a little longer. As it
was, the horses were still being walked when he thundered
and splashed into the stable yard. Radgar leaped from the
saddle, thrust the reins into the hands of a ceorl, and
ran into the main house without even taking off his
mud-caked boots, an omission that Queen
Charlotte regarded as a capital offense in
athelings.
  Hatburna was a rambling, ramshackle old
place, much extended by successive generations of
Catterings but still far too small to house a ruling
monarch. A king could go nowhere without a train of
thegns, house thegns, ministers, clerks, and
miscellaneous courtiers trailing at his
heels. Aeled usually made things worse
by inviting friends to stay also. When he was there, the
walls bulged, and massed snoring scared away
all the wildlife in the south half of the island--so
he claimed, and everyone laughed when a king made
a joke. He refused to have the place rebuilt
or repaired, not even to close up the chinks in the
notoriously unprivate walls. If he
made it more comfortable, he said, then more people would find
excuses to come.
  The herd of courtiers and officials was busily
settling in, but from the racket they were
making--demanding attention and ordering servants around
--Radgar knew at once that Dad was not there.
Again, he had to ask several people, but eventually he
learned that His Majesty had gone in search of the
Queen, who was thought to be at the private cabin.
He sprinted out the door in a spray of mud and
headed up the hill. The trail was not long, but it
climbed steeply through a forest of oaks, maples,
and sycamores, a canopy of leaves shining
gold, bronze, and copper in the rain. He
arrived panting.
  The little cabin by the waterfall was the center of his
world, the place he kept his heart. It had never
been formally given to him, but his possessions had
taken over the main room completely and he
slept in the big bed in the loft. When Dad was
away Mom always stayed in the main house, and last
winter Dad had done so, too. Radgar assumed
that they were less concerned about privacy now that they
had grown too old to do the forlegnes thing--
Mom had turned thirty now and Dad was even
older. And whatever they did or said, he would hear
them here just as well as neighbors in the main house
would.
  He exploded in through the door, bringing a blast
of fine rain with him. Dad was sitting on the couch,
leaning back with his legs outstretched, all
spattered with mud and looking as weary as a man
who had just spent three hours in the saddle, which he
had. Mom was standing by the fireplace, wringing her
hands.
  Radgar yelled, "Dad!" and launched himself
at his father, who yelled in alarm, but caught him
expertly and rolled him into a hug. "Dad,
Dad, you're not going to go and fight the
firedrake, are you?"
  Queen Charlotte took three strides to reach
the open door and slammed it with an impact like
thunder. "Radgar! Just look at this!"
  Her tone caused her menfolk to break out of their
clinch and sit up in alarm. "What, Mom?"
  "This pigsty!"
  Bewildered, he peered around. It was true that the
hearth was full of cold cinders and everything else
had a visible coating of gray dust. The
bedclothes on the couch had perhaps been there too
long, but he had changed the sheets upstairs
only a few months ago. Dad had always
forbidden anyone else to come to the cabin, even the
house thralls. She didn't expect
an atheling to do housework, did she?
  If she didn't mean that, then perhaps she meant
untidiness? Admittedly there was rather a lot of
stuff about, more than the table and stools could hold.
More than the floor could, either. A lot of it
actually belonged to Aylwin and other friends and he should
tell them to take it away, but everything there that
belonged to him was important: his fishing spears,
various rods, tackle, waders, creel, and
nets; his horse gear, blankets and saddles,
riding boots; two archery targets, three--no
four--bows, a lot of arrows and the makings of many
more, because he had taken up fletching last winter--
staves, goose feathers, glue, straighteners.
... There were also his practice spears, swords,
shields, helmets--just the toy stuff that boys were
allowed to play with before they became cnihtas, but
quite a good collection. ... Other boy things:
balls, wooden puzzles, skittles, climbing
boots, his bird nets and throwing sticks,
animal traps, two sets of antlers, a
couple of hunting knives, a very smelly
bearskin that had not been properly tanned. ...
That could go, but he must keep his collections of
shells and birds' eggs, and the model longship that
he had never finished. ... Too many books. A
thegn didn't need all those books. A thegn
didn't need a box of paints and a lot of
brushes, either, but it was Mom who'd encouraged him
in that, and Dad thought that some of the thirty or so
sketches piled up over there in the corner were quite
good; she was more doubtful. Yes, those could be thrown
out, but not the skis, skates, paddles, or oars!
He wasn't very good on the lute yet, but he
really was going to practice more this winter and he could
certainly throw out a lot of those clothes and shoes
he had grown out of. Most of that rope was good enough
to be useful someday. Brindle's basket could go
because he always climbed into bed with Radgar anyway
and just used it to store chewed bones.
  "Well?" demanded the Queen. "What have you
to say?"
  Why on earth was she talking about this when
Fyrndagum had erupted and there was a
firedrake loose on Wambseoc? "I need
a bigger room," he said. "Dad, you're not
going--"
  But the look in his father's eyes was answer enough.
  "No, he is not!" the Queen said. "If
Ufegeat has a problem, let
Ufegeat handle it himself."
  "He can't," Dad said softly, rising. "He
has no conjurer capable. A firedrake is the
king's problem, always. I must deal with it because I
am Hlaford Fyrlandum."
  "And leave me a widow?" Mom screamed.
"Radgar an orphan? You know the odds when
heroes go against firedrakes. You imagine a
boy of Catter's line can survive in this awful
country without a father to defend him? You think that fat
brother of yours can hold the throne when you die?
Someone else will kill him and take it, and whoever
it is won't leave any young Catterings around
to be a threat."
  Radgar stood up also. He was shaking, but that was
all right after such a long ride. Men could shake
when they were very tired. It wasn't fair, though!
Other boys had gotten their fathers back today, but his
had to go away again, and into worse danger than ever.
  Dad looked at him wistfully, as if
measuring him against future manhood. "We
Baels don't make war on children."
  "Yes, you do!" she yelled.
  "Well, not our own children. Not usually. I
survived."
  "You had an older brother!"
  Dad shrugged. "Yes I did, and maybe now
you understand my loyalty to him."
  "You're exhausted," she said. "I haven't
seen you in months. That volcano's been erupting
for weeks. Surely you don't have to rush away
and--"
  "Yes, I do, Charlotte. Eruptions
don't matter. Eruptions happen all the time.
This is a firedrake we're talking about.
It's a monster. It's evil. It will ravage
all of Wambseoc. Every hour counts, every
minute." He flashed Radgar a half smile
and then held out his hands to his wife. "Listen,
both of you. I haven't told you this before. Years
ago Healfwer chanted the hlytm for me, and
my weird is not fire! The firedrake can't
kill me, understand?"
  But it might mutilate him horribly,
Radgar thought. Firedrakes had killed his father,
Fyrlaf, and his grandfather Cu`edblaese. Why
wasn't Mom going to him?
  "I am Hlaford Fyrlandum," Dad
repeated. "Earl Ufegeat has appealed to me for
help against the firedrake and I cannot
refuse. Radgar, I am going to Weargahlaew
now. I'll leave in about an hour ... don't
want to ride alone ... was going to take
Leofric, but since you're here, will you come with me?
I want to hear all about this wonderful
progress. I'm so proud of you."
  Mom's mouth opened and shut without making a
sound, but Radgar's heart burst into flames of
rapture. "Then I won't have to tidy my
room?"
  Dad guffawed. "Get out of here, you insolent
young horror! Tell them to saddle up Spedig for
me and one for you. ..."
  "He's as tired as you are!" Mother snapped.
"He's only a child! He's--"
  "A thegn's son," Dad said. "Have a warm
soak. Dress warmly. Bring a full day's
food because I'm starving and I expect you are.
Blankets, change of clothes. We'll
probably have to spend the night there. Think what
else we'll want. You've got time to eat, so
eat well after you dress. Meet me here in an
hour with the horses."
  Bliss! "Yes, sire!" Radgar said,
saluting like a thegn. He went out and then poked his
head back in to say, "I will tidy it, Mom!"
He shut the door quickly, before she could answer.
If he bent down to tighten his garter, his ear would
be level with the knothole. ...
  "... need you?" Dad said. "I'm going
crazy. It's been half a year. I have howled
for you every night."
  "What?" There was something strange about Mom's
voice. "No raping? No campfire orgies?
No voluptuous Chivian virgins in--"
  "Not by me. You know me better than that. I
may be going to die, dearest. You know that, too.
The firedrake will be far more dangerous than the war
ever is. Don't refuse me now, please! I
beg. I plead. I offer anything."
  "Give up the firedrake."
  "Anything except that."
  "I heard that first on our wedding day. It's
always been anything--except. Whenever you want
to play stud horse, you promise me the whole
pasture except the bit you're standing on."
  "If I refuse this I won't be the man you
married. I'll be counted craven. New king in
Baelmark, new Earl of Catterstow. Is that
what you want? To be the wife of a
disgraced thegn?"
  "Oh! You ...!" It sounded almost like Mom and
yet not Mom. "Isn't that better than being the
widow of a hero? But you know perfectly well I
can never refuse you. Never once since you first
..." Her voice became muffled and then stopped.
  They must be going to do the forlegnes thing after
all! At their age? How dis-gust-+!
  Radgar strode off down the path.

                  

  So Radgar went to meet Healfwer a second
time. Hatburna was actually closer
to Weargahlaew than Waro`edburh was, Dad
said, but it would be a steep climb and misery in this
rain. He went in front on Spedig, leading the
two packhorses; and Radgar brought up the rear
on Steorleas, because Cwealm had already earned his
oats that day. He'd forgotten how Steorleas
tended to walk sideways, stupid mule! In
fact the weather wasn't too bad under the trees,
and once they reached the moorlands they could ride
side by side and talk. Then time passed more quickly
and a man didn't mind so much if the wind and rain
froze his nose and ears off.
  Although he said he was in a hurry, Dad made
a detour over to where a group of his ceorls were
repairing sheepfolds, preparing for the winter. He
sent them all home, saying that they didn't have to do
that sort of work in this weather, and they were to tell the
reeve he had said so. That was typical of Dad,
the reason everyone in Baelmark loved him, from the
loetu to the earls.
  On the ride in, he'd heard stories about the
progress, and now he demanded a full report
--"Like a ship lord gives me when he comes back
from a foering." He asked questions, but finally he
said something that made Radgar's face burn hot
enough to steam in the rain. "If you can handle yourself as
well as that in public at your age, Son, then
you've got most of what it takes to be a great
king."
  "Dad! That's crazy! Flattery--"
  "No, I mean it! Impressing your own people is
far more important than banging your enemies.
Obviously you made them laugh as you wanted; they
didn't take offense, which they easily could have
done. I am really proud of you. I'll bet
all the earls were accusing you of building
up support for a challenge to your old man?"
  "I swore that would never happen, sire, no
matter how long you kept switching my butt."
  Dad laughed and said that was a very good response.
Radgar had actually heard more comments about
Catterstow getting a much better tanist in a
few years, but he didn't repeat those. It was
none of the other earls' business who Dad's
tanist was.
  As they climbed higher the mist closed in,
until there was nothing to see, but Dad had grown
up at Hatburna and knew every coney track in
the hills.
  Radgar wanted to hear about firedrakes.
  "You probably know as much as I do, Son.
This one appeared last night and seems to be heading
for the coast. Healfwer must know more about what makes
a drake than anyone, but he usually won't
talk. Fire elementals, yes. They're an
essential ingredient. Plus spirits of earth--or
perhaps air. And there may be more to it even than that.
The one that Hatstan spawned sixty years ago,
that killed your great-grandfather Cu`edblaese,
looked like a great bird. And this one's like a
bull, they say."
  "It looks like a bull?"
  "Or behaves like a bull. I hope I can
head it off before it destroys the Nor`eddael
town."
  "And drive it into the sea?" That was what the
songs said.
  "Or lure it into the sea." Dad laughed
oddly. "I'm sure I'll run faster away from
it than toward it. I'll see what Healfwer
suggests."
  "Is that why you're going to see him? For
advice?" The man was madder than a pondful of
loons. Radgar still had nightmares about that
hideous old cripple, and it was more than two
years since he and Aylwin went foering
into Weargahlaew.
  "Partly. Mainly because I want him to ward me
against fire." Dad pulled a face. "Let's
talk about something else! I think we'll reach
Weargahlaew before sunset. You want Healfwer
to chant the hlytm for you?"
  Was that why he had been invited along? Why was
Dad suggesting it now?--because he thought Radgar was
grown-up enough to handle the knowledge of his doom? Or because this
might be his last chance to ask Healfwer
on Radgar's behalf, his last visit
to Weargahlaew?
  Did a man really want to know his weird? It
might make him a coward in some circumstances.
But it should make him braver in others. Radgar
swallowed and said, "Yes, please."
  The trail narrowed to cross a steep face
then, so the conversation was interrupted. He had the
uneasy feeling that he had missed something and tried
to puzzle it out while the rain dribbled down his
neck and soaked through his hat; and all the time he was
wishing he was riding Cwealm, who was as
surefooted as a squirrel. Steorleas
definitely wasn't. Eventually Radgar
remembered Dad telling him that warding only worked
once and you couldn't be warded against more than one
element. So ...?
  So if Dad wanted Healfwer to ward him against
fire now, then Dad had never been warded against
whatever his bane was, because he'd said his weird
wasn't fire. Why in the world not? Well, there was
one element of the eight that a man would probably not
want to be warded against, even if he knew it
would be his bane.

  The drizzle had turned to whirling snowflakes
by the time they reached Baelstede and the defile leading
into Weargahlaew. By then Radgar would have been
falling asleep in the saddle had he not been so
chilled that his very bones were shivering. Of course he
had to dismount when they reached the tunnel, so then
Steorleas decided to be awkward and the
packhorses joined in. Dad told him to lead
Spedig on ahead as an example and managed
to coax the rest of the train into following by luring them
with oats. There wasn't anything Dad wasn't
good at.
  There was no snow or rain falling inside the
crater, but everything was hidden in bleary white
fog. Without wind the air seemed warmer, so
Radgar felt better but also sleepier. He
helped Dad unload the supplies that Leofric
had sent along for the hermits, but after that he just sat
his horse like a meal sack and paid no heed as the
trail wound through the great forest. Healfwer's new
cabin was farther from the entrance than the old one had
been.
  Dad reined in on the shore of a bean-shaped
pond that curved away into the fog. "You look to the
horses," he said, dismounting. "The old
villain needs time to get ready for visitors."
He strode along the edge until he reached the
bend, then cupped his hands to bellow, "Healfwer!
It's Aeled. Healfwer?" He went on out of
sight and the sound of his hailing was soon muffled by the
trees and mist.
  Radgar began unloading, unsaddling. The
high, thick branches would shelter the horses from
any real rain if it came, but in this clammy
valley there was nowhere really dry to stable them--
except the tunnel, of course, and that was too far
away. He checked their feet and gave their
backs quick rubs with a pack of coarse grass, but
they needed proper rubdowns and proper shelter
to ward off chills. Dad would surely have come
back by this time if Healfwer was not at home. ...
The fog obscured the sun; he couldn't tell
what the time was; he felt as if he'd been
riding for weeks. He fed the horses their oats
and let them go off to drink and graze--Spedig and
Steorleas hobbled and the packhorses free
to roam. Then, cold and sore and weary, he sat
down where he could lean back against a tree with an
apple and a hunk of cheese from the provision bag.
Dad and the wita must be having a long chat about
firedrakes, or perhaps the crazy old man was
being difficult. Dad would handle him. Would there be
fish in that pond? Would there be a fire in the
conjurer's cabin?
  "Radgar?"
  He awoke with a start and a very sore neck.
"Dad? Oh, I'm sorry!" He scrambled
to his feet. Fire and death! Sleeping on
picket duty was a capital offense! How could
he have done such a terrible, childish, stupid--
  Dad smiled, knowing what he was thinking.
"Nothing to be sorry about. You've done everything
I told you to do and I didn't order you to keep
watch. Healfwer says he will chant the hlytm
for you." He eyed his son skeptically. "Sure
you're up to it? You look beat."
  So did he, more tired than Radgar could ever
remember seeing him. Radgar squared his
shoulders. "Course."
  "Come then. Leave the rest of the stuff for now."
Dad set off with long strides, carrying one of the
bags on his shoulder. "You're going to have to take
your clothes off. Don't ask me why--and don't
ask Healfwer, either! He's grumpier than ever
today. He doesn't require nudity for
other enchantments."
  Once around the curve of the pond, they were in
sight of the cabin, a solid construction of tree
trunks that would withstand any assault by an angry
ten-year-old. If smoke was rising from the
fieldstone chimney, the fog concealed it. Dad
turned off into the woods and in a moment reached a
shadowy open space, not really large enough to be
called a clearing. It was carpeted with a mulch of
soft brown needles and bore the expected
octogram picked out in black rocks. A
larger cobble marked earth point and already a
glimmering lantern and a pottery flask had been
set at fire and water. The gaunt old conjurer
was standing there, leaning on his staff, and staring out from the
anonymous eye holes of his hood. One real
eye hole and one fake.
  Radgar walked around the octogram to him and
bowed. "Ealdor, it was very wrong of me to spy
on you when I came here last, and wrong of me
to force my company upon you. I am sorry."
  After a moment's silence Healfwer mumbled,
"You've grown."
  "Yes, ealdor."
  "What you are asking for is very frightening. Grown
men may scream in terror when they see their
weird. I have known battle-tested thegns soil
themselves or weep like women. I want no
hysterical children disturbing my peace."
  Nasty old man! Radgar took a firm
grip of his temper. "I am Radgar Aeleding
of the line of Catter. I will shame neither my father
nor my forebears. I have never let fear stop me
doing anything." That was far from true, of course,
but he had heard the thegns boasting in Cynehof on
the eve of a foering, and he knew that once a
man said something like that, he had left himself no way
to back down.
  "Then you are a hopeless fool. You will die so
soon that there is no point in chanting the hlytm
for you."
  "With respect, ealdor, I try not
to confuse cowardice and prudence."
  "Didn't I tell you not to give me
titles?"
  "I forget. I am sorry, Healfwer."
  Dad laughed. "Give up, old man!
He's at his very worst when he goes on his best
behavior like that, and stubborn as a limpet too.
Strip, lad, and let's get this over
before we all freeze." He held out a towel.
  Radgar pulled off his wet clothes, rubbed
himself briskly but hastily, and then scurried into the
octogram. He crouched down as small as he
could in the center--which was what he had seen Wulfwer
do, and the only sensible position to adopt if one
really must do such unsensible things at this time of
year. He felt like a chicken trussed for the oven,
gooseflesh and all. He faced toward the
conjurer, who had taken his place--somewhat
surprisingly--at fire point, where the lantern
was, and not at death, which would have seemed more
logical.
  If brute Wulfwer could do this, then Radgar
Aeleding certainly could.
  "Blindfold him," the old man growled. "Stay
there, brat, and don't move a muscle for as
long as you can."
  Dad tied a cloth over Radgar's eyes and
presumably then stepped back out of the
octogram.
  "Hwoet!" the old man cried, like a scop
starting an epic song, except no mead hall
would tolerate a voice so discordant. He
launched into his chant. It was very long, coming from first
one side and then another, around and around, back and
forward, invoking all the elements in turn. No,
not all. The manifest elements, yes--air,
fire, water, earth. But not all the virtuals,
just love, chance, time. Did shivering count when one
was supposed to be not moving muscles? Death had
not been invoked, but neither was it revoked, and
gradually Radgar began to see the logic. He
was also seeing strange lights moving in darkness, as
one did when blindfolded. Death had not been
invited, but death must be there, so the hlytm would
discover which element was hiding death.
  He couldn't help his teeth chattering. He just
hoped Dad would understand it was only the cold making
them do that. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, so the
vague colors became brighter and more meaningful,
shifting and repeating their patterns. The chanting had
moved farther away, as if the clearing had grown
much larger, and there was a curious echo now,
reminding him of Stanhof, the big hall in
Twigeport where he'd been yesterday.
Flames! Was that only yesterday?
  Eek!
  There was something behind him, something that shouldn't be there
--he wasn't sure if he'd heard it
or how he knew, but he knew. Yes, he
knew. The back of his neck prickled and he
struggled against the need to leap up and tear off the
blindfold. Dad was here. Dad wouldn't let
anything creep up on him. He had sworn not
to give in to fear. But he did feel horribly
vulnerable with no clothes on! There it was again!
Flames and death! Cold and death. Never had
he felt so cold. Cold as a corpse. And the
chanting had stopped. Was it over? In the
reverberating hollow silence, something was coming,
slithering. It was trying not to make a sound as it
slithered closer. ...
  "Radgar!" Dad screamed. "Look out!"
  He jumped like a frog and spun around even as
he landed.
  There wasn't anything there at all. The empty
dark floor stretched away to the walls. He
turned again, quickly. The chamber was as big as
Cynehof, but more round than oblong ...
eight-sided, of course. Dark, shiny stone or
metal. And eight empty doorways, dark
archways. The glowing lights moved faintly here and
there, things of mist going about their own business. It
was the doorways that mattered.
  "Radgar!" Dad shouted again. "Come here!
Quickly!" He stood in one of the doors, not very
well lit, but definitely Dad.
  "What's wrong? Where is this place?"
Radgar ran over to him. "How did we get out
of the--" The floor was too smooth for proper
footing. He grabbed at the edge of the opening to stop
himself before he plunged through, and even then his feet
slid. There was no Dad. There was a raging,
roaring sea outside. "Dad?"
  "Over here, silly. Quickly, we haven't much
time."
  He ran across to the proper arch, but this time he was
a little more cautious. And right to be so. Again he had
gone to the wrong door, and if he had fallen through
he might have fallen forever--there were stars down there!
  Where now? The hall seemed to be getting
smaller.
  "Radgar!" This time the shout came from two
directions at once. "You must get out!" shouted
one dad. "Don't listen to him," cried another.
"Come to me. Hurry!" But as he approached the
nearer dad, he vanished and appeared in two more
doors, so there were three dads calling him.
"Faster, Son! I can't wait. You have
to get here before I go. Quick!"
  He ran from one archway to the next. Dad was
never there when he arrived, always calling from somewhere
else. A roaring fire, yes. A warrior
leaping forward with bloody sword raised and his
face hidden in a battle helmet. The hall was
growing smaller and smaller, Dad's shouts more
urgent. Then another voice, calm and amused--
  "Oh, Radgar! Don't let this stupid
hlytm frighten you. Can't you see that's what
they're trying to do--confuse you and frighten you?"
  He found the source. "Mother!" All the Dad
voices had stopped.
  She held out her arms. "Come, love! It's
a very foolish, cruel thing they're doing to you and you
don't have to play this game anymore. Come."
  He walked over to where she stood in the archway
and Dad was right behind her, not speaking but grinning rather
sheepishly as if he'd been caught out doing
something foolish. "Mom? Is it really you?"
  She laughed. "It's really me."
  "Sorry if we upset you, Son," Dad
said. "I love you too, but this was necessary."
  There were other shapes behind them, people he felt he
ought to know. Nice people, good friends, dear people. "Come!"
they all cried at once, all holding out their
arms. "Dearest!"
  "Yes, I love you," he said. "You won't
mind if I just take a last look in all the
other doors first?" He backed away a step.
Arms grabbed for him, the hands become talons.
He screamed and leaped out of reach. The other
doors were closing in on him, all shouting for him,
in Dad's voice, Mom's voice, even
Aylwin's and other friends' voices. Hands
beckoned, the hall shrank smaller.
  "Dad!" he screamed. "Dad, where are you
really?"
  "Here, Son," Dad said quietly. "All
right. It's over."
  Radgar jumped into his arms.

  Dad caught him in a blanket and hugged him
tightly. He shivered so hard he thought he would
fly apart, and his heart was racing. Then he
realized that he still had the blindfold on and he could
smell the pine trees, so he dragged an arm
free and uncovered his eyes. The dark and foggy
forest had not changed. Healfwer was leaning on his
staff, still panting. Dad's stubbly
face was right next to his, smiling.
  "Dad? Did you call me?"
  His father smiled. "No. Did you hear me? I
didn't say one word. I just ran around after you,
trying to guess where you were going to come out."
  Then Radgar remembered the purpose of the
ordeal and looked down. He had kicked over the
lantern.
















                GESTE

                  Very

                  

  A burning log collapsed in a spray of
sparks and a waft of smoke. Wasp, being
closest and most junior, glanced inquiringly at
King Ambrose. Receiving a nod of permission,
he knelt to stoke the fire, which had wasted to glowing
embers.
  "So I knew my weird," Raider continued.
"And all the voices I had heard had just been a
single shout from the conjurer. That wasn't how it had
seemed to me; but both he and my father insisted that I
had barely hesitated--just jumped up and run
around the octogram once before I jumped out at
fire point. That meant, Healfwer said, that my
doom was not far off."
  "The college would like to hear about this conjuration,"
the King growled. "We shall instruct Grand Wizard
to discuss it with you."
  "I shall be happy to give what information I can,
sire, although after so many years I remember very little
of the ritual itself."
  Sir Janvier stepped forward, and Wasp handed
him the empty scuttle--passing it around the back
of the settle, of course, and not in front of the
King. Wiping his hands on his jerkin, he resumed
his seat to hear the rest of Raider's story. It was
still incredible to him that his best friend had turned out to be
one of the Baelish monsters, the savages who had
burned his family to death, callously driving
women and children back into the inferno. Raider was a
wonderful, caring person, not an inhuman fiend.
Yet the loving and well-loved father he was
describing had been the chief monster. These things
would need much thought.
  "I think my father would have liked to ride off again
that night, so anxious was he to tackle the
firedrake, but Healfwer insisted that warding against
fire could only be done at sunrise. I was
exhausted and I doubt my father was in much better
shape. I even doubt that the old hermit could have
managed three conjurations in so short a time, but as
it was we spent the night in his cabin and at dawn
my father and I stood and held hands in the
octogram, and he warded us simultaneously.
That was a much simpler and shorter conjuration. That is
how I became fireproofed, Your Majesty, as
I demonstrated to Your Grace earlier this
evening."
  "Tell Grand Wizard whatever you can about that
one, too."
  "I shall try, sire. All I can recall is
that it almost never mentioned fire itself. I had the
impression that all the other elements were being invoked
to repel fire. It was a long time ago and I was
young."
  King Ambrose adjusted his bulk in the leather
chair. "You're still not exactly old, yet you have
tucked a lot of living into your years." That was the
first half-agreeable remark he had made since
Raider had refused binding. "Tell us about the
firedrake."
  Raider smiled ruefully. "I was allowed
nowhere near it, sire, warded or not. When we
reached Waro`edburh, my mother was there. She put
me straight to bed and I slept the sun 'round.
Dad--my father took ship to Wambseoc right
away. The next two days were very anxious for us,
as you can imagine. My mother was distraught. But he
came sailing back a hero, even more of a hero
than he had been before. The experience had taken
toll of him, though. He went off
to Hatburna with no one but my mother and did not
return to the capital for almost a month. He
rarely spoke of his ordeal.
  "According to others' accounts, the drake
materialized high up on the slopes of
Fyrndagum during an especially violent
eruptive episode, and this is standard for the
horrors. As you might expect, firedrakes
have no fixed form, changing shape continually. They
may stay in one place for weeks or waste the
countryside for miles around, and yet are capable
of terribly swift movement, hunting people down
to kill them. They are spiteful--they routinely
destroy empty buildings, for example. They
seem to be vulnerable to wounds, yet no unwarded
man can venture near enough to their fiery heat
to inflict harm upon them. The Wambseoc drake
had destroyed three villages and was closing in
on Nor`eddael itself. My father rode out with Earl
Ufegeat--a nephew of the king he deposed--but
when they came within sight of the monster, he went on
alone. At first he wore sandals and some light
linen garments, but he had to shed those when they began
to burn. He carried a two-handed broadsword
and several times during the battle he had
to provoke the horror by stabbing at it. The
trophies hung in Cynehof include some that show
the touch of firedrakes. As a child I was
fascinated by a gruesome half-melted
breastplate that had belonged to my great-grandfather
Cu`edblaese. It still contained a few charred
fragments of him.
  "My father's purpose was to lure the monster to the
sea, and after two days' hair-raising effort and
ordeal, he was successful. The witnesses were
insistent that the thing resembled a bull. At times
it even looked like a bull, they said, but it was always
bull-like in its behavior. It soon learned
to beware of my father, but as he crept closer it
seemed to watch him. It tore up the ground as a
bull does, throwing rocks around. It blew
jets of smoke and fire and made deep bellowing
noises. And then it charged him. Just because he was
warded did not mean he was invulnerable--far from it!
The firedrake could have crushed him like an empty
eggshell or swallowed him up, burying him in its
own flaming mass. But water is the
firedrake's bane and it is curiously unable
to see even large quantities of water, although it
can certainly see people. In the end my father
dived from a rock into the surf and swam for his
life. He was a powerful swimmer and he had
rescue boats standing by offshore. The drake
plunged in right behind him and perished in great
explosions of steam and boiling water."
  Silence. Raider took a sip of water,
waiting for the King's comments or questions. A faint
tap on the door announced the refilled log
scuttle. Sir Janvier accepted it and brought
it around for Wasp to put by the hearth.
  "Well, that explains your trickery with the
candle," King Ambrose said. "What you still
haven't told us is how you came to be here, in
Ironhall." He flashed Wasp a
calculating look. "You must have arrived while the
war was still on."
  "Right at its end, sir," Raider agreed.
"It was 351 by your calendar, Eighthmoon to be
exact. ..."

                  

  Radgar's first chance to steer Groeggos came
when he was thirteen. He almost died of pride.
Had he tried it in the open sea, of course, the
steering oar would have flattened him against the side or
thrown him overboard like an apple core, but on
the gentle swells of Swi@thaefen he could
manage--just barely manage, for the channel was
narrow and the headwind eddied erratically off the
cliffs on either hand. Low as her freeboard was,
if he let her flank swing even a couple of
points she would turn her bow to the rocks
despite anything he could do.
  Radgar steering, big To`edbeorht beating out
the stroke. Radgar knew he was mostly
decoration, with Dad standing ready to grab the oar if
he fouled up, but he had done all right so far and
very few men ever had a chance to steer a dragon
ship, let alone lead a fleet of them. King
Aeled and his lady queen were journeying in state
to Twigeport with Atheling Radgar as helmsman!
It was a glory he had never imagined happening
until he was grown-up and the most dreaded ship lord
on the seven oceans. Groeggos sported her
dragon-head prow, which no ship except Dad's
was allowed to do in home waters. Her sail bore
the fiery crown emblem of the Catterings, and eight
other ships followed behind. Oars creaked, gulls
cried, and the familiar tang of the sea
tingled in his nostrils. He could imagine nothing
finer happening in his life if he lived to be a
hundred.
  Mom sat nearby on an ornate chair,
smiling as if she were impressed. Both she and
Dad were already dressed in regal splendor. She
had spent almost as much time prettying up her son
as herself, but the instant Dad had offered him the chance
to steer he had stripped off everything except his
breeches. The day was warm for late summer and he
was working his heart out in his struggle with the oar--port
or starboard as the wind shifted, up and down in time
to the swell, breath gasping, bare feet slapping
on the deck.
  He wasn't working one-hundredth as hard as the
rowers, though; all big men, all bare-chested,
red-faced, running sweat. There was no real
hurry, but when the King's ship was being escorted
by the whole fleet of Catterstow, they were on their
mettle to row every other crew to death. Hard as they
strained, they were still able to grin at their helmsman's
puny efforts and the desperate struggles that
followed every gust. He wondered wistfully when he
would have muscles like theirs. Why did growing up have
to take so long?
  "Take a breather, Son." Dad laid a
red-hairy hand on the oar. He did not seem
to exert himself at all and yet instantly it began
obeying him instead of Radgar.
  "I'm doing all right!" he gasped. "Aren't
I?"
  "You're doing very well. I'm really proud of
you, but I want to tell you something. There won't be
time when we arrive. Can you listen and steer too?"
  "Yes, lord!"
  Dad removed his hand. "Then do so. There may
be trouble at Twigeport. Lots of trouble. And
it could involve you."
  "Me?"
  His father grinned. "Imagine! You've been doing
so well at staying out of trouble lately that I
decided to start some for you." The grin faded. "No
joking, Son. You know why I called the moot.
It will be a stormy session."
  "Yes, lord." Peace! The moot was going
to hold peace talks with an ambassador sent
by King Ambrose. They were going to end the war that had
started before Radgar was born, and it would all be
over before he was old enough to fight in it. Dad had
ordered the witenagemot to assemble in
Twigeport, which was the port city of
Graetears, the shire at the north end of
Fyrsieg.
  "Don't repeat to anyone what I'm going
to tell you."
  "No, lord!"
  "I'd really prefer you just call me
"Dad," Radgar."
  "Yes, Dad."
  "The country's badly split. Some shires
are doing very well out of the war, and others would do
better from trade in peacetime."
  "Don't you decide? You're the king!"
  Dad smiled. "Yes, I'll decide, but it
helps to have all the arguments out in the open. There
are going to be days and days of wind and waffle,
too! This is how these things are done: Chivial
asked for terms, in secret. We sent our list
of demands, and I put in everything I could think
of--the Chivian crown jewels and King
Ambrose's head pickled in vinegar and--"
  "No!" Radgar squealed with laughter and then
hurriedly directed his attention back
to Groeggos.
  "Well, not quite, but close. Now the
ambassador has arrived with authority
to negotiate, but of course he's going to start
by rejecting just about everything we demanded. He may
even add a few demands of his own, like my head
on a pike or sending your mother home." He said
that loud enough for her to hear. "We'll refuse that, of
course."
  "Oh?" Mom raised eyebrows. "Suppose
I want to go back?"
  "What?" Radgar howled. "Go and live in
Chivial? You couldn't possibly--"
  "Of course I could. And I'll take you with
me."
  "Look out!" Father snapped.
  Groeggos shivered and began to swing to port.
Radgar heaved all his weight against the oar until
he thought every bone would break. Reluctantly she
turned her bow back on course again. Close
one! He managed to snatch one hand free for a
moment so he could wipe sweat out of his eyes.
  "If she wants to go, she is free to,"
Dad said as if nothing had happened. "She told
me last night she didn't want to. That was in
bed, of course. She had other things on her mind
at the time."
  Mom pouted and looked away. She never
enjoyed Dad's teasing on that subject. For some
reason it made Radgar uncomfortable too, although
he knew all men made such jokes.
  "Will the war end?" he asked wistfully.
Everyone had been debating that for days, but he had
not heard Dad offer an opinion.
  "I honestly don't know, Son. We
haven't heard the ambassador's terms yet, but
Ambrose wouldn't have sent your uncle if he
wasn't serious."
  "But you decide, lord?"
  "Yes, I decide. The earls will talk and
talk, but none of them will vote against a reigning
king unless they have a good challenger ready and are
sure that he's going to gather a majority. I would
know if that was in the wind and it isn't--I'm not
falling apart from old age yet! When the vote
comes, they'll all side with me whatever they really
want." Dad grinned his big grin, but Radgar
sensed the menace in it. He knew an angry king
could arrange a lot of trouble for any earl he
didn't like, even tanist trouble.
  "And do you want peace or war?"
  "I didn't start this war!"
  "No, lord!"
  "That's important, because the worst sort of
fight is the one you start and then lose--it makes
you look stupid as well as weak. The best sort
is when the other lad attacks you and you beat him
anyway. Then he's the fool as well as the
loser, and if there is guilt it belongs to him,
understand? That's why winners always make losers
confess that they started the fighting. And if they
obviously didn't, then they have to admit that they
forced the winners to attack them, so it's their own
fault anyway. Of course in this case it's
perfectly obvious that Chivial did begin the
war. King Taisson sent an insulting
ultimatum. Honor left us no choice but
to reject it, and they lost so badly that his son is
suing for peace, at last. But we are not going
to sign any treaty unless it begins with King
Ambrose admitting that his father was wrong to start the
war. He'll squirm like an eel before he
agrees to that."
  "Good!" Perhaps peace wouldn't come after all and
Atheling Radgar could grow up to be the dreaded
Ship Lord Radgar, flail of the Chivians.
...
  Dad chuckled and tousled his son's sweaty
hair as if he could hear him thinking. "You may
suppose it doesn't matter much whether King
Aeled or King Ambrose accepts the blame,
but it matters a whole lot! It especially
matters in a country like Baelmark, where the king can
be deposed. A king who admits to a mistake
is starting to list. Two mistakes and he
sinks."
  "You didn't make a mistake! They started
it and you won!"
  Dad grinned again. "That's right. Point
to starboard, helmsman. Now listen! There's going
to be a lot of argument in the witenagemot. About
half the earls are like me--they'll listen to the
terms and then make up their minds. But the war-forever
party has at least five sure votes, and so
does the peace-at-any-price party. I call
them the Bloods and the Wines, but don't repeat
that."
  Radgar nodded, keeping his eyes firmly on
what his ship was doing. "Yes, lord." It was
exciting to be trusted with state secrets like this.
  "And although I'll make the decision, I can't
ignore the witenagemot completely. I will
canvass the earls in private before we vote, and
in the end we'll probably all vote the same
way. But the talk isn't all fake and there will be
a lot of menace and bribery going on. The
Bloods have enough wealth to buy some Wine votes.
The Chivians will have brought sacks of gold and
bales of promises. Twigeport's the heart
of the Bloods, a hotbed of hotheads. I
won't be surprised to see butchery before this moot
is over."
  Shocked, Radgar glanced at his father and did not
like the grim look in his eye. The witenagemot
met at least once a year in Waro`edburh and
he could not recall there ever being violence worse
than the inevitable drunken brawls.
  "Swordplay?"
  "Swordplay, cudgels, knives in the
back. Perhaps even poison or enchantment. If
a tanist and his earl don't agree, then a
knife in the kidney is a quick way to switch a
vote. Swetmann is head of the Bloods.
He's violent and unscrupulous. He'll
play very rough if he has to."
  Swetmann was Earl of Graetears. He was
new, young, and heartily distrusted. A
few months ago he had challenged one brother
for the post of tanist and then another for the earldom
itself. Both had chosen to fight and had died in the
resulting duels. That sort of fratricide was
legal, but it did not bring a man much respect.
Worse, as far as Radgar was concerned, was that
Swetmann was a Nyrping and the Nyrpings were the
second-ranking royal house after the Catterings.
Swetmann might be a threat to Dad one day.
  "Then why did you summon the witenagemot
to meet in Twigeport?"
  Dad's eyes twinkled brighter than the
emeralds in his shoulder brooch. "Because Stanhof
is larger than Cynehof. Because it's traditional
courtesy to a new earl. Because I can keep the
Chivians in one city and stop them spying too
much. The one thing I don't want to hear is that you
or your mother have been taken hostage."
  Radgar squealed, "What!?"
  "It's possible. That's one way to change my
vote, which is the one that really matters."
  "But ...!" Radgar spluttered as he
realized the implications, and Groeggos almost
got away from him again. This time Dad had to lend a
hand--just one hand, and he did not even move his
feet. He made it seem so easy!
  "Yes, but you're a special person and very
important to me and to Baelmark. I had to bring
you, because you should meet your uncle, but I've told
Leofric to keep extra guards around me and your
mother. I've assigned Wulfwer to look after you."
  Wulfwer? Had Dad gone crazy? Radgar
glanced aft. Today his cousin was helmsman on
Ganot, bringing his father as part of the royal
escort. Wonderful!--Ganot had dropped
back in line, unable to keep up. Groeggos
had pulled three or four lengths ahead. So that
was why the rowers were grinning! No credit to his
steering.
  Cousin Wulfwer was twenty and a thegn now, one
of the largest men in the fyrd. He had gone
a-foering, boarded Chivian ships, swung
a sword in battle, sprayed Chivian
blood. He still wasn't popular, but he was much
esteemed as a fighter. A madman, men said
admiringly, and the scops compared him to a killer
whale. It was obvious that the cousins must eventually
contend for the earldom. It was true that Healfwer's
second hlytm had decided that water and not
Radgar would be Wulfwer's bane, but that
did not mean Wulfwer might not hanker to be
Radgar's. Mutual dislike was going to become
deadly rivalry in a very few years.
  "Is he the best choice, lord?" Radgar said,
trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact.
  Dad frowned. He disliked family disputes,
even when they were kept private. "I think so.
He's a surly brute, but he's not stupid, and
he's worth six other men in a fight."
  "I mean can you trust him not to cut my
throat?"
  Mom said, "Radgar!" He hadn't realized
she was listening.
  Dad shrugged. "He's being realistic,
Charlotte, and that's good. Yes I can, Son.
I know that one day your ambitions and his are going
to clash. I just hope the two of you can come to an
amicable agreement, as your uncle and I did, and
don't have to resort to steel. Kin slaying is a
crime most foul, even when it's legal. That's
why I not only charged Wulfwer with keeping you
safe, but I also made sure many people heard me
doing so. If anything happens to you in
Twigeport this week, he will never clear himself of
suspicion. Even if he isn't suspected of
having had a hand in the crime, it will always be
whispered that he did not try hard enough. Or
took a bribe. He knows that, so he knows that
whatever ambitions he has to succeed his father or me
depend on bringing you home safe this time.
Understand?"
  Radgar nodded. Then he grinned.
  "What's so funny?"
  "I have a very clever dad."
  Surprisingly, Dad did not return the
smile. He shrugged. "I hope you do, Son."

                  

  Just before the long fiord opened to the sea, an
ancient lava flow blocked it from side to side
to form a plain now occupied by the city whose name meant
"two harbors." To the south it had access
to Swi@thaefen, while the north side provided
the only anchorage in all Baelmark that foreign
ships dared approach without a local pilot
aboard. Twigeport was both a major port
and a logical site for invasion, and thus the site
of many historic battles.
  When the King's fleet approached the
shore, Radgar reluctantly yielded the steering
oar to To`edbeorht and began putting on his
clothes again. He judged the timing perfectly, so
that he finished just as the gangplank was being run out.
Mother frowned at the state of his hair and the
cross-gartering on his leggings, but she had no time
to do anything about them--which would have been an unbearable
humiliation in front of the crew. He wondered
if being continuously nagged was an affliction common
to all athelings.
  Earl Swetmann was on the quay to greet his
king, accompanied by eight other earls who had
arrived early for the moot--in time to do a little
preliminary conspiring, no doubt. Swetmann was
astonishingly boyish, with an easy, infectious
laugh and a guileless smile that did not match his
gruesome reputation. He knelt to Father to take the
oath of loyalty; presented Mother with a luxurious
sable cloak as a memento of her arrival in his
earldom; and when Radgar was introduced,
returned his bow with a lower one.
  "Atheling, you are indeed welcome, and your
reputation as a horseman has long preceded
you!" He beckoned without turning and a groom led
forward a snow-white stallion of at least
sixteen hands. "I know you will find our talk
boring, so pray accept Isgicel now to amuse
you while you are our guest. He will be shipped
to Waro`edburh when you depart, of course."
  Radgar had become blas`e about formal gift
giving. Anything of any real value he received--
gold-hilted daggers or jewel-encrusted belt
buckles--he had to surrender to the royal
treasury as soon as he went home or the
guests departed, whichever the case might be. But
a horse he might well be allowed to keep, and
he saw at a glance that if there was a steed in the
whole world to match his beloved Cwealm, this
Isgicel could be the one. He had no trouble
putting enthusiasm into his voice as he thanked
his host, however disloyal that made him feel.
  At this point in the speeches, smiles, and
embraces, fat Uncle Cynewulf rolled in
on a wave of hypocrisy, congratulating the
new earl on the support his fyrd had given him
and stopping just short of commiserating with him on his
sad bereavements. Radgar, fighting a strong
urge to leap onto Isgicel's back, found
himself suddenly shadowed by the looming shapes of
Cousin Wulfwer and his two closest
cronies, Frecful and Hengest, who were almost as
large as he was. Radgar could not look any of
them straight in the nipple. They closed in around
him, scowling and fingering their sword hilts.
  "I'm supposed to play nursemaid to you,
brat," Wulfwer growled. "Give me any
trouble and I'll beat you black and blue."
  "If you have trouble," Radgar retorted,
anxious to establish their new relationship on a
sound footing right away, "it's because you don't have enough
brains for the job."
  "That's one!" said Hengest. His name meant
"stallion," which was not what his parents had named
him at birth, of course. It was his nose and
teeth. ...
  "One what?"
  "Smart-ass remark," snarled Frecful.
"Two more and the pounding starts."
  "When did you learn to count that high,
Freckles?"
  Frecful did have freckles and was
notoriously touchy about them, being as boyishly
beautiful as Hengest was horse-faced. No
warrior should be so pretty or blush so easily.
He raised a threatening fist, but then Mother turned
and loosed a glare that cowed even Wulfwer's
private army.

  Being confined between two waterfronts and two
cliffs, Twigeport had necessarily grown
taller than other Baelish towns. Radgar
enjoyed exploring its cramped and narrow streets,
but it seemed unlikely that he would get the chance this
time.
  The procession to the hall was led by Dad and the
earls on horseback, followed by Mother and
Uncle Cynewulf in a carriage. Radgar
had been scheduled to sit with them, but Isgicel
provided a wonderful excuse not to. Even
better, his bodyguards had to hurry along on
foot beside his stirrup, sweating like pigs in the
heat.
  "Hold your heads up, lads!" he said.
"Smile at the nice people. Remember you're an
atheling's escort now. You can't help being ugly
but try to look worthy." And so on. The streets
were very narrow and although Isgicel was responsive,
he did not like strangers close to him. With very little
encouragement from Radgar, he managed to nip
Frecful, kick Hengest, and twice
slam Wulfwer against a wall. It all helped
improve the afternoon.
  Although built of stone and very large, the earl's
hall was otherwise a traditional one-story
barn, concealed by a forest of living quarters and other
outbuildings that had sprung up all around it.
Radgar wanted to see Isgicel stabled and then go
exploring on foot--preferably without his
unwilling guardians--but as soon as they reached the
palace he had to escort his mother to an
important preliminary meeting.
  A cniht led them to a small room two
stairs up. It was stuffy in the heat and stank as
if it had been used as a thralls' dormitory
for centuries, although at the moment it was furnished
with only a faded carpet and two chairs. The
paneling was old, split in places. Overhead
it was open to the roof of the building--rafters and the
undersides of the shingles. Mother surveyed the place
with great distaste.
  "I did ask for somewhere private. I can't
imagine anyone coming here voluntarily, so we
shouldn't be disturbed." She sat down and arranged
her skirts, trying to appear composed, but he
knew her too well to be fooled. He went
over to the poky little dormer window. It was
unglazed and the shutters stood as wide as they would
go, so it was doing the best it could to provide fresh
air. He leaned out, feeling a hint of breeze
on his face and smelling the sea. He could see
over many shingled roofs to the fortified north harbor.
There were dozens of ships and boats tied up at the
quay or anchored offshore.
  "Just remember, Radgar, that Chivians are
taught to expect all Baels to be barbarian
brutes. Try and behave like a gentleman."
  She had said this a hundred times in the last two
weeks. "Yes, Mother."
  They were awaiting the arrival of His
Excellency the Chivian ambassador, who was
Mom's brother Rodney, now Lord Candlefen,
an uncle he had never met. What Father had said
--just once--was, "Be polite and
respectful if he is. Be considerate of your
Mother, because this will be difficult for her. You need not
tolerate insults to you or your family."
"Family" in that case meant Dad himself, of
course.
  Most of the craft out in the bay were longships, but
some were cogs with two or even three
masts--decked craft that could carry a lot of
cargo but would roll abominably in the slightest
sea. They would be slow, too.
  "Remember this is a family meeting, dear.
We'll have no nonsense about princes taking
precedence. You are a boy meeting his uncle,
that's all."
  "Baelmark doesn't have princes, Mother," he
said patiently. "I'm just an atheling." Not all
of those merchantmen need be Chivian or even
non-Baelish, of course.
  "As far as your Chivian family is concerned,
you are a prince." She was not being very logical.
  "Very well, I'm a prince." But he could not
hope to become Dad's successor until he
had proved himself throne-worthy, and that would be much
harder to do if the war ended. So many roofs packed
together! No wonder Twigeport had bad
fires.
  "This is a very moving moment for me, dear.
Please don't do anything to spoil it! I can
trust you, can't I?"
  He turned. "Trust me with what?"
  "Trust you to be polite!"
  "Have you ever known me be anything else, Your
Grace?"
  She gasped. "Once or twice!" Then she
laughed. "You get more like your father every day!"
  He bowed. "You flatter me, mistress."
  She smiled approvingly. "Just keep that up
and--" She stiffened at a tap on the door.
"Come!"
  A man entered. Radgar was impressed at
once. The newcomer had dark hair and dark
eyes, which seemed bizarre in Baelmark, and so
did his hose, jerkin, and the white lace around his
neck, but something about the way he moved, the way
he scanned the room, suggested that he would be a
dangerous man to cross. The pommel of the sword
at his side was a gleaming golden gem. He
wasn't old enough to be Lord Candlefen, though ...
a bodyguard? He stepped back out of the room
without closing the door.
  "Was that a Blade?" Radgar whispered
excitedly. "Will Uncle have Blades guarding
him?"
  "Perhaps." She seemed amused, suddenly.
"He probably thinks we have wolves and bears
wandering the streets here. But if the King did
assign Blades to him it would have been just
recently. That man was too old."
  Of course! Radgar should have thought of that.
Blades were sort of enchanted house thegns. They
had a special cniht school of their own
somewhere, but then they were spiritually bound to their lords. So
a Blade couldn't transfer from one to another, and
any newly bound Blade would have to be young. It was
extremely annoying that Mother had seen that before he
did.
  A tall, very bulky man stumped into the room
and the door closed silently behind him. His hair and
beard were brown streaked with gray, his face was bright
red, and his breath rasped from the climb. On a
hot summer day, he was absurdly overdressed
in multicolored fur-trimmed cloak and padded,
slashed, embroidered jerkin, doublet, and
spirits-knew what else. He looked like a
festival decoration. Someone must have warned him that
Baelmark had a cold climate.
  "Rodney!" Mother cried, leaping up.
  The Chivian ambassador bowed stiffly.
"Madam!"
  She flinched as if he had slapped her.
Losing her balance against the chair she had just
left, she fell back onto it. Her brother
turned fishy eyes on his nephew.
  Radgar bowed and said, "My lord," which was less
than he had intended to say.
  "Hmm. You look very like your father."
  "Thank you, Your Excellency."
  Mother rose, more slowly this time. "What way is
this to greet us, Rodney? It has been so
long!" She advanced with hands outstretched.
  He ignored them, scowling at Radgar. "I
understood we were to have a private meeting,
Charlotte. That boy will tattle everything we say
to his father."
  "And what if he does? His father is my
husband."
  The ambassador's scowl made his meaty
face seem sulky. "His father is the pirate
who carried you off. We have never recognized your
abduction as a marriage."
  A tremor at the hem of her dress suggested
that Queen Charlotte had started tapping a foot,
which had been a danger signal all through
Radgar's childhood. In this case, for once,
he was neither the cause nor the anticipated
victim. When she spoke it was in her most
baleful tone, which even Father shunned.
  "I accepted him in front of witnesses!"
  "Do not remind me." Uncle Rodney eased
his bulk down on a chair and flapped pudgy
fingers at his sister. "Sit, woman. Those words
you spoke that day were the ruin of your family. We
have been cast out, vilified, impoverished, and
disgraced because you acquiesced in a public
rape." He was a taller man than Uncle
Cynewulf, and probably weighed a lot more, but
his flab seemed to be spread evenly all over
him, muscle gone bad. His Chivian silk
stockings were stretched over enormous calves.
Uncle Cynewulf had very skinny legs and a
belly like a lobster pot, which he followed
everywhere.
  Mother took her time sitting, fussily adjusting
her skirts. Radgar went to stand beside her and put
his hands behind his back because they were shaking. It was two
years since he'd thrown one of his mad temper
tantrums and he'd hoped he'd grown out of them.
Now he was not so sure.
  "I was merely," Mother said quietly, "making
the best deal I could for myself under the circumstances.
I did not understand that it was my responsibility
to defend the Park against raiders. I do not
recall that you made any effort to come to my aid
when my wedding turned into a public rape, as you
so charmingly describe it, although I am certain you
were wearing a sword. If you made any sort of
protest at all it has slipped my mind. I
do not even remember your expressing regret in
your letters. Of course the first one said little more than,
"Father is dead." And the second much the same:
"Mother has died. Weather continues fine." There
was a third about poor Rose and the cesspool. Just
three brief notes, in fourteen years! But you
did admit that you received mine."
  Radgar contributed a quiet snigger to help
the fight along. This Chivian fop didn't have a
chance. Even battle-blooded thegns were lucky
to escape with their balls if his mom went after them.
  The ambassador's florid face had turned
almost purple. "Every one of those letters was opened by the
Dark Chamber before we ever saw it. Anything we
wrote in reply was also intercepted, of course.
There was war, woman! We were suspected of
treasonous activities. Do you honestly think
your husband did not have his agents open your
correspondence likewise?"
  "Yes!" she snapped. Then,
softly again: "Aeled would never stoop to such a thing.
I freely passed your letters to him to read, else
he would not have touched them. Now enlighten me. Am
I to understand that the whole unfortunate scene at my
marriage was all my fault? Is that why you have
virtually ignored me all these years? Disowned
me?"
  The ambassador scowled at Radgar, as if
contemplating ordering him out of the room. "It was not
your fault originally, but by failing to defend your
honor you shamed us all."
  "Oh, did I?" Mom was dangerously mad
now, foot tapping audibly on the rug. "I'd
say it was my menfolk who failed to defend it for
me. Who tried to sell me to a leprous,
lecherous old goat. Who failed to take
adequate precautions only a few weeks after
the sack of Ambleport. Who lacked the
beallucas even to send me good wishes on my
birthdays in case the inquisitors thought they were
some sort of treason in code."
  For a moment there was silence. The ambassador
had apparently been struck speechless.
  "I do hope," his sister continued, "that I am
not to be held responsible for the war itself? Like
What's-her-name being carried off in a thousand ships
and the siege of Wherever-it-was?"
  "Go outside, boy," the Chivian said.
  "You stay right here, Radgar."
  "Yes, Mother."
  "Anything you have to say, Rodney, may be said
before my son. He is somewhat involved in this
discussion of his legitimacy."
  Her brother was growing redder than ever. "Am
I to understand that you have no wish to be returned to your
family?"
  "You understand correctly. However would you stand the
disgrace of having a pirate's castoff slave
underfoot? Aeled has been a model husband,
loving, faithful, and generous. I do not approve
of the manner of his wooing, but I have come to admire
him and love him dearly, and my only regret
at this stage is that I was unable to bear him more
sons as fine as this one." She was sailing close
to the wind now, because he had heard her describe
Father in much less flattering terms right to his
face. Quite frequently, in fact. Nor had
Radgar ever been a model son before. "The last
time anyone asked me that question was when your
predecessor came bringing threats of war
unless I was packaged up and shipped home.
Aeled offered to let me go and give me a chest
full of treasure to take with me. I refused
because it--"
  "I should hope so!" the ambassador wheezed.
"Having raped you, he would give you money and
make you a whore?"
  "Had I accepted it would have meant his death and
we both knew it. I had learned by then what
manner of man chance had given me. You may not be
able to understand the concept of greatness, but I assure
you--"
  Lord Candlefen hauled himself to his feet.
"There is nothing more to discuss. Clearly I need
not consider your plight during the negotiations."
  "Plight?" Mother yelled. "You sit down,
Rodney. Sit! I have not finished correcting
your contorted and misguided illusions. We shall also
discuss the matter of my inheritance now. Radgar,
wait outside."
  His Lordship did not sit down. Radgar still had
hold of his temper, but only by the tip of its
tail. Perhaps Mother had guessed that. He was not
lucky with uncles.
  "As you wish, mistress," he said. "Your
Excellency, I wish we could have met under more
favorable--"
  "Radgar!"
  "Let me finish, Mother. My lord, if you had
thought to ask in the streets here you would have learned that
my mom is cheered wherever she goes. I've seen
warriors who sacked Chivian cities, seized
its ships, waded in blood"--he was trying not
to shout now--"watched them honor her most humbly
and willingly, my mom, because she's the honored
queen of this land and any treaty that says she has
to go home won't get a single vote in the
moot, not one! You ask anyone! All over
Baelmark when they say, seo hloefdige, which
means "the lady," they mean my--"
  "Radgar!"
  "Yes, Mom." He made a leg and stalked
to the door. When he shut the door behind him, he
leaned back against it for a moment, shaking
violently. He had not lost his dragon
temper, although he might be going to have the sick
reaction that always followed it. He thought he had
done quite well under the circumstances. Not a bad
speech! He struggled to calm his breathing.
  Oh!--he had an audience.

                  

  The corridor was gloomy and stuffy, the only
window being at the far end. On his right, the top of the
staircase was hidden behind Frecful and Hengest,
Boehtric and Ordlaf--his bodyguards and
Mother's--who together represented enough meat to feed all
the wolves of Skyrria for a month. On his other
side, the ambassador's swordsman leaned
against the wall with his back to the light and the unruffled
confidence of a cat looking down at four hungry
dogs from the top rail of a safely high fence.
  Radgar bowed. "I am Radgar Aeleding.
Welcome to Baelmark, my lord."
  The foreigner returned the bow gracefully.
"Geste is my name, Your Highness. I am
honored indeed to be greeted by the King's son, for
I am a mere knight, no lord." He smiled but
his eyes never left the other men.
  "Don't worry about them. They're only
dangerous when they're sober. You're a Blade?
I've heard about Blades." He could believe
the stories when he looked at this soft-spoken
tiger. He was small by the standards of the Catterstow
fyrd and yet there was an unmistakable aura of
menace about him.
  "Ah, well, I was a Blade. Now I'm
not, not in the way you mean, just a knight in the
Order. I'm no longer bound to a ward, that is."
  "But that's a cat's-eye sword? May I
see it?"
  "Some other time, very willingly, Highness. At
the moment it's on duty." Still the dark eyes
watched the four bulls.
  "Please call me Radgar. We don't have
Highnesses in Baelmark, just lownesses like those
four." He was amused by the scowls of frustration
on the thegns' faces. They must know just enough
Chivian to tell he was making fun of them.
  "Pity. I was hoping the next king of
Baelmark would be half Chivian."
  "The present king already is. I'm
three-quarters, a mean and nasty mongrel. I
think you're going to be out of a job very shortly."
  For the first time Geste glanced right at him. He
was amused. "And why is that?"
  "Even as you stand here, my mother is tearing your
ward limb from limb."
  The Blade chuckled. "She's
outside my jurisdiction."
  The door flew open and his jurisdiction came
lumbering out, almost knocking Radgar over. He
paused to glare down at his nephew.
  "So you're Radgar?"
  "And you're Uncle Rodney." The dragon
temper twitched again.
  "Well, lad, I'll say this--I was quite
pleasantly surprised. Your mother has taught you
some manners."
  "You may be more surprised in future. My
father is teaching me to fight."
  Sir Geste uttered a loud guffaw. Even the
four walruses chuckled, probably judging more
by actions and reactions than words. Lord Candlefen
glared and marched away. They stepped aside to let
him pass.
  The Blade sighed. "Duty calls. My
respects to your royal parents, Prince
Radgar." He bowed, less deeply than before,
and strode off after the ambassador. The glowering
watchdogs let him through and he did not spare them
a glance.


  Radgar went back into the room. "Mother?"
  "Go away." She was standing at the window,
looking out. He realized that she was weeping.
  "But, Mother--"
  "Go away, please, Radgar." She did not
turn to him. "I'll be all right."
  He wondered if he should run and find Father,
then decided it would be very foolish. He'd seen
her weep often enough before. "Yes, Mother."
  He stepped out into the corridor and closed the
door. "The Queen wishes to not be disturbed!" he
informed Boehtric and Ordlaf. Being two of
Dad's house thegns, trained and run by Marshal
Leofric, they were good men.
  Frecful and Hengest, being Wulfwer's
cronies, were not. Whatever else might happen that
afternoon, no one would need or want Radgar Atheling
for anything until at least sundown and the feast in the
hall, probably not much even then. He opened the
door opposite and went in, slamming it behind him
confidently. Wulfwer knew his cousin's little
ways, but Beauty and the Beast should not be a problem.
  Fortunately the room was not presently
occupied, but he almost gagged at the reek. A
dozen bunks were stacked in the tiny
space and the owners had not washed their blankets in
generations. He plodded over a thick litter of
discarded clothing to the window, which was exactly like the
small dormer he had inspected earlier,
except that it faced south, of course. The
vertical bar dividing the opening made it a tight
squeeze even for him, but he pulled himself up and
wriggled out feet first, having to turn sideways
to get his hips and shoulders through.
  He sat on the sill with his feet on the
shingles and wondered how much of a splat he would
make if he slipped and fell all the way to the
ground. Would he just splatter blood on the road
or up on the walls of the houses too? He must
ask someone. Thegns should know because topmen must fall
out of rigging sometimes. Heights had never bothered
him and he would be a great topman on his first few
foerings, before he became a ship lord, and although
Mother would certainly shriek if she saw him now,
he was in no danger--his toes were at least two
feet from the edge.
  He had a fine view southward to the long
North Channel where he had sailed Groeggos
earlier, and he could see more dragon ships
approaching the port. In the distance Cwicnoll was
a hazy mass, looking more symmetrically
cone-shaped than it did from Waro`edburh. He
worked his way sideways, clear of the dormer, then
scrambled on all fours up the roof to the ridge.
There he found a slight breeze at last. Now
all the world was spread out all around him under a
cloudless blue sky--the tiny dots circling high
up must be fish eagles, and gulls watched him
curiously as they floated by. The town, the
cliffs, two harbors, Swi@thaefen's shiny
waters, and the grayer expanse of ocean northward
... The shingles were hot under his hands and
buttocks, but smoothed and silvered by many years of
weather, speckled with bird droppings, even
mossy in places. A few buildings away some
ceorls were repairing a roof. He waved to them and
they waved back. Last year there had been a big
hole in the town where a dozen houses had burned,
but it seemed to have been rebuilt already.
  If anything in life was certain, it was that
Hengest and Frecful could not work their shoulders through
that window; not even far enough to put their chins 'round the
corner and see where he was now. When they discovered
he had eluded them, their tiny minds would expect
him to head for the stables and Isgicel, so
he wouldn't. He had been assuming he would have
to wait out here for them to leave, but now he saw that
another of the palace buildings abutted this one at
right angles, its roof only a few feet lower
and equally well supplied with dormers. All the
shutters would be open on this sweltering day, so he
could go and find another staircase. He walked
along the ridge to the end, scrambled down almost to the
eave, and stepped over onto the other wing. Then it
was merely a matter of finding an open window and
slithering inwards, although that proved to be trickier
than coming out. The room he had found was a sleeping
chamber with some fairly decent furniture in
it--and he had a sudden worry that the door might
be locked, but it wasn't.
  He trotted downstairs, passed the guards
on the gate without challenge, and set off
to explore the town, starting with the north port.
Despite Dad's warnings about kidnapping, he
was certain no one would take that risk just yet.
Once everyone saw where the talks were headed, then
the weaker side might resort to violence. Not
today.
  It did not occur to him that there might be more than
two sides.


  As the sun dipped down behind the western wall
of the canyon, he came trailing back to the
palace compound. He was admitted when the
Catterstow house thegns among the guards on the
gate vouched for him; they gave him directions to the
royal lodging. He was hot, weary, and more than
a little nauseated. An hour earlier he had
discovered a woman peddling marvelous honey
cakes with raspberry custard in them, and had offered
a silver sceatt for as many as he could eat on the
spot, which had turned out to be eight. While
wondering what excuse he could give to stay away
from the coming feast, he managed to get lost in the
maze of high buildings. He knew he had found
his destination when he saw Leofric himself standing
outside a door talking to house thegn Ordlaf,
who looked like a giant lobster in chain mail and
steel helmet. Except lobsters didn't
sweat.
  The marshal acknowledged the atheling with a nod and a
studied frown. "You feeling all right, lad?"
There were times--many times--when Aylwin's dad
seemed to see better with one blue eye than other
men did with two good green ones. When the boys
had been small, they had believed his claim that the
emerald on his silver patch let him read their
thoughts. Even now, Radgar sometimes wondered.
  "Ate too many cakes, ealdor." Minor
sins were best confessed right away, especially those
that had brought their own penance.
  The thegn was less amused than expected.
"Wulfwer was looking for you."
  "Wulfwer couldn't find his face in a
mirror. Can't think why he'd want to, of
course."
  This time the frown was more serious. "I have seen the
thegn soaked in blood within a circle of dead
Chivians he has slain. I've seen him
turn a battle around single-handed. What feats
do you set against those? Have you wounds to show, loot
to flaunt? Is your birth so much more noble than
Wulfwer Atheling's that you are entitled to mock
him?"
  Yes! Wulfwer was thrall-born. Besides,
since dumpy Cynewulf had never fathered any
other children, plenty of people thought hulking Wulfwer
couldn't be his spawn anyway. But Leofric was
Dad's best friend, the only man in the kingdom who
could give the King's son a thorough thrashing and be
sure of the King's blessing on it. He'd done it
before and was capable of doing it again, by force if need
be.
  "Sorry, Uncle."
  The eyepatch glinted. "Are you still a child that you
call me uncle and play stupid tricks?"
  "No, Marshal. I was foolish. I will go
to Atheling Wulfwer at once and set his mind at
rest." Shouldn't be difficult--his mind was never
very active.
  Leofric set his jaw for a moment before he
decided to accept that apology without further comment.
"Top floor. We found you a room to yourself."
  "I am honored." It would be in character for
Wulfwer to snore like a pig.
  "With very small windows."
  "Oh."
  Leofric hesitated, glancing briefly at
the listening Ordlaf. He did not want the story
generally known, obviously. "I should report to your
father."
  "He has a lot on his mind just now,
ealdor."
  "Yes, so I won't if you give me your
word."
  Radgar managed a bow, which his overfull
belly did not enjoy. "I promise I'll be
a good boy."
  "I suppose there's a first time for everything," the
marshal said dryly.
  They both knew that direct orders were red
rags to Radgar but he would not go back on his word
when he had given it freely. Take orders from
Wulfwer? He went indoors feeling sicker
than ever.
  With the town full to bursting, even the house
assigned to the King must be packed like a fish
barrel. Four rooms and a staircase led off the
lobby. The ground floor would be reserved for the
guards and probably some of the elderly witan.
Probably Uncle Cynewulf, too, because he
hated stairs. So did Radgar at the moment.
Mom and Dad would have one of the rooms on the next
floor, and the rest of it would be reserved
for the queen's ladies-in-waiting and perhaps the
wives of those earls who preferred to sleep in
Stanhof with their house thegns.
  Phew, but it was hot! Another flight brought
him up under the roof, servant territory. Here
he had the choice of only two doors. Hearing
his cousin's braying laugh from behind one of them,
Radgar opened it and walked in.
  The chamber was surprisingly roomy and not as
breathlessly hot as he had feared, because it ran the
full width of the building and the dormer windows on
either side made a cross draft. It contained
two chairs, two narrow beds, and a straw
pallet, but it also contained Wulfwer, Frecful,
and Hengest, who were lounging on the beds, stripped
down to their breeches. They pretty much filled it
to capacity. Originally it had been larger, but the
far end was closed off by a crude plank wall
with a door in it, and that must lead to the private
quarters Leofric had promised Radgar.
  "Don't bother to kneel, lads," he said,
heading purposefully in that direction. Had he not
been feeling so queasy, he might have sensed his
danger in time. As he reached the door, a leather
belt slammed across his shoulders like a kick from a
mule, hurling him forward against the wood. He
yelled with pain and spun around, registering too
late the flushed faces and empty wine
bottles. The one who had struck him was
Wulfwer, still holding his baldric and leering. The
other two rolled on the beds, convulsed with
laughter.
  Radgar's only hope was speed. He dived
forward, feinting to the left, then dodged right and
actually won past his much larger opponent, who was
unsteady on his feet. Alas, Hengest stuck out
a foot and sent him sprawling. By the time he
sprang up again it was too late--Wulfwer was
blocking the door. The other two closed in on
their victim from behind, driving him forward.
  "Strip!" Frecful said. "We'll start with
twenty lashes from each of us."
  "You just dare!" On principle, Radgar never
appealed to his father's authority, but he knew that
this time he had bitten off enough to choke on. "My
Dad sees welts on me, he'll find out you
didn't watch me and I got away!"
  "That's true!" Hengest growled.
"Absolutely right. We mustn't put welts
on him, warriors. No bruises,
either."
  "Stand aside!" Radgar squealed, wondering
if the guards downstairs would hear a cry for
help.
  Wulfwer leered again, revealing a gap in his
teeth. "You're not going anywhere. This won't
leave a bruise."
  He swung. Radgar dodged the first blow
successfully and tried to block the second, but the
thegn's brawn knocked his puny hands aside and
slammed a massive fist into his abdomen.
Punch!
  Nothing had ever hit him like that before. He would have
gone flat on the floor if Frecful had not
caught him. He hung in the thegn's grip for a
moment, gasping, gagging, too shocked to speak.
  Then his temper exploded at the unfairness, and
from somewhere he found the strength to break loose and
swing a killer kick at his smirking cousin. It
very nearly connected, too. Wulfwer snarled and
swung his fist again. Punch!
  Frecful caught him again and held him. "Good
one. Try again."
  Wulfwer did. Punch!
  Hengest said, "My turn," and gave him two
on the chest, right and left, knocking all the air
out of him. Punch! Punch!
  Radgar found himself on the floor, knotted up
in a black mist of pain and bewilderment, croaking
in his efforts to breathe. He thought they had finished,
but horny hands hauled him upright for more--it was fun
to straighten him out and then curl him up again.
Punch! Punch! He lost count of the blows.
Punch! Most hit him in the stomach, some on the
chest or back. They stopped only when all the
honey cakes exploded out of him.
  "Yuck!" Wulfwer yelled. "You clean that
up right now, brat!"
  But Radgar was too far gone to hear--vomiting
and choking, turning purple. He heard voices
shouting, felt hands working on him, all in a
swirling mist. He began to bring up blood.
Suddenly his assailants were far more frightened than
he was. They thumped his back and got him
breathing again, but he continued to vomit bloody
mucus. He heard voices from far away--
  "Idiots, you ruptured his spleen, he'll
die!"
  "Got to get him to an elementary!"
  "Quiet, fools, there's women below
us."
  "Then mop up that blood before it starts dripping
on them."
  "Got to get him to an elementary--gotta
conjure him before he dies."
  "No! You want to hang for this? Aeled finds
out he'll hang all three of us whether the brat
lives or dies. ..."
  Die it would be ...

  Well, not quite. Radgar became aware that he
had been stripped, washed, and wrapped in a
scratchy, smelly blanket. Wulfwer was
kneeling beside him, steadying his shoulders with a thick
arm, offering him a drink of wine. He sipped some
to rinse the awful taste from his mouth.
  "You gonna be all right, Radgar?" the big
brute muttered anxiously. "Got a little
carried away there. Played rougher than we meant
to. Men games."
  Radgar didn't speak--breath cost too much
pain to waste--but he nodded. He wasn't sure
where he was or how he got there ... must be
hallucinating. Outside the door Hengest was
down on hands and knees as if washing the floor.
Thegns did not wash floors!
  Wulfwer lowered him gently to lie on the
pallet. It hurt horribly to straighten and more
to pull his knees up. Everything hurt. He
moaned and rolled on his side and managed to curl
up that way.
  "Don't suppose you feel like going to the
feast?" Wulfwer mumbled.
  Radgar closed his eyes. He was afraid the
brutes had broken something inside him. It was
all he could do not to weep aloud from the pain as he
continued to retch and cough, but he would not give them that
satisfaction.
  "Course you got nothing to wear," Wulfwer
said. "Frecful's rinsing out your things, but I
don't expect they'll dry in time."

  Later, as he lay with his face to the wall, he
became aware of Mother arriving in a flurry of
anger that quickly turned to alarm, a cool hand on
his forehead, a tattoo of questions: What had he
been doing? eating? drinking?
  Wulfwer's voice came from somewhere high above.
"'Fraid he got into the wine, Aunt. Sneaking
it behind our backs."
  "Radgar! How could you! How much did you
drink?"
  Nursing the throbbing furnace in his gut,
Radgar just wanted to be left alone to die.
"Too much," he moaned.
  He wished Dad had come instead. He didn't
think he could fool Mom. But apparently he
did, because she stood up with a jabber of serves you
rights, and turned her wrath on Wulfwer.
  "You, young man, have failed in the task the King
set you. The boy would not have taken up drinking all
of a sudden unless you and those loutish friends of yours
encouraged him. Since he is in no state to go
anywhere tonight, you will stay here and guard him every
minute, is that clear? And if I have any more
trouble with you, Cynewulfing, I'll have you demoted
to ceorl and out of the fyrd so fast your feet won't
touch the ground. If you can't watch a
thirteen-year-old for an afternoon, you aren't fit
to hold a sword. Do you understand? Clean up these
rooms properly. They stink." She stormed off
to go to the banquet.
  Wulfwer kicked him. "Now I really want
to break your neck."
  "I wish you would," Radgar whimpered.

                  

  By morning he realized that he was not going to die
soon, although he feared he might never again be able
to stand up straight. The room Leofric had
assigned to him was probably meant to be a
storage area, a narrow gap boarded off at the
end of the attic. At its best it was less than
four feet wide and only half that in the center,
where it was narrowed by the stonework of chimneys from the
lower floors. The two windows were mere slits and
he remembered Leofric's sneer about them.
  He took a long time getting to his feet, every
move a fresh agony. The outer room was a
litter of clothes, bedding, and three snoring,
naked guards. The girls Radgar had heard there
in the night had now gone. He hobbled over to the
door--holding himself almost, if not quite, upright--and
there found dear Cousin Wulfwer spread across his
path. Deliberately, of course.
  Radgar kicked him as hard as he could, which
wasn't very. It undoubtedly hurt him more than
Wulfwer. "Wake up!"
  The resulting growl would have done
credit to a bear roused from hibernation by an attack
of gout. It began with a What? that became an
agonized scream as daylight burned tender
retinas and tapered away into a murderous whimper
of Gobacktobed! The thegn covered his head with a
blanket.
  Radgar kicked again. "No. The first thing my
mother is going to do this morning is come looking for me.
This time I'll tell her what happened." He
wouldn't, of course. He would die first, but
Wulfwer could not count on that.
  Radgar used the other foot, harder. "Move!
I need to go pee."
  Wulfwer groaned piteously. "Just a
minute. Find my clothes." He had realized
that--today at least--Radgar had him exactly where
he wanted him.

  Stanhof was bigger than Cynehof, although not so
high, and its walls were of stone as its name
implied. It displayed no awesome array of
battle honors, but for some reason voices were
easier to hear in it, and its sheer size turned a
witenagemot into an imposing spectacle.
  Stools and benches had been set out in a
triangle. Northern earls would sit on one
side, southern on the other, with the moot reeve
presiding on a throne at the apex. The witan
proper--mostly elderly deposed earls and a
couple of former kings--would sit along the base of the
triangle. Today some stools had been placed in
the center for the Chivian emissaries. Dad
rarely acted as his own moot reeve. If there was
anything serious to be discussed, he would appoint
someone else to keep order while he took his
place among the other earls. They liked that, he
said, and since he was now the longest-reigning of the
northern group, his seniority put him next to the
throne anyway. Cnihtas and pages trotted
around the outside, carrying messages. Tanists,
wives, sons, and other spectators sat or
stood wherever they could find room at the far side
of the hearths.
  It took a long time for everyone to assemble and
find correct places. There were open mutters of
disapproval when Uncle Cynewulf took the
throne. Dad's most frequent choice for moot
reeve was Chancellor Ceolmund, his
predecessor as earl. Although the old man's
back was so bent now that small boys
followed him in the streets shouting insults, his
wits and honesty were widely respected. Perhaps
Dad thought Ceolmund would have enough to do in the
negotiating to come, or perhaps he was showing his
support for his tanist. Uncle Cynewulf was
little respected, because he had only gone on one
foering in his whole life; now his age and
potbelly and bulging red nose did not fit the
picture of a Baelish thegn. His only
qualification was being the earl's brother. Wulfwer
looked mightily pleased to see his father take the
chair, because there was open talk around Waro`edburh
that it was time to find a new tanist. The most
talked-about alternative was Brimbearn
Eadricing, who was probably the best ship lord of
them all--after Dad, of course--and also a
Cattering, albeit on a very minor branch, one
not considered royal. Radgar liked Brimbearn
and would not mind him holding the office until he was
ready to take it over himself.
  He had managed to avoid close contact with
Mom, merely waving to her from the far side of the
hall so she would know he was alive. The rest of the
time his bad-tempered, bloodshot bodyguard
clustered around to keep him from public view lest
anyone report back to the Queen that her son was
a walking corpse. He wanted only to go back
and die quietly in his bed, but they found him a
stool and closed in on him like battlements. He
settled for that, leaning against Hengest's bulk and
paying very little attention to the proceedings.
  A herald called for silence and eventually got
it.
  The moot reeve informed His Majesty that the
witenagemot of Baelmark had answered his
summons, as if he were blind and could not see that for
himself.
  Dad rose and explained to the assembly that the
King of Chivial, having realized that his nation had
lost the war, was humbly suing for peace and he,
King Aeled, being ever mindful of the advice and
counsel of the noble earls, wished to hear their views
on the terms he should impose on the warmongers.
There was much cheering. A herald then read out the
text of the safe-conduct that had been granted the
Chivian suppliants. This was really a list of
Baelmark's terms for peace, and if it did not
require the delegates to bring with them the head of
King Ambrose pickled in vinegar, it hinted that
this might be a good idea. Wulfwer and his
friends were bored already, while Radgar just wished he
felt well enough to follow what was going on.
  The Chivian criminals having then been
summoned, half a dozen very grandly dressed
delegates followed Ambassador Lord
Candlefen in and took their places in the center of the
triangle. Radgar, rousing himself to see how
Uncle Rodney was doing, was amused to notice
that the stools provided for the honored delegates
were considerably lower than anyone else's, leaving
the honorable gentlemen sitting almost on the
floor.
  Lord Candlefen, having been given permission
to address the throne, announced that His Glorious
Majesty King Ambrose IV of Chivial had
responded to the pleas of the defeated Baelish
pirates by extending them most lenient terms. A
herald read out the Chivian counterproposals in
both languages. It was obvious that the two
sides were a long way apart, but Dad had warned
Radgar that this would be the case.
  When Uncle Rodney sagged back down on
his absurdly low stool, Uncle Cynewulf
rose from his chair and pointed out that the two opposing
lists of terms, although differing widely in
detail, did follow the same subject order
and hence he would make that the agenda. He suggested
that the meeting begin at the beginning and called for
discussion of the Preamble. Several earls sprang
up, but one of them was Earl Aeled of Catterstow,
who was recognized at once.
  "Honored ambassadors and colleagues,"
Dad said. "Is it not obvious that the issues that
have been addressed first in the exchange of notes
are the most contentious? Reasonably so, of
course. The final points all deal with matters
of less significance, and some are completely
routine. Why do we not then begin at the end and work
forward, hoping that early agreements on minor
matters will hasten a sense of progress and a spirit
of compromise to aid us when we come to the more
difficult negotiations?" He sat down.
  Uncle Cynewulf called for discussion, but
no one was going to argue with the King over a mere
point of procedure, so it was declared agreed that the
provisional agenda would be followed in reverse
order. Witan and diplomats shuffled their
notes rapidly.
  "Clause Twenty-eight," the moot reeve
proclaimed, "mutual recognition of
passports."
  Standing up was easy; straightening was not, but
eventually Radgar could square his shoulders enough
to let him meet Wulfwer's glower. "Nothing is
going to happen for hours, if not days. Let's
get out of here."
  "There are times this brat makes sense," said
Frecful.
  Most people had not yet realized that there would be no
interesting shouting until tomorrow at the earliest, and the
throng was still thick enough that Radgar would have made little
progress through it on his own. His escort plowed
it aside like hay for him, but just as they reached the
great doors--
  "Radgar the Terrible! All hail!"
  Radgar stopped and his bodyguard
reluctantly opened a gap so he could blink at
the speaker. "Huh?"
  "What's the matter with you, Youngling?" It was the
Blade, Sir Geste.
  "Hangover."
  "Oh?" The dapper little swordsman could convey
more disbelief with one eyebrow than most people could with a
complete face. "You look as if a horse
kicked you in the belly."
  "It was three mules."
  Most people would have taken that remark as a mere
joke. Sir Geste said, "Indeed?" and looked
over the Wulfwer private army. "Any
particular three?"
  "No. Just some bad mead."
  Amusement shuffled the Blade's narrow
features into a wry sort of grin. His
fingernails drummed a tattoo on his scabbard.
"Sure? If you need your initials written in
scar tissue on anyone's forehead, Youngling, you
have only to ask. Happy to oblige. Antique
scripts a speciality."
  Wulfwer and Hengest decided to glare
menacingly, which was one thing they did well. They
did not ripple Sir Geste's sails at
all.
  "In hard cases," he added, "I have been
known to include a dedicatory message or
brief poem."
  Radgar considered laughing and decided it would
hurt too much. He did manage a smile.
"I'll keep your kind offer in mind, sir.
Shouldn't you be over there defending your ward?"
  "Nothing I can do. They're going
to laugh him to death and I can't fight ridicule."
He glanced thoughtfully at the three tame bears.
"Any of these lunks know Chivian?"
  Something in his tone sent a tremor of interest
through Radgar's curtain of pain and nausea.
"They can't speak it. They may understand some of what
you say, though."
  "Then I'll talk quickly and look innocent.
The moot and the Chivian commissioners will argue
back and forth on every single point, right?
Eventually, they will come to a compromise somewhere between
what your father demanded and what King Ambrose
conceded in his reply, right? Your father can yield as
much as he wants, but Candlefen can only go as far
as his instructions allow him to go. He was given
limits. You with me so far?"
  "Er ... yes, sir."
  Geste flashed a piratical grin and lowered his
voice to a whisper. "I can tell you what those
limits are, Youngling! I can tell you exactly
what and where and how much, and your dad would give a
private harem for that information. Too young for
harems? A private dragon ship with crew?
Whatever you want. Interested?"
  Radgar glanced around him in disbelief, half
expecting the hall and its inhabitants to dissolve
in mist. He was encircled by four swordsmen and
everybody else was intent on the proceedings and not
close enough to listen anyway. "Who're you trying
to sucker, Chivian? A Blade betraying his
ward?"
  The strange dark eyes flashed anger.
"Never! Candlefen's no ward of mine, Youngling.
The old king was. I spent five years on
Starkmoor, learning to be the sixth best
swordsman in the known world. Taisson himself bound
me, so I spent another ten years in his Royal
Guard--defending a sick old man who never
went anywhere, bored, bored, bored! A waste
of a life, that's what it was! Then he dies and
his son takes the throne, so it's "Arise,
Sir Geste!" and that's that! Unbound.
Dismissed. Not a single word of thanks. I mean
that--not one! After fifteen years!"
  "Doesn't sound fair."
  "It wasn't. Even aging swordsmen have
to eat. Your precious uncle ranks no
Blades of his own, so he hired me and one other
to guard his backside on this trip. If I
hadn't been ready to starve, I'd have
spat in his eye for what he's paying me."
  Radgar's brain was not working as fast as usual
today, but even so he could sense that there could be vital
information involved here. "You betray your King because you
don't like the master you chose to serve?"
  The look on the Blade's face made
Wulfwer and Frecful grab for their sword
hilts, but he ignored them.
  "Don't push me too far, Youngling! All
I'm offering to do is to speed things up a little.
Chivial desperately needs peace. It's bled
white. Ambrose has given Candlefen incredible
limits, but that disgraced uncle of yours is
desperate to make a name for himself by driving the
hardest bargain he can. He'll drag this out for
weeks and weeks, and meanwhile the fighting goes
on; men and women are dying."
  Dad should know about this offer. "What's your
price?"
  Sir Geste grinned and ruffled Radgar's
hair--a move that normally drove him to fury but
this time seemed quite fitting, conspiratorial. "I
like the look of your old man. I think he'd be
fairly generous under the circumstances. And I
trust you to tell him where you got the information."
  "It could still be a trick."
  "It could. So your father won't believe you." The
Blade sighed. "Well, it was worth a try.
..." He began to turn away.
  "Wait! It still is. Tell me."

  With all the cnihtas coming and going, nobody
noted Radgar when he shimmied up behind Dad and
tapped his shoulder. One of the silver-haired
witan was on his feet, droning out an
appraisal of the wording.
  "Radgar!" His father looked around and frowned,
then took another look. "What's wrong with you?"
  "Hangover. Listen, lord! I've got a
spy in the Chivian camp."
  The frown became a royal glare capable of
melting steel. "Radgar!"
  "It may be a trap, but you can test it.
Clause Twenty-five: You demanded a waiver
of all import duty on salt fish for ten
years. The envoys will offer one third for five
years, but they can go as far as waiving all of it for
five years and half for the next five." He was
young and his memory was fresh as dew. He could
parrot back what the Blade had told
him word for word, even the bits he did not understand.
"Clause Twenty-three: Chivial will pay an
indemnity of ten thousand gold crowns every year for
eight years and five thousand for another four.
Clause Twenty-two: No prejudicial
treaties with other states for the next fifteen
years without reciprocity." And so on--fishing
rights, harbor fees, consular privileges,
clause after clause.
  Dad's eyes grew wider and wider, his face
redder and redder. At the end he said only, "Where
did you get this?"
  "Told you--I got a spy! Oh, Dad,
Dad! He says to test it. If you can beat
Uncle Rodney down on Twenty-five and
Twenty-four to the limits I said, then you'll know
the rest is right, won't you?"
  "You little fiend! What comes after? You stopped
at Fifteen."
  "He says you won't get that far until tomorrow,
and he wants to talk terms before that. I think he
wants land!"
  "I bet he does," his father said softly.
"Yes, it could be a trap, but the gamble is worth
it. Go away. Stay away unless I send for you.
Don't talk about this. But tonight I'll either
abdicate in your favor or make your butt so
sore you won't sit down for five years.
Fair enough?"
  He grinned so widely that Radgar laughed and
immediately wished he hadn't. Until then, he had
forgotten his aching gut.
  "I'll make you my chancellor."

  The King beckoned a cniht and sent a
message. In a few minutes, when the meeting
had finished with the trivialities and reached
Clause Twenty-five, the item that was sure
to start serious wrangling, Earl Ae`edelno`ed of
Su`edecg rose to insist that Chivial must waive
all custom duties on imports of Baelish
salt fish for at least the first ten years of the
peace, which was exactly what King Aeled had
originally demanded, giving no ground at all.
Earl Swetmann and the other Bloods cheered and
stamped their feet.
  The ambassador protested, but after consulting with
his advisors he stated that he would agree to a
total waiver for five years, with a lesser
reduction of half for the next five, as
a token of his desire to speed the negotiations to a
favorable conclusion, and so on. Those were the numbers
Radgar had prophesied. Dad was already sending more
messages.
  His Excellency stopped smiling when he heard
the demands on Clause Twenty-four. This time
he tried to bargain, but the Baels refused
to budge. When he conceded, it was time for
Twenty-three. Several times the talks seemed
about to break down and always it was the Chivians who
yielded. All through a long, hot day, the hapless
ambassador twisted and squirmed in the center of the
triangle, pleading, threatening, sweating, and
progressively retreating, while his nephew
watched from the sidelines with no pity whatsoever.
  Radgar had abandoned thoughts of taking his
injuries back to bed, preferring to stay and watch
the results of his meddling, surviving on a diet
of goats' milk fetched on demand by his hulking
nursemaids. Even the agonizing cramps that
tied up his gut periodically had a bright side,
in that they sent his bodyguard into sheer panic. He
did embellish them a little, but not much. The fact
was that Wulfwer, Frecful, and Hengest had almost
killed the King's son and in the sober light of day
they could appreciate that one word from their victim
could ruin them utterly. By afternoon he was feeling much
better.
  At one point Queen Charlotte appeared with a
small flock of noble wives and daughters in
attendance. "Are you all right?" she demanded
suspiciously.
  "Of course I'm all right. I'm all right,
aren't I, lads?"
  Yes, yes, they said, Radgar was all right.
  "You enjoy watching over me, don't you?"
  They agreed they did. They admitted it was an
honor to guard the atheling. They even conceded there was
nothing they would rather be doing. He considered this more fun
than watching them being flogged. He still had that option
in hand.

  An hour or so later, during one of the brief
adjournments, a pock-faced cniht summoned
the atheling to his father, who had gone outside for some
air and was now lurking in a shadowy corner near the
kitchens. He grabbed his son in his arms and gave
him an almighty hug. Caught by surprise and
forcibly straightened, Radgar cried out.
  "What's wrong?"
  "Bit my tongue." That was true.
  Fortunately the King was too exultant to question.
He set his son down and thumped his shoulder. "It
worked! Everything you said was right! Magnificent.
Who told you?"
  Radgar peered around, but there was no one close
enough to eavesdrop except his faithful minions,
who were staying well back. He switched
to Chivian anyway. "The ambassador's
bodyguard, Sir Geste."
  Dad frowned. "A Blade? I didn't
know he'd brought a-- You're saying a Blade
betrayed his ward?"
  "A retired Blade--he's not bound
anymore. He doesn't care much for Uncle
Rodney. Or King Ambrose. He says he
trusts you to reward him. He ... What's
wrong?"
  "Nothing, nothing. Just seems odd that ...
I'll be glad to reward him. You'd better
keep away from him. He may be in danger, because
the Chivians must be on a traitor hunt by now.
We need to talk terms so he'll tell us the
rest of the secrets. How do I get in touch with
him?"
  "He said he'll be at the Blaec Hors
Tavern for an hour after the ambassador
returns to his ship." Radgar sniggered. "I
told him I'd send Hengest to fetch him. He
agreed that he couldn't mistake that face."
  The King did not seem as amused as Radgar
expected him to be at the implications of sending
Stallion to the Blaec Hors. He beckoned
Wulfwer forward. "I'm about to have your father adjourn
the moot for the day. I want Hengest to report
to me then. Meanwhile, don't let your guard
down. The Bloods can see where this is heading.
If there's going to be trouble, it will come tonight."
  Wulfwer growled, "All right."
  "What?"
  "Lord, I mean! Yea, lord!"
  "You're on duty, thegn," Dad said icily.
"That means you and your men stay sober until I
say otherwise. There will be one of you awake at
all times, and no women! You will not be warned
again."
  An expression of pure agony twisted
Wulfwer's brutish face grotesquely.
"Yea, lord. Happy to serve, lord." As soon
as Dad had gone, he added, "Now I
really want to kill you, brat. No drink, no
girls? Oh, by the eight, do I want to wring
your neck!"
  "You should address me as Your Royal
Highness," Radgar said.

                  

  Many things must have happened that night unbeknownst
to the impudent atheling--secret meetings in which the
various factions bargained, conspired, and betrayed.
One illicit act that the King had expressly
forbidden happened right outside Radgar's
cubbyhole and, although he was aware of it, he was not
old enough for the thegns' lechery to disturb him unduly.
It gave him one more hold over them, in fact.
He certainly wouldn't let girls make a
fool of him like that when he grew up! He
pulled a pillow over his head and went to sleep
while the absurd nonsense was still in progress.
  He awoke at dawn feeling almost his old
self. The witenagemot did not convene until
noon and several earls appeared much later. The
mood was grim. Lord Candlefen was clearly
determined to refuse the sort of humiliating
concessions he had made the previous day, while
the Baels had the smell of blood in their
nostrils. Numerous thumping headaches did not
improve the prospects for compromise or
reasoned debate.
  When the moot reeve called for discussion of the
next clause, it was Earl Swetmann who
rose to speak. The spectators murmured in
surprise, for none of the Bloods had
participated in the debate the previous day. From
the Chivians' point of view the change was no
improvement. The baby-faced thegn bargained like a
blacksmith's hammer, ignoring all arguments and
leaving the envoys no choice except to take it
or leave it. Reluctantly they took it.
Swetmann smiled contemptuously and sat down.
  On the next clause another Blood took
over and did the same thing. Radgar noticed that his
Baelish uncle--the one on the throne--was
openly smirking, while his Chivian uncle--the
one in the cockpit--was aghast, his normally
florid face pale as a fish belly. The
clash of the fat uncles!
  Being more aware of the background than most people,
Radgar soon realized that King Aeled
must have taken Swetmann and his supporters into the
plot and given them the pleasure of making the enemy
bleed. But if the Bloods had accepted that
enjoyable task, they must have agreed to support the
treaty that would result. It would be sufficiently
lopsided to satisfy even them.
  For a long time it did seem that the Chivians
would balk. Proceedings became exceedingly
boring, an endless drone of speeches. The
limits the ambassador had been given were
fallback positions; he was not supposed
to retreat that far on every point. Lord Candlefen's
diplomatic career was in ruins. Several times the
moot was adjourned to let him consult his
advisors. Radgar daydreamed, wondering if his
bruises would permit him to take Isgicel out.
Dad just sat and listened patiently, revealing
nothing.
  Hour by hour, clause by clause, the
Chivians conceded. They tried a desperate last
stand on Clause One, which dealt with the end
to hostilities and the return of prisoners. Many
captured Baels languished in Chivian
jails or labored in Chivian mines.
Baelmark was demanding that they all be sent home
at once, no matter what they had done or were
accused of, yet it absolutely refused to give
up its far more numerous collection of Chivians.
Most of them had been sold into slavery in distant
lands and those still available had been enthralled--so
what use would their families have for them anyway?
Nothing could have been more unfair or one-sided, but
if Dad was going to insist on his position, then he
must know that the other side had authority to grant
it.
  As the light began to fade, a haggard Lord
Candlefen rose and mumbled almost inaudibly,
"We could probably accept something resembling
those conditions if a satisfactory text for the
Preamble can be negotiated."
  Some of the spectators started a cheer, but it
soon faded into puzzled silence. Uncle
Cynewulf ordered the two conflicting Preambles
to be read out in both languages. Radgar, for
one, knew that these innocent-seeming introductions
contained what Dad had warned would be the most
deadly sting of all, the admission of guilt. Had
Lady Charlotte's marriage to King Aeled
been legal under the laws of Chivial? If so,
then the late King Taisson should not have
implied otherwise and launched a war. If not,
then Baelmark should have returned the lady and handed
over her abductor. What was Lord Candlefen's
fallback position on that?
  A hard one, apparently, because for the next hour
he fought like a cornered badger to have his nephew
Radgar declared a bastard. Baelish speakers by the
dozen insisted that the lady had consented. As the sun
drew close to setting, it became clear to everyone
that the ambassador's instructions on that point
left him no room to yield. Earl Swetmann
and his cronies brightened considerably.
  King Aeled rose to be recognized. He had
not spoken since he made the first speech the
previous day.
  "Your Excellency," Dad said--his voice
was soft, forcing silence on the hall--"clearly we
can never agree on this matter. It is a vital
point in honor and yet in practice a very
small one. Why prolong the bloodshed and suffering
because of something that happened almost a generation ago?
Everything else has been agreed. Your
Excellency, let us just omit the Preamble
altogether. Say yes and we can end this war now, this
minute."
  Ambassador Candlefen did not consult his
advisors, he just sat, hunched over, thinking
awhile. Then he struggled wearily to his feet
and said resignedly, "I have repeatedly explained
that my instructions require me to see that the
Preamble includes those assertions of fact that I
previously--"
  "Then ignore your instructions!" King Aeled
roared. "Because I will not negotiate shame on my
wife and son. I will waive confession by the
guilty, but farther I cannot go. Take what I
offer now, or I declare this witenagemot dissolved
and give you until noon tomorrow to quit my realm!"
  For a dozen breaths nobody breathed. Then
Uncle Rodney sighed and nodded. Even when the
King strode forward to clasp his hand and Stanhof
erupted in thunder, the ambassador continued to hang
his head morosely, as if he was expecting
to lose it when he got home. No matter, the
war was over.
  The peace could now begin.

  Even in Twigeport, that hotbed of hotheads
as Dad had called it, the treaty was greeted with
exaltation. This was not merely peace, it was
victory, and the bloodiest of Bloods could not
quibble over the terms. The feast in Stanhof that
night was stupendously raucous. The Chivian
delegation dined with Dad and the earls at the high
table, leaving no room there for wives, so Mom
and the earls' ladies had to sit at another.
Radgar, to his bottomless disgust, was put with
them, which was unutterably dull and humiliating.
In one more year he would be a cniht and wear a
sword instead of just a stupid dagger.
  There were lots of good speeches to listen to,
though, and not the usual militant bragging and
promises, but true tales about past battles
and triumphs. No one would stop talking long enough
to let the scops sing--not, that was, until one of
them started up "Hlaford Fyrlandum," that
rousing marching song about old Catter. At once
everyone joined in and eventually Dad had to stand and
take a bow. Some of the earls hoisted him shoulder
high and bore him around the hall until it seemed
the volcanoes themselves must soon start complaining about
the noise. Radgar was so proud he thought he would
burst. Had any king of Baelmark ever been so
popular? Yet there was even better to come.
Swetmann and another young earl swooped down on
him and lifted him up also and marched him around behind
Dad as the next Cattering. The crowd cheered itself
hoarse. The honor was Dad's not his, of
course, but it felt so good he had to fight back
tears.
  He saw even Wulfwer, Hengest, and
Frecful laughing and singing and waving to him. They were
as drunk as any, because Dad had declared their guard
duty ended. No one could gain anything by violence
now. One person he did not see anywhere was
Sir Geste. If the Blade's treachery had
been discovered, he was probably at the bottom
of the fiord.
  When everyone had tired of "Hlaford
Fyrlandum," when both king and atheling had been
returned to their places, then the young men of the fyrd
began singing the sort of song that Mother would never stay
to hear. She had already endured much more of this feast
than she did of most, and now she announced that she
was ready to retire. Some other women murmured
agreement. She nailed Radgar down with a warning
glare, because he had been known to disappear under tables
at this moment, but in truth he was weary enough to behave
himself for once. After being carried shoulder high around
a mead hall, what more could a man ask
of a day? And so the first ladies of Baelmark--or
most of them--rose and curtseyed to the King and their
lords, indicating that they were departing.
  "I hope," Mother said with a disapproving glance
around the hall, "that we can find a sober man or
two to escort us." Most of the earls were past caring
what happened to their wives in the next few
hours, although Dad had noticed her problem and
beckoned for a cniht to carry his orders to someone.
  "Indeed the very best." Uncle Cynewulf
strutted out of the throng. "I have a pounding headache
and can stand no more of this. You will permit me the
honor, mistress?"
  "The honor is mine, Atheling," Mom said.
  Ha! What could he do if some drunken young
thegns got uppity? Knock them down with his
belly? Mom had very little use for her
brother-in-law at any time, but she never
revealed her feelings about him in public. She
accepted his arm with a smile of thanks. Radgar
followed them out of the hall, into the cool night wind
and comparative quiet, although the din in the hall was
still quite audible out in the alleys. He managed a
quiet chuckle when they reached the royal
quarters, seeing that, while Dad had let down his
guard, the ever-cautious Leofric had not. He was
there in person, with two staunch house thegns beside,
both looking very glum at having missed the
festivities.
  "You display a commendable dedication to duty,
Marshal," the tanist remarked with barely a hint
of sarcasm, although he and Leofric rarely said
anything good of each other.
  "A job worth doing is worth doing right," the
one-eyed man answered sourly. "That treaty is
not signed and sealed yet."
  Radgar said a polite goodnight to his uncle
inside the front door. Almost asleep on his
feet, he trudged up the stairs behind Mom and
endured her hug and kiss outside her room.
Then he could escape to his private aerie under
the eaves, too tired to care that the cubbyhole was
still breathlessly hot from the day. Without removing his
tunic or leggings, he hauled off his boots and
flopped down on his mattress, expecting to be
asleep in seconds.
  It took longer than that. Too much had
happened. He would have to adjust to the idea of
peace, for he could not guess what changes it
might make to his life. Rowdy
crowds went past the building, celebrating.
Soon he heard women's voices sifting up
through chinks in the floorboards, but that was not
surprising when Mom's ladies-in-waiting were
billeted directly below him. Later a rumble of
male voices joined in, but that, too, must be
expected. The younger thegns could always find better
things to do than drink and sing and quarrel all
night.

                  

  He was dragged up from bottomless sleep
by shouting a long way off. He muttered angrily
and turned over. The noise faded. ... Good!
Why did he feel something was wrong? He
resisted, reluctant to waken, but eventually he
sneezed. Smoke, he thought. Smoke drifting
up through the floorboards.
  Smoke? He sat up, coughing. Spirits! He
was on the top floor of a wooden building and his
room was full of eye-stinging smoke. The night was
very dark, with nothing visible except vague
outlines of the two slit windows and not even his
slender form could squeeze through those. He could hear
voices a long way off, but whether inside or
out, he could not tell. He scrambled to his
feet, banged his head on the gable roof, lunged
for the door. It was bolted. He screamed and tried
to kick. Bare feet. Dropping to hands and knees
--and yelling as loud as he could between coughing fits--
he found his boots. Then he was back at the
door, kicking it, pounding fists, screaming.
  Fire was his bane.
  "Wulfwer! Hengest! Frecful!" Why bolt
the door? They had not done that the last two
nights, even when they'd had girls out there. Part
of his education, they'd said, laughing; come and watch.
"Wulfwer!" Why not answer? "Frecful!"
Kick, kick, kick! Had they all drunk and
forlicgen themselves into stupors--or had they gone
off somewhere with their women and left him? He
realized with a shudder of terror that there might be no
one out there. They might have all gone away and
left him. "Hengest!" The shouting that had
wakened him had stopped. The house was horribly
quiet. Had it already been evacuated? "Mom!
Dad!" He was sobbing now.
  The smoke was worse; the room was getting
warmer. Fortunately the door was not a
close fit, so he could locate the bolt with the
point of his dagger. Then he began attacking the
jamb. He dug and pried and cut, flaking away
wood. Slow, so slow! Chinks of light were showing
through the floor; the distant noises were growing louder
but no closer. He knew how fast a house could
explode--trickles of smoke one minute and a
ball of flames the next. His eyes were streaming
tears, every breath was a cough. Healfwer had
fireproofed him, but if the house collapsed in a
heap of red-hot coals, he might well be
buried under the ruins or break his back, and his
body wouldn't burn until he was dead. ...
  Dad! Oh, Dad, please come! Dad was
fireproofed, too. Why didn't he come?
  Chip, pry, dig ... so slow! He was too
late already, because he could see light around the
door, the fire had reached the outer room, but he
had to keep going. Working by touch, he uncovered the
bolt until he could push it back with the dagger
point and throw the door open. He plunged out
into worse smoke and a heat that would have blistered other
people. The light was coming from the stairwell beyond the outer
door. There were no drunks asleep there and the
bedding was neatly stacked where the thralls had left
it. Wulfwer and the others had never returned from the
feast.
  The stairs were ablaze. He was fireproofed.
It would hurt, but he had no choice. If he
ran fast he should make it. He discovered his
error at the top step, too late to turn back
--pain! He toppled into the inferno and rolled
down with a scream that emptied his lungs. Clothes
blazing, he thumped into the wall at the bottom,
right beside the entrance to his parents' rooms, whose
door had already collapsed in glowing embers.
Painpainpain! Everything was so bright that it was hard
to see anything. In an ocean of light he was almost
blind, and there was nothing but fire agony in the whole
world. Even his boots had disintegrated but it hurt
no more to run naked and barefoot over the burning
floor into the room.
  Where everything was blazing yellow, his father's body
seemed almost dark. All his clothes had gone, of
course. Framed in flame, he lay on his
back amid the crumbled remains of the bed. He was
unburned, although his hair was starting to smolder and the
tips of his ears and fingers to turn black. The
blood covering his chest was still shockingly red. He
was obviously dead, because his throat had
been cut across to make a ghastly parody of a
grinning mouth. Surprise! it said. Burning
is not the only way to die.

                  

  Radgar never really remembered what happened
next, although the accounts of others formed a reasonable
pattern. Details of his escape were driven out
of his mind by extreme agony and the shock of what
he had seen. He may have fallen through the floor
when it collapsed, but he suffered no broken
bones or even major bruising, so it is more
likely that he simply found the stairs and ran
or slid down them. He retained no
recollection of that, or of how and when he left the
inferno. Long as his ordeal had seemed to him, it
is likely that very few minutes elapsed between the
first alarm being raised and the collapse of the floors
and roof. Men were still pouring out of Stanhof.
  With its narrow streets, Twigeport was more
prone to disastrous fires than any other city in
Baelmark. It did have procedures for dealing with
them, although they were seldom effective. The night
watch sounded the tocsin, summoning all
able-bodied men to assemble with axes, ropes, and
buckets. A building already burning could almost
never be saved, so priorities were to rescue
residents and keep the blaze from spreading. If
the site was near one of the harbors, a bucket
chain would try to wet down adjoining roofs, but that
rarely did much good.
  A brisk wind blew along the fiord that
night. Even before the tocsin rang, the building
had become an inferno, with floors collapsing and
flames pouring out through the roof. By the time Wulfwer
and his friends arrived on the scene--shocked almost
sober by the magnitude of the disaster--the crowd's
attention was entirely on the two adjoining
houses, where thrilling rescues were in progress.
The three thegns had left worldly possessions in
their room, so they looked the other way.
  Thus they were the ones who saw the boy coming
staggering out of the furnace, naked but physically
unharmed, mere moments before the building caved in.
Wulfwer jumped forward and bundled him up in his
cloak.

  Radgar became aware of being carried swiftly
through the dark streets. "Dad!" he
wailed. "My dad is dead!" At first he had
no room in his head for any other thought, but
eventually he gasped out, "Mom! Want my
mom!"
  "Don't know where she is." Wulfwer was
panting. Big as he was, he was carrying no
mean load in his arms and running with it. "Don't
know where my old man is, either. Don't know
who's after us. Gotta get home."
  Men were hurrying by, all heading the other way,
most of them carrying axes or wrecking bars or
empty buckets. None paid heed to the man and
boy going seaward. Footsteps echoed strangely
in the night.
  Radgar whimpered for his mother again. Then, "Where
are we going?" Where were Frecful and Hengest,
normally inseparable from Wulfwer? He had a
fuzzy idea they had been sent on ahead ...
somewhere ... where? Dad was dead. Mom had
disappeared. Was she dead too?
  "Home. Catterstow." The big man was
panting. "Gotta get away from here, brat.
Swetmann'll kill us all."
  "Who? What?" Dad had been murdered!
  "Swetmann. Torched the house. Wants
to block the treaty."
  It was hard to think. Mom too? The Bloods
taking revenge? Wulfwer must know, because he sounded
very sure of himself. At that moment he ran under the
stone arch of the gate to the harbor and Radgar
screamed.
  "This is the north port! This isn't the way
home! Where are you taking me?" He began
to struggle. Dad was dead. Help, someone!
"Help!"
  "Shut up, brat!" Without even breaking
stride, Wulfwer shook him like a rag. He was
running along the front now and the brightening eastern
sky cast enough light to show the forest of masts--small
boats moored to the piers, larger ones anchored
farther out, all swaying in stately measure as their
mistress the sea moved them. But everywhere in the
harbor sails were being unfurled, lines cast off,
anchors raised as the sailors made haste
to depart. A bad fire might mean men being
conscripted to fight it or even desperate
refugees swarming aboard; it was time to go and leave
Twigeport to its own troubles.
  "Let me down!"
  "Stupid! Stupid brat! There's
blood feud here. Swetmann and his gang get
hands on us, brat, it's sunset, understand? You
believe that fire was an accident?" The big man
ran up the ramp to a pier and then his boots made
heavy hollow noises on the timbers.
  Dad had said that Wulfwer was not stupid.
Radgar had not yet worked out what had happened--
how Dad had been killed, what had caused the
fire, whether Mom had died too. Radgar was not
thinking very clearly at all, but he knew that Dad
had not cut his own throat, nor bolted him in his
room and fired the house. If a Cattering had
been murdered, vengeance belonged to other male
Catterings. Blood feud automatically put
Cynewulf and Wulfwer in danger also and
Radgar himself as well, because boys grew up and
became men.
  Swetmann was a Nyrping, royally born.
  Another man was running with them, guiding them.
It was Hengest. Everyone else was too busy
preparing to leave port to notice them.
  "We're going home?"
  "Home, back to Waro`edburh," Wulfwer
panted. "Be safe there. If my dad's still
alive ... be earl now, make me tanist."
  And cats ate grass! The thegns tolerated
Cynewulf only because Dad wanted him. They
would never accept him as earl and who else would
want the surly Wulfwer as his tanist?
Cynewulf might be dead anyway, along with
Mom, and perhaps Leofric and Dad's house
thegns, who were his main supporters. There would be a
flurry of claims and challenges, but whoever
finally held the earldom would be no friend to Radgar
Aeleding. Maybe Wulfwer was the best hope he
had left, his only surviving relative. The
last of the Catterings must stick together.
  They arrived. Frecful was down on the deck
of a boat, making it ready. That was wrong!
Granted that the harbor patrol had been drawn
away by the fire, no boat owner would ever trust the
watch to guard it. There should be men aboard, but perhaps
there had been and weren't anymore. In this confusion
a man might get away with anything. Wulfwer
jumped down to the deck, making the little craft
plunge and rock, and then thumped down three
steps to the gratings, where he deposited his burden
ungently. "Keep out of the way, brat."
  The craft was a coaster, only six or seven
spans long, single-masted, with a small
deck at bow and stern. Radgar had seen a dozen
like her when he toured the docks. There were some
barrels stacked in the waist, not cargo enough to stop
her rolling badly. She stank of fish. The
small deck at the stern probably covered a
tiny cabin--a kennel for sleeping or sheltering from
the weather--and the hold in the bow would be reserved for
perishable goods. A raked mast bearing a lateen
sail was a rig simple enough to be handled by a
minimal crew, perhaps just the owner and a couple of
strapping sons. Big oceangoing ships brought
trade goods into Twigeport from the far ends of the
world, and then little craft like this one carried them
to outports all over Baelmark, returning with
their products of wool, hides, or salt
fish. In winter she would ply the safe waters of
Swi@thaefen, braving the open sea only in
summer.
  Hengest untied the painter and followed
Wulfwer aboard, clattering down the little ladder
into the waist. Seeing that he had left the way
unguarded, Radgar clutched his wrapping tight
around him and started up, but he stubbed his toe, the
boat plunged again, and he completely lost his
balance, toppling onto the deck hard enough to knock
the breath from his lungs. Hengest and Frecful were
wielding long sweeps, pushing the boat out from her
berth and fending off from another, larger, ship, so he
was too late to climb up on the pier, even if
he could have done so without help. Already there was open
water between the stern and the weed-encrusted piles. He
had no boots, no clothes. No friends. No
dad. Perhaps even no mom. If it had been
Wulfwer who bolted the door, then now he would do
the job properly, making sure his cousin never
set foot ashore again.
  The rig was unfamiliar, but Wulfwer and his
cronies knew boats as well as Radgar
did. They hoisted the yard and set the sail as if
they had done it a hundred times. The wind filled
it and the coaster leaned over. Hengest headed aft
to take the tiller--and stopped, mouth agape.
  "A fine night for a cruise," someone remarked
approvingly.

                 

  Remembering that last plunge of the boat before she
was pushed out, Radgar turned his head to inspect the
boots that should not be there and then looked
up. Sir Geste was standing between him and the tiller with
his arms folded, a picture of confidence, although
he was hatless and breathing hard as if he had been
running. A somber, full-length cloak hung
loose from his shoulders, swirling and roiling in the
wind, over standard Baelish tunic and leggings; his
sword hung on a plain black baldric.
Radgar had not known that the Blade spoke
Baelish, but the question had never arisen.
  No matter, he was a very welcome sight, and
Radgar scrambled up to stand beside him, shivering and
clutching his wrapping.
  "Not too close, Youngling," he said, keeping
his eyes on the three men. "Can you steer this thing?"
  "Yes, sir!" Radgar fumbled an arm
loose to take the tiller and lean on it. After
Groeggos, she was easy. He caught the wind,
pulled her away from the merchantman she was about
to ram, and headed her out into the harbor. The wind
spitefully tried to unwind his cloak and he had
no hands free. He fought it to a draw, leaving
him steering half naked.
  Wulfwer found his voice--lots of it.
"Flames!" he roared. "Where did you come from?"
  "Same place you did, thegn," Sir Geste
remarked cheerfully. "I'm not sure we're all
bound for the same destination, though."
  "What do you want?"
  "I want no trouble with any of you lot, to start
with. I give you fair warning--I'm a King's
Blade. I'm not as good as I was at twenty, but
I'm still capable of cutting all of you into fish
bait. Against three I won't take any
chances. I'll play for keeps. Is that clear?
No fancy flesh wounds." He smiled, face
lit by the fast-brightening sky. "I heard my young
friend shouting for help and thought I'd follow to see
what the problem was."
  "Did you so?" Wulfwer growled. He bent
to pick up one of the sweeps. Hengest, at the
other side of the mast, took up the other.
Frecful just fingered his sword hilt. "We're
on our way home to Waro`edburh and we don't
carry passengers."
  "You go north when Catterstow is south?"
  Wulfwer took a pace forward. He was a
few feet lower than the stowaway, but the length of the
oar he held more than made up for that
disadvantage. He could not swing it easily without
striking the mast or stays, but he could
throw it. Or he could thrust it like a lance and push
the Blade over the stern without ever coming within reach of
his sword. With the boat pitching as she was, that would
be safest. "Too obvious. Swetmann would have
been watching the south port."
  "Swetmann?" Geste said scornfully.
"What has the earl got to do with you abducting the
King's son? Does he think Radgar tried
to burn down his palace? Steady as she goes,
Youngling. You're doing fine. I'm relying on
you."
  Rolling abominably but showing a surprising
turn of speed, the lightly laden coaster had
already passed through the anchorage and set her course
for the open sea, easily outdistancing most of the
other fleeing craft. It took Radgar a moment
to work out what the Blade wanted. He turned her
bow a few points westward, making her pitch so
as to keep Wulfwer and Hengest off balance.
  Wulfwer's brutish face scrunched in a
scowl. "Wasn't abducting. Swetmann's
leader of the war party. He wants to block the
peace treaty."
  "I still don't see why you are kidnapping the
King's son."
  "The King's dead! That's what the brat
says."
  "Does he?" Sir Geste glanced briefly
at Radgar, too briefly for his opponents
to react. "Not just guessing, Youngling? You're
sure?"
  "Yes, sir. I saw him. His throat was
cut."
  "That's tough. Sorry to hear that." The Blade
returned his attention to the thegns as they all
continued to edge forward. Now both Wulfwer and
Hengest were close enough to strike him with their poles.
"So Cynewulf becomes king? That's how it
works?"
  "My father's king now," Wulfwer agreed,
"unless they got him too."
  "They didn't," Geste said. "I saw him in
the crowd. He won't last long, though, will he?
He'll be challenged."
  "And the fyrd won't have him as earl," Radgar
said. "They'll throw him out as soon as he sets
foot in Catterstow." His uncle might be
allowed to keep his throne long enough to lead the funeral
service. There could be no balefire for King
Aeled. He'd burned already, his
fireproofing gone when he died.
  Wulfwer shot him a glare, shifting his grip
on the sweep as if he were just noticing how heavy
it was. "Watch your mouth, brat, unless you
want to have an oar growing out of it. Who killed the
King if it wasn't Swetmann? How about a
certain Chivian swordsman?"
  "Not too very likely," Geste said easily.
"No motive. And just how would a Chivian
swordsman get past the guards at that time of
night?" He paused a moment as the coaster
shifted her gait, feeling the open sea under her
keel. "My money goes on you, thegn. You and
your father. Either of you could get into the house. He
may not be able to hold the throne for long, or even
the earldom, but King Aeled was rich, wasn't
he? One third of all the booty taken in
fourteen years of war. He owns more land in
Baelmark than any three other landowners put
together, so I've heard."
  "Wulfwer bolted my door!" Radgar
yelled. "Locked me in my room to burn!"
  Wulfwer snarled and hefted the sweep as if
about to swat him. Everyone spoke at once.
  Hengest was the loudest. "... never left the
hall! He was with us all the time! Not him!"
  "It was Swetmann!" Frecful said. "There's
only two royally born earls just now. Thegn
Wigfer`ed's a Scalthing, but he's over
thirty and no Scalthing's been king in more than a
century. Swetmann's a Nyrping and they rank
next to the Catterings. He can make a challenge
and he has all the earls in town already, ready
to vote on it. He did well cutting up the
ambassador yesterday--it was real stupid of
Aeled to set him up like that. The witan wouldn't have
supported him against Aeled, but they won't give
Cynewulf the dirt off their boots."
  Wulfwer roared angrily. Hengest shrugged and
said nothing.
  "They won't support Swetmann if he
murdered my dad!" Radgar shouted. But who was
to know if he had? There would be suspicion, of
course, but no proof. And the witenagemot would
certainly want to dispose of King Cynewulf as
soon as possible. Oh, Dad, Dad!
Swetmann it would be. Would he sign the treaty
or would the war go on?
  The boat had cleared the mouth of the fiord. Her
westerly course had given her the sea
to herself, because that way lay only the dreaded
Cweornstanas. The rest of the fleet was hull
down to the northeast with murky shapes of outer
islands just visible against the dawn beyond.
  "Stand by, Youngling," Geste said quietly.
Then louder, "So Swetmann had motive. But
how could he do it? You saying he had help from
someone in the house--the house thegns, perhaps? were there
traitors in Aeled's fyrd?"
  The three thegns bellowed their fury at this
insult.
  "Or was it his brother after all?" the Blade
continued. "Cynewulf for king and his son for
tanist? Motive and opportunity."
  It was light enough now to read the doubting
expressions on Hengest and Frecful. King
Cynewulf just didn't carry conviction. Fat
King Cynewulf. Cynewulf the Great.
Dad! Dad! Dad!
  "So now we catch you taking the unwanted
kitten down to the harbor. How about you other two?
How do you two brave warriors feel about
helping to murder a child?"
  Geste's question hit Hengest and Frecful just as
the deck tipped, but he was slightly higher than
they and facing forward, so he had seen the ocean
swell coming. Even so, his timing could not have been
better. The two men holding the sweeps staggered
off balance, and that was all Geste needed. His
sword flashed into his hand and he leaped down into the
waist. Hengest screamed and fell back with his arm
streaming blood. He fell back too far and
vanished overboard, the sweep he had dropped
clattering on the barrels. Frecful managed
to draw and Geste skewered him, faster than a
whip. Wulfwer, seeing his target now alongside
him, instinctively tried to bring his sweep up and
around to defend himself, but Radgar leaped, hurling
himself at the blade. Wulfwer, with his hands too
close together to resist the leverage, found himself
unexpectedly overpowered. The sweep swung in
his grasp until the far end caught against a stay
and then Radgar had even more advantage. The
pole took Wulfwer under the chin, the side of the
ship behind the knees. Now his height worked against
him, so he and the sweep went over together. Radgar
staggered and almost followed.
  He didn't though. The coaster went on her
way bearing Geste and Radgar. Two thegns were
gone to the lobsters and Frecful's
corpse lay in the waist.























                WASP

                 VI

                  

  Candles were guttering; the fire had burned down
to glowing ash. Still, the two Blades stood like
obelisks at the doors, untiring and ever
vigilant, while King Ambrose had slumped
to a monumental heap in Grand Master's chair, his
foxy little eyes shadowed by his hat. Clearly
Raider's tale was almost done.
  "So I killed my cousin," he said
placidly, "and without a word of regret! I'd
hope any normal boy would have hysterics and
fits of contrition under those circumstances, but by that
time I was incapable of feeling anything except
ghoulish satisfaction that a slip of a lad like me
could discontinue such a hulk. I didn't even
suggest we go back and look for him. It would have
done no good. If the cold didn't get him right
away, the Cweornstanas reefs did. There were
no other ships close."
  Wasp wondered how any thirteen-year-old
could have survived what Raider had
endured that night. He knew he couldn't--not even
now, when he was more or less a grown man. He
was also a very hungry man, and a worried one.
  The King grunted, the first sound he had made in
some time. "Commander! Send for Grand Master. Also
Archives and Rituals." As Montpurse
passed the order out through the door, the royal frown
returned to Raider. "You have not explained why you
came to Chivial."
  "Sir Geste made that decision, sire. I
went down into the poky little cabin to find some
clothes. I fell on the bunk and slept until
dark. Nature will have her due. I couldn't take
any more. When I reappeared, Geste was still
holding the tiller. He said, "I'm assuming you
can sail this tub to Chivial, Youngling. I've
kept it pointing southeast all day."
  "At that age I would promise anything. In
light winds she was easy to handle." Raider
shrugged. "I didn't tell him she wasn't
rigged for the high seas and heavy weather would sink us.
Of course I asked why we were going to Chivial
and he told me what he'd worked out. I trusted
him ... I had to, but he was a proved friend and
all I had left. We couldn't go back
to Twigeport, he said--not with a stolen boat and
blood on the deck, three men missing. Quite apart
from that, I knew my father had been murdered, so I
had a blood debt to call when I grew up,
and the killers, whoever they were, would want to act
first. So Twigeport was out and that meant I
couldn't go and ask help from Lord Candlefen, even
if I wanted to.
  "Nor could I risk Waro`edburh, because while
Uncle Cynewulf was in charge there he would
certainly have questions to ask about his son. When the
fyrd deposed him, his successor might decide
to tidy up any atheling problems left around.
  "The key was my mother, Geste said. He'd
heard the crowds around the house moaning that both the
King and Queen had died, but he stressed that we
couldn't be sure about Mom, since I hadn't
seen her body, only Dad's. If she had
survived, being widowed she might well decide
to return to Chivial with her brother. Even if
she didn't, I had more family in Chivial
than I did in Baelmark and fewer potential
enemies. He promised he would look after me
for a few weeks, until we learned the outcome
--whether the treaty held, who succeeded
my father as king and earl, what had happened to my
mother, and so on. I did not have an automatic
claim to the throne like a Chivian prince would, but
I was the last of the Catterings and that would make me
an important token in Baelish politics
when I was old enough to be counted throne-worthy. The
trick would be to live that long. So we were
Chivial bound.
  "Food was a concern, and the water keg was almost
empty. Fortunately the luxury imports in the
bow included some edibles like olives and nuts--and
also fine white wines. Our course may not have
been the straightest, but we made it to Chivial."
  A faint smile touched the royal lips at that
point, the first sign of approval King
Ambrose had shown all night. Shifting his
position on the hard settle, Raider crossed
his legs. He must not be aware he was doing so, for
such informality was gross presumption. Being
allowed to sit at all in the King's presence was a
signal honor.
  "The war was officially still on, but I kept my
hair out of sight and we had no trouble. Geste
raised cash by selling some of our pirated cargo just
like an honest trader, and we worked our way around the
coast to Prail. We didn't meet any
Baelish pirates, which I was secretly hoping
we would, boys being boys.
  "In Prail he rented a couple of horses
and we rode here to Ironhall. It would be a
perfect hiding place for me, he said, while he
went to court to pick up the news. Of course the
idea of hiding among the Blades appealed to a
brash thirteen-year-old. We came in through that
door there, but I was sent out while he spoke with
Grand Master. He may or may not have told the
truth, but the story we had made up said I was
an orphan from Westerth, because that was the accent I
had picked up from my mother. Grand Master tested
my agility and accepted me into the school.
  "Geste's argument had been that, if the worst
came to the worst, I would receive five years'
superb training, and with that I would be able to make my
way in the world, but he promised he would return
for me." Raider shrugged. "He never did. He
sent one brief letter saying that both my parents had
died, my uncle had not been deposed yet, and
he would let me know as soon as he had more news.
He never did. After five years, it seems
unlikely that he will now." He paused
as if waiting for a comment from the King, but none came.
  "The peace treaty was announced in the hall and
then fog closed in on Baelmark. It seems
to be of no interest in peacetime. I think it was
mentioned only twice in our political
classes." Raider asked wistfully, "My
uncle still rules?"
  Ambrose nodded. "My sources claim
he's ruling well. Someone tried a challenge not
long after your father's death, but the moot backed your
uncle handily. He's secure, it seems. The
land is at peace."
  "Only one challenge? I misjudged him.
But if he had not had talent, Father would not have
tolerated him. That's my story, sire."
  Silence. Wasp, too, had lost his family
in a fire, but he had not seen his father with his throat
cut. He had not walked through the furnace and had
the clothes burned off his body. A prince being the
Brat ... that explained some of the stories of how
Raider had won his name--stories that could be
laughed at now but would not have seemed funny when he
was fighting a dozen fights a day, waging a
one-man war.
  "A remarkable tale," the King admitted.
"You are a remarkable young man--Cousin."
  "Thank you, sire."
  Good for Raider! He was in, accepted,
royalty, one of the nobility. What would he do
now? Go home and hope to succeed his uncle?
Try to discover who had murdered his parents? He
had mentioned blood feuds more than once.
  Never mind. What was going to happen to Wasp,
who had affronted his king and now would never be Sir
Wasp? The laughable thing was that he'd thought he could
be a help to Raider in whatever he was planning
to do. He had never dreamed that Raider's fortune
lay in savage Baelmark. Realistically, what
earthly use would a kid with a rapier be there, among
the barbarians? Would he even have the courage
to draw it? Blades had no problem with courage
because their binding drove them, but Wasp was never going
to be bound. Even if King Ambrose let him go
rather than throwing him in jail, in Baelmark he would
be a liability, a foreigner, no help
to Raider at all, probably too scared to stand
up to any angry Bael. ...
  "Rodney Candlefen died last winter," the
King said.
  "I heard that, sire. I only
really met him that one time, very briefly." And
thought very little of him--in his time of troubles, Raider
had not sought help from his Chivian relatives.
"His son succeeded to the title, I heard.
Rupert. About my age?"
  "Mm. You must be about twelfth in line for the
throne," King Ambrose mused. "Not that
Parliament would ever allow a Bael to succeed."
  "Er ... yes, sire." Raider had been about
to say something else. He would have calculated where
he stood in the succession--the royal family being
a topic in political classes--but whether he
put himself at tenth or fifteenth, one did not
contradict monarchs, especially not on that most
delicate of topics.
  "Candlefen must be informed that his cousin has
returned to life." Ambrose scowled at this
upstart relative of his. "And so must King
Cynewulf. We do not wish to jeopardize our
good relations with Baelmark."
  That barely veiled threat caused Raider's
legs to uncross. "Of course not, sire. I will
certainly be guided by Your Majesty." He had
to say something like that. Prince or not, he was as much
in the King's power as Wasp was. "I have no
illusions that I would be considered throne-worthy.
Not yet, perhaps never."
  "H'm?" His Majesty seemed skeptical.
"But you do not intend to renounce all ambitions
... No matter. You are our relative and
potentially a future ruler of a nation with whom we
are bound by treaty. Those are two reasons why we
shall extend you our friendship. And your tale of
hardship has won our sympathy."
  "Your Majesty is most--"
  "Yes. Nevertheless your reappearance must be
announced with tact. As you said earlier, if you
turn up at court with that conjuration of yours, you will
scare all the White Sisters out of their
wimples." The little amber beads of eyes turned
to gaze at Wasp, as if their owner had just
recalled his existence and was not convinced it was really
necessary.
  His skin crawled. And the King went on talking
to Raider while continuing to stare at Wasp, no
doubt trying to devise a suitably ghastly
fate for him.
  "This Geste ... I sent no Blades
to Baelmark with Candlefen. I just wonder whether the
man was even more of an imposter than--"
  Knuckles tapped on the door. With a grunt
the King heaved himself to his feet; the two youngsters
leapt up. In came the masters who had been
summoned, almost tumbling in, as if they had just
been wakened. They would not have dared go to bed before the
King did, so perhaps they had fallen asleep wherever
they had been waiting. Master of Rituals was still
buttoning his jerkin and Grand Master running fingers
through his flyaway white hair. They lined up and
bowed raggedly to the King. Under less trying
circumstances, Wasp would have found their performance
comical.
  "Ah, Grand Master," the monarch boomed,
"sorry-disturb-you-this-time-of-night. ... I have
listened to Candidate, um, Raider's explanation
and agreed that owing to some very exceptional--
extremely exceptional--circumstances, his
refusal to pursue a career with the Order can be
justified."
  Grand Master's face twisted in an
expression somewhere between relief and amazement. "I
am indeed happy to--"
  "Q. One point requires clarification."
Ambrose's authority filled the room like a
whirlwind. "He claims that he was brought
to Ironhall and recommended to Grand Master by a
Blade calling himself Sir Geste. Neither
Commander Montpurse nor I can recall any
Sir Geste in the Order."
  He had made the statement a question. He had also
indicated quite clearly how he wanted it answered.
  Grand Master raked his hair again. "I do not
recall the name. Nor my predecessor commenting
..." His voice trailed away as he and everyone
else turned to Master of Archives.
  Master of Archives had not been in his post very
long, either. He was a tall, spare man of about
forty with ink stains on his fingers, already developing
the stoop and bemused, shortsighted look that went
with the job. He wilted under the King's frown.
"We keep no records at all of the
candidates' previous circumstances, Your
Majesty. Um, forbidden by the, um, Charter ...
nor the names of who bring them. Geste? Not
familiar ... I shall of course make a search.
Approximately how old?"
  "I am sure if he existed you would
remember, Master. I fear the man is fated
to remain a mystery." Ambrose did not seem
displeased. No one remained who could shed
light on the unknown Sir Geste. The previous
Grand Master, Master of Archives, and Lord
Candlefen were all dead. "He must have been an
imposter."
  Wasp wondered how an imposter could have known every
detail of the ambassador's instructions. Those were
major state secrets.
  "He bore a cat's-eye sword," Raider
said softly. "He looked like a Blade."
  "He's dead, then!" That royal glare was
reputed to flake plaster off walls.
  But Raider was royal too, and he had donned
his stubborn expression. "The original owner of the
sword may well be, of course, but the sword
itself was called Fancy and it has not been
Returned in my time here."
  Then it seemed a winter wind rippled through the
room, raising eyebrows and pursing lips.
Eventually even Wasp worked out what Raider was
hinting. By custom, on the day a Blade was to be
bound he chose a name for the sword he would receive.
Master Armorer inscribed the name on it for him, and
almost certainly Master Armorer also saw that the name
was entered in the archives, along with the date and the name
of his ward. Those records were supposedly
secret, but could they have remained secret for five
years from a determined young man like Raider? It
would take very few minutes to skim back to the
appropriate years and hunt down a sword
named Fancy. He might know a lot more about
Geste than he had revealed.
  "No matter!" barked the King and turned his
fearsome attention on Wasp again. "How much of his
story had he told you?"
  "Not-not-none, sire!"
  "Hmm?"
  "Not a word, sire," Raider murmured.
  The royal lips pursed. "Hmm? Then perhaps
you are not quite such a fool as I took you for, Will of
Haybridge. It does seem your friend may have
need of a trusty swordsman or two, as you
guessed. I am inclined to give you a second
chance. I also want to keep your mouth shut. So,
Candidate Wasp, for the last time: His
Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you ready
to serve?"
  Joy! "Yes! Oh, yes, Your
Majesty!" Wasp fell on his knees.
"Thank you, sire! Yes, yes!" He kissed
the royal fingers.
  Raider was gaping at him in dismay, but he had
said the words. He would become Sir Wasp after
all.
  Now. Right away.

                  

  Master of Rituals was currently the only
teacher in Ironhall who was not a knight in the
Order. A large, bluff, sandy-colored man
resembling a sturdy farmer, he had been an
adept with the Royal College of Conjury when his
predecessor was elected Grand Master and lured
him away to Ironhall to be his replacement.
He had very little experience of dealing with princes and
none at all of resisting His Majesty King
Ambrose IV in full pursuit of an
objective. Royal enthusiasm reverberated
through the little room like an earthquake in a glass
factory.
  "It is not long past midnight, is it,
Master? Close enough that we can proceed directly
with the binding?"
  "But, sire ... the fasting, meditation ..."
  "The two principals have been fasting--and
meditating also--for several hours now. So there should
be no problem. I do not wish this night's events
to become known beyond the eight of us here, Master.
Is it not fortunate that eight is exactly the
number we need?" The King advanced a couple of
steps, and his unfortunate victim automatically
gave ground.
  The unequal struggle would have been funny
to watch had the stakes not been Wasp's life.
It was his heart that was going to be nailed, and if
anything went wrong with the ritual, the damage would
be extremely fatal. He remembered
Wolfbiter describing how he had seen that
happen when he was the Brat, very few years ago.
  "... swords, sire ..." Master of
Rituals bleated, "... have to get Master
Armorer to identify the right--"
  "I can do that." Commander Montpurse's voice
was quiet, but it cut like steel. "I spent some
time with Master Armorer earlier and he showed me the
swords he has been making for the seniors.
Candidate Wasp's is very distinctive."
  The King's smile was a more fearsome sight than
most of his frowns. "Then we can proceed at
once. Grand Master?"
  Grand Master still had a little backbone
unbroken. "Such haste in a potentially mortal
ritual is highly inadvisable, sire. Strict
order of seniority is enjoined by--"
  "We asked them in order of seniority! This
one changed his mind, that's all. Nothing in the
Charter against that."
  "But we shall need a Second and Third, and the
Brat normally signifies the element of chance.
..."
  "Sir Janvier and I," Montpurse said,
"will be happy to play whatever roles are needed.
We could chant the words in our sleep, I'm
sure. As it happens, neither of us has eaten
since morning."
  "And I," boomed King Ambrose, "will handle
the role of the Brat. I am notoriously
unpredictable."

  The night was blustery, cool, and very dark. The
wind's turmoil was more than matched by the legions
of butterflies flapping inside Wasp, but he
wasn't going to admit to a single one of them. In
fact, he thought he was managing to appear
admirably composed. Beside him, Raider sounded
much more agitated than he did.
  "This is insane! I don't need a Blade!
I am not going to poke a sword through you! I
want you as a friend, not a guard dog."
  He was rarely so tactless. They were walking from
First House over to the Forge, following the bobbing
lights of lanterns carried by the Masters of
Archives and Rituals. Grand Master was
escorting the King, and it was ominous that
Montpurse and Janvier were not close
to Ambrose, as they would normally be. Instead,
they were right behind Raider and Wasp, which suggested that
the Commander now shared Janvier's distrust. They were
close enough to have heard themselves classed as dogs.
  Wasp staggered in a gust. "You are so going
to bind me, you barbarian Bael!" he shouted.
"If you don't, Ambrose will drop me in the
deepest dungeon he's got and pave it over."
  "Why should he?" Raider was arguing to soothe his
conscience. He knew that neither of them had any
choice but to obey the King. "Why not just kick your
cute little ass out the gate and be done with you? Why
go to all the fuss of binding you? Why waste a
Blade on me? I'm not a close relative,
nor important enough. It makes no
sense."
  It made a lot of sense if candidates who
refused to be bound were wiped from the collective
Ironhall memory as if they had never existed.
It made sense if the King was planning to use
Atheling Radgar as a pawn in international
politics and needed to make sure Wasp kept
his mouth shut in the meantime. This unorthodox,
improvised binding might well shut it
permanently and Ambrose must know that.
Possibly he was even counting on it. Oops!
What a pity ...
  "Another thing," Raider grumbled, "I know you
have cause to hate Baels for what happened to your
family and I don't blame you for being bitter.
Now you know my evil secret, how can you
possibly bear the thought of being bound to a Bael?
I've heard you curse every Bael ever born.
I've heard you classify us as the filthiest
scum on Earth and wish infinite eternal torment
on all of us."
  Wasp shuddered, remembering just a few of those
remarks. How many terrible things had he said in the
last five years? "How did you stand it? I can't
ever say how sorry I am. I still can't think of
you as one of them ... I expect Chivians can be
just as brutal."
  Raider jabbed a friendly punch at his arm. "You
don't really believe that, but it's true. I could
tell you stories that would make you lose three
days' meals. You'd better decide, though--can you
really spend the rest of your life guarding one of
them?"
  "You're not "one of them." You're different."
  "Not as different as you think! Ironhall's
given me some Chivian manners and I'm mostly
Chivian by blood, but I'm a Bael underneath,
Wasp. All your life, you'll be bound to a
Bael!"
  "There isn't anyone I'd rather be bound to."
Wasp could foresee a wildly exciting future.
"I do want something from you tonight, though, Your
Piratical Highness. A promise.
Promise you won't keep me waiting. Be
fast! Strike the instant I speak the oath!"
  Raider groaned. "I still think we'll both
regret this. You'll be stuck, you know."
  Gulp! "That's the whole idea."
  "I meant being a private Blade is a
lifetime commitment."
  Right then Wasp would settle for a lifetime of
life.

  The Forge was a cavernous chamber, half
underground. The eight-pointed star inlaid in the
floor was surrounded by eight hearths, eight stone
troughs of spring water for quenching, and the eight
anvils on which the splendid cat's-eye swords
were wrought. The ninth anvil, the great metal slab
in the center, was the innermost heart of Ironhall,
the place where human Blades were bound to their
wards. Usually at bindings the flames danced
while more than a hundred men and boys stood around
the octogram and sang their hearts out in the
choruses. Tonight the coals merely glowed and yet
the crypt seemed brighter, for there were only the eight
participants present--seven chanting in one key
and the King in several. No one could fault
Ambrose on volume, but the overall effect was
unconvincing.
  Wasp had watched a hundred or so bindings
without ever being a participant. His tenure as
Brat had been unusually short, only six
days. Normally he would have played Third for
Mallory and Second for Raider before his own
turn came, but chance had given him lead role
on his first appearance. Although he was not especially
sensitive to spirituality, being inside the octogram
made a real difference, raising the hairs on his
skin when the powers began to gather. A skeptic
might say that he was just cold, of course, since
he and Raider and Montpurse had all been
required to bathe in four of the water troughs
successively and he had not been allowed to put
on his doublet and jerkin again afterward.
  In shirt and hose he shivered at death point,
directly across from Raider at love.
Montpurse was singing a fair tenor on his right and
Janvier a resonant bass on his left. He
was a worry, that one, with his hostile stare
constantly fixed on Raider. He had little to do in
the ritual, but the balance of the elements in a
conjuration as complex as a binding was very delicate,
easily upset by any discordance. Janvier had
always been an odd character; his binding last year
seemed to have made him even more so. The whole idea
of a Blade "instinct" for danger to his ward was
pure goose gobble, based on no real
evidence. A few hard-to-explain incidents were
only to be expected in a tradition that
went back more than three centuries.
  Nor was Janvier the only potential
tangle in the thread. A binding should begin at
midnight, but now it was nearer to dawn. The very
slight change in the oath Wasp was planning
shouldn't make any difference, but one never could
tell. So there were several breaks in the pattern and
when Grand Master had been Master of Rituals
and teaching the course on--
  His sword! Rumbling out the words of dedication
normally squeaked by the Brat, King Ambrose
marched forward to lay the sword on the anvil. There
was the weapon the armorers had made especially for
Wasp, and of course it was a rapier. But what a
rapier! The cat's-eye glowed like molten gold;
the metal gleamed a spooky moonlight blue.
He could drool over a sword like that, for it was
to be his, his very own sword for all the days of his
life, and when he died it would hang in the sky of
swords as his memorial. He could hardly tear
his eyes away from it as he turned to face the
scowling Janvier. He kept sneaking glances as
Janvier unbuttoned his shirt and helped him out
of it and even after he had turned around and
Montpurse was counting ribs and putting a
charcoal mark over his heart. He barely
registered the Commander's encouraging wink. He
meant well by it, probably. ...
  But now, at last, he could step over and take
up the rapier, a three-foot needle. Never
had he felt one so light! It floated in his
hand. ... Alas, proper examination would have
to wait. He jumped up on the anvil and spoke
to Raider, whose face was haggard with worry.
  "Radgar Aeleding!" Variations of this scene had
filled his dreams for the last five years, but he
had never expected to see his best friend down there--and
certainly never a Bael! "Upon my soul, I,
Candidate Wasp 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. 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."
  Raider had noticed the omission. His eyes
widened, but he strode forward. Wasp
tossed the rapier to him, jumped down to sit on the
anvil, raised his arms. Montpurse and
Janvier should have been there to hold them so he would not
hurt himself in his struggles, but they were not ready for
such unseemly speed.
  Raider was. "Serve or die!" he cried,
and ran the whole length of the rapier through Wasp's
heart until the side rings struck his chest.

  Oh shit!

  He had not expected such agony. He could not
scream with a sword through his chest. His teeth ground;
his back arched. Before Janvier and Montpurse
could grab him, Raider whipped the blade out again
and the pain stopped. He looked down in time to see
the wound close. All over.
  At this point in an orthodox binding, the
spectators cheered to hail the new Blade.
There were no spectators in the echoing cavern that
night, but the new Blade sprang up with a yell
and his ward let out a Baelish war howl. The two
of them embraced, then joined hands and cavorted
all around the octogram in a frenzied victory
dance while everyone else jumped back from the
wildly flailing rapier Raider still held. This
was not an orthodox binding.
  Sir Wasp, companion in the Loyal and
Ancient Order of the King's Blades!
Raider's Blade. Oh, it felt good!
  Now at last he was free to take back that
wondrous weapon, the perfect sword, matched
to his hand, his arm, his style. He feasted his eyes
on the diamond-shaped blade--still bearing streaks
of his lifeblood--the silver quillons and finger
rings, the leather-bound grip, and above all the
cabochon cat's-eye of the pommel. It was
large, to bring the point of balance well back, but
on a weapon so light it need not be large enough
to seem clumsy. Incredibly, the bar of light that
gave such jewels their name was in this case twinned,
two streaks of shining gold brightness.
Distinctive, Montpurse had said.
  "Look at this!" he whispered. "I never saw
one like this!"
  Raider was inspecting his friend's weapon just as
eagerly as he was. "Of course not. It's
made for you. Those are your stripes, Sir
Wasp! Oh, she's a beauty! What will you
call her?"
  "Nothing."
  "Nothing? That seems very--"
  "Not nothing, Nothing." Wasp had thought of this
when he was only a fuzzy and had been savoring the
idea in secret ever since. "Always remember,
you are my ward and Nothing can save you!"
  Raider howled out a laugh. "And Master
Armorer's fast asleep, so he will write
nothing on her blade!"
  Mirth died as they became aware of six
unfriendly glares fastened on them. Montpurse and
Janvier were closest, obviously disapproving of
an armed man in the King's presence. No one
looked more furious than the King behind them, though.
  "Congratulations on your binding, Sir
Wasp."
  "Thank you, sire."
  "Did we hear correctly?" His Majesty
snarled. "It seemed to us that you left out part of the
standard oath for private Blades."
  Wasp attempted to look bewildered. "I
don't think so, sire. Did I?"
  The words in question were "reserving only my
fealty to our lord the King," and he had omitted
them because no man could serve two kings and one day his
friend and ward was going to be king of Baelmark. It was
done now and there was absolutely nothing fat
Ambrose of Chivial could do about it. Which was why
he was chewing his beard in fury.
  "Hmm! Atheling?"
  Raider spun around. "Your Majesty?"
  "I want you to get that smart-ass brat out of
here before I wring his neck. We offer you
hospitality at our palace of Bondhill.
You will remain there for a few days until we
consult our Privy Council. Is that agreeable
to you?"
  Wasp blinked. There was something wrong with his
eyes.
  Raider bowed. "Your Majesty is most
generous. I shall gladly await your pleasure at
Bondhill."
  Wasp tried rubbing them.
  The King grunted. "Commander?"
  "My liege?" Montpurse said, never taking
his pale stare away from Nothing.
  "You said you and Sir Janvier missed dinner.
I suggest you take our new Blade and his ward
to the kitchens and see what you can scrounge. Then
send them off with Sir Janvier
to Bondhill."
  "A larger escort could easily be spared,
sire."
  "He will suffice. It is our pleasure that this
affair remain known to as few persons as
possible. I trust, Cousin, that you will not feel
slighted if we board you in the Guards' quarters
at Bondhill for the immediate future?"
  As Raider was bowing and spouting gratitude,
Wasp rubbed his eyes again and took another
look. No change. The center of the Forge now was
not the anvil, it was Raider. The same red
hair, fair skin, freckles, the same faded
jerkin and patched hose, and yet that lanky young
man burned brighter than any of the hearths did,
brighter than they ever could. He was Wasp's ward,
the center of Wasp's world, of the entire universe.
He mattered more than life itself. Spirits! This was
what it was like to be a Blade.
  But there was another anomaly present. One
man seemed to glow with darkness, a sinister aura of
menace. He had not worn this shadow cloak a
few minutes ago, but apparently those Blade
instincts for danger to a ward did exist after all.
Wasp had them too. Now he knew what
Janvier experienced, but he was seeing the exact
reverse. He, also, could scent danger to his
ward, and the threat raising his hackles was King
Ambrose.

                  

  An hour or so later the newest Blade was
riding toward Blackwater with a full stomach and a
heavy heart. Although the quarter moon had risen,
it kept burrowing into silver clouds. Starkmoor
looked even bleaker than it did by day, with the
rocky tors appearing and disappearing like gray
ghosts. Bogs, lakes, and stony ground all
seemed much the same.
  The road was too rough to allow any speed, and
Raider soon began complaining about all the
jockeying going on. Instinctively, Wasp was
trying to stay between his ward and Janvier's sword,
whereas Janvier wanted to keep Raider between himself
and Wasp. He did not trust Wasp, which was
wise of him. In the end they settled on
Janvier out in front with Raider behind him and
Wasp in the rear, where he could watch.
  Back at Ironhall Commander
Montpurse had seen them off and wished them good
chance, but Commander Montpurse was most assuredly
nobody's fool. If he was not on their heels
himself, he had some good men close, no matter
what the King had ordered. Everyone was an enemy,
every rock an ambush. Wasp had never thought this
way before. He did not like it much, but there was nothing
he could do about it now. His ward was in danger--he
didn't know how or why, but that didn't matter.
There were no ethics to being a Blade. One of the first
things they taught the sopranos in Ironhall was
that a Blade had no moral choices to make.
Most of the time he was a good and peaceable citizen,
because to be otherwise might endanger his ward, but in
the face of danger he was ruthless. Ruthless it must
be.
  When the light was good, Raider would let
Janvier draw ahead while he fell back
to chat with Wasp. He told some of the story that
Ambrose had not wanted to hear--how his father had
abducted his mother from her wedding and how he was thus the
King's second cousin, once removed.
  "There's a huge collection of historic
weapons hanging on the walls of Cynehof--
Bearskinboots' helmet and Smeawine's
battle-ax and so on. Point to any item and the

scops will sing you its story. Whether they know it or
not. In among all this junk is a shoddy,
cheap-looking rapier. That's the one Gerard of
Waygarth used to kill Waerferh`ed. That's what
started all this. My father pointed it out to me and
told me that if it wasn't for that rapier, I
wouldn't be. I said, "Wouldn't be what,
Dad?"' and he said, "Wouldn't be at all.""
  Very funny. Nothing, dangling at Wasp's
belt, was another rapier--at least he'd never have
to handle another lousy saber again! But Nothing would
have to earn her keep, and he suspected that very few
swords had ever faced quite such a career as she
did. If this bizarre instinct of his was correct,
no other Blade in history had ever faced a
potentially mortal threat as soon as he had,
right at the moment of his binding. Almost none of the
Royal Guard ever had cause to use his sword
in ten or more years' service. An instinct was
only a sort of hunch. Could he kill a man
on a hunch?
  "Why did you stay so long?" he asked.
"Once you decided Geste was never coming back
to Ironhall for you, why not just go?"
  Raider shrugged. "Go to what? I had no
family left that I cared about. You and the others were
my friends. I had friends back in Baelmark, of
course--but I also had enemies, and no obvious
way of getting there. True, I was stealing the
world's finest training in swordsmanship from King
Ambrose, but we barbarians never worry much
about theft from foreigners. I had no cause to go
home until I was old enough to think of asserting my
rights."
  "You can certainly do that now."
  "Can I? I suppose with a good sword I can
handle any Bael in the world now, one on one.
But, Wasp my buddy, truly Baelmark is not
a snake pit where men kill each other all day
long. It has laws. Different, but not
necessarily less civilized. The tricks
Ironhall has taught me won't let me
march in and slaughter every man who stands between me and the
throne. And you are going to be a mountain of a
problem."
  They rode on for a few minutes in the dark and the
wind, tackle jingling, horseshoes clinking on
stones.
  Finally Wasp said glumly, "I was hoping
to be an answer."
  "Don't misunderstand me--I'm sure you are a
terrific answer to the right sort of question and it's
wonderful to have you with me. I know we'll have great
times together. But suppose I become a thegn and
challenge the tanist. Can you stand aside and watch
me fight a duel?"
  Wasp supposed. He bit back a scream.
"No! No! You mustn't!"
  "See?" Raider said. "Thegn, ship lord,
tanist, earl, king--that's the road, and there are no
shortcuts. I don't see how I can ever try
to claim the throne with you around. I wonder if that's
why King Ambrose decided to deed me a
Blade?"
  "May have been one of his reasons." Anyone
who thought he understood that royal fox was madder
than a hare in Thirdmoon.
  Just as the road descended into a shallow
valley, the moon peered out to see how they were
doing. They were almost at the Narby turnoff, which was
as far eastward as candidates were allowed to ride.
Of course, they all went on to Blackwater or
Narby itself at least once, just on principle, but
having no money they rarely had much
success at getting into mischief.
  Mischief? Somehow Wasp must get rid of
Janvier. Soon. For once he could almost
regret he was so much a rapier man. If he'd
been an all-rounder like Wolfbiter or
Fitzroy, or a woodchopper like Bullwhip,
Nothing would have had an edge as well as a point.
She didn't. She was subtle and lightning-fast
but she just could not hamstring a horse. Not in the
dark, anyway.
  "It's almost dawn." Raider yawned
sensuously. "I don't know how you two stay so
bright."
  Janvier heard that and looked around. "Because
we're Blades."
  Wasp peered at him suspiciously. "You
mean we need less sleep?"
  "We don't need sleep at all. We can
sleep, if we are quite certain our ward is
safe, but you never will. In the Guard we spell
one another off. The King very rarely appoints a
solitary Blade, you know. Twenty-four hours
a day, twelve and a half moons a year--you will
probably never sleep again, Sir Wasp."
He did not sound very sympathetic.
  "What about the outhouse?" Raider asked.
  Janvier laughed coarsely. "If there's
room for two, he'll be in there with you, at least
for the first few weeks. Solitary Blades often
go mad."
  They had reached the stream and the moonlight was
fading fast. Wasp went first. His horse made
it safely down to the water and splashed its great
hooves across to the other side with no trouble, but the
far bank was undercut. He scouted downstream a
few yards until he found a better slope, but
even there the crumbling soil made for tricky
footing. He reined in at the top and called out a
warning.
  He fidgeted like a mother with a newborn babe
until Raider had followed him safely. Then
came Janvier. As his horse scrambled up the
bank it stumbled. He was a fine horseman and
recovered instantly, but instantly was not quite fast enough
when dealing with Wasp. All the Ironhall
instructors had agreed that his footwork was
inelegant and his technique erratic and often
foolhardy, but that no one--maybe not even the great
Durendal himself--could top him for speed. The
fraction of an instant when Janvier
presented his left side to Wasp with his elbow
raised out of the way was time enough. For the second time
that night Nothing plunged into a human heart,
only this time not as part of a ritual. This time for
real.

                  

  There were precedents. It was inevitable that in the
three and a half centuries of the Order wards had
sometimes come into conflict, so Blade had slain
Blade. Those parts of the Litany were known as the
Horror Stories and seldom repeated.
  Raider had not seen the crime. He heard the
scream of Janvier's horse, and when it shook
itself free of the corpse, he rode after it to catch
it. Dawn was not far off; already there was a
horizon. By the time he came back, Wasp had
stopped throwing up, but he still felt ready to die.
Murderer! Traitor! Brother killer! Not
even an honest fight--just an assassin's underhand
stab.
  He had straightened out the body and relieved it
of its sword and scabbard. After agonizing over the
fancy ring on Janvier's finger, he took that
too. The Royal Guard was not paid enough to buy
expensive trinkets but it might be worth a few
crowns, especially if it was a gift from a
woman.
  "How bad is he hurt?" Raider demanded,
sliding from his saddle.
  "He's dead."
  "No!"
  "I killed him."
  Raider stood in stunned silence for a moment,
then said faintly, "What?"
  "I killed him. Ever since we left
Ironhall I've been ... he knew it.
Didn't you see how he was staying away from me?
Here."
  He held out the dead man's sword. His ward
backed away, bumping into the horses.
  "Take it!" Wasp yelled. "That's your
ticket back to Baelmark. And hurry, because
I'm mortally certain that Montpurse has sent
men after us, just to see if you do go to Bondhill."
  "The King said--"
  "Never mind what the King said! Montpurse
trusts you no more than Janvier did. The King
may have set this up with him anyway,
don't you see? Or without him, more likely, because
Montpurse wouldn't throw away a man." He
was shouting now. "So I may have fallen into a trap
and put you in worse danger than before. The King
is a sly, scheming rodent--and when he insisted
on sending you off with only one guide, he may have
hoped that this would happen, because now he can call you
an accomplice to murder. Come to think of it, in
law a ward is responsible for his Blade's
actions, so you're the culprit. Didn't you hear
him explaining how he wanted to keep you a
secret? Since when did Ambrose ever
explain his orders? He could guess
Montpurse would disregard--"
  "Wasp! Wasp, stop! This is craziness!"
  "So I'm crazy! It happens to solitary
Blades, remember?"
  "Not in two hours it doesn't," Raider
protested. "Ambrose dealt with us more than
fairly, considering what we did to his pride.
He gave you a second chance, gave me a
Blade, hospitality in a palace. ... He
doesn't deed Blades to his enemies or--"
  "Ambrose was lying!" Wasp screamed. "He
wasn't deeding a Blade when he gave me to you,
he was putting out the trash. He knows a lot more
than he said he did. The moment you refused to be
bound, he guessed who you were, remember? He
hailed you by name--Radgar. He called you the
missing atheling. But there was no missing atheling! You
burned to death with your parents five years ago.
Then he said he'd sent no Blades
to Baelmark with Candlefen--doesn't that make you
suspicious? He'll deed three Blades
to Bannerville when he goes to Fitain, but an
ambassador to wild, savage Baelmark
doesn't get any?" His voice cracked.
"Take this accursed sword and let's go before
Montpurse gets here."
  Still Raider ignored the sword. "He was suing
for peace. It would have been a provocation to send
Blades."
  "Yes it would, because your father had killed five
Blades, right? It's all there in the Litany,
the Massacre at Candlefen Park. But bound
Blades would be all right. They wouldn't
jeopardize their ward by causing trouble, so
Ambrose could have given the ambassador
Blades. If he didn't, it was probably
because he'd promised your father he wouldn't,
a condition of the negotiations. But a knight in the
Order, one with no ward to worry about--he's
free to think of revenge. He's far more
dangerous! You must have thought of this!"
  "Yes! Of course I've thought of it. I've
thought of it every day for more than five years. My father
was surprised when I told him there was a Blade
around. But Geste could not have slipped past the house
thegns on the door. The killer had to be someone
known and trusted--and if I hadn't been
fireproofed, no one would ever know there had been a
killer, remember? To the rest of the world it's still just
an accident." He shrugged. "You really think
Ambrose was playing a double game with me tonight?"
  "I'm certain of it." Why were they standing here
chattering when the Guard was on its way?
"Take this accursed sword and let's go!"
  Raider accepted it reluctantly, as if it
might jump at him. "This ought to hang in the
hall, Wasp."
  Wasp exploded in fury, screaming as loud as
he could. "Burn the hall! Mount up!
Raider, Radgar--whatever you want to be
called, you bastard Bael, you're my ward now and
I'll give my life for you if I have to.
Mount! Mount now, burn you! I give you my
life as long as I live and I'll follow
wherever you go and be your watchdog and never sleep, but
when it's a matter of security, then I'm
master, understand? I don't care if you're rightful
king of Baelmark or the Emperor of
Skyrria's grandmother, you'll do as you're told
until then, and right now we have to get out of here."
  He had made a fool of himself. For a painful
moment Raider just stared at him, then he put the
baldric on and adjusted the angle at which the
sword hung at his side. "Sorry. I
haven't quite adjusted to being a ward yet. You've
changed."
  "I'll change a lot more if they cut my
head off. Mount."
  "Shouldn't we hide the body? Drop it in a
bog? They may see it there when daylight comes."
  "I want them to find it! Let's go."
  "Wasp! You want them to find it? They'll be
after us like--"
  Raider was never stupid. Why couldn't he
see? "No! No! No! If they miss it,
they'll just keep going to Blackwater and
Bondhill. But if they do find it,
they'll know we're certainly not going
to Bondhill, but they won't know what road
we've taken--Blackwater or Narby or
doubling back. It'll depend how many men
Montpurse sent. They'll have to get word back
to him, and they can't cover all the roads unless
there's at least six of them--but leaving the body where
it's sure to be found would normally make them
chase after us eastward, so they'll assume that it
really means we want them to assume that we must be
planning to double back and therefore in fact we have
gone east after all."
  "And where are we going?" There was not enough light
to see Raider's expression clearly. His
voice sounded mightily puzzled.
  "We're going to double back anyway, because if
they think we want them to think that, then they'll
assume we're trying to deceive them." Flames!
Who was he to think he could outwit Montpurse?
The entire Order would be hot on his trail like
starving wolves. They'd have every junior in
Ironhall out riding the moors. "We're going
to Prail. We're going to steal a boat there.
Or maybe Lomouth and buy passage, but one
way or another we've got to get out of
Chivial."
  Raider tucked a boot in a stirrup and
swung lithely into the saddle. He said no more for quite
some time.

  After living on Starkmoor for five years a
man knew every tuft of heather within three leagues
and every tor and tarn within ten. By the time the larks were
caroling in blue sky, the fugitives were circling
well to the north of Ironhall. Wasp had seen
no signs of pursuit so far, but all ports
within reach would be alerted by nightfall, so he
absolutely must get his ward out of the country before
then.
  He wasn't up to being a Blade. It was his
fault that Raider was now a fugitive instead of the
King's honored guest. Janvier's death gnawed
at his conscience. Dumb kid had panicked and
made a good situation incredibly bad. He should
have had the courage to refuse the binding. Raider
would be infinitely better off without him; and even
if they did manage to escape from Chivial,
Wasp was going to be a lead weight round his neck
when they got to Baelmark. Baelmark was full of
Baels. ...
  "You are quite right," Raider said suddenly,
addressing the sky. "Ambrose was being devious."
  "You said Geste's sword was called
Fancy?"
  Raider glanced around with a grin. "You caught
that? Yes, they do write the names of the swords in
the archives. They'll write nothing for you."
  Not funny anymore. Nothing was funny
anymore when a man was a murderer, a Blade
who had failed his ward within an hour of being bound.
"How did you get in there?"
  "Wasn't hard. Hid behind the door. I was still
the Brat and it's not uncommon to find the Brat
hiding in weird places. I wasn't caught,
though."
  "So whose sword was Fancy?"
  "Sir Yorick's. Admitted in 328.
He must have been good, because he was the first Blade
to be bound by Crown Prince Ambrose. That was in
Fifthmoon, 333--1 present from Daddy on his
sixteenth birthday, I suspect. He lied
to me about more than just his name. He was commander of the
Prince's Guard until King Taisson died
in 349. Then he was dubbed knight and
Montpurse was promoted to command the combined
Guards."
  "So he was at Candlefen that day. Must have been!
It was his men who died when your mother was carried off?"
  "Undoubtedly."
  "And years later, when he's a free agent
without a ward to worry about, he turns up in
Baelmark on the very day, or almost the very day, your
father is murdered. Was your father a good
swordsman?"
  "Not by Ironhall standards."
  "Sixteen years with Ambrose. Do you know the
name of Montpurse's sword?"
  Raider looked at him in surprise. The
rising sun made his stubbled chin shine like polished
copper. "Talon. Why?"
  "Just that we all know that." Wasp rode on for a
few minutes, thinking it over. "Hoare's is
called Wit and Durendal's Harvest. Not
important, but we all know. Montpurse must
have served under this Yorick. Do you believe that neither
he nor Ambrose recognized the name of
Yorick's sword tonight?"
  "I'm just a stupid Baelish pirate,"
Raider said.
                                  
                  

  Rich and secure inside impregnable walls,
Lomouth had been the greatest port in Chivial
until the third year of the Baelish War. Then
King Aeled had taken it in one of the lightning
raids for which he was famous and had held it for almost
two months against every force King Taisson had
been able to send against him. During that time he had
looted it down to the last spoon and shipped out
prisoners by the thousand. Then he had burned it and
sailed away unscathed. Lomouth was a great
port again, but it was not what it had been.
  "The only thing I ask," Raider remarked as
they rode in the south gate, "is that you don't
mention whose son I am."
  "Why not?" Wasp asked bitterly. "You have
me to defend you."
  His ward gave him a quizzical glance. "You
are doing very well so far. I mock you not, friend.
I am hugely impressed." He had always been
a source of comfort in time of troubles, but Wasp had
never realized what a good liar he was.
  Inside the gate the streets were narrow and full
of people, horses, voices, carts, fascinating
storefronts, noise, abuse, stenches and
fragrances, hawkers' cries, flapping
pigeons, wagons, scavenging dogs, and children
liable to get under the horses' feet. A few
minutes of Lomouth were enough to make Wasp want
to scream and drag his ward away by the scruff of the
neck.
  Raider's red hair attracted some scowls,
but no one took any real notice of the
visitors. The rare exceptions were a few young
women, whose eyes were certainly caught by the
rangy, Baelish-looking horseman, if not
by his boy companion. Apart from miners' daughters
in Torwell--who were always extremely well
guarded--those were almost the first girls either of them had
seen in five years. Girls had been of no
interest back then. They had changed. Raider's
head was swinging like a weathercock, and even Wasp
felt the distraction.
  "First thing we-- Pay attention!"
  "You're too young to understand. And you should speak more
respectfully to your ward and oh wow! look
over there!"
  "Die, then. See if I care."
  "After you. What do we do next?"
  They were both saddlesore and starving--especially
Wasp, who had lost his last meal when he
murdered Janvier--but Raider had already given his
opinion that, from the look of the estuary, they had
only two hours until the last ship sailed, so
time was perilously short. The King's warrant would
have arrived by the next tide and then the sheriff's men
would be hunting for a redheaded man and a boy bearing
cat's-eye swords.
  "Sell the horses?" Raider suggested.
  "They have the King's mark on them. That gets you
hanged from the battlements."
  "We can't just abandon the brutes in the
street!"
  They could have done that, but it was as easy to dismount in
the stable yard of an inn and tell the boy to look
sharp there and see to the nags. Then Wasp led his
ward into the inn itself and out the front door.
  At ground level, the crowds were infinitely more
menacing. Every man, woman, and child was a potential
knife-wielding Bael-hating fanatic. Every
door held an assassin. Every mangy dog was
rabid. How did any Blade stay sane?
  "Now we sell the sword?" Raider asked,
staring at a buxom blonde plucking a goose
at a butcher's stall.
  "No. Anyone wearing a cat's-eye sword
in Chivial gets questioned sooner or later.
It'll fetch a lot more money abroad. Next
we find a goldsmith and you sell this ring."
  Raider tore his eyes away. "Why me?"
  "Because you're tall and handsome and romantic.
If I try, they'll think I stole it from my
mother."

  Apparently Raider had inherited an
ancestral skill at fencing stolen goods. The
goldsmith was a crabbed, suspicious little man
who conducted his business behind an iron grille in
a well-lit garret. He barely glanced at the
ring being offered. "Two crowns and I'm being
generous."
  "Two thousand," Raider responded. "So am
I."
  The goldsmith took a harder look at these
shabbily dressed young men and then a much closer one
at the ring, holding it to the light, peering at it with a
lens. "It's a fake, of course, but quite a good
one. Eight crowns. Take it or leave it."
  "Two thousand five hundred. You're
wasting my time."
  A little later, when the goldsmith had gone up
to a hundred and Raider was back to two thousand,
Wasp remarked helpfully, "She's going to skin
you, you know."
  His accomplice did not even blink. "There's
lots more cuddly stuff where she came from."
  It was an article of faith in the Order that the
Blades' binding made them irresistible to women.
There did seem to be enough truth behind this belief
to make it widely known among--if not
necessarily shared by--the general population of
Chivial. The goldsmith was allowed to notice the
cat's-eye pommels.
  For the next half hour, as the argument ebbed and
flowed and the tide inexorably ebbed, Wasp died
in agony. But he must have done a good job of
concealing his impatience, because Raider was able
to bargain the price up to 1,145 gold crowns.
As they clattered down the rickety stairs, he
grumbled that the Baelish-obscenity miser was going
to make thousands on the deal.
  "I'd have taken his first offer," Wasp said.
"How did you know it was a real emerald?"
  "I saw his eyes. The pupils went as big
as wine casks." Raider paused on the
doorstep. "Now we find a ship to somewhere?"
  "Not yet," Wasp said. Time was precious, but
they did not look right--two youngsters in threadbare
clothing wearing silver-hilted swords had
thieves written all over them. If they tried
to buy passage out of the country they would be branding
themselves fugitives and the fare would sextuple at
least.
  He took Raider over to a cordwainer's
shop across the street and made him buy the
fanciest pair of boots they had that would fit him
plus a gilt-buckled, embossed leather belt
for each of them. Then next door for blankets that
could be made up into a bedroll to hide
Janvier's saber.
  "One Blade's enough," he explained.
"Two Blades wouldn't go overseas without a
ward. But now we look like rich folk trying
to travel incognito."
  "Aren't I a bit young to need a Blade?"
  "Not if you're your cousin, Rupert Lord
Candlefen. We're close enough to Westerth that a
lot of people will know of him. I don't suppose
anyone will have met him or know he
doesn't rank a Blade."
  "Who's going to ask?"
  "I hope nobody!" Wasp snapped. "But
now you have a name ready if you need one. You're a
prince. Stick your nose in the air and act the
part."
  Raider's admiring stares were becoming more convincing
as he practiced them. "Where did you learn all
this admirable duplicity?"
  "By keeping bad company." The binding was making
Wasp think as he needed to think. He wasn't
Wasp anymore, he was only Raider's
Blade and would never again be a person in his own
right.

  The docks were bustling as vessels cast off and
sailed on the tide. Playing arrogant
aristocrat, Raider sauntered along the quay
reciting every ship's readiness, cargo, destination,
seaworthiness, likelihood of accepting
passengers, and the captain's honesty.
  "How can you know all that?" his henchman complained.
  "All sorts of things--the state of the rigging,
what they're loading, what it smells like. That
one's just a coaster, not going anywhere we want.
That one would scare away rats. And ..."
  Baels! A whole shipload of the brutes!
The longship was unlike anything else in view--
longer, sleeker, and infinitely menacing. Of
course the gang of half-naked sailors swarming
over her could not be the monsters who sacked
Haybridge five years ago, slaying everyone
Wasp had ever known, but the sight of all that red
hair buried him in memories so vivid that they
blurred his view of the harbor. He saw again the
big house, whose stout stone walls had blocked
efforts by the raiders to take slaves or booty;
the ghouls dancing around it; the flames pouring from its
roof after they torched it in their anger. He heard
the screaming and laughter as mothers threw their babies
out the windows and the Baels threw them back in again.
He even smelled the reek of roast flesh on the
wind. Then the shouts as the monsters hunted him,
the cold embrace of the soil as he squirmed
frantically down into the badger's sett. ...
They were back and now he had a sword--
  For an instant he stood paralyzed, rent
by conflicting urges to flee, screaming in terror,
or leap down from the dock and lay about him. He was
fast. He would get five or six of the
monsters before they overpowered him. ...
  "Wasp? Fire and pox, man! Are you
all right?"
  His ward needed him! Sir Wasp felt his
binding grab him like a fist. The memories
faded. He blinked. "Belly cramp. I could
eat rats raw."
  "They taste better warmed," Raider said
cautiously. After a moment he resumed his
progress. Wasp followed, trying not to look
toward the Baels again but aware that his ward was
sneaking worried glances at him.
  "Ah! That's Thergian rigging or I'm a
Thergian. Looks like she's been loading lumber
--good cargo, that; keep her afloat even if she
springs a leak." Raider headed for the
gangplank, arriving just as it was being hauled in.
"You there, my good man. Tell your captain to come
here, will you?"
  The hefty, hairy man thus addressed
replied with some guttural words that Wasp was
happy not to understand. Just their tone was enough to make his
sword hand twitch, but Raider's cavalier
demands did eventually bring an officer, even
larger and more villainous. He confirmed in heavily
accented Chivian that the ship was bound for Thergy and
could carry two passengers: "Twenty crowns
each. You sleep where the crew sleeps."
  "Including meals."
  "Meals are a crown apiece and you eat what
the crew eats."
  "I expect the food will kill us if the fleas
don't." But Raider paid up and stalked aboard
with his Blade at his heels--and his nose in the
air.

  Wasp insisted they stay on deck until the
Zeemeeuw had spread her sails and was heading
down the broad waters of the Westuary. No shouting
Blades on lathered horses came charging along
the quay at the last minute. At last, he could
begin to relax a little. It went without saying, of
course, that all the hands and officers were planning
to cut his ward's throat at the earliest possible
opportunity, but from now on he would have to live in
a world of monsters.
  He took pity on Raider, who was staggering from
lack of sleep. They retired to the fo'c'sle--
dark and evil-smelling, with barely enough headroom
for a man to sit upright, let alone stand.
A sailor tried to rent them hammocks, but
Raider had Baelish contempt for such decadence
aboard ship and just rolled himself up in a
blanket, without even a pillow. Putting
Nothing within reach, Wasp leaned back against the
ship's side to wait for his ward's awakening. He
would never sleep again.
  As the hours passed and Zeemeeuw put ever
more water between her and Chivial, he began to feel
better. He had successfully smuggled Raider
out of the country. Now they were fugitives, liable
to be hanged if they ever returned, but they were
alive and free. He had only his peculiar
Blade instinct to reassure him that this was a safer
situation for Raider than being King Ambrose's
guest at Bondhill, but that instinct had not
changed its opinions. If this freak ability of
his was more than just the ravings of a fevered imagination,
then it was a wild card in the game, one that
Ambrose could not have anticipated. Whatever the
Fat Man had planned to do with a captive
Baelish atheling, he would roar when he learned that
the man had escaped.
  Counting the hours, Wasp concluded that he had
completed half of his first day as a Blade.

                  

  Alone among the coastal nations of Eurania,
Thergy never suffered Bael trouble. This was partly
because its own extremely efficient navy made it
dangerous to bully, and partly because it did not let
ethics interfere with business. Baels could bring
anything into port there and sell it without having
to explain the bloodstains. Except slaves.
Thergians did draw the line at slaves. So
the Baels shipped prisoners south to Morq'a'q
or Afernt and marketed inanimate loot in
Thergy.
  The capital, Drachveld, was a great port,
a place of clean streets, neat houses, tiled
roofs, and excessive dullness, insipid even for
two young men who had not set foot in any city
since their childhood. But its very dullness was an
advantage. Wasp needed time to adjust to his
new status, and Raider--according to Raider--was not
going to make any decisions until he had more
information.
  He began by finding modest lodgings for them at
an inn. The bed was small, but he was the
only one who slept in it, and his Blade liked
the potential escape route over the rooftops
outside its window. Raider spent most of one
day hawking Janvier's cat's-eye sword around
armorers' shops. The price he finally accepted
was more than five thousand gilts, which the admiring
Wasp mentally translated into almost seven thousand
crowns. Most of it went on language
conjurations at an elementary--temporary working
facility for both of them in Thergian and a costly
permanent fluency in Baelish for Wasp.
  Thus Sir Wasp became Waeps Thegn and
was not at all sure he approved of the change.
"What's Radgar?" he demanded. "I thought
Baelish names all meant something."
  "Most do, but they rarely make sense. My
father was Firebrand son of Fire-relic son of
Famous-blaze. Cousin Wulfwer was
Wolf-man son of King-wolf. Gar is a
poetic word for spear. Rad could be the same word
as raid in Chivian, but my name is quite old and
probably came from roed. So
Wisdom-Spear."
  "Very appropriate."
  "Thank you."
  Wisdom-Spear also spent enormous sums
at men's outfitters, dressing himself and his
Blade sumptuously: shirts, jerkins,
doublets, hose, breeches, fur-lined cloaks,
boots with silver buckles.
  "I had no idea you had ambitions to be a
dandy," Wasp remarked, pirouetting in front
of the first full-length mirror he had ever seen.
A starched ruff scratched his neck, but he loved
the feel of silk next to his skin.
  "My good looks deserve to be well
displayed." Radgar had his reasons--he always had
reasons. For himself he spurned the haberdashers'
suggestions of greens and blues, staying with browns
that made his hair less conspicuous, and choosing a
hat with the broadest brim he could find. He
shaved every morning and wore a short sword, a
weapon fashionable gentlemen sported because it would
hang vertically and not bang into things. In fact it
was very little shorter than Wasp's rapier and would be
almost as deadly in a Blade's skilled hand.
  He soon located Hendrik's Bierhuis,
an elitist waterfront establishment within whose
cosy rooms and secure courtyards burghers and
brokers met with ship captains to quaff
ale and negotiate contracts. Its value to him
lay in its boardroom, where clerks chalked up the
names of vessels currently in port, their
masters, and destinations. Common sailors and other
riffraff were not welcome, but two young nobles
were.
  Baelish vessels arrived and departed on every
tide, and these he unobtrusively inspected.
Every one seemed to be an honest trader, but it was
understood that the longships among them all had a red
sail and dragon's head posts stowed under the
gratings. Seeing Baels in bunches remained
an ordeal for Wasp, for his heart still knew that they
were vicious animals even if his head could accept
that these were only seamen like any others. He sweated
a lot, but his binding kept him under control. One
day Radgar undertook to educate him about Chivian
behavior and some of the ghastly things that had been done
to Baelish prisoners of war.
  "If they'd stayed home they wouldn't have
suffered," Wasp retorted. "I'm sure they
deserved every bit of it." He sulked for the rest of the
evening.
  In general he was happy to wait upon events.
A good Blade never interfered in his ward's
affairs unless they seemed likely to be
dangerous, and Thergy was certainly a safer
place for Radgar than Baelmark. But about the
tenth day, as they strolled the docks in the morning
sun, he demanded to know what Radgar was planning.
He got the usual answer.
  "Can't decide until I know more about the weather
back home."
  "But what do you want to do? Go home?"
  "If I return from the dead, I will change
everything. The Nyrpings, Tholings, and even the
Scalthings will unite against me--and my uncle will
put me on trial for Wulfwer's murder."
  Wasp shivered. Few Blades lived to see
their wards go on trial. "You really mean you may
choose not to go home?"
  "If I learn that whoever killed my parents
has been identified and suitably punished--
fatally punished, I mean--then I will have no
reason to."
  This news was too good to believe. "What about
your inheritance? What about the crown? You won't
make a play for the throne?"
  Radgar pointed to a group of bare-chested youths
swaggering ashore and strutting off in search
of a grog shop. "Baelish thegns. See the
rowers' arms and shoulders?"
  All Wasp could see were necks that ought to be
throttled in hemp. "Frog scats! Those
muscles came from an elementary. The older men
don't have them. They're conjured."
  "I'm sure they are. But that just shows how
different I am, because I can't imagine wanting
to look like that or wasting good money to do so. While
I've been sleeping on sheets and eating
regular meals in Ironhall, those men have been
sailing and fighting together all over the known world.
They've fought side by side a dozen times--
trading and raiding, slaving and whoring. Every one of
them has half a hundred friends tested in
battle. When the time comes to side, he'll vote
for his friend or his friends' friend." He watched the
raucous, quarrelsome gang disappear into the city
with a wistful expression Wasp had never seen on
him before. "I am not one of them, Wasp! I'm a
stranger, three-quarters Chivian, unknown,
untried. Adolescence is when men forge their
truest friendships and I spent mine in a far-off
land. At my age my father was a ship lord with his own
werod. I am already too late to think of a
political career in Baelmark."
  "Ironhall was bad for you, you mean?"
  "I made good friends there, didn't I?"
Radgar flashed a toothy grin to change the
mood.
  Wasp returned it. "So did I."
  "And it kept me alive when I needed
refuge. But as for claiming my father's throne ...
My only qualifications for that are my Cattering
lineage, which won't carry much weight with the thegns,
and a skill at fencing that they will consider a fancy
way of cheating. Who wants a tanist or earl
who can never be beaten? You're stuck with him until
he dies of old age. No, my waspish friend,
you will never be a king's Blade in Baelmark."

  His patience paid off. The next morning,
stalking along through the dockside crowds toward
Hendrik's, he halted so abruptly that Wasp
almost ran into him. He said, "Aha!" and pulled
his Blade aside to the shelter of a line of market
stalls. A group of young Baels came parading
toward them, arguing loudly in a dialect other
than the one imprinted on Wasp and paying no
heed to the citizens they were shouldering
aside. They had the sweaty, thirsty look of men
who had just unloaded a cargo and felt they had
earned a drink or two.
  Radgar let them go by. Then he said,
"Better!" but let the next two follow their
companions. In a moment he added, "Perfect!"
and stepped out in front of a solitary youth
hurrying to catch up. "Aylwin Leofricing!"
  The thegn thus addressed was no older than he
was and no taller than Wasp, but wide as a
wagon and all massive muscle. He slapped
a hand on his sword hilt and glared up
pugnaciously at the dandy who dared accost him.
He was bare-chested and filthy and his breeches were
indecently tattered; his red-gold mane was a
floor mop that had just washed out a stable. Then
came recognition. The killer thegn swayed like a
highborn lady about to stage a dramatic faint
and neither tawny beard nor heavy wind burn hid
his sudden pallor.
  "Radgar?"
  "Of course Radgar, you great ugly sight for
sore eyes!"
  "Alive!"
  "Just as alive as you are!"
  With howls of joy, fop and ruffian grabbed
each other in bear hugs, pounded each other on the
back, leaping around and generally appalling all the
straitlaced Thergians in the vicinity. Wasp
felt danger rumble like thunder.

  Throwing a brawny arm around his long-lost friend in
a way that set Wasp's teeth on edge, thegn
Aylwin hustled him along the dockside, babbling
questions even as Radgar tried to answer them.
  "It wasn't an accident," Radgar said.
"My parents were murdered and--"
  "What? But how can you--"
  "Whoever did it tried to murder me too."
  "But my dad was--"
  "Wulfwer and those two thugs of his dragged me
off down to the harbor like a--"
  "Then how did you manage--"
  The Bael's destination proved to be
Hendrik's. He shouldered the door open and
propelled Radgar inside, ignoring Wasp.
The entrance hallway was dim and probably kept
that way to put intruders at a disadvantage. The
doorkeeper who loomed forward to challenge the
unseemly newcomer was taller than
Radgar and wider than Aylwin; he had the
battered features and crooked knuckles of an
alley thug, although his gilded livery had been
crafted by skilled tailors and would have passed in
any ducal mansion. He hesitated when he
noticed the lout's companions.
  Aylwin poked this grandee in the chest with a stout
finger and demanded, "Faro`edhengest--is its ship
lord here yet? Tall man with a silver
eyepatch?"
  Not comprehending Baelish, the bouncer frowned and
looked around for help. Another, equally well
dressed and almost as intimidating, rolled forward
to take over. "We have seen no one by that
description, ealdor."
  "When he gets here tell him to see me at
once. Beer for two."
  The doorkeepers exchanged frowns. Radgar
solved their problem by flashing gold coins. "A
quiet table for three, if you please, and when the
captain of Faro`edhengest arrives, will you be so
kind as to inform him that his son wishes to speak with him
on a matter of some urgency?"
  The flunkies doubled over in courtly bows.
  "Isn't that what I said?" Aylwin muttered.
  They were led through to a small cobbled courtyard
secure inside worn brick walls. They had
it to themselves, either because few other customers had
arrived yet or because those that had should be spared the
sight of Aylwin. Tastes vary--he won
flashing smiles from the sapphire-eyed,
golden-haired serving maid who brought them beer in
painted steins. Wasp ignored his because he
detested the stuff and the other two ignored him in the
joy of old friends reunited, both still chattering like
magpies.
  By the time Radgar had completed a quick summary
of his experiences, his burly friend had fallen into an
amazed, slack-jawed silence. It seemed that
something about the story bothered him considerably, perhaps
several somethings. "What's he for?" He
gestured with a thumb.
  "He's a friend, Wasp. Wasp, Aylwin
Leofricing."
  Aylwin scowled. "I didn't ask his name,
I asked what he's for. It'll look bad, you
turning up with a Chivian. Don't want
to remind people where you've been. Leave him here."
  "I can't leave him. He's my Blade. And
don't tell me Blades are
un-Baelish, because I know." Radgar gave
Wasp a grin, cheerful but not completely convincing.
  "King Ambrose tricked him into accepting me,
Aylwin Thegn," Wasp said. "If you and
Radgar's other supporters want rid of me,
you'll have to kill me. I shall understand your reasoning,
but I will defend myself." Oh, let them try!
  Aylwin quaffed beer thoughtfully.
  Radgar said, "Wasp has already proved his
worth. Ambrose was planning to use me somehow.
Chivians think in terms of inheritance and rightful
heirs, so he may have hoped to use me
to blackmail Cynewulf. Wasp saw the
danger and got me out of it and I am very grateful
to him. I don't intend to be anyone's pawn,
understand?"
  "I wish you luck, Atheling." The sailor
grinned skeptically.
  "You'll see," Radgar said. "My turn
to ask questions. Your dad's your ship lord? Inward
or outward bound? Trading or raiding?"
  "Foering to Skyrria for the winter furs
... not that we turn down anything that looks
profitable. You want a safe ride home,
Dad'll put her about. We'll all rally behind
you."
  Wasp doubted that any master of a trading
vessel would cancel a voyage just to oblige his
son's young friend--or even his old friend's son.
Pirates, on the other hand ... an atheling might
be worth a sizable ransom. Ambrose had seen
some value in him. If Radgar could be used
to mount a revolution, there could be profit in it.
How did a Blade defend his ward against his
friends?
  Radgar did not comment on the offer. "How's that
fat uncle of mine managing to stay on the
throne?"
  Aylwin drummed black-rimmed nails on the
table. "Because no one challenges, of course.
Seems no earl can win enough support. The only
one who pushed it all the way was Swetmann, not
long after your dad died."
  "What happened to dear Earl Swetmann?"
  "What d'you think? By the time the moot voted
everyone knew he was going to lose, so the only
vote he got was his own. That must'a felt good!
The King sent up Big Edgar from Hunigsuge
against him--and paid him a bonus for a messy death,
it's said. Even Swetmann didn't
deserve that."
  Radgar pouted. "Maybe he did. How about
in Catterstow itself? How does the fyrd feel about
Cynewulf as earl?"
  The thegn turned sulky and took a long
drink. "We put up with him because he's king.
It's good for the shire--brings in gold, lets us
lord it over the others. Not that the others don't
laugh at us for having a gray-haired tub of
whale blubber for an earl, but he's their king
too."
  "Catterstow stays loyal as long as he can
hold the throne? Who's his tanist?"
  Aylwin scratched his tangled mop with both
hands. "You're not going to like this, Radgar."
  "Try."
  "Wulfwer."
  Radgar winced as if he had been punched.
He took a moment to consider the news, glanced
briefly at Wasp as if to judge what he was
thinking, then said, "I told you, the last I saw
of my beloved cousin, he was heading for the
Cweornstanas. What did he do--walk on
water?"
  "Never heard anything about that." The thegn
screwed up his face in thought. "And if he
looked any cleaner than usual, I was too
upset about you to notice. Don't recall seeing
him at your funeral, but Cynewulf swore him
in as tanist very soon after. Two days maybe."
  "And how many ambitious thegns have challenged
dear Wulfie?"
  Aylwin looked more abashed than ever. "Give
him his due, Radgar. If you believe the tanist
should be the shire's best fighter--and lots do ...
I don't say we don't have one or two that could
beat him. ... He's nobody's pushover."
  "He would be for me."
  His friend blinked. "Truly?"
  "Guaranteed. And Wasp here could take him with
both feet in one boot. Couldn't you, Wasp?"
  Wasp said nothing.
  Aylwin belched luxuriously. "Challenge
is usually done with swords, but incumbent gets
choice of weapons. How would your little cniht friend
do with axes? Or bare hands?"
  "Ah! Forgot that." Radgar grinned
ruefully. "Not well."
  Aylwin emptied his stein and wiped his mouth with a
tattered sleeve. "Your cousin isn't
married. He's sired a few thrall-born, but
no usable heirs--wise of him, maybe? He and
his father are the last of the Catterings, and when they go
Catterstow may never produce another king of
Baelmark again."
  Wasp slid his untouched tankard across to the
Bael and took the empty one. He was torn.
At times he could see the sailor as Radgar's
childhood friend and appreciate his good
qualities--loyalty, probably tenacity, a
certain na@ivet`e, eagerness to please. His
bovine manner was affectation, the pose of the
warrior who regards thinking as unmanly.
Despite the width of his neck, he had brains
above it, although his interests would always be
practical, never philosophical, and he would
value courage well ahead of moral insight.
He was sorely in need of a bath, but he had
probably been working like a mule for days. He was
not unlike Bullwhip, in fact--dull but
utterly reliable.
  Without warning the view would make a bewildering
shift and leave Wasp looking at an animal.
Loyalty became ruthlessness, tenacity greed, and
that eagerness to please just rank ambition. How many
rapes, thefts, and murders had this ape committed?
If asked, would he deny them or brag of them?
Worse, Wasp could see Radgar's fascination
--there but for the grace of Ironhall went the son
of Aeled. He wanted to scream a warning, and he
knew that any word from him would only increase the
danger.
  Radgar was obviously making adjustments to the
conclusions of five years' brooding. "I
underestimated Healfwer's skills. He must have
proofed Wulfwer against water just as well as he
proofed me against fire. Maybe the brute did
walk home! How often do I have to kill him?"
  The serving maid strolled meaningfully across the
yard to flick a cloth over another table and
Radgar nodded to her to refill the steins.
  "Tell me again," Aylwin growled,
"exactly what happened that night."
  "Someone killed my parents, bolted me in my
bedroom, and set the house on fire."
  "My dad was marshal," Aylwin said with enough
menace to raise Wasp's hackles. "You're
saying he let a murderer in?"
  Radgar flashed his most appealing grin.
"Looking at all those expensive
muscles of yours, old friend, I would never say
anything so suicidal. I think I can narrow it
down to four people. One was Swetmann, or someone in
his war party. It was too late to stop the peace
treaty, but he was ambitious and he must have known that
the witan would never back him against Dad. I
don't have a clue how he could have got past the
guards."
  "No strangers got past my dad!"
  "Then how about Wulfwer? His bootlickers were
ready to swear he never left the hall. Did they
return too--Hengest and Frecful?"
  "Haven't seen them in years." Aylwin
scratched his scalp busily. "Don't recall
any scandal or accusations. Someone must have paid off
their families."
  "Cynewulf, I'm sure. But Wulfwer's
an excellent suspect, because he hated me and
he knew which was my room. We were sure to be
rivals when I got older--why let me get
older? He got to be tanist, so he gained from
Dad's death too."
  "We can ask my dad if Wulfwer went in.
Who's next?"
  "Good King Cynewulf. He escorted my
mother and me home, so we know he was in there. He
gained more than anyone--he got to be king."
  "He also ..." Aylwin said and stopped.
  "Also what?"
  "Later. Who's the fourth?"
  "Good King Ambrose."
  "Not personally, I hope?" Aylwin said
skeptically.
  "Not personally," Radgar agreed.
  At that moment the serving maid returned with
three foaming steins. The thegn lifted the one
Wasp had given him and drained it in one
incredibly long draft, his throat working like a
smith's bellows. The others watched in
fascinated disbelief. He hardly seemed short
of breath when he finished and handed the empty
tankard to the girl. She fluttered her lashes
at him and he awarded her a smile and a slap on
the rump. Her obvious approval of this form of
approval made Wasp wonder if it would work for
him or if it required conjured muscles.
  "Then how?" Aylwin inquired. "Ambrose?"
  "He sent a Blade along with the embassy,
although I suspect he'd promised not to--and a
Blade who was very close to him, who used
the name Geste. The Blades had a score
to settle with my father. Have you heard anything about such
a man?"
  "No." Aylwin's former menace was back.
"Just how do you say a Chivian would have gotten
in?"
  "He may have had ways."
  "Such as precisely?"
  Radgar looked to Wasp to see if he wanted
to comment, but Wasp was as much in the dark as Aylwin.
"Invisibility."
  "Whale shit." Aylwin took another drink.
  "I think I agree," Wasp said.
  "Possibly." This time Radgar spoke
to Wasp. "The night before Wolfbiter was bound,
I had a long chat with Snake and picked up
all the court gossip. There's a rumor going
around that the college has perfected an
invisibility cloak. Granted, even if they have
one now they may not have had it five years ago.
But there was something very odd about the way Yorick
crept up on us in the coaster that night. He
appeared on deck almost as if he-- Well, no
matter. Just say that Ambrose has access to very
powerful conjurements. If anyone could have smuggled
an assassin past the house thegns it would be the
King of Chivial, yes? I can't see what his
motive would be except personal spite, which is
not usually a reason for a triple murder. Why
include me in it? Kings usually like having
relatives among foreign royalty. But those are
the suspects--Swetmann and the Bloods as my
father called them, Wulfwer, Cynewulf, or
Sir Yorick with the connivance of his King."
  "I'm really glad you're alive, Radgar
Aeleding."
  "Thank you, Aylwin Leofricing."
  "There's something I must tell you. You've got
one thing very wrong about that night. Wench! More beer!"
  "Have mine." Again Wasp pushed his stein over.
  The thegn spared him another brief look of
contempt and again drained the tankard in a single
draft. He seemed to have unlimited capacity.
  "What did I get wrong?" Radgar
demanded.
  Somewhere--it seemed to Wasp--a hunting horn
played a warning call, as if danger
approached. It was only a hunch, of course, but
he sprang to his feet an instant before a
swordsman strode into the yard.

                  

  From his silver-buckled boots all the way up
to the white plume in his hat, he was an imposing
figure, and two of the establishment's male
flunkies came fawning in his wake. The hilt
of his sword was gilded and bejeweled--from the look
of the scabbard it was a falchion, a broad blade
with a sharp taper at the end, possibly handy enough in
a shipboard melee but not long enough to pose much
threat to a good rapier man. The silver eyepatch
bearing a sizable emerald identified him
instantly as Aylwin's father, Ship Lord
Leofric, formerly King Aeled's best friend and
marshal. He came marching toward his son with a
disapproving frown that only deepened when his glance
took in Wasp.
  "What are you doing in here? I told you to--"
  Radgar turned around on his stool.
  "Aeled!"
  "Remember me, "uncle"?"
  "Radgar! Oh, Radgar! Atheling!" The big
man started to fold down on his knees. His
sailor's tan showed like paint over his pallor,
and his one eye seemed ready to jump right out of his
head. Before he could kneel, Radgar leaped up and
caught his arms, pulling him into a hug.
  The hunting horns trilled again, and now Wasp
could hear the baying of hounds as well. Either
Leofric was the traitor who had opened the door
to the assassins--although just looking at the man made
that seem beyond belief--or he was the best advisor
and helper Radgar could have, his father's most trusted
confidant. If he seemed a threat, it was because
he would try to lure Radgar home. Friends were more
dangerous than enemies at the moment.
  Aylwin glared at the waiters. "Wine!" he
shouted. "Red wine for the ship lord! And three more
beers."
  Radgar reluctantly let Leofric kiss
his hand and tell him several times how like his father he
looked. The big man did not know whether to laugh
or weep with joy. He could not possibly be
faking that emotion!
  Then they all pulled up stools and Radgar
told his story all over again. The ship lord sat
in rocky stillness, staring at him fixedly, showing
no reaction whatsoever. Aylwin had sunk
into smiling, beery bliss. At the end
of the tale, when Wasp was explained, Leofric
nodded acknowledgment. Unlike his son, he
approved of a Blade.
  "It sounds as if you had no need of binding
to make you loyal to your friend, Sir Wasp. You
may have your work cut out for you in future, I
fear."
  Wasp bristled. "Will you be more specific,
please, ealdor?"
  The older man took his first sip of wine.
"Political ambition in my homeland has
become a dangerous business. I will quote you
cases later, Sir Wasp." The blue eye and
green jewel turned to Radgar again. "You're
taller, slimmer. But astonishingly like Aeled!"
  "I am a lesser man all 'round, uncle."
  Leofric shook his head. "Not "uncle"
now, Atheling. Please call me thegn, for I
dearly crave to be your man as I was your father's.
I was never entirely convinced that his death was an
accident and now your tale brings back my grief
tenfold. I shall know no peace until we have
avenged my lord and friend and put you on the throne of
your ancestors."
  "Well said!" Aylwin proclaimed, somewhat
loudly. "This sou'westerly keeps up, we can
make lan'fall in four days."
  "Three!"
  Radgar was shaking his head. "I am not ready for
such talk, ealdor. No, let me call you
that, for you must be my wita as you were my father's.
Continue your foering to Skyrria. I beg
you. If you have room for a couple of green hands,
then I should be grateful, although neither of us will pull
his weight. You can drop us off here when you return
and pick us up on your next voyage, perhaps."
Seeing protest brewing, he became insistent.
"I have been entombed these last five and half
years, ealdor! I need to get some living in
before I show my face in Baelmark. I am young.
There is time."
  No. Closer came the danger--horns,
hounds, drumming of hooves. ...
  Bright spears of sunlight lanced from the silver
eye patch. "You do not have that luxury, lad.
Four people were mourned after that fire--four in that
house, I mean, for it spread and claimed other
lives. Two of the dead were house thegns, who
refused my orders and forced their way by me. It was
a hopeless quest, because if the
Hlaford Fyrlandum had not survived, then
what could mere men do? But you know the code of a
house thegn."
  "Four?" Radgar had become very still.
  The single eye glinted. "Aye, lad. The
other two were you and your father. We thought he'd gone
to save you. The heat was so intense after the house
collapsed that we found hardly a bone."
  Aylwin trumpeted another fanfare belch.
"Your mom escaped. Unharmed. She's still
alive."
  That was it--the danger Wasp had sensed
approaching. The hunt had closed on its prey,
slobbering jaws and flashing swords. ...
  Radgar made several attempts before he
managed to speak. "Where is she?"
  Father and son exchanged glances. Aylwin said,
"In Catterstow. She's still queen. She married
your uncle."
  When Wasp could stand the silence no longer he
said, "Can you think of any reason why dear
Ambrose didn't mention this to you, Radgar? He
must know. She is still his cousin."

               YORICK

                VII

                  

  That was a good question. The air was full of good
questions, but four days passed before Wasp received
answers to even one of them. By then
Faro`edhengest had entered the sheltered
lagoons of Swi@thaefen through the Leaxmu`ed
narrows. The blue-green sail with its white
horse emblem hung limp in a dead calm, and
he could lean back against the side and enjoy watching
sixty Baels streaming sweat while they heaved
on oars and bellowed out lewd rowing songs.
  They did not bother him now as much as they had at
first. He had come to think of them as just dangerous
animals--wolves or wild boars. No
matter that his eyes told him they were men, no
better or worse, no more clean or filthy,
crass or cultured, than could be expected of
any other gang of healthy, mostly young,
sailors confined in an open boat. Even knowing that
they were all well-disposed toward his ward, he still
felt only contempt for them as people. The
contempt was mutual. Leofric had warned the
whole werod that the Chivian cniht was a
Blade and any roughhousing with Radgar Atheling
might trigger fatal reactions. He had made
Wasp sound like a poorly trained guard dog.
  Fishing boats sat on reflected hills and
islets; green slopes bearing farms and
villages swept back to wooded hills. It was
an idyllic scene, but over it brooded the
smoking peak of Cwicnoll--white against a sky
of perfect blue, whose only cloud was the one over
the mountain itself. Before dawn it had glowed red; by day
it was almost too white to look upon. Periodically
it rumbled.
  In an hour or so Radgar would be reunited with
his mother, and that idyll was overhung by worse
dangers than a mere volcano. Just by being
alive, and even more by being married to King
Cynewulf, she changed the battlefield. Would
she push her son forward as heir apparent under the
crazy Baelish rules of succession? The
sinister Cousin Wulfwer was alive, too.
Radgar still protested that he had no royal
ambitions, but even Wasp found that hard
to believe. His friends and his family and his father's
killers must all have plans for his future--or
lack of one.
  But had the assassin been a Bael?
Ambrose had known more than he should or less
than he should. He had let slip that odd remark
about a missing atheling. If he had sent Yorick
to assassinate Aeled and kidnap Radgar--although
that last feat was more likely just an opening that chance
had offered and the expert fencer had exploited--then
why had Yorick not told his royal master where the
boy had been hidden?
  Why had King Ambrose not mentioned that Queen
Charlotte still lived? He must have known that Radgar
would learn the truth very quickly now that he was free
to ask questions. Only very hard work by the
ever-mischievous spirits of chance could have kept him
ignorant for so long, for although the Ironhall
curriculum ignored Baelmark, it included
detailed study of the House of Ranulf. Wasp
could remember sitting beside Radgar when Master of
Protocol drew diagrams of its many links
to foreign royalty. There had been growls of
anger when he mentioned the shameful Baelish
connection and the Blades who had died at Candlefen
--but he had not thought to add that the
abducted lady was still Queen of Baelmark.
  Web of errors, tapestry of questions. If
Yorick-Geste had been the assassin and acting
on his own, how had he entered the guarded house?
If he had been a Chivian agent and Chivial
had so much wanted peace, then why kill Aeled
before the treaty was formally signed? Why rescue
Radgar, lie to him, then abandon him? Had
Queen Charlotte been involved in the murder?
She had married her brother-in-law less than
a month after the horrible death of her first husband--
and son, of course, for everyone except Yorick
had believed Radgar dead. And Wulfwer. He
had survived and knew that his cousin probably
had. What would the tanist do now that Radgar had
returned? How did King Cynewulf manage
to keep the throne of Baelmark at fifty-one when
no previous king had been tolerated past forty?
Why ...
  Wait! That last question might have some answers!
  Ship Lord Leofric was nearby, holding the
steering oar easily with one hand, although he had let
younger men do the hard work on the open ocean. In
shabby smock and leggings tattered at the knees,
he looked no grander than his crew. Only his
shiny eyepatch marked him as a man of wealth.
  "Ealdor, you promised to tell me of
political dangers in your homeland."
  The thegn grimaced. "Flames! It is a
shameful matter to discuss with a foreigner and not one
I would dare mention in Radgar's presence if I
did not know him so well. But you should hear. Pass
the word for him."
  Presuming that this meant, "Fetch him," Wasp
turned and headed aft. Radgar was pulling his
weight with the others, stripped to his sunburn and
making hard work of it. The werod had tried
to shame the Chivian cniht into joining in also and
had mocked him when he refused. Wasp caught
Radgar's eye and beckoned him. Of course the
sailor brutes started jeering when the atheling
shipped his oar, so Radgar arrived at the stern with
his face redder than ever. He was still wearing only
breeches, wiping sweat off his ribs with a bundled
shirt. "Ealdor?"
  "Show me your hands." Leofric scowled at the
display of bloody blisters. "I told you to stop
before you got to that stage. Have Aylwin dress them for
you before we beach--that's an order, wer!"
  "Yea, ealdor."
  The ship lord smiled. "And may that be the last
order I ever give you, Atheling! Now, listen."
His expression grew grim. "I hate to sing this
sad song, but I must warn you. Don't know how
much Aylwin told you ... he may not even know it
all. You were wondering how your uncle has been
managing to hold on to the crown."
  Radgar nodded. "He's bribing the earls with
my inheritance?"
  "He can't be. That would take enormous
amounts of money, because every earl knows his own fyrd
would turn on him if he got caught. Your
uncle would have to sell off lands to finance it, and he
hasn't, not that I've heard of--not on
Fyrsieg, certainly. You may equally ask how
Wulfwer avoids challenge. The tanist is
good, but there are men around Catterstow who could take
him."
  "Foul play," Radgar said, a sick
expression curling his lip. It was not a question.
  Leofric nodded grimly. "Royally born,
throne-worthy candidates have had very short life
spans in Baelmark lately. Not counting
Swetmann, who played by the rules and lost,
two Tholings and a Nyrping have died since your father
burned--fine strapping young men. Sudden sickness
in two cases, a ship that vanished without trace
in calm seas in another. Nothing open, you understand,
nothing that could start blood feud."
  "That's horrible! If taking bribes is a
crime, then why isn't that? Why doesn't the
country rise against him?"
  Wasp suppressed a smile. Did Radgar
really expect honor among Baels? Could such
monsters obey rules, even among themselves?
  "And who's to lead a revolution if not the
earls?" the ship lord snapped. "And in
Catterstow, who but the tanist?"
  Radgar pulled a face. "There too?"
  "Same picture. Remember
Ro`edercraeft Oscricing?"
  "Vaguely. Older than me. About
Wulfwer's age."
  "A friend of his," the ship lord said grimly.
"A close friend. Ro`edercraeft's your
uncle's marshal, and he either doesn't keep the
house thegns under control or he has them under much
better control than he should. When I was marshal,
I never asked a thegn to do anything I would be
ashamed to do myself, because I would have
expected him to refuse a dishonorable order.
There have been rumors. ... A couple of young
ship lords vanished without trace; two others were
crippled in fights that no one witnessed. These were
all men who were being encouraged by their friends
to challenge the tanist. No proof, of course, but
Ro`edercraeft and his thugs cast long shadows."
  Radgar shook his head as if violence in
Baelmark was beyond belief. "I can't begin
to imagine what Dad would have thought."
  "That's not all," Leofric said. "Brimbearn
Eadricing?"
  "Yes! Great fighter, wonderful man.
Remember him spending half a day teaching a
bunch of us kids how to tie knots."
  "One of the best, a Cattering of the @thaerymbe
line--not truly royal, but certainly noble enough
to be earl or tanist. He could have taken
Wulfwer if anyone could. He had just started
rallying support when a rabid fox wandered into his
house and bit him." Sunlight flamed on the
eyepatch. "Guard your ward, Sir Blade.
Baelmark needs him."
  Radgar still looked incredulous. "You are
telling me that my father's brother--who is also now
my mother's husband--will try to have me murdered, or
else my cousin-stepbrother will?"
  "Atheling, I would never insult your noble line
by suggesting anything so shameful. I merely warned
your Blade to beware of treachery." With a sad
smile, Leofric leaned on the oar, bringing
Faro`edhengest around a headland.
  "You are only at risk if you're a threat
to them," Wasp said. "Can you renounce all
claim to the throne?"
  Radgar hesitated. Oars creaked, creaked,
creaked. The rowers finished one song and started
another.
  "Well?" The ship lord's one-eyed smiles were
peculiarly sinister. "Answer his question, Atheling."
  "I could renounce thegnhood, so I could never
be counted throne-worthy." He glanced at Wasp
to see if he was being believed. "It's been done
often enough, even by some of my bloody-minded
ancestors."
  "Will you?"
  Radgar could be as inscrutable as the bottom of the
sea when he wanted. "I may. First I must
sneak ashore unobserved and arrange a secret
meeting with my mother. She will have advice
to offer, I'm certain."
  In Drachveld he'd said he could never be king
and wasn't qualified anyway. Now he was
less sure. Thegn Leofric seemed pleased by the
change.

                  

  Had Radgar not been dazzled by the sight of his
homeland he would have been paying better attention.
He would have guessed what the sailors were up to.
He had barely set foot on the shingle before
Aylwin and Oswald grabbed him and hoisted him
up on beefy shoulders. His shouts of warning were
drowned out by a roar of approval from the others. The
entire werod set off in parade.
  "Aeleding!" they shouted, "Aeleding!
Aides sunu!" In moments they were riding a
human wave. Everyone threw down tools and
joined in. Louder and wilder grew the acclaim.
Soon a thousand, then two thousand people, were clamoring
through the streets, bearing Radgar to the seat of his
ancestors as if he were already earl and king.
Cwicnoll rumbled and the crowd roared right back.
  "Radgar! Radgar Aeleding cume@th!" They made it a marching song:
"Rad-gar Aeleding!"
  Helpless, Radgar could only sit up there and
wave to friends. They were all his friends, apparently,
the whole population. That was illusion, because ahead
stood Cynehof, where a king who had clearly
outstayed his welcome crouched in his web--a king with
unscrupulous house thegns, with dark unspoken
ways of averting rivals, with a tanist who never
had to face a challenge. Leofric was behind this
demonstration, burn him!
  "Aeleding! Radgar! Aldes
sunu!"
  Where was Wasp? He would know that this riot was
well intentioned, but could his binding accept that?
Radgar's fragile ambitions would die in the
shell if his bodyguard began slaughtering his
followers.
  Across the great yard before the hall swept the
crowd, almost to the shallow steps that spanned the
full width of the porch. Radgar yelled a
warning. Aylwin and Oswald cursed and halted.
A drawn sword barred their way. The
swordsman's chalky pallor and the madness in his
eyes were enough to stop the commotion on the spot.
  "Wasp!" Radgar shouted. "It's
all right! Set me down, you idiots! Wasp,
they mean no harm!" He was dropped on his feet
ungently. "Wasp?" The crowd surged around,
enclosing them all, clamoring to know what the
holdup was.
  "Where are they taking you?" Wasp spoke through
clenched teeth. His rapier flicked to and fro like a
cat's tail, responding to every move made
by anyone, causing those within reach to back hard against
the press of the mob, leaving a space around him.
  "We're going to see the King, of course,"
Radgar said. He had no choice now; Mother must
wait. "Put away your sword. Now,
Wasp!"
  But Wasp continued to flick Nothing around.
"Going to see the King where?" he snarled. "Armed
or unarmed?"
  Flames! Why had Radgar not thought of that
problem before a Chivian saw it? In theory he
had two choices. If he veered off to the right,
he could go through the gate into the palace enclosure.
There would be cnihtas on guard, but they would
admit an atheling and his Blade without argument.
Or he could head for Cynehof itself, which would
normally be empty at this time of day. Except it
obviously wasn't. There were cnihtas aplenty
in the porch and armored house thegns, including--now
that Radgar took the trouble to look--a very large
one standing in the doorway with his arms folded. His
scarlet cloak and crested helm identified him
as the marshal, Ro`edercraeft. King Cynewulf
must be holding court inside.
  No one entered a mead hall bearing arms
except the cnihtas and thegns of the King's own
werod. To do so was challenge. Radgar was not
armed, but Wasp was and no foreigner should bear arms
without royal permission. Ro`edercraeft could
arrest him if he wanted--or die trying,
maybe.
  Storm and fire!
  Everyone began talking at once. Leofric:
"You'll have to leave him behind--" Aylwin: "Make
him put that thing away!" Oswald: "He's
crazy!"
  "I can't leave him behind," Radgar said. "He
can't leave me and he can't give up his sword.
Ship Lord, present my respects to the marshal
and explain."
  "Marshal can't admit him." Leofric sighed.
"I'll appeal to the King. You wait
here." He strode off angrily.
  "All right, Wasp. Put up your sword.
I'm not going anywhere without you."
  With an obvious effort of will, Wasp slid
Nothing back in its scabbard. The triumphal
procession had collapsed.

                  

  It had been a very near thing--a Blade should not
be expected to watch his ward being mobbed by a pack
of filthy Baels. Even when Leofric
returned with royal permission, Wasp was still
shaking. He followed Radgar up the steps, past
the glowering house thegns in their mail shirts and
steel helmets, past cnihtas no older than
himself. Many thegns had gone on ahead, yielding
up their swords at the door. Others followed.
Led by Marshal Ro`edercraeft, the procession
headed into Cynehof.
  Even on a hot afternoon, fires smoldered on
the central hearths; but the great space was cool and
dark after the glare outside, pungent with odors of
ancient meat and drink, smoke and men. With no
windows except the two open gable ends, vast
wooden walls soared up to a web of blackened
beams. Their upper reaches bore sooty, greasy
shapes like fungi, probably ancient battle
honors. Enthroned on the low platform at the end
of the hall sat the King, with a dozen house thegns
at his back and a golden crown on his head. There
was no sign of the Queen, but she must have heard the
news by now. Wasp assumed that a mother would prefer
to hold such a reunion in private, although he
remembered little about his own mother. He did know
something about kings' behavior--mostly
Ambrose's, of course, but the lectures had
mentioned others. Cynewulf was holding court, which
was not something done very often, because crowns were actually
highly uncomfortable things to wear. The gathering could
not be a welcome for Radgar. There would not have been
time to organize it even if a messenger had
galloped a horse up from the beach.
  Wasp trod at Radgar's left heel all
the way to the dais. Not surprisingly, he sensed
the same black glow of danger on Cynewulf
that he had seen on Ambrose. Perhaps all kings
would look like this to him now because all kings were
potentially dangerous. The house thegns scowled
at the armed foreigner, ostentatiously clutching their
sword hilts. Did they really think
they could stop him if he intended to harm their King?
No private Blade would be allowed this close
to King Ambrose.
  Radgar bowed and then waited with eyes lowered
to be recognized. The hall fell silent.
Wasp did not bow, because Blades were treated as
invisible at formal ceremonies. Admittedly
Baelmark might not know that Chivian custom.
He could see no one there fitting the description
of Wulfwer, and if anyone should toll his Blade
alarm bell loud and clear, it ought to be the
nefarious cousin.
  Cynewulf was older than Ambrose, a fat
little man, instantly repellent. His bright henna
fringe of beard looked dyed and somehow accentuated
the sagging flesh around his mouth and the scrolling red
veins on a bulbous nose, while the splendid,
bright-hued velvets and silks and furs of his
clothing made their occupant seem coarse and
dissipated. His fat fingers and even his thumbs were
loaded with gold and gems. When at last he
spoke, his voice rasped like a blunt saw.
  "Radgar Aeleding, our beloved nephew and
stepson! You are welcome back after so long."
  Radgar bowed again. "And glad indeed to be here,
most gracious uncle."
  "We mourned you for dead. Where have you been these
many years?"
  "In Chivial, lord."
  His Majesty's pout conveyed Royal
Displeasure. "Willingly?"
  "No, lord," Radgar said calmly. "When I
escaped from the fire, I was abducted by a member
of the Chivian delegation. He deluded me with
lies and betrayed my trust. I was snatched
away to Chivial and locked up in Candlefen
Park, prisoner of my mother's family."
  So intently was Wasp analyzing the house
thegns' chain mail and planning how he would go about
killing its wearers that he took a few moments
to register this outrageous falsehood. He hoped
his start of surprise was not noticed.
  "Kidnapped?" Cynewulf said. "A member
of our house? This is intolerable! This may be
cause for war. King Ambrose shall hear of our
displeasure."
  The shifty eyes and wet lips were those of a
velvet-clad rat trying to bluster at a very
large and hungry dog. Radgar had told the
Faro`edhengest sailors about
Ironhall, so he could not expect to get away
with this Candlefen nonsense for very long, yet he
sailed blithely on over a sea of lies.
  "It was King Ambrose who learned of my
predicament and ordered me set free. He
apologized profusely, and I expect his
ambassador will soon deliver a full
apology to your kingly self. As a token of
respect, Uncle, he donated me this
Blade. It is an honor much esteemed in
Chivial, and one I could hardly refuse. As
my lord is aware, Blades have only limited
freedom of action, being compelled to stay in close
attendance upon their wards. His presence here is
unavoidable and not intended to offend."
  Having been acknowledged, Wasp made a
token bow, one that barely reached his waist. The
King smirked.
  "A Blade? Hardly more than a dagger, by the
look of him. Such a gift should require our
royal approval. But if the lad is your
special friend, he is acceptable to us." He
heaved himself to his feet and addressed the hall.
"This is a happy day for us and our dear queen, for
our shire, and for all of Baelmark!" He held
out his arms to his stepson.

  As Radgar sprang up on the dais to accept
the embrace, the onlookers dutifully broke
into cheers. Wasp kept his eyes on the guards,
who had now decided to find him amusing. He did
not know Baelish ways well enough to know what was
amusing or not amusing. Special friend ... that
remark could have been an innocent, even gracious,
dismissal of Radgar's breach of etiquette.
Or it might be a sneer at a young man who
arrived with a boy companion.
  Smiling maidens brought drinking horns so
Radgar and his uncle-stepfather could quaff
ceremonial mead. Red hair looked much
better on women than it did on men. If
Wasp was ever going to accept Baels as people, he
would begin with the girls.
  "Tonight let the fyrd feast!" Cynewulf
croaked. "Then we shall hear more of our dear son's
ordeal. It may be that we shall take steps
to punish those responsible. Radgar, your mother most
ardently awaits the son she has so long
believed lost to her."
  "And eagerly I go to her, lord. But a
duty first. ... By descent from my warrior
ancestors, I claim the right to bear arms and beg
your noble leave to be counted among the fyrd of
Catterstow."
  Cynewulf's beard twisted in a foxy
smile. A silent alarm screamed in Wasp's
head, setting his teeth on edge.
  "We certainly cannot deny your lineage, Son,
for it is our own. By all means, tonight you will take
the oath. We shall find you a worthy heriot and will
happily accept you as cniht in our hall.
Admission to the fyrd, of course, is not wholly
in our power to grant. But we can help you find a
worthy ship lord to take you foering, so that you
may prove your valor. Ro`edercraeft?"
  The man with the golden boar crest on his helmet
thumped his chest in salute and barked, "Lord?"
  "Tell me again of this plan for a foering that
you have been bleating in our ears for so long."
  "I dared to ask my lord's leave to raise a
werod. So I might accompany my brother
Goldstan. He goes on the foering that my
lord graciously approved."
  "Ah, yes. Remind us again of his
objective?"
  Ro`edercraeft hesitated a moment before
saying, "Chivial, lord. For slaves and booty.
My lord expressed the opinion that one cannot
expect a treaty to endure so many years--my
lord--without a minor accident now and again. And that we
owed it to our Chivian friends to keep them on their
toes. My lord."
  "So we did, so we did!" Cynewulf
smacked his lips. "And if we were to deprive
ourselves, however briefly, of your invaluable
services as our marshal, dear Ro`edercraeft,
would you be willing to admit our nephew to your
werod so that he might display his mettle in the
manly skills of raiding?"
  The house thegn turned his helmet toward
Radgar. The face inside it had been assembled
from badly dried bricks. "No werod would ever
turn down a man related to your noble self or
your great warrior son, lord." It was curious that
the marshal aroused no sense of danger in Wasp,
but perhaps he registered as no more than a tool.
  Leering, Cynewulf waved him back to his
place. "Then we must give the matter our most
urgent attention. How does that prospect
attract you, Radgar? A chance
to demonstrate that you are your father's son, yes?"
  "I am at your lordship's command, always,"
Radgar said with astonishing self-control. Could he
not smell the trap? The stench of it filled the
hall.
  "Ravaging the coasts of Chivial would not
disturb you unduly?" Wheezing, Cynewulf
settled himself back on the throne.
  "There is no coast I would sooner ravage,
lord. I bear no loyalty to Chivial!"
  Cynewulf smiled tolerantly. "We are
delighted to hear it. Cniht, conduct the atheling
to our gracious queen."

                  

  Ward and Blade headed for the door. The
audience of thegns was drifting out, arguing and
muttering.
  "Well, friend," Radgar said in Chivian,
"now do you understand why I tarried so long on
Starkmoor?"
  "We none of us choose our family." Who
would expect the King of the Baels to be a
benevolent monarch?
  "One week!" Radgar's voice was soft but his
green eyes shone with fury. "Just one week! Can
you keep me alive for a week?"
  "I was planning longer than that."
  "I should never have brought you here, but if you can stand
it for a week, then we can leave and find somewhere
sane to live. Oh, that rogue! That carrion!
Did you hear him?" This was the first private
conversation the two of them had shared since the morning
they met Aylwin.
  "He's going to make you a squire?"
  "A cniht is lower than a squire, not much
more than a page. That doesn't matter!" It
did matter--his laugh was bitter. "I'll
shave the freckles off them in sword
practice!"
  "The oath?"
  "No, no! The oath is nothing. He has
to swear to be worthy of my service. He never was
and never will be. I mean, didn't you see his
reaction?"
  "You lied to him."
  "And he knew I was lying! He was expecting
a different story."
  "You're sure?"
  "Yes, I'm sure."
  "You know him better than I do."
  They had reached the hearths and Aylwin, who was
seething, teeth grinding, hooves pawing the turf.
He fell into step alongside Radgar.
"Goldstan! Goldstan? He's going to give you
to that Goldstan ni`eding? You're a
Faro`edhengest man! You're one of us, one of
Leofric's werod!"
  "He's another friend of Wulfwer?"
  "Yea!" The sailor waved a fist like a
mace. "Trustworthy as a stone boat."
  "So Radgar goes off foering with
Ro`edercraeft and Goldstan," Wasp said,
"and of course I accompany my ward. Baelmark
never hears more of us?"
  Aylwin ignored him.
  Radgar said, "Did you discover why he's
holding court?"
  "He's expecting the earls. The witenagemot
is meeting."
  Aylwin had spoken with no great interest, but
Radgar whistled in astonishment. "Spirits of chance
are playing tricks!"
  "Good or bad?" Wasp demanded. Blades were
naturally suspicious of coincidences.
  "I don't know. If you think the thegns are
tough, my waspish friend, wait until you meet the
earls!"
  "Tougher?"
  "They handle bears with bare hands."
  Beyond the doors, in dazzling sunlight at the
base of the steps, Leofric waited with a group of
dignitaries. The square had filled up as word
of Radgar's return spread through the town.
  "Some witan eager to pay their respects,
Atheling," Leofric said. "Of course you
remember Ealdor--"
  "No, no! I am only a cniht who had
a famous father. Present me to them."
  The ship lord shrugged, but obviously approved.
"Ealdor, you remember Atheling Radgar?"
  The first man to be presented was not the oldest.
He must originally have been tall, but his back had
curved so much that he had great difficulty looking
anywhere but straight down. He twisted his head
around to smile sideways at Radgar.
"Welcome, oh, welcome, son of Aeled!"
  Radgar dropped to his knees and held up
both hands. "Ceolmund Ceollafing!
How could I forget my father's chancellor and noble
predecessor? I am your servant, ealdor."
  "Nay, lad, I hope I can soon be
yours!"
  "Dangerous talk!" Radgar made no effort
to rise or release the older man's hands. "But
if you promise never to cuff my ears again as you
used to do, then I shall promise never to cuff yours
--in spite of oaths I swore several
hundred times."
  "Oh, boy, this is a happy day, for that is
your father's smile to the life! You cannot begin
to guess how we miss your father! Or how
welcome you are, back from the dead." The former
earl tugged at Radgar to rise. He lowered his
voice to a husky whisper. "But take care,
take care, Atheling!"
  A couple of house thegns had drifted
close, watching and listening. Few in the group had
noticed them. Wasp did not care if the upper
crust of Catterstovian society chose
to reveal dangerous loyalties, but too much
loose talk might increase the risk to Radgar.
As his ward was about to be presented to the second
wita, he spoke up loudly. "The Queen is
waiting, Atheling."
  Leofric took in the situation at a glance.
"He is right. A loving mother must take
precedence. Will you meet with us when she gives you
dismissal?"
  "If I may take my leave now,
ealdras, I shall greet every one of you with proper
respect then," Radgar told the group--and then
made a fast round of them right there, clasping each
hand briefly and speaking the man's name. After so
many years, it was an impressive display of
memory.
  He turned quickly to the cniht the King had
sent to escort him--a lanky youth with brown
eyes and the start of a brownish beard. He would have
attracted no notice in Chivial and looked quite
human to Wasp, so he probably regarded himself
as seriously deformed.
  "Raedwald, isn't it?" Radgar said,
winning a huge grin. "Last time I booted your
butt, you were only half that size. Lead the
way, please." With the witan's good wishes ringing
in his ears, he strode off at a steaming pace
around the side of the great hall.
  Wasp hurried after. "You still thinking of
leaving? They're all determined to make you king."
  "Yes, I'm leaving!"
  "You're just saying that because you think you're putting
me in danger! Well, that's what a Blade's
for--to be first up--and I won't let you run
away from your duty and destiny on my account. That
may be exactly what Ambrose had in mind
when--"
  Radgar laughed and thumped his shoulder. "No,
no! That isn't it. I would never throw your life
away, friend, but neither will I ever insult you
by refusing to take any risks at all. That would
waste the sacrifice you made when you chose
to become a Blade. Being king isn't possible--
the old men just haven't thought it through yet. It's
even worse than I thought. First I'd have
to become a thegn, and Cynewulf would make sure
I died in training. If I did survive,
I'd need a ship of my own and a werod to man
it. That takes massive amounts of money, and he
controls all my inheritance. Supposing I
lived through the foering and managed to establish a
suitably gory reputation, I'd still have
to challenge Wulfwer. You heard what happens
to men who even think about doing that."
  Young Raedwald, having explained the
visitors to the guards on the gate, was leading them
through the palace complex, a maze of covered
walkways, lawns, shrubbery, trees, and
free-standing buildings--kitchens, storerooms, and
isolated sleeping quarters. The teeming boys and
women carrying linens or provisions stepped
aside to let swordsmen pass, bowing low if their
burdens permitted, but Wasp was seeing so many
opportunities for ambush that he could barely
follow Radgar's argument.
  "The lands alone will kill me."
  "What lands?" The last thing they needed was more
motive to worry about.
  "You didn't hear my dear uncle offering to hand
over my inheritance, did you? Not likely! Even
if he can't hold the throne much longer, that
doesn't mean he's going to die. All he need
do is refuse the challenge and retire
to private life to enjoy himself. Kings get rich
in Baelmark, and the war made Dad very rich. So
you just keep me alive for a day or two, my
trusty Blade, while I find out who killed
him. Then I'll tie you up so you can't interfere
when I peel him down to the bones. After
that we'll sail away."
  "Fob your grandma!" Wasp said. Tie him
up! "You want to be king and you'll die trying.
You going to refuse Leofric? All those men who
carried you shoulder high, who stood at your backs
just now in the hall? You going to leave them
to Cynewulf? I don't think your father would have
done that."
  "My father did nothing rashly. "When you hunt
the wolf remember the she-wolf"--that was his
motto. If I tried to follow this trail, my
lad, it wouldn't just be the she-wolf circling back
on me. It would be a whole pack. I'm only
a boy who knows nothing about the business of ruling.
The thegns are ashamed of their earl and hope to use
me to depose him. Leofric, Ceolmund, and
their friends were men of power under my father, and
Cynewulf has shut them out. They think they can
get back in. None of them want me,
Wasp. They all just expect to use me and I
refuse to be used!"
  "Then I suggest--"
  Without warning a monster shape loomed up ahead
and Wasp hurled Radgar aside and whipped
Nothing from her scabbard. ...
  False alarm. The apparition was only a team
of four big men laboring under the weight of a
dressed ox carcase. Filthy and unkempt,
wearing only a single grubby rag apiece, they
staggered on by without even glancing aside. The
blankness of their faces made Wasp's flesh
crawl. If the raiders at Haybridge had
found the badger hole, he would now be a mindless
wretch like them. That might be his fate even yet.
Would it be possible to enthrall a Blade? The
two enchantments were mutually incompatible, so one
would negate the other; but he knew of no way
to determine which would prevail without actually trying
it.
  Angry at himself, he sheathed his sword and
turned to check on his ward, who fortunately had
landed on grass and was still lying there, watching him with
much amusement.
  "You couldn't throw me around like that before you were bound,
you know? What a mean, tough Blade you are!
What's wrong?"
  "Thralls."
  Radgar scrambled to his feet and shrugged.
"They're dead, Wasp. No one can reverse the
conjuration, any more than death can be
reversed. The body goes on. It ages and
eventually dies, but the spirit has fled." As a
Bael he saw nothing wrong with thralldom. Had
Ironhall done him no good at all?

  Raedwald led them to a much-ornamented
cottage, the largest and most decorated Wasp
had yet seen. When the guide tapped and then
opened the door, Wasp shouldered his ward aside
and strode in first to make sure all was safe. The
women sitting on the couches sprang up with
cries of alarm.
  The three young ladies-in-waiting went
scurrying out, none of them sparing a glance for
Wasp. He nodded his thanks to the cniht, then
closed the door and turned to inspect the room.
His ward was enveloped in a mother's fond
embrace. At first he had put his arms around her
to return the hug, but he soon let them fall,
enduring her affections with a puzzled, uneasy
expression while she wept, laughed, and kissed.
  The big perfumed salon was grander than anything
Wasp had ever seen in his life. An
intricately carved and gilded spiral stair led
up to an upper level, which he assumed would be the
sleeping area. The ground floor was a single big
chamber furnished to bursting with soft chairs and
couches upholstered in brilliant silks,
thick, bright rugs bearing tables of marble, onyx,
and alabaster; statuary, rich drapes, shelves
of precious ornaments; flowers in crystal
vases. The shiny paneling of its walls bore
many paintings set in golden frames. His mind was
sent reeling by the impact of so much wealth, a
room full of pearl and rainbow. He remembered
the magical treasure houses in the stories his
mother had told him when she tucked him in ... also
dragons' hoards. Whoever had designed the
room had displayed excellent taste; but this was
pirates' loot, paid forwiththe blood and tears of
innocents.
  Radgar had never said what his mother looked like.
She was tall, but Wasp could discern almost nothing
else about her. Inside her voluminous clouds of
cobalt silk, she might be fat or skinny,
stooped or straight. Her hair and neck were
hidden by a white head cloth and pale green
wimple. Her heart-shaped face was so heavily
painted that it seemed curiously devoid of character.
He wondered why a woman would conceal
herself so. Her attendants had not been packaged
like curd in a cheese bag.
  At last Queen Charlotte stepped back a
pace, dabbing her eyes with a piece of lace.
"So tall, so manly! Taller than your father."
  "Greetings, Aunt." Radgar still seemed
puzzled.
  She either did not hear the slur or else
ignored it. "I can see the Candlefen chin, but
all the rest is your father. Wonderful, wonderful
... But why, darling? Why did you hide away
all these years? So cruel! Why not tell me you
were alive? Even if you were a prisoner, could you not
have sent word, just a word to let me-- Who's he?
What is he doing here?"
  "Sir Wasp, my best friend and my Blade."
  "Send him away. This is a private
meeting. By the eight, if I cannot have a few
minutes' confidential--"
  "Can you leave us, Wasp?"
  "No, sir." Who could tell who might be
lurking upstairs?
  "Sorry, Mother. Don't worry. He's a
Blade and utterly trustworthy."
  "Ridiculous!" said the Queen. "A
Blade? That boy?"
  "He's already killed one man in my
service."
  "Oh, really, Radgar! Stories!" The
lady pulled her son over to a multicolored
embroidered couch. He was still only thirteen
to her. She sat so she did not have to see the boy
by the door, and Radgar joined her, not quite
reluctant but certainly not enthusiastic. "Now
tell me exactly what happened!" she said.
"Where you went. Why you went--"
  "Shall I start at the point where I woke up and
found my door bolted?"
  Again she ignored the implications. "Start
by telling me why I have been left for five whole
years believing my only son was dead, with not so
much as one word to tell me he was alive."
  "In Chivial, in Ironhall. But why not
ask your husband, my lady? He knew."
  "Oh, what nonsense!"
  "No. Cynewulf knew I was alive and where
I was."
  Careful! Wasp thought. You don't know that,
you only suspect.
  The Queen raised her chin. "I
refuse to believe it! Stop slandering your uncle
... I mean your, er ..."
  "A little more than uncle, Mother!" Radgar
pulled away and stood up. "I was deceived and
abducted. Had I known you were alive, I would
certainly have let you know where I was. When I
found out, I came as fast as I could. Now, why
don't you tell me why you jumped into bed with that
man right after Father died? "With unseemly
haste" was what I was told. Does that mean you
began right after Father died or before?"
  "Silence!" Queen Charlotte sprang up
almost as nimbly as he had. "You will not speak to me
like that! I married your uncle because I love him,
and who are you to question my right? Men!" Her voice
grew louder, shriller. "You are as bad as your
father was. All my life I had been treated like
a brood mare of a rare bloodline--auctioned off
to the highest bidder, stolen, forced to produce
offspring whether I wanted to or not. You think I
asked to have you implanted in my womb? No, I
was given the choice of submitting or being forced,
no other. Your father was a killer and a rapist, and you
accuse me of not being faithful to his memory?
Flames and death! Why should I be faithful
to his memory?"
  Radgar's cheeks burned red as his hair, but
he held her furious gaze. "You forget how
long I slept downstairs, lady. Often I
heard you asking him to ... telling him you loved
him. I heard you. I heard you cry out with
rapture in his arms. Call him a rapist and I
call you liar."
  "And that is worse, I suppose? Oh!
Oh!" Incoherent, she began striding back and
forth across the room, weaving between the cluttered
furniture with the skill of long practice.
"Were all my efforts to educate you wasted? You
approve of abduction?"
  "Not much, but it is a Baelish tradition. You
were luckier than most women carried off
by raiders, luckier than almost all women, because you
became a queen. You were happy--I heard you
say so many times."
  "I made the best of my captivity. What was
I supposed to do--starve myself to death? Jump off
a cliff?" She came to him and yelled in his
face, "Your uncle is the first man I ever met
who spoke to me as if I mattered. He--"
  Radgar shouted her down. "That is not
true! I heard Father offer you your freedom many
times. He would send you home with a shipload of
treasure, he said, if that was what you wanted.
He adored you!"
  "Send me home without my child! You were the
Cattering heir, so you had to stay."
  "Except that. When did he ever refuse you
anything else? Show me all my bastard half
brothers and half sisters, because I never met any
of them." He pushed her when she swung a hand
to strike him. Overbalancing, she toppled down
on the couch and he leaned over her, bellowing. "A
Baelish king faithful to his wife? It's
unheard of! And you agreed to the marriage! If you
had no choice it was because your own family had
left you none, and at least the pirate offered you a
virile male body to live with instead of that
rotted husk of a duke."
  "You think that matters so much to a woman?"
  "Obviously not, if you prefer the walrus you
sleep with now."
  Screaming, she tried to rise and he pushed her
down.
  "Mother, you despised Cynewulf. You made
jokes about him, even to me. You hated him."
  "That is not true." She tried to be
emphatic and sounded oddly unsure.
  Radgar straightened. "No? Very well. Whose
bed did you sleep in on the night Father was
murdered?"
  "Murdered?"
  "Murdered. Tell me what you remember of that
night. Fat Boy offered to leave the feast and
take you home. What happened after I went
upstairs?"
  She seemed convincingly incredulous. "I went
to bed, of course."
  "Whose bed?"
  "Mine, of course! Your father's bed! I put
myself to bed. I had sent the girls off earlier, you
may remember. They had laid out everything. ...
Next thing I knew was your father shaking me
awake. He had smelled smoke the moment he
came up the stairs. He sent me down and ran
up to rescue you, but the fire blazed up so
quickly--"
  "No, Mother! That may be the story you told the
world, but it won't do for me. I saw him, Mother!
I saw him lying on the bed with his throat cut.
He was murdered."
  She shrank down on the couch, white-faced and
horror-struck, staring up at him. No
actress could fake the pallor that showed under her
paint.
  "But ..."
  "But what?"
  "But that's impossible!"
  "Not impossible. Fire was my bane,
remember? Healfwer made me proof against
fire. I saw Father with his throat cut."
  "No!"
  "Yes! If you were in his bed when he came
back from the feast, then it must have been you who did
it. So it must have been you who went up and bolted
my door. You set the house on fire, then
wakened--"
  "No!"
  "Then whose bed were you in, Mother?"
  She shook her head, seeming more confused than
indignant.
  "Whose, Mother?" Radgar bellowed.
  She bellowed back, "Nobody's! You
remember how the house thegns let us in and then I
kissed you and sent you upstairs. We were right at
your uncle's door and he had some rare brandy he
wanted me to try. Your father didn't know brandy from
small beer. And ... I fell asleep in the
chair. I've never admitted that. But it was your
uncle who wakened me. By then the stairs were a
furnace."
  Radgar folded his arms and looked down at her
with undisguised contempt. "In a chair?
Does adultery only count in bed? You went
upstairs with me first, so you must have gone back
down."
  "No. I sent you up without me." She glared
up at him indignantly.
  "Strange! I remember you going up one
flight with me and saying good night outside your own
door."
  "Well, I do not! You were a very tired boy.
Your memory is playing tricks."
  "Or yours is. Go on with the poem."
  "I am telling the truth," she said very
firmly, but not looking at him. "I admit I
haven't told this before. It might be misunderstood,
but it was only an innocent chat--a quiet
drink, talk of peace coming ... That's all I
remember until the house was full of flames and
smoke and Cynewulf was helping me out
through the window. Radgar, I swear that's the
truth!"
  "So it wasn't you who bolted my door and then
lay in wait for Father to come home?"
  "Of course not!" the Queen said hoarsely.
"And if you think either Cynewulf or I could have
cut Aeled's throat you are a fool. There
weren't a dozen men in the fyrd who could outfight
him." Her rage and fear and incredulity had faded
into a sort of bewildered resignation that Wasp
found nastier than almost anything else in the
sordid story.
  "Perhaps he was drunk."
  "Aeled? He wasn't." She smothered a sob.
"I'd watched him all evening and he hardly
drank anything. I never, ever, knew him too
drunk to defend himself."
  Radgar gazed miserably at her for a while.
"I don't know what to think. Wasp, have you any
suggestions?"
  "Was King Aeled drunk enough to go to bed without
noticing you weren't there, Your Grace?"
  "No." She did not look up. "I mean,
he must have done. It was dark. ..."
  "Mother," Radgar said, "your story has more
holes than a mackerel net."
  "Did Cynewulf drink any of the brandy, my
lady?"
  "I don't remember."
  That was the only credible answer, after so long.
"Your brother, Your Grace--Lord Candlefen.
Do you know how many Blades accompanied him?"
  She shook her head. "I have no idea."
  "Cynewulf's room was at ground level?
Front or back?"
  "Back!" Radgar said sharply. "Of
course!"
  His eyes said it all. Forget rabid foxes,
ships vanishing, virile warriors perishing of
sudden fever, fires consuming whole buildings in
minutes. ... Conjury sometimes, no doubt, but
no need for an invisibility cloak in this case.
  "I don't believe your second husband
killed your first husband, my lady," Wasp said.
"Physically he wasn't capable. But I think
he knows who did."
  "He opened the shutters to let him in,"
Radgar agreed. He went down on one knee and
clasped her hands in his. "Well, Mother? Are
you a fool or a murderess? Answer
me!"
  She choked and then gasped out, "Neither! I have
told you the truth and you have no right to come back from the
dead and torment me. How dare you reproach me for
marrying the man I love? You were dead. My
husband was dead. My family had rejected me,
that slop-bucket brother of mine. Those first
terrible days, Cynewulf was kind and sympathetic
and supportive, and eventually he confessed that
he'd always loved me from the first day he set eyes
on me. And I had to confess that I had always
really loved him--not admitting it, ever, even
to myself. I may even have hidden my feeling behind little
jokes. ..."
  Radgar leaped to his feet with a howl.
"Stop! You are raving! You did love my father!
You did detest Cynewulf. I don't know
what he's done to you, but you must have been there when he
let the killer in, and I can't stand it!" He
ran to the door and was gone, leaving it open behind him.
  Hurdling stools and tables, Wasp followed.




                  

  Three cabins along the path, Radgar was
leaning against a tree, face in hands. He said,
"Go away!" in a thick voice.
  Wasp ignored the order and stood guard in
silence for a while. When that didn't work, he
grabbed his tall friend with both hands and hauled him
loose. "You are allowed to weep on your
Blade's shoulder," he said. "It's part of the
service."
  Radgar let himself be turned around. He
seized Wasp in a hug that almost crushed him--he
had always been stronger than he looked. "It is
possible, isn't it?" he mumbled into his
Blade's ear. If he was not actually weeping,
he was close, and that was very strange. That had never
happened before, although Wasp had wept in
Radgar's arms often enough--long ago, as the
Brat, but especially last winter, after the fire
in West House.
  "Of course. You mustn't blame her for anything
that happened. No one can resist a conjurement.
Probably two of them in this case." Blades
had to know about conjury--so Radgar knew
the answers as well as he did--but theory was about
other people and the real thing hurt. "The first one would bring
her back down to his room. Probably some
trifle he palmed on her earlier. Did he
help her on with her cloak? Give her a ring
or a necklace? Doesn't matter--it would be
easy. She comes to him. Then the love potion in the
brandy. Seal it with a kiss, or ... or ...
something." Something not to be mentioned. "From then on
..." From then on she would be his, but Wasp
couldn't bring himself to say so.
  "I will cut off his skin and make him eat it."
  "Good idea. Ahem! We have company."
  Radgar sighed, braced himself, and turned
to meet the newcomer.

  The man scurrying along the path toward them
appeared to be making a very hurried search for something
lost, but it was only the grotesquely bent
Ceolmund. When he came within reach, he
clutched Radgar's arm and addressed his belt
buckle.
  "Just want a word in private with you, Atheling,
a warning."
  "As many words as you wish, ealdor." Radgar
bent to listen, putting their heads close together and
turning a chat into a conspiracy.
  "Leofric wants to see you as soon as you're
free," said the former chancellor. "But you wash down
his words with a mouthful of doubt, won't you?
Remember your father always said that Thegn Leofric
would rather fight than think and there was nothing wrong with his
fighting."
  Radgar laughed. "I'd forgotten that."
  "Leofric's too impetuous!" said
Ceolmund. "Don't let him rush you
into anything. Listen to me, son. You've heard about
the witenagemot, of course?"
  "Just that the King has summoned it and the timing
seems like a very odd--"
  "No, the King hasn't! The earls called
it! First time in a hundred years ...!"
  The toothless old man was so excited that his
speech came out in a spray, and Wasp had
trouble understanding it all. "Few days ago ...
Earl Aelfgeat of Su`edmest ... raided
Su`edecg ... waded across at low tide ...
Su`edecg's fyrd absent, foering in
Skyrria ... massacre ... Earl
Ae`edelno`ed dead." Seemingly one
duty of Baelish kings was to keep internal
bloodshed within acceptable limits, and this time the
rules had been badly broken. The other earls
had called the moot to discuss it. "Which means
to discuss his part in it, of course--
Cynewulf's!"
  "And what was his part in it?" Radgar asked
grimly.
  "Oh, he provoked it. There will never be
evidence, of course, but no one doubts it."
  "So now he's facing a revolution?"
  Ceolmund shook his head as if scanning the
ground underfoot. "It won't come to that. They're
going to tell him very firmly they won't stand for being
murdered, and then all go home again. That's what
I want to warn you about. There are one or two of
them with ambitions, but there isn't anyone who can
rally anywhere near enough support for a challenge.
Ae`edelno`ed was the last throne-worthy candidate
in sight."
  "Surely not! I remember him and he was
pushing forty even then. Jovial chap. Smart, but
no great fighter. I seem to recall Dad
saying he was a good strategist and a lousy
tactician. A Nyrping, wasn't he? But quite
a minor branch."
  "He was the best we had left," the former
chancellor insisted.
  "Flames!" Radgar muttered, shocked.
  "So beware of loose talk tonight, my lad.
Some of the earls will promise you anything, but none of
them can deliver. Of course your uncle will hear
everything that's said. It's much too soon to look for
support."
  "I shall be guided by you, wita."
  The old man showed his gums in a smile.
"Whenever possible stress that you are a personal
friend of King Ambrose, as well as a relative
of his. The earls will like that; they don't want
war. The young fyrdraca thegns do, of course, but
they always do. The earls are happy with the peace.
Now run along and I'll follow."
  "I am fortunate to have trusted and tested witan
like you to guide me," Radgar said.

  A few minutes later, as he and his ward were
nearing the gate, Wasp was astonished to notice
him grinning like an idiot. Considering all that had
happened already that day and might happen before it ended,
this seemed a singularly inappropriate
reaction.
  "Something funny?"
  "Just thinking about Ceolmund calling Leofric
impetuous. My father used to say that Ceolmund
slept with a boat in his bedroom in case of
tidal waves."

  Brawny Aylwin and four of his shipmates
stood outside the gate, all still wearing their
homecoming finery, complete with flashing gold and
jewels.
  "Came to take you to Dad's house," he
informed Radgar. "He wants you to meet people, eat
something. This way." He took Radgar's arm;
and the rest fell in behind, repeatedly jostling the
Blade just on principle. "Me and the others here
have been talking to the rest of the lads, as many as we
could find."
  "And what conclusion did you reach?" Radgar
asked blandly.
  "We decided we're going to vote you in right
away. You're going to be a Faro`edhengest
thegn, one of Leofric's werod. None of this
Goldstan and Ro`edercraeft scytel! You're
one of us!"
  "I am honored beyond words. But I am not yet
even a cniht."
  His friend snorted. "Well, the moment you get
your heriot tonight, we'll all go out to the square and
vote you in."
  "I am fortunate to have trusted and tested
shipmates like you," Radgar said.

  Leofric's house in Waro`edburh was not
especially grand by local standards, although it would have
brought admiring gasps in Chivial. His home,
as Aylwin explained, was on Frignes, an
island Aeled had given him, and he only stayed
in the city when he had business. As now. There were
at least thirty people crammed into the main room,
quaffing ale or mead from horns while they waited
to meet the atheling. Obviously they were important
members of the local nobility, yet half a
dozen were women, which Wasp found surprising.
  Not once was Radgar at a loss for a name and a
personal anecdote. These usually concerned some
appalling mischief of his boyhood. Either he was
deliberately trying to deter his admirers by making
himself seem irresponsible, or he had been such
a hellion in his youth that there were no other
stories. It made no difference. They were all
determined to welcome him back as a long-lost
son. He told the correct, Ironhall,
version of his story, dropping the Candlefen fiction
he had given his uncle. Asked whether he had
stayed away willingly or been a prisoner in
Chivial, he grew vague. As Wasp knew,
there was no simple answer to that question.
  More ealdras drifted in later, including
Ceolmund, but when all the greetings had been
exchanged, it was Leofric, as host, who
presumed to climb up on a stool and offer
Radgar public counsel. The ship lord was
reveling in his self-appointed role of kingmaker,
eyepatch flashing fire.
  "This witenagemot is a wonderful
opportunity!" he proclaimed. "The earls are
tired of the criminal who rules Baelmark
by terror. They are confused by the lack of an
obvious replacement. They will welcome the chance
to rally behind the Aeleding himself, Atheling Radgar, the
lost heir miraculously returned to us."
  Pause for applause.
  "Remember the Treaty of Twigeport, which
ended the war. Few of you here will know this, but Atheling
Radgar played a vital role in the negotiation
of the treaty, although he was only a child at the time.
Without him, it might never have been signed. It was
a good treaty, as written--a much better one
than Baelmark would have obtained without his efforts.
Had his father survived, the terms would undoubtedly
have been honored. Alas, they have not been honored
under his uncle! Tribute has not been paid,
forbidden duties are levied, ports are closed
to our shipping. Hardly a clause has not been
violated! This, too, must trouble the earls. Their
income is down, because trade is depressed
by Chivian duplicity and yet they are not allowed
to loot Chivial as they formerly were."
  Pause for more applause.
  "The King of Chivial is a rogue, who
goes back on his word! Atheling, you must distance
yourself as far as you can from Ambrose. Stress how you
languished in Chivian captivity these last six
years. Promise to restore Baelmark to the
greatness it knew under your father. Promise to enforce
the terms of the treaty, by war if necessary. The earls have
come to the witenagemot hoping to find a new king.
That day has not yet come for you, because you must first win
the tanistry and then the earldom of
Catterstow. But you are young, and a few more weeks will
not hurt. The witenagemot is a wonderful
opportunity for you to start rallying support,
lad!"
  This was exactly the opposite of the advice
Ceolmund had offered earlier.
  As Leofric stepped down from the stool,
Radgar stepped forward and hugged him. "I am
indeed fortunate to have trusted and tested witan like you
to guide me, Ship Lord."


  In ones and twos the earls were arriving for the
morrow's moot, marching their werodu up the
hill to Cynehof. The visitors surrendered their
weapons at the door, but even unarmed they conveyed
menace.
  Each earl paid his respects to the King sitting
on his throne in bloated splendor; each was offered
a horn of mead by the Queen herself. This charming
family gathering on the dais included neither
Radgar nor Wulfwer. The tanist's absence was
commented on, but Aylwin reported that even
Wulfwer's werod did not know where he was.
King Cynewulf completely ignored his newfound
stepson and if his wife protested this slight, he
ignored her opinions also. The atheling was
relegated to the milling crowd on the floor, where
he was almost impossible to defend properly. At
times the pack around him was so tight that Wasp could
not have drawn Nothing had he tried, but Aylwin
and his burly cronies were staying close, and in that
sweaty scrimmage their fists would be more
effective than a rapier.
  Radgar was a new wolf in the sheepfold of
Baelish politics. Every earl wanted to meet
him and assess him, and so did every thegn in the
Catterstow fyrd. He knew almost all of them
by name. They asked questions--the same questions over and
over--and with admirable skill, he cut out a path
of his own between Leofric and Ceolmund's
conflicting advice.
  One of the first to interrogate him was one they
called Big Edgar--the man who had slain Earl
Swetmann, now Earl of Hunigsuge. He was
by far the largest man Wasp had ever seen. He
had to stoop to speak to almost anyone, even in that
assembly.
  "In Chivial," Radgar said. "In
Ironhall. That's a school for cnihtas."
  "You were captive or guest?" growled the big
man.
  "I was hiding."
  Edgar's tone became menacing. He was known
to be a close crony of
Cynewulf's. "From your uncle?"
  "From whoever murdered my father."
  A blood feud made a perfect excuse for
his long absence. A boy could always be allowed time
to grow up before he had to seek vengeance. He did
not have to accuse the Chivians of keeping him
prisoner and he could not be accused of selling out
to them, because they had not willingly given him his
board. But Radgar had not previously mentioned the
murder in public, and Wasp wondered why he was
doing so now--what had changed?
  "Murder?" the big man said. "Can you prove
that?"
  "I have good evidence, yes."
  Then Edgar asked what all the earls would ask
eventually, the question that had unexpectedly
overshadowed even the matter the witenagemot had
been called to consider: the death of Earl
Ae`edelno`ed. "What are you going to do now?"
  "Track down my father's killer and kill him,
of course."
  "It was almost six years ago. How are you going
to prove anything after all this time?"
  Radgar smiled up confidently at the
giant's scowl. "There is evidence, ealdor.
I will have the true story before this night is out." More
he would not explain, not even to Wasp's whispered
entreaties.

  So it went, as the day aged into evening and then
dark. Crammed to its walls, the great hall
buzzed like a giant hive while frantic
servants struggled to set up tables for the feast.
Cwicnoll rumbled menacingly in the distance. The
earls were furious about the Su`edmest affair;
several of them mentioned the broken treaty and one or
two even muttered about the other mysterious deaths.
They wanted a change of monarch in Baelmark,
but Wasp thought none of them was impressed by the new
candidate. He looked weedy alongside
brawny rowers. He had not been tested in
battle. When asked about contentious matters, he
had to admit complete ignorance of everything that had
happened in the last five years, even the endless
boundary disputes between shires that were the perennial
rash on the Baelish body politic. His
royal blood could not be denied, but that alone did
not make him throne-worthy.
  His Blade was going insane. He could sense
danger ebbing and flowing through the hall like
smoke, but like smoke it eluded capture and
inspection. In the crowd he was unable to distinguish the
sources. The most obvious threats were
Cynewulf and his mysteriously absent tanist, of
course, backed up by the sinister Marshal
Ro`edercraeft and the house thugs; but other thegns
in the fyrd must have ambitions to rule Catterstow and
some earls must consider themselves throne-worthy. If
the unknown who had killed King Aeled was not one
of the above, then he was another with a strong motive
to strike soon and often.
  Admittedly murder in the middle of a state
banquet was unlikely, at least by open
violence, and Wasp was the only armed man in the
hall other than the house thegns. Assassination
by conjurement would take time to arrange. Poison was
another possibility, but Radgar was not drinking
anything. When the feasting began, Wasp would have
to watch that his meat and drink came from the general
supply--to try to act as taster at the King's
table would be gross insult.
  Surely no Blade in the history of the
Order had ever faced a worse challenge so
soon after his binding.
  Yea, life was tough.
  It was only going to get tougher.

  Several times Cwicnoll roared and made the
ground shake. Once he savaged the hall as a
terrier treats a rat, rattling it so fiercely
that scores of men fell over, the fires blazed
up on the showers of fat dropped on them, ceiling
beams creaked and groaned, weapons on the walls
rattled. The occupants ignored his tantrums
--not just the warriors, but women too. For a while
the reek of sulfur made all eyes weep and
all throats cough, but that was a good excuse
to drink more.
  One promised event conspicuously failed
to occur. King Cynewulf must have forgotten his
morning promise to present his nephew-stepson
with a heriot and swear him in as cniht. Radgar
made no move to remind him.
  The sky beyond the two triangular windows
turned to indigo; sizzling hearths shone brighter in
the gloom, gilding the limbs of the sweating,
near-naked thralls turning the spits. At last
the King called for candles, and slaves began
setting out food. Leofric and Ceolmund
dragged Radgar off to sit among the
Catterstow ealdras. Wasp did not presume
to join them on the benches. He stood at his
ward's back and gnawed juicy beef ribs,
dribbling grease on him.
  Radgar was amazingly cheerful, as if battling
wits with men who might want to kill him was no more
stressful than Ironhall fencing practice.
He still refused to explain his mysterious hints about
evidence. "What can the witan do tomorrow?" he
demanded with his mouth full. "There isn't a single
royal earl at the moment."
  Leofric shrugged. "Ae`edelno`ed was the last
adult Nyrping. His boys won't be contenders for
ten or fifteen years. The Tholings are down
to daughters who need a generation to produce sons.
Scalthings are even rarer than Catterings. The
tanist of We`ede is a Scalthing, but not
ambitious. Can you blame him?"
  "That leaves Wulfwer?"
  "Your cousin shows no signs of opposing his
father. He knows he isn't earl material, let
alone throne-worthy. If the witenagemot really
wants to jettison Cynewulf this time, it will have
to promote a new family to royalty."
  The Baels exchanged glances that suggested they
had been trying not to think about this topic.
  "Can it do that?" Wasp asked.
  Radgar answered without looking around. "The
earls can rally behind anyone they like."
  "It's been tried?"
  "Often. It's even succeeded, but it always leads
to civil war."

  Fires and candles dwindled and died. The King
and Queen had long since retired and so had most
of the earls--tomorrow might be memorable. Only the
youngest and most raucous of the thegns remained,
drinking as if it were a duty, singing foggy sea
chanties, quite incapable of noticing anything
untoward. One by one they rose and staggered out into the
moonlight or else slid to the floor to join the
slumbering cnihtas already there.
  Radgar was still awake and apparently waiting for
someone or something. Even Leofric and Aylwin were
conscious and close to sober. They kept trying
to persuade Radgar to go home with them and spend
what was left of the night in their house, and he
kept refusing without explaining. He had moved a
bench to what seemed to be a special place and
there he remained, wearily slumped
back against the wall. The two thegns flanked
him; Wasp just stood and listened as the others
talked tactics, explored possibilities,
weighed theories. However much Radgar still insisted
that the throne was beyond his grasp, he had not lost
interest. Wasp thought he wanted it. Perhaps he
wanted it mostly for his father's sake, but he
wanted it.
  "Cynewulf knew where I'd been ... and that
I was coming home. ... Can't prove it, but I'm
sure. ... Perhaps I was seen in Thergy? You
think that could be why he prompted Aelfgeat to go
after Ae`edelno`ed? Perhaps his friend Ambrose sent
word. Is Healfwer still alive, Leofric? ...
never realized what a superlative conjurer he
is. ... So Cynewulf learns I'm alive
and on my way home ... decides to clean up
the odds and ends like Ae`edelno`ed. ... Must
admit it's cleared the slate. ..."
  "So you are the only threat left?" Wasp was
bone weary. He could not sleep, but he needed a
few hours' rest. He wondered how Radgar could
keep his eyes open. And why he did.
  "It's made things interesting--this moot." His
pauses were growing longer. "Really like to know where
Cousin Wulfwer has got to. ..."
  The hall trembled faintly; the volcano
rumbled. A stench of ash and sulfur drifted through
the hall. None of the sleepers stirred. Radgar
yawned and stretched.
  "Think it's time! Aylwin, can you lift
Wasp?"
  The Bael spared the Blade a brief and
contemptuous glance. "How far do you want him
thrown?"
  "Not far. Remember the five swords that used
to hang right over where we're sitting?"
  His companions all peered up into the darkness.
  "Vaguely."
  "My father pointed them out to me. They were the
swords of the five Blades who died at
Candlefen."
  "Those were sent back," Leofric said.
"Treaty of Twigeport, Clause
Nineteen."
  "Eighteen. I was there in Ironhall when they
were Returned. There's another sword up there in
their place. I noticed it the moment I came in
here this morning--yesterday morning. ... It's new
since my time. What's the story on that
one?"
  Puzzled silence was the only answer.
  Radgar rose and the others sprang up at
once, as if he were already royalty. "Then
let's have a look at it, shall we?"
  However insane that suggestion should seem in the
middle of the night, nobody argued. Aylwin
climbed on the bench; Wasp removed his boots
and clambered onto Aylwin's shoulders. Then his
face was level with an exceedingly greasy
buckler that might have hung there for centuries. It
was much too slippery to provide any sort of
handhold and it might not be firmly fastened
anyway. Staring up with only indirect
moonlight to aid him, he could make out more
shields, a few axes, several antique
two-handed broadswords--and one sword more or
less by itself that seemed much more modern. He drew
Nothing and stretched, but reached only the tip.
  "Too high."
  "Lift him," Radgar said. "And then stand on
tiptoe."
  Aylwin's reply was quiet and lurid, but he
gripped Wasp's ankles and hoisted him up at
arm's length with hardly a grunt. He might not
have come by his muscles honestly, but they were real
muscles. Working more by feel than sight, Wasp
managed to slip Nothing's point through one of the
mystery sword's finger rings and jiggle it off its
peg. It slid down his rapier with a rush that almost
stopped his heart, fortunately not killing him in the
process. He waited in silence.
  "You got it?" Radgar said at last.
  "Yes, but I want to see how long this lunk
can hold me up here."
  That time Aylwin's comment was really lurid.

  The four of them gathered around a hearth where a
few sickly flames still cast some light. Wiped
clean of grease and smoke, the sword was revealed
as a silver-hilted thrusting sword, slender and
straight but not quite a rapier because it had a single
edge for about one third of its length. It was no
amateur's weapon. The pommel was a
cat's-eye and its name was Fancy.
  Radgar raised it in salute to the darkness.
After a moment he sighed. "I claim this. It
slew my father."
  "Yorick is dead," Wasp said. "No one
hangs a Blade's sword on a
wall while he's alive."
  "But who did that and why? And when? How and why
did he come to die here, back in Baelmark?"
Radgar strode toward the door. The others
jumped up to follow.
  "That you will never know," Leofric growled,
catching up. "Is this the evidence you were bragging
about?"
  "Part of it. You told me Healfwer was still
alive. You and Aylwin should go to bed, ealdor.
We have a big day ahead and I'll need both of
you bright-eyed and sharp-toothed. Right now Wasp and
I have a job to do, for which we need a couple of good
horses."
  "You can't ride to Weargahlaew in the dark."
  "Have to. Necromancy won't work in
daylight."

                  

  As they clattered down the steps in the silver
moonlight, Wasp said, "This is madness. You
don't believe in necromancy!"
  "No? I asked Healfwer once if he could
summon the dead. He said he could if he had
something distinctive, something that had been very close
to that person for a large part of his life and had not
been close to anyone else since he died. Like
offering a scent to a tracking dog."
  Obviously a Blade's sword fitted the
requirements perfectly, and that one had been
hanging on a wall, untouched.
  When they drew near the royal stable, Wasp
said, "Are you just going to help yourself?"
  Aylwin said, "Why shouldn't he? Most of them
belong to him anyway."
  "The King won't admit that. If he tries
to arrest Radgar for horse stealing, I'll have
to start killing house thegns."
  "Sir Wasp is wise beyond his years," said
Leofric. "I have a couple of good mares boarded
here. You can take those."
  Sir Wasp was seeing assassins crouching in every
velvet shadow. Even if those were just his imagination,
a ride up a volcano by night ought to seem like
safe recreation after this palace of deceits. His
Blade instinct did not work for volcanoes.
  Leofric threw open a door and shouted at the
darkness inside. Almost immediately a pair of
thralls hurried out, rubbing their eyes and
shivering in the chill. Barefoot and naked, they
ran off to the stalls. The thegn said, "You wait
here," and followed them.
  "Wretches!" Wasp muttered. "Couldn't we
have done it ourselves?"
  Radgar glanced at him inscrutably but said
nothing.
  "What?" Aylwin asked. "Why? That's what
thralls are for."
  "It's unkind. They must need their rest. I
bet they spend every waking moment working."
  "Of course they do." The young thegn seemed
genuinely puzzled by the Chivian's ignorance.
"When they're not working they lie down and sleep
until someone kicks them and gives them more
orders. Unkind? You can't be kind or unkind
to thralls!"
  Wasp clenched his teeth in case his frayed
temper snapped.
  "He's right, Wasp," Radgar said
quietly. "Thralls are never really awake."
  "If thralldom is so pleasant, why don't
you get yourself enthralled?"
  "People do. It's a form of suicide. And it can be
a sort of murder. That's one of the dangers I
hope you'll guard me from."
  The nightmare conversation ended when Leofric
returned with the thralls leading two horses.

  The moon, just past the full, ruled a clear,
starless sky. There was very little wind, that fine spring
night, but a ride up a volcano by moonlight
was not relaxing. It was crazy. Cwicnoll
rumbled almost continuously, and red lights flickered
in the monstrous cloud over his summit. His name was
masculine gender in Baelish and Cwicnoll was
definitely he. The horses grew ever more
skittish as the journey proceeded. Wasp would
never be a stylish rider, but he handled horses
well.
  "What are the lights?" he asked once, as a
particularly bright flower of flame lit the sky.
  "Pure fire elementals, probably. I
think they're getting wilder. You can hear the earth
spirits trying to escape, too. We may be going
to see a major eruption."
  "How dangerous is that?"
  "No danger to Waro`edburh. The wind very
rarely blows ash this way, and lava runs off to the
southwest. Cwicnoll rumbled for years
when my father was young and then just stopped, about the time I
was born. Old wives say Cwicnoll
signals a change of earl, but he did nothing for
my father's death. The last real eruption was forty
years ago. He's all noise."
  The mountain roared protests at this insult.
  "Of course he may open a new crater. That
might put the town in danger. Or spawn a
firedrake. There's always that possibility. He
did that in my grandfather's day. It destroyed the
Gevilian army."
  "And your grandfather too?" asked Wasp, who had
been eavesdropping on talk in the hall.
  Radgar did not answer.

  As they rode higher, their view expanded
to include scores of islands and islets lying off
Fyrsieg like fragments of charcoal inlaid in a
sea of lead, their outer edges trimmed with a lace
of white surf. Radgar promised an even
better view at the lookout called
Baelstede, but the upper slopes were mantled in
snowy ash, making the rocky terrain treacherous for the
horses. When they reached the viewpoint a chilly
wind was stirring up clouds that stung eyes and
throats. In the gorge leading to Weargahlaew,
the trees were loaded and dying, while deep
drifts almost blocked the road. Every few
minutes the ground shuddered and ominous rattles
warned of stones rolling down the hillsides. Now
the danger was undeniable.
  Wasp bit his lip to stop himself squealing out
protests until he could stand the strain no longer.
"I can't talk you out of this, can I?"
  Radgar sighed. "No, you can't. Oh,
Wasp, I wish I didn't have to drag you
along. I know it's dangerous. Even if it
kills me, I must know who slew my father.
Fancy is the key to that. You know this!"
  "Yes, I know. I understand. Well, let's
go on, then." Brave remark by Will of
Haybridge! A real Blade would find a way
to keep his ward from doing this.
  The mouth of the tunnel presented the worst threat
yet. As the men dismounted, Cwicnoll roared
menace and rattled the world. Rocks skittered
down from the cliffs; the horses neighed in terror
and struggled. The stench of sulfur was nauseating.
Red-flickering cloud adorned the summit
overhead, staining the ash-caked scene with
blood.
  "We'll have to leave them here," Radgar said.
"Tether them firmly. Better hobble them too."
As he was lighting the lanterns, another tremor
produced clattering sounds inside the cave itself.
  "Glad we missed that one," Wasp remarked
and was pleased at how calm his voice sounded. With
any luck they would find the roof had collapsed and
blocked the tunnel completely.
  No. What they did find was a trail of
footprints where ash had drifted into the mouth of the
cavern. Many people had passed that way.
  Radgar said, "Going out. They've abandoned
Weargahlaew. I don't see any signs of
Healfwer's peg leg, do you? They probably
had to carry him."
  Wasp could see at least one print going in,
but he was not going to mention it. "If there's nobody
left, then we needn't go any farther."
  "They may not have all gone. I have to know, but
let's be quick about it."
  Yet speed was impossible. What once had
been a decent path was littered with rocks, jagged
and sharp as glass. By the faint gleam of the
lanterns they clambered and scrambled their way
along the tunnel, holding their breath every time the
ground shook, which was often.
  Between cursing wrenched ankles and bruised shins,
Wasp said, "This is crazy! You can find
conjurers in Waro`edburh, surely?"
  "Only quacks and bunglers. They enthrall
prisoners and cure head colds, but that's about
all they can do." Radgar's voice echoed eerily
in the gloom. The light of his lantern wavered
over the dark rock, roiling the shadows into dancing
monsters.
  Growl! Rumble! said Cwicnoll.
  Rattle, click-click-click,
clatter, said the pebbles falling from the roof.

  As soon as they emerged from the tunnel and
Wasp could stop worrying that the roof might fall
on his ward, he was able to start agonizing over the
chances of suffocating, for the air was a stinking fog that
blocked the light of the lanterns like wool
blankets. It was also ominously warm.
  "This is crazy! Let's get out before the
tunnel collapses and traps us."
  "I can't." The fuzzy glow that was Radgar's
lantern continued to move away through the
murk. "I must know. There's no danger here that you
can guard me against, so you go back and wait with the
horses. Should be a path about-- Ah! Here."
  Wasp followed him without a word down a
breakneck slope of rubble buried in slippery
ash, over an ash-coated meadow, where every step
raised more choking clouds, and eventually, after some
searching, into a forest of trees bigger than he had
ever imagined. The branches had caught most of the
ash, but there was enough on the ground to show faint tracks
where people had passed. The fog was just as dense, just as
painful to the eyes and throat. The mountain rumbled
and trembled. Now and again there were nearer sounds of
rock falls. He wrapped a corner of his
cloak over his mouth and nose, but it did not help
very much. He was sweating in the stuffy warmth and the heat
of the ash hurt his feet.
  Footprints became rarer, the path divided
repeatedly, and yet Radgar barely hesitated.
  "How can you possibly know which way?" Wasp
demanded between coughs.
  "I probably know Weargahlaew better
than anyone except-- Oops!"
  The track ended at a stream of boiling water.
It was undercutting the roots of living trees, so it
could not have been there very long.
  "That probably isn't as hot as it looks,"
Radgar said cheerfully. He scrambled up on a
rock and jumped to another, then a tree, the glow
of his lantern fading into the fog. Wasp followed.
  When they were together again, his ward went on as if
nothing had happened. "My last summer here, I
was too young to be a cniht. I volunteered
to feed the weargas. Nobody argued! I
couldn't lift the sacks onto the pack-horse,
but I could unload them. I stole a sword and
hid it up here, so I could gird it on and ride
Cwealm around where no one could see me and
tattle. I got to know several of the hermits--some
screamed at me to leave them alone, others were
pathetically glad of the company. I'd gather
firewood and leave it at Healfwer's door, and
eventually, grudgingly, he began to accept me."
  "You really think he'll still be there?"
  "Oh, yes. Certain. He will never go back
to the world. He's convinced that he's dead and
Weargalaew is his grave." After a
particularly violent coughing spell, Radgar
added, "Of course he may be right by now."
  Cwicnoll roared and shook, dislodging
clouds of ash from the trees. Between tremors, the
forest was unnaturally quiet. Nothing lived there
anymore. There would be no dawn chorus and
possibly no dawn under the choking black fog.

  "Is that a light? Or are my eyes playing
tricks?"
  "How should I know?" Wasp said grumpily.
"Mine are full of mud. Yes, it is." They
had been struggling through undergrowth that had once fringed
a lake and was now in the lake. The water was
unpleasantly hot in his boots.
  "Thank the spirits, he's awake! He'll
probably have his leg on." Radgar handed Wasp
his lantern so he could cup his hands to his mouth,
although the glow from the window could not be very far away.
"Healfwer!" he shouted. "Healfwer, you have
visitors. Two visitors, Healfwer."
  Silence, broken only by the muffled whistle of
steam issuing from a vent they had passed some
minutes earlier.
  "Healfwer, you are dead and so am I. I am
Radgar Aeleding, who died in Twigeport. I
have come back seeking your roed, Healfwer. I
bring the sword that slew Aeled. Your enchantments
did not fail in the fire. I saw him murdered,
Healfwer. I must speak with the dead."
  Nothing.
  Radgar took his lantern back. "Come on."
  He moved off into the murk, with his Blade on
his heels. The lake had reached the cottage before
them--there must be a foot of water inside.
Radgar had said that the mad hermit lived on the
ground like an animal, yet the candles burning in
there had been lit not many hours ago. There was no
especial threat about the place, but Wasp laid
a hand on Radgar's shoulder.
  "That's close enough."
  "Healfwer is no danger! I could knock him
over with a flick of a finger."
  "But who else is with him? I'm still waiting
to meet your dear cousin."
  Radgar grunted. "Healfwer! Two dead men
to see you."
  The door creaked and began to open, slowly in the
water. The conjurer appeared, a shadowed figure
against the light, but just as Radgar had described
him, leaning on a staff, a bag hiding his head.
His robe was soaked.
  "Remember me?" Radgar said. "I
died in Twigeport."
  "Dead men do not grow taller." The old
man's speech was muffled and distorted, as might be
expected from half a mouth.
  "This one did. And here is Wasp, whom I
slew with that sword he wears. Show him,
Blade."
  In this madhouse anything was sane. Wasp handed
his lantern over, laid his cloak on a bush, and
then pulled off his smock, which left him wearing not
very much. In the steamy fog, he wished he'd thought
to do so sooner.
  "Come closer," Radgar said, wading over to the
door. "See, Healfwer? The scar over his
heart? Turn around. And there's where the blade
came out. That same sword he is wearing--I
put it right through him. So he's dead, too.
We're all dead here. Three dead to speak with
one dead."
  Nothing showed within the eye holes. "You did not
die by fire!"
  Uncertain who was being addressed, Wasp said,
"No. I died when Radgar put a sword through
my heart. It hurt! I could not scream, but it
hurt."
  "Fire the fate that felled me, though," said the
horrible croak. "Water's shallows shaped my
weird."
  "Fire did not kill Aeled either," Radgar
said. "Aeled Fyrlafing was murdered, and with this
sword. It was hung as a prize in a hall, so
its owner must be dead. Summon him for us,
Healfwer. Summon another dead man, so that
dead may speak with dead. Shall I carry you to the
octogram, eald foeder? Bring his pole,
Wasp." He scooped the conjurer into his arms and
scrambled up the adjoining bank, the old man's
long wooden leg sticking out grotesquely.
  Wasp followed, laden with the staff, two
lanterns, and his own discarded clothes.
Fortunately they did not have far to go. The
octogram was hidden under the ubiquitous ash, with
only a trampled circular path around it
visible. Radgar set the conjurer upright where he
could lean against a tree, and used his own cloak
to dust off the ground and uncover the marking stones.
  Healfwer babbled the whole time, muttering
angrily to himself. "... never news announce
to me ... Wanting wealth and wonders wrought ...
spawn of thegn and thrall despising ...
if ocean's depths had deeper hugged; then
surging sea had shelter held." He coughed
wretchedly.
  Radgar inspected the water crock. "Still
full. Set one of the lanterns there, Wasp.
Now, wita, where do we put the sword?"
  "Bael the bane to burn the king!"
  "No. I told you--Aeled did not burn.
What was his bane, ealdor?"
  The conjurer did not reply. Radgar tried
again.
  "When you chanted the hlytm for Aeled, what
weird did you see? Was it love?"
  Healfwer shouted, "Yea!"
  "Ah, now we're communicating. So where do I
put this sword? In the middle?"
  "Of course, ni`eding," the conjurer
snapped. "And whatever you do stay out of the octo-
gram. When day is doubled, duty labors."
  Wasp watched skeptically. He had never
put much stock in Radgar's tales of one-man
conjurations, and firsthand experience of the enchanter
failed to reassure him. The old man's wits
had flown south with the swallows a long time ago.
  The ground trembled, the mountain roared. Somewhere,
and not very far away, a long thunder of falling rocks
became a crashing-down of trees. As soon as
he could trust his feet again, Radgar planted
Fancy in the center of the octogram, needing
three tries before he found a spot free of
roots, and even then not pushing the blade in very far.
He retreated to the edge of the little clearing and said,
"Ready, wita!"
  The conjurer lurched forward to the edge of the
octogram, went around it a short distance and
stopped. Silence fell, except for vague
gurgling sounds of steam and spouting water. They
seemed to be coming from several directions now, so
perhaps the whole crater was going to fill up like a
soup pot. The first Blade ever to let his ward
get boiled alive ... What were they waiting for?
The old man clearly didn't even know what was
expected of him, although he had positioned himself
opposite the jug and lantern, where death point
would--
  "Hwoet!" he cried, and began screeching out
an incantation, invoking the spirits of death. Few of the
words were audible and fewer made any sense, but he
never paused or hesitated. After a verse or
two he reeled partway around the
octogram and chanted some more.

  It took a long time. Even when the ground
swayed, the ancient cripple kept his balance.
He carried on without pause, not allowing the
bellowing of the volcano itself or screams from the steam
vents to distract him from whatever he was croaking.
It was a remarkable display of endurance. Either the
two lanterns were dwindling or the fog was growing
thicker. The one on the octogram was only a
faint golden blur. Even the one at Wasp's
feet seemed to be fading away. He could barely
see Radgar at his side, although he could hear him
coughing. The mist seemed especially thick inside
the center, around the sword.
  The conjurer's chant rasped away into choking
coughs somewhere on the far side of the clearing. Forest
and volcano fell ominously silent.
  Came a faint, gossamer whisper in the
night: "What goes? Who calls?"
  The hair on the back of Wasp's neck
stirred. That was not Radgar's voice nor
Healfwer's, and it had come from the center of the
clearing. If he let his imagination run away with
him, it could pick out shapes in the mist, like a man
kneeling, hugging the blade. ...
  The voice sighed again. "Command me. ... Who
calls me? Who commands? What goes?"
  Wasp jumped as Radgar spoke from the darkness
at his side, his voice almost as gruff as
Healfwer's. "I command you! I, Radgar
Aeleding, command you."
  The apparition--if it was not entirely Wasp's
imagination--was upright now, on its feet,
peering. "Youngling? So tall now? Is that you,
Youngling?"
  "I am he. Speak your name!"
  "Ah! I have no name now, none. You knew me
as Geste, Youngling."
  Radgar moved forward a couple of steps. He
was just visible, hardly more solid than--than that
wisp of mist that could be mistaken for a naked man.
Wasp went to stand beside him, ready to haul him
back if he tried to enter the octogram.
  "Say by what name King Ambrose knew you."
  "Yorick," sighed the ghost. "Sir Yorick
of the Loyal and Ancient Order."
  "Then speak! Who slew my father, Aeled
Fyrlafing?"
  "Why, that was I, Youngling. Know you not
that by now?"
  "How did you get in?"
  "By trade, Youngling, by trade!" The whisper
rippled with amusement or mockery. "Fair
trade. Cynewulf let me in and I gave him
the throne he wanted. I'd already given him the
woman he lusted after--aye, she was there, asleep
on the bed with half her clothes undone. Twas
fair, a most fair trade!"
  Radgar spoke through a coughing fit. "Go--on!
Say--happened next."
  "Why, he led me upstairs to wait and then
went back down to the woman." The apparition
kept fading and reforming, illusion wandering around the
octogram as if seeking a way out. Still the faint
mocking whisper: "When Aeled came, I gave
him time to draw. Still fair! I told him the names
of the five he had slain: Sir Richey, Sir
Denvers, Sir Havoc, Sir Panther, Sir
Rhys. Good men, good men all! I told him it
was his turn now, but I let him try a little
sword work with me, so he knew it was hopeless and
he must die. I explained that his wife was part of
his brother's price so he would die unhappy.
When he began to weep I let Fancy cut his
throat."
  "It was easy for you, wasn't it? Easy for a
Blade!"
  "Easy as stamping on a bug, Youngling. I
didn't hurt him, though. I could have hurt him a
lot."
  "And what happened after that?"
  Wasp had an impression of Yorick now.
The faint image painted on the mist was that of a
wiry, dark-hued man, stark naked, with long rat
tails of hair below his shoulders and a wild bush of
beard. All imagination, of course. There was
nothing there but fog.
  "Why, nothing happened, Youngling, nothing! I
went downstairs again. I'd done what I wanted
and I expect your uncle had, too. I left
the way I came, by the window. I waited around
to watch what happened when he torched the house."
  "You bolted my door first!" Radgar
screamed.
  "Not me, Youngling, not me! I had no orders
for you, no grudge either. Didn't know you were there.
Never made war on children. I'd kind of taken a
fancy to you by then, anyway. Could've killed you
easy enough at sea later. You know that,
Youngling!" The ghost sounded quite offended.
  Wasp realized he had unconsciously edged
forward until his toes were almost on the octogram.
The apparition was staring straight at him now. Its
face and eyes were those of a corpse, completely
dead. Yet in other ways it seemed like a living
man. It was shivering, and its breath puffed
visibly in the dawn chill. A corpse could not
breathe, and a ghost should not be covered in gooseflesh.
Even its wrongness was horribly familiar in a
way Wasp could not place. He had seen those
eyes before.
  "A Blade!" it said softly. "Will you leave
a brother to suffer so?"
  Wasp's hackles rose again.
  "Why did you board the boat?" Radgar
demanded.
  Much to Wasp's relief, the ghost turned
away and began wandering restlessly around the
octogram. It left no footprints on the
ash. "Why, to save you, Youngling! I told you
I'd taken a fancy to you. Didn't like that
hulking cousin of yours. Didn't want him to get
you."
  "To save me why?"
  The ghost sighed. "To sell, Youngling, to sell!
I'd avenged my men, but I was thirty-six
years old and nobody had made me rich yet."
  "You tried to sell me to King Ambrose?"
  "I wanted to be sure my work would be
adequately rewarded. Fat Man shows a
nasty frugal streak at times."
  "So that's how he knew I was alive! What
went wrong? Wouldn't he buy?"
  "Hard man, he is. He set the Dark
Chamber on me, and I only just got out of
Chivial with his inquisitors snapping at my
ass." The apparition had drawn close again.
"If he'd caught me, he'd have found out where
I'd hidden you, and that would have been the end of the
game."
  "What was he going to do with me if he got
me?"
  Yorick shrugged. "Up to him. I was offering
one healthy atheling with no strings attached."
  "He wouldn't deal, so you came back here and
tried my uncle?"
  "Clever lad you are, Youngling, clever lad."
  "And what happened then? How much would he pay
for me?"
  The ghost looked up and sniffed the air.
"Dawn coming? How long can you hold this conjuration?"
  "Answer my question!"
  "Nothing happened then. Everything stopped
happening."
  Radgar was shouting now, his voice cracking with
emotion. "Cynewulf outsmarted you too! You
didn't have much success extorting money from kings,
did you, Yorick? He caught you and made you
tell him where I was, but he wasn't like
Ambrose--he couldn't get at me in
Ironhall. So he just waited, knowing I would
appear eventually. You he killed. He hung
your sword on his wall!"
  "What? My Fancy!" The ghost threw its
head back and howled, long and shrill, and
Cwicnoll rumbled in answer. Wailing and
lamenting, Yorick flickered over to the sword and
tugged on it with both hands, a figure of mist
straining in vain to pull steel out of the ground. It
did not move. "Shame! Shame! Take
Fancy home! Take her back to the Hall!
Don't leave her here. Tell them Yorick
herds pigs if you must, but leave not my poor
Fancy here alone."
  Then Wasp understood what was so horribly
familiar about that shaggily bearded apparition.
"Radgar! He's not dead! He's a thrall!"
  The thing in the octogram dropped to its knees
beside the sword, caressing it, kissing it, whispering.
  "Is that possible?" Radgar yelled.
  The conjurer, wherever he was, did not answer.
But why would it not be possible?
  "Thrall?" moaned the ghost, embracing the
sword, weeping. "Find it, Youngling! Find it and
kill it."
  Herding pigs? Somewhere on this island of
Fyrsieg a Blade was toiling naked in the
King's fields, herding pigs? Wasp ground his
teeth. How Cynewulf must enjoy that!
  "Answer my questions," Radgar shouted. "Why
did you reveal the ambassador's instructions?"
  Yorick continued to stroke and nuzzle the
sword hilt, yet he answered clearly enough.
"Hard it is to kill a king, Youngling--if you
want to live to brag of it. I needed to meet
Aeled alone. Made friends with you so you would
arrange that. You did, but he was too smart ...
brought company along. Didn't matter. I
closed the deal with your uncle, and after that
the treaty was nothing. Fat pension to Cynewulf and
forget what the paper said. Ambrose happy,
Cynewulf happy. Me happy. All I
wanted was revenge, and I got it without your
help."
  "Pension? Throne? What else did
Cynewulf get? You said you'd already given him the
... given him my mother! How?"
  "A draft, Youngling. Slip it to a woman and
she goes to sleep. Then you enjoy her. She's
yours to enjoy ever after."
  Radgar moaned.
  Wasp said, "So Ambrose put you up to all
this? Ambrose?"
  Yorick sighed like wind in treetops. "Too
late, brother! It's dawn. New day ..."
The whisper faded. "Fare well, Youngling. ..."
  No light penetrated the fog and trees. There
was nothing in the octogram except the sword, and
never had been. Even Healfwer had gone. A
steam vent whistled and splashed nearby.
  Wasp shivered as if he had a fever.
"He's dead, isn't he? A thrall can't be
restored?"
  "No. He's dead. Villain that he was."
  Wasp went over and pulled the sword out of the
ground. It came easily for him, although his hand was
shaking. "I'll take this and one day I'll send
it back to Starkmoor. I owe him that much."
  "Not yet," said Radgar. "I will need a good
blade before this day is out."
  Hard it is to kill a king.

















               FYRLAF

               VIII

                  

  Radgar was barely conscious during most of the
trek out of Weargahlaew. He had wanted
to find Healfwer and convince the crazy old man that
the crater must soon be his grave, which the maniac
knew perfectly well and longed for. Wasp
forbade it and forced him to abandon the wita to his
chosen fate.
  It was dawn, the ghost had said, and yet there was
no way to know that in the fog-filled crater.
Steam, hot water, foul gases were bursting forth
everywhere. Paths vanished into pools of bubbling
mud, lakes had flooded huge areas of the forest,
and Radgar's memory of the route was useless. More
than once he passed out completely from the fumes
and would have lain there and died had Wasp not half
dragged, half carried him onward. That was his
binding at work, of course; but superhuman
endurance must demand a price eventually. In the
absence of daylight and landmarks, the only guide
to direction was the relentless rumbling of
Cwicnoll. They must head away from the summit
to find the tunnel. The summit was no longer their
greatest peril. The ancient crater of
Weargahlaew was coming to life under their feet,
steaming and shaking, reeking of sulfur.
  Why did it hurt so much? He had long since
guessed who had killed Dad, and should have been
glad to have his suspicions confirmed. Almost six
years had passed since the death of Aeled; it was
a nightmare from a world long gone. The bereaved boy
who had suffered so abominably was gone, changed
by his ordeal and the years in Ironhall into another
person altogether, a capable young man who could
survive in the world, if he must, entirely on his
skill with a sword. He was no longer that child, so
why did he hurt so much?
  The cave passage was even harder than before--more
obstructed by rocks. Wasp found a way through and
brought them both out safely, although rubble was falling
all the time. Half crazy already, the horses were
thrown into frenzy by the sight of these two filthy and
bloody relics, yet Wasp managed to soothe
them enough to be ridden. There was a diffuse sort of
daylight at Baelstede, but the wind had risen and
was lifting ash in choking clouds. At
times the falls seemed fresher, hot and deadly.
Radgar just followed his Blade's orders, paying
little attention to where he was going as they started the
ride home.
  Was it not justice that Aeled had been slain
to avenge men he had caused to die? His killer,
Yorick, had already paid. Must his accomplice,
Cynewulf, also die, the wheels of slaughter
rolling on forever? Was it not justice that the woman
Aeled had stolen and then come to love had been
stolen from him in turn and so provoked his death?
She could not be blamed for what had happened then or
since. She had done no wrong, so why could her
son not forgive her? Why could he not judge her as
a person instead of an ideal?
  Villain! If ever a man deserved to die it
was Cynewulf. Hard it is to kill a king and
live to brag of it. There, certainly,
Yorick's spirit had spoken truth. Had it told
the truth about the murder, though? Not the whole truth
and more than the truth. To bring a king to justice was
never easy. It needed better evidence than the
reported gabbling of a conjured thrall.
  When they reached the forest, where the trees gave
some shelter from the choking ash, Wasp pulled his
horse back level with his ward's. He looked
tired enough to die of exhaustion. His eyes were open
sores under white eyebrows, his clothes caked with
blood and ash; even the fuzz on his lip had
grown to a milky mustache. Poor Wasp!
Few Blades had ever been in a worse
predicament than he was in now, less than a
month after his binding. A boy had been sent to do
ten men's work. He spat out mud before he
spoke.
  "You better now?"
  "Just tired." The very word made him yawn. "You
Blades are lucky you don't get tired."
  "We do get tired. We just can't sleep when
we rest. What are you planning, Atheling?"
  What indeed? He had learned the truth about the
murder, but it had brought him no closer to justice
or vengeance. If he swore blood feud against
Cynewulf, or just went for him with a sword, the
house thegns would kill him, and Wasp too. No
question about that. "Advise me."
  "You won't listen."
  "Try me."
  "Become king. Isn't that what you want?"
Wasp's hoarse croak made the question
almost a statement.
  "Yes." Radgar was too weary to lie
anymore. "But it isn't possible. It's an
illusion, Wasp." From cniht's oath
to coronation oath had taken Dad six years, and
he had been the youngest king of Baelmark in over a
century.
  "Then run away. Hide--back in Chivial
or Thergy or anywhere."
  Run? Radgar rode on for a while, trying
to think the unthinkable. "I can't. Aylwin,
Leofric, the others who have helped me ...
Cynewulf will kill them."
  "Certainly. Take refuge with a friendly earl,
then."
  "That means civil war!"
  Wasp stared at him with scarlet-rimmed eyes.
"Yes. That's why I said to become king. Any
other way we die."
  Hard it is to kill a king. Easy for a king
to kill. Send the brat off foering with
Goldstan and Ro`edercraeft and start writing the
funeral invitations.
  A few moments later Wasp added, "You
knew this would happen if you came back. You can't
run and you can't hide. You have to go on."
  But there was no way on.

  When they reached farmland, the weather had turned,
wind veering to the northwest. A steady haze of ash
swirled over the landscape, prickling eyes,
gritting in teeth. Cattle bellowed
unhappily on the pastures. Thralls digging
ditches and planting beans were dusted like ghosts with
it.
  On this wider trail Wasp fell back again.
"Any good ideas yet?" He looked half dead
already. Blades who lost their ward usually went
insane and oftentimes berserk. What happened to a
Blade who saw no way out? How much of this
punishment could Wasp take?
  "Friend, do you trust what the ghost said?"
  His Blade scowled. "Some, not all. I think
it was trying to defend Ambrose."
  Soon after that a party of a dozen horsemen
trotted out of the city in their direction. Wasp
rode forward to intercept, but their leader was
Leofric and suicidal heroics were not required.
He reined in to watch Radgar's approach,
glowering disapproval.
  "You are still alive, then?" He wheeled his
horse in on Radgar's right as Aylwin and the
others took up position in the rear. If the
atheling's return to the city could not be kept
secret, it must be made a formal indication of
support, obviously.
  Radgar remembered how to smile. "Only just
alive."
  "What did you learn?"
  "That no one can guard a front door
effectively when a traitor inside is opening
shutters in back."
  Relief lit up the thegn's craggy features
and was instantly suppressed. "Healfwer was still
there? I heard Weargahlaew had been
abandoned."
  "He's all alone and determined to die there.
He did summon Geste's spirit and it confirmed
what we had surmised, but I don't know if I
totally believe it. Geste killed my father and
claims Cynewulf was in on the plot--but it
may have been lying!"
  "Don't worry about that," Leofric growled.
"If he didn't do that murder he's done lots
of others. From the look of you, you need a quick rinse
in the palace hot springs, a change of clothes,
a bowl of chowder, and as much sleep as you can grab
before noon. You must be present at the moot."
  "I'm not a thegn. Ro`edercraeft will keep
me out."
  The blue eye glinted. "Let him try."
  Radgar smiled his thanks. "Two seconds
in hot water and I'll be asleep. Carry me
into the hall and wake me up when the proceeds get
interesting."
  "They may get very interesting." Leofric was
almost smacking his lips. "There's at least three
candidates trying to raise support for a
challenge. The odds are that none will succeed. That's
when we push you forward!"
  "I'm not even a cniht yet."
  "Oh, we'll find some way around that."
  As Dad had said, there was nothing wrong with
Leofric's fighting.

                  

  "Get your lazy carcass out of that bed,"
Aylwin said loudly, and for about the third time. "Or
do I have to tip this over you?"
  Radgar forced one sticky eye open. The
blankets prickled his skin, the air stank of
sulfur. ... The moot would assemble at noon.
... Oh, spirits! He opened both eyes.
  "Drink it yourself, you overmuscled lout!" With a
killing effort he managed to sit up and accept the
tankard of spruce beer he was being offered.
Gulping down the tangy stuff he registered a
fancy tunic laid out on the bed and some
glittering things on the stool. Thegn Leofric was
going to put forward his prot@eg`e in style.
  "And hurry! There's trouble." The best that could
be said for Aylwin's face was that it was honest.
Leofric's son was no wita. Hard work, good
humor, endurance, yes; loyalty in abundance,
starvation rations of wits. Physical strength, of
course. Even before he could afford to have himself
enchanted into a leviathan he'd been a hulking
lad, but the best conjurers in the world could not enchant
extra brains into him, and he wouldn't know what to do
with them anyway. Like his father, he had loyalty,
loyalty to the death. You asked his opinion only
out of politeness.
  "What sort of trouble?" Radgar threw off the
blankets and shivered as the cool air touched his
bed-warmed flesh. The whole room shivered, making
the pretty things dance on the stool and the bed ropes
squeak. Cwicnoll was still restless.
  "Waeps Thegn."
  "What about him?"
  "He's gone."
  "Gone where? Blades never leave their wards."
Radgar pulled on breeches and socks. He
could hear rain beating on the roof.

  "Think he's gone to kill Wulfwer."
  "What? Tell me!" Moving much faster,
Radgar hauled on wool leggings and stood up,
tossing the long garters to Aylwin. They were gilt
stuff, very royal, and the pretties waiting on the
stool were a shoulder brooch as big as one of
Aylwin's great fists and a belt buckle almost as
large, both of them flashing with gold and deep-red
garnets.
  Aylwin knelt to wrap the garters around his
friend's legs. "He was sitting right outside the
door, Radgar. Guarding you."
  "Yes." Smock next. This story was going
to take some time to extract.
  "Dad told me to come and tell him that
Wulfwer's back. He went strange,
Radgar. Wasp did. I mean his face turned
cheese color and he shouted at me that I had
to stay and watch you. Made me swear. Then he
ran, Radgar."
  Radgar wrapped the shiny tooled belt around
himself and fastened the ornate buckle. He could
imagine nothing that would make a Blade behave like
that.
  Nothing!
  "Did he say anything before he ran? No
explanation?"
  "Well, he shouted something, Radgar, but I
didn't catch it. It was in Chivian. He was
sort of excited, see?"
  More like clean out of his mind. "You caught no
words at all?"
  "No, Radgar." There was the cause of
Aylwin's distress. His father had probably
ripped a thousand strips off him.
  "Not your fault you don't speak Chivian."
  Aylwin stood up, looking much the way he had
looked when he was one third the size and caught
raiding the honey jar. "He did say your name and
Wulfwer's, and I think Healfwer's."
  "And you have no idea where he went?" Radgar
stopped with one foot poised over a boot and thought
about this. Eventually he put the boot on and
stamped it; then the other one, and he still could think of
nothing that would prompt a Blade to desert his
ward like that. Especially in this palace, with a
hundred knives sharpened for his neck.
  "No."
  "When did this happen?"
  "'Bout an hour ago. I'd sworn to stay
outside your door, see? So I couldn't go
tell anyone till Dad came to wake you.
Dad's gone looking for him."
  How many people could a Blade kill in an hour?
Radgar slung the soft wool cloak around himself,
fastening it with the great shoulder brooch. All done.
He took up a comb and peered in the mirror.
He did not like the gaunt, stressed face staring
back out at him. Wasp had broken, but he must
not. The worst thing I did in my short life
was bind that boy as my Blade.
  "What exactly did you tell him about
Wulfwer?"
  "Just that he's back. He was around this morning,
so Dad asked questions. Seems the King had sent
him off to Weargahlaew to see how it was
and pull out the hermits if conditions were too bad.
That's all. He rode in before dawn."
  Radgar and Wasp must have passed him on the
way. Nothing remarkable in that--there were many trails
up into the hills. The crater was a royal
demesne, so sending the tanist himself in such an
emergency was not surprising either. What could Wasp
possibly have seen in that information that had provoked
him to such madness?
  "It is not your fault," Radgar assured the
woebegone Aylwin. "I could never say this
earlier, but Wasp really isn't old enough to be a
Blade. I should have warned him that I was going
to refuse binding, but I didn't and he jumped
right in the swamp beside me without thinking. He's a
great kid, but he's still just a kid."
  Aylwin scrunched up his nose in thought. "So
why did you bind him? Was that a good idea?"
  "No, a very bad one." Radgar looped the
baldric over his shoulder and adjusted the hang of
Yorick's sword at his thigh. "I had no
choice. The alternative was probably chains in
a dungeon. Wasp was ecstatic and I hadn't
the heart to refuse." By the time he had realized his
mistake there had been a dead man on the ground.
"Wasp was my best friend in Chivial, the first friend
I made there, my Aylwin substitute." The
kid brother he had never had. "Now he's
snapped like a wet bowstring. My fault, not
yours." If Wasp had killed Wulfwer, why
wasn't Radgar himself already in chains awaiting
trial?
  Leofric threw open the door. He shot his
son a glare of disgust as he entered. "He's
gone," he told Radgar.
  "Gone where?"
  "Inland. He went to the stable and demanded a
horse. The thralls started saddling up Cwealm
for him, but then a ceorl asked to see his warrant
and he drew his sword."
  Oh spirits! "He drew on one of the King's
hengestmenn?"
  "Worse," the ship lord growled. "The man
sent a thrall to fetch a house thegn, and the house
thegn drew on Wasp."
  "No! Didn't Wasp warn him?" This was beyond
belief! Probably the Bael hadn't listened,
or didn't know what a Blade was. Just a
bragging boy ... "What did Wasp do?"
  "He put that needle of his through the
man's wrist, made him drop his sword. It
wasn't really a fight."
  "I'm sure it wasn't."
  "He rode off inland. Don't know where. That's
all."
  "He didn't harm Wulfwer?"
  "Didn't go near him, apparently."
Leofric sighed. "The King's declared him to be in
unfri`ed and Ro`edercraeft's sent a posse
out after him. This won't do your cause any good,
Atheling."

                  

  Murder his name and murder his nature. At the
stable, Wasp had demanded Cwealm because he had
been Radgar's own horse and should not provoke
any trumped-up charges of thievery. Good
idea, but it had not worked--the idiot hand had
talked back anyway. Cwealm wanted to argue,
too. He disliked having a stranger on his
back, and the brief sword fight in the stable yard
had upset him. He set out to be difficult and
was doubtless surprised to find himself working off his
rage by heading up the hill at a full gallop.
As a rider Wasp was not in the same class as,
say, Dominic or Wolfbiter, but he had
grown up around horses and this Baelish mule was
going to do what he wanted, like it or not.
  "Don't be mad!" Wasp told him. "I'm
mad enough for both of us. Don't you know that?"
  Cwealm flicked his ears and continued to pound
hooves.
  Cwicnoll was hidden above a roof of pewter
cloud, but the eruption was growing louder, more
violent. The rumbling was almost constant, and teeming
rain had become a deluge of white mud.
Black horse Cwealm was a white horse
already. The lines of bent thralls planting
vegetables in the fields were lines of smoky
ghosts in a snowy world.
  Cwicnoll was the threat now.
  No Blade in the history of the Order had ever
deserted his ward like this, and the pain of it made him
want to scream. Perhaps gallant young Sir
Wasp truly had gone crazy. He could
believe it himself. But even if he were certain of
it, he still would not be able to resist the compulsion
driving him up the mountain. Back at
Ironhall he had been contemptuous of
Sir Spender's distress when he was separated from
his ward. Now he marveled that the man had not been
screaming his throat out. He had even doubted
Sir Janvier's proclaimed instinct for
danger!
  Food and a few hours' rest in a chair
outside Radgar's door had helped restore
him. It had certainly cleared his thinking, which had
been badly muddled by the fumes in
Weargahlaew, as well as by sheer exhaustion.
Long before that musclebound Bael came rolling
along the corridor babbling about Wulfwer,
Wasp knew exactly where the tanist had gone.
He had worked it out by mulling over the ghost's
testimony.
  Pension, Yorick had said. Ambrose held
Cynewulf on a golden chain. Paying the King
of Baelmark a personal pension must be cheaper,
probably very much cheaper, than fighting a war or
honoring all the onerous terms of the treaty.
Cynewulf used the money to bribe the earls ...
some of the earls ... enough of the earls ... to keep him
in power. And when Radgar had turned up in
Ironhall, Ambrose had seen him as a threat
to a very convenient arrangement. Had Radgar gone
on to Bondhill, all unsuspecting, he would have
found the doors locked behind him. No one but
Ambrose himself and a few of his Guard would have known
that the missing atheling was missing no more.
  Radgar had escaped.
  Radgar had escaped because his Blade had an
instinct for danger! Cling to that =! It had worked
once, so this journey back to Weargahlaew
might not be madness. ...
  Balked, Ambrose had sent his accomplice
a warning that trouble was on the way home.
Cynewulf had sent his son to consult the family
conjurer, crazy Healfwer, who was to the King of
Baelmark what Grand Wizard of the College was
to Ambrose.
  Healfwer was the source of all the evil
conjurements. Radgar would have guessed that without
saying so. Wasp had been distracted by the brandy,
the potion that Cynewulf had used to enslave
Queen Charlotte. That one had come from Chivial,
part of the traitor's payoff. Either Baelmark
conjurers did not know how to make love potions or
Healfwer granted such favors only to the
reigning king, which had been Aeled then, of course.
Which of the two sons had been his
favorite? He probably did not properly
understand how his evil conjurements were being used. This
time Wulfwer would have explained that there was another
uppity challenger coming on the scene, but he would not
have revealed that the new threat was Aeled's son.
So the old lunatic would have chanted up another
booby trap for him.
  If Healfwer was still capable of any normal
human emotion, he must have been horribly
shocked when his next visitors appeared. In his
confused, crazy, fashion he had tried to tell
them about his earlier client, complaining about double
duty, mumbling about wanting wonders wrought. There
had been footprints in the ash around the
octogram! Ward and Blade would have picked up
those hints if the fumes in the crater had not
stupefied them.
  By the time Aylwin arrived at Radgar's
door, Wasp had worked it all out; he had known
where the missing tanist had gone and knew he must have
brought back something deadly from Outlaws' Cave.
That was the message he had told Aylwin to pass
on to Radgar: Accept nothing from Cynewulf or
Wulfwer--drink no fancy brandy, pet no
cuddly fox cubs.
  But by that time, Wasp had lost interest in the
tanist. His instincts were howling that the real danger
was somewhere else and much more urgent. He had no
evidence or logic to support that belief, but it
had been growing on him steadily until he was
ready to scream. He knew that all common sense
argued against it. Alas, just as Ambrose and
Cynewulf in turn had registered as dangers,
so now the threat was Cwicnoll. That was why, for
perhaps the first time in more than three hundred years,
a Blade had deserted his ward and gone riding off
chasing ... chasing what? Wild goose or wild
fire?
  Wind and a deluge of mud ... he was already
almost into the clouds. The volcano was invisible, just
a constant angry thunder.
  His ward was in danger. Somewhere up there he must
do battle against someone.
  Or some thing?

                  

  Leofric wanted to put on a show. He
wanted Radgar to march up to the door of Cynehof
with a werod or two at his back. He
wanted to plant supporters inside to cheer his
entry.
  Ceolmund disagreed vehemently, spraying
spit at the floor. "Stay out, stay out!
Attend the moot, certainly. Be seen taking an
interest but do nothing more. They'll argue and quarrel
and achieve nothing, and you mustn't be associated with
failure."
  In this case Radgar had agreed with the old
wita, but mostly to avoid exposing his friends to any
more danger than he had to. The sinister Marshal
Ro`edercraeft would be noting names, and if the
Radgar movement collapsed--as seemed
inevitable--then retribution would certainly
follow.
  Not in living memory had the witenagemot been
called into session to censure a reigning monarch.
The dim hall was already full when Radgar and his
supporters gave up their swords to the
cnihtas and went in. They stood back against the
right-hand wall to watch. The earls were there with their
thegns--mingling, whispering, and plotting--and Big
Edgar was a landmark all by himself. Rows of stools
had been set up on the floor for the witan; the
empty throne sat on the front of the platform.
Radgar noted the seating arrangements with
disapproval, for the earls would be facing the moot
reeve like children before a teacher. They would not even be
at the front, for the first two rows were already occupied
by the witan of the king's council.
  "Who presides?" he asked Leofric.
"Wulfwer?"
  The ship lord snorted in derision. There had
been no overt demonstration of support, but
Radgar had his own party now, led by a score or
so of witan collected for him by Ceolmund,
older men and women who wielded power in
Baelmark--rich merchants and landowners, some of
them specially summoned from outlying areas and other
islands. They appraised him with shrewd green
eyes, cautiously restricting their conversation
to reminiscences of how they had served his father in the
war or, rarely, his grandfather in the days of the
shameful triumph over the Gevilian invasion.
Around this cozy gathering stood a living palisade
of Faro`edhengest muscle. The energetic
youngsters among them were grinning as they discussed the
possibility of some action later. It was not
unknown for meetings of the witenagemot to break
into riot.
  Radgar was about to comment on the number of house
thegns present when war horns announced the
approach of the King. Spectators moved back,
clearing a center aisle. Earls broke off their
intriguing and filtered forward to take their seats.
One stool was left empty in mute tribute
to the slain Ae`edelno`ed of Su`edecg, whose
tanist was still foering in distant Skyrria and
thus could not know of his accession.
  Another wail outside the doors brought an
approximation of respectful silence. Those who
had seats rose to their feet as the fat villain
himself strolled in wearing his crown and a scarlet,
fur-trimmed robe. Ro`edercraeft led a
dozen mailed house thegns before him and a dozen more
brought up the rear. They made a leisurely
progress straight down the center, past the
hearths, and at last to the dais. Cynewulf
settled on his throne and the guards lined up on either
side of him, extending almost the full width of the
hall.
  "That's disgusting! My father never brought a
bodyguard to a moot."
  Leofric said quietly, "Perhaps he should have
done."
  "And he never retained that many house thegns!"
  "Yes, he did," Leofric said, even more
quietly, "but he never let me parade them around
in public like that."
  Oh? Greenhorn had much to learn! "Where's
Wulfwer?"
  Nineteen earls had settled on their stools,
but the king's tanist was always an honorary member
of the witenagemot. In this case, his absence was
especially noteworthy. Even a surly and
none-too-bright thrall-born like Wulfwer ought
to know that he should be there, supporting his father.
  "Well, ealdras?" Cynewulf did not
bother to raise his voice. "You called this
moot." He took a small scroll from inside
his cloak and pretended to consult it. "Sixteen
signatures, the minimum required under the law
of Radgar the Great. Earl Aelfgeat is here with
our safe-conduct to answer any questions you may wish
to put to him. Who wants to start throwing the dung?"
He tossed the scroll away and leaned back
contemptuously on his throne, bored already.
  "Now!" Leofric whispered. "If they're
going to!"
  This was the moment for challenge, which would
take precedence over all other business. The
hall held its breath, but the moment one earl
began to rise, two others jumped up also and the
chance was gone. It was a fair guess that these were the
three with royal ambitions, but clearly none of
them had been able to muster the necessary votes, so they were
all just hoping to gain notoriety by proposing the
motion of censure. Before Cynewulf could even
point a finger to recognize one, a war horn
wailed again. That was definitely not a scheduled part
of a witenagemot debate. Heads snapped
around.
  Crowds stood taller in Baelmark than in
Ironhall, and for a moment all Radgar could see
coming in the door was a double line of shiny helmets.
The spectators roiled back, once again

clearing an aisle along the length of the hall, and
then the intruders drew close enough for Radgar
to make out Wulfwer in the lead. He had not
changed a bit in five years, except
to increase in bulk and sheer ugliness. Hulking
would be flattery, lummox only reasonable. Like
a two-legged ox, the tanist rolled forward bearing
a naked sword. He halted when he reached the
hearths and scowled brutishly at his father on the
throne. The hall erupted in furious roars of
protest.
  "This is madness!" Leofric whispered in
Radgar's ear. The only challenge that could be
delivered in the middle of a witenagemot was an
earl's challenge to the King; not a tanist's
challenge to his earl. Even Wulfwer must know
that.
  "It's a trick," Radgar answered. "It
has to be." But what trick?
  The protest roared on until Cynewulf
rose to his feet and held up a hand for silence.
He was frowning, but that meant nothing. He could have
set this up with his son, planning to deflect any
formal protest from the earls.
  Now Wulfwer was free to recite the formula.
"Ni`eding!" he roared. "Ga recene to
me, wer to gu`ede! Gea, unscamfoest
earming `edu, ic @thoet gehate @thoet ic
heonan nylle fleon--" * The rest of the
ancient call to combat was lost in renewed howls
from the onlookers.
      * Worthless one! Come quickly to me, man
    to battle. Yes, shameless wretch you, I
    this swear: that I from here refuse to
    flee--
  Cynewulf stood with raised hand, seemingly
waiting for silence, but his little eyes were scanning the
crowd. He located Radgar and no doubt noted
who was with him. At last he was able to shout over the
noise.
  "Drunken lout! Thrall-born oaf! Why
did I ever think I could make anything of you? You
can't even issue a proper challenge and you try
to do it in the middle of a witenagemot. Well, the
fyrd will make judgment between us, but it must wait
until after the nation's business is completed.
Let the thegn moot assemble on the day after the
adjourn--"
  "No!" roared a voice from the floor, and the
cry was taken up by a thousand throats in a great
roar of anger and disapproval. Even the
visitors were shouting, although they should not meddle in
local business.
  Cynewulf did seem surprised then. He
peered narrowly into the gloom as if seeking out
ringleaders, but he kept his self-control and when
he stretched out both arms for silence the crowd
hushed to hear him. "If the honored earls are
willing to let our shire moot take precedence,
then we shall gladly honor their wishes. The
witenagemot stands adjourned until the morrow.
Thegns, the fyrd will assemble tonight at sunset"--
he was shouting at the top of his lungs--"to decide
the issue between us and our tanist in the ways of the
Baels."
  Leofric had been whispering to Ceolmund and
some of the other witan. Now he thumped a hand on
his son's massive shoulder. "The Haligdom!"
he said. "Go and seize the Haligdom!"

                  

  Upward, ever upward, Wasp drove his
horse, going he knew not where to fight he knew
not what. Only his Blade instinct guided him
through stinking fog and the steady drizzle of mud. The
ash fall was so heavy now, and so hot, that if the
rain part of it ever slackened he would probably
fry. Poor Cwealm, superbly surefooted
though he was, found the going treacherous and painful.
  Wasp kept expecting a firedrake to come
flaming and roaring out of the mist at him. Fight a
firedrake with a rapier? Why his Blade instinct
would drive him to come in search of such a
monster he could not imagine. His mission seemed
suicidal. He was not fireproof! In spite
of the wet, he kept hallucinating a smell of
burning--the stench of the massacre at Haybridge
or the smell of West House just before Radgar
came stumbling through the flames to wrap a
blanket around him and carry him out. Twice in his
life he had escaped death by fire, and he
seemed destined to meet it again.
  When the ground began to drop away ahead of him
and the wind redoubled its fury, he realized that he
had reached the bleak shoulder called Baelstede.
Coughing and almost blind from the muddy deluge, he
turned Cwealm in the direction of the cave
entrance. It seemed that his destination was to be
Weargahlaew again. He felt a faint stir of
hope--he might not have to fight a firedrake after
all, only mad old Healfwer.
  Poor Cwealm had been run to exhaustion.
He coughed and slithered and sometimes bellowed out his
misery; but he kept responding, knowing that
otherwise he would get beaten with a rapier.
  "Not long now, big fellow," Wasp told
him. "Won't be so bad in the gully. I never
treated a nag like this in my life before, friend, and I
promise I never will again. It's all for
Radgar. You remember Radgar ...?" Babble,
babble! The stallion was not the only one near the
end of his endurance.
  The defile was not better at all. Cwealm
had to plod hock-deep up a steaming river of
hot mud laced with rocks and branches. He
eventually balked, was beaten, went on a few more
steps, and then stumbled. Wasp, deservedly, was
pitched into the muck, which was even hotter than he
had expected. Once he had cleaned off his
face well enough to see, he needed only one glance
at his mount to know that this was the end. Cwealm was
immobilized, and a damaged leg here had to be a
death sentence.
  Wasp gave him a hug and wept for him. "I
am sorry, friend, I really am sorry!" He
could read his own name on the death warrant too, so
he wept for himself and his folly, but he also mourned
a great heart. "If the impossible happens and
I ever see Radgar again," he promised, "I
will tell him of your courage."
  Then he did what had to be done and did it
well, for he had helped his father butcher animals
and knew where to strike. He wiped
Nothing on his mud-covered cloak and set off
along the gully alone.

  Unlike a horse, he could stay out of the mud
river by working his way through the brush and spindly
trees that lined the steeply sloping walls; they
gave him handholds when he slipped on the ooze
underfoot. At least the tunnel would provide
shelter from the constant drizzle.
  When he came to the end of the little gorge, he
thought he was to be denied even that. Rock and mud
had cascaded down, building a mound that almost
covered the cave mouth. Closer inspection
revealed that there was a gap left at the top; and
when he had scrambled up to see it, he could feel
a wind blowing past his head. A powerful draft was
blowing into the mountain, so the upper end must still be open
and the way was clear.
  Clear at the moment. The ground trembled. The
mountain's menacing rumbling never stopped.
  Finding the tinderbox by feel alone was a
painfully long business, but he located it
eventually, and also a lantern with candle left in
it. Some of the crushed-fungus tinder was damp, and
only after a great deal of striking and swearing did
he find a piece dry enough to catch. Then he had
light and he was out of the rain, but his clothes were so
weighted by mud that they felt like the plate mail
he had been forced to wear in Ironhall
broadsword training. Perhaps because there was no
physical means for him to return to Radgar now,
the agony of being separated from his ward had
dwindled. In its place had come the numbing pain
of total exhaustion.
  So what? He was wretchedly uncomfortable.
He could not sleep. He set off into the tunnel.

  Perhaps twelve hours had passed since he and
Radgar had come through here on their way out. Much
rock had fallen since then. There was no path
anymore. There was hardly a tunnel anymore.
In its place he found an unending climb over
precariously balanced heaps of jagged boulders,
going in constant danger of starting a slide that would
crush his feet or bury him totally. At times
he was wriggling high above the original roof,
hunting for gaps between the heaped debris and the new--
no doubt temporary--roof. Sometimes he knew
he had found a passage because when he thrust his
head and shoulders into the gap he could hear
the wind whistling past his ears. That was a reminder that
the wind could get through narrower places than he
could. The exit, if he ever reached it, might not be
Wasp-sized.
  Exhaustion, earth tremors, the reek of
sulfur, now hunger, and certainly thirst ... a
Blade's lot was not a happy one. The end
came without warning. Rocks shifted under him. Then
a rising din as more and more of the roof collapsed, both
in front of him and behind ... something came down on
his left hand, which held the lantern. He was
plunged into darkness, his scream of agony drowned
out by noise that seemed to beat the brains from his head.
He was pelted by stones, choked by dust. The
tunnel collapsed.
  When the noise stopped, the draft had stopped,
too. He was sealed in, buried alive in the
heart of the mountain.

                  

  No challenge had been contested in Catterstow
for so long that very few men could remember the last
time. Ceolmund had yielded to Aeled without forcing
a vote, but in his younger days he had shed blood
to win the earldom and keep it. He knew the
unwritten rules. He knew that the earl would
hold court in Cynehof, rallying supporters,
plying thegns with ale and mead, bribing ship lords with
gold. The tanist challenger must set up a
recruiting center of his own and see what he could do
with promises. Since the Haligdom, the great
elementary, was the second largest building in
Waro`edburh, the Wulfwer party should take it
over as its headquarters. This was especially true
on a day like this, when the rain was coming down in
tubfuls. But no one had told Wulfwer this and
by the time someone did, it was too late. Aylwin and
his beefiest buddies had seized the building, and
his father was leading the rest of the fledgling Aeleding party
there in parade. Wulfwer's challenge had opened
opportunities.

  "Here!" said Aylwin, thrusting a war helmet
at Radgar. "Choose a sword."
  "Huh?"
  The huge circular hall was smaller than he
remembered, but still impressive. Often as a child
he had huddled in the doorway beside the jeering town
brats to watch shiploads of Chivian
prisoners being enthralled into useful servants.
With the unthinking cruelty of the young, he had mocked
their screams for mercy. No one had told him he
was doing anything wrong. Chivian crowds had
laughed when Baelish prisoners were butchered in
public. It had been wartime, and things were different
then.
  Things were different now. Leofric's werod was
forming itself into a circle, excluding other thegns.
Someone handed Aylwin a shield, and another offered
Radgar a helmet and a collection of wooden
practice swords.
  Leofric explained at his elbow. "They're
going to vote you in, Atheling. But they need to know that
you can fight."
  "I haven't sworn the cniht's oath,"
Radgar said angrily. This sort of contest was
stupid. It would prove little about a man's
courage in real battle, yet it was dangerous enough
to maim him if something went wrong. The helmet
he was holding had a face plate, which meant he
would be peering out through two small eye holes,
unable to see what he was doing. Ironhall
dueling equipment was better, safer, and so varied
that he was expert in a dozen styles of fighting.
Aylwin would know only broadsword and shield,
possibly battle-ax.
  "Well you can't back out now," the ship lord said
smugly, walking away and leaving Radgar in the
circle of grinning faces.
  True! He threw the helmet away and
refused the shield. He drew Fancy, a
cat's-eye sword infinitely better than
anything he was being offered. "Come and kill me,"
he said.
  "Flames!" said a muffled voice from inside
Aylwin's helmet. "That's a real sword!"
  "It's a real sword and I'm going to show you
real sword craft. I'll use the blunt
side. Now come and kill me."
  The spectators fell silent. Aylwin
shrugged, flexed his arms, and charged. Reluctant
to strike an unarmored friend with even the wooden
sword, he tried to knock him with his shield
instead. Radgar had expected that. He jumped
aside, grabbed the edge of the shield with his free
hand, and kicked the back of his friend's knee as he
went past. Aylwin hit the tiles in a clatter
and his sword skittered away across the floor.
  Radgar stepped up on his back.
"Next?"
  Terrible words came out of the helmet. ...
  "You're dead. I want someone else."
  The onlookers jeered uproariously at their
shipmate's humiliation, but such tricks did not
impress them much. Then Radgar Aeleding disposed
of two more contenders with equal ease and they began
to show interest. There was no elaborate point
system--first hit was counted mortal. The next
men tried to match his speed and agility and came
at him on his own terms, without shield or
helmet, just a blade. They did not pull their
strokes, either. Men who weighed twice what he
did swung two-handed broadswords that would have
shattered bones. He did not try to block those;
he let Fancy nudge the stroke up or down
or aside, using their momentum to throw his
opponents off balance. They all seemed
incredibly slow to him, but he dared not be as gentle
with everyone as he had been with Aylwin. He
rapped a couple of men across the neck with the back
of his sword; he disarmed another by striking his elbow
with the flat of the blade. With the sixth man, he
accidentally drew blood. The wound was not serious,
but honor was satisfied.
  "That's all!" He sheathed his sword,
pleasantly aware that he was barely winded. By then
the ale barrels were being rolled in.
  "Can he fight?" Aylwin yelled, and the
werod roared approval.
  They voted Radgar Aeleding one of them, and a
thegn in the Catterstow fyrd.
  If they thought he was good, they should have seen
Wasp.

  All over Waro`edburh the afternoon was spent in
argument, wherever two or more thegns were within earshot of
each other. War horns blared, summoning
warriors to the free ale--in Cynehof, at the
tanist's headquarters in the boat sheds, or from
Ship Lord Leofric at the elementary. Most men
would need to try all three, of course. The rain
grew worse, turning everything gray with mud.
Messengers departed in fast boats to fetch
absent members of the fyrd from half Baelmark.
Ancient pirates in their dotage were dragged from
their beds, bathed and combed and made presentable.
Werodu assembled and voted fresh-faced
cnihtas into full thegnhood.
  Radgar stayed sober and listened.
Everyone had opinions, from the gawkiest beginner
to thegns who had been old in his childhood. He
steadfastly refused to express his own opinions.
Leofric and Ceolmund were in charge, running the
Aeleding Party, practically planning his first
moves as earl, and it was all nonsense. The
fyrd could not vote for him under the rules, and would not
vote for him if it could. He was almost certain that
Wulfwer's challenge was a fraud dreamed up
by Cynewulf. He did not understand the plot,
though, and he was offered an infinite choice of
theories.
  "It is a conspiracy," one elder insisted.
"The King and that lunkish son of his cooked this up
to distract attention from the witenagemot." He
repeated this opinion every few minutes all afternoon.
  "The tanist is a Cattering. He thinks his
father is about to be deposed and hopes to snatch the
throne for himself."
  "The witenagemot will not stand for that Wulfwer
oaf as king!"
  "Who would challenge him? He could slay any
two of them at once."
  "Radgar Aeleding, of course. He is
trained like a Chivian Blade."
  "No, Cynewulf put his son up to this. He
wants to show the earls that he still has the support
of his fyrd. The fight will be a fraud. ..."
  "Who cares about the witenagemot? We need
an earl who can pee straight!"
  "The King wants to drop Wulfwer overboard
and he won't go."
  "Aeleding is too young. Even the fyrd will not
accept him and the witenagemot--"
  "He is only a year younger than his father
was."
  "But Aeled first went foering with us at
fourteen. I remember how--"
  "True, he was a seasoned ship lord. I
remember how--"
  Murder and mayhem, tales to make a man's
hair stand on end! Radgar had never realized how
bloody his father's youth had been. He felt very
inadequate and knew he must seem so to these men.
He missed Wasp. Already he felt like an
unshelled turtle without his sharp young Blade
watching over him. He even missed the kid's
acid-tongued comments on Baelish customs.
  The theories were repeated, rehashed, and
embroidered. They grew wilder and
wilder as the day went on, but a significant
number of them presumed that Cynewulf and his son
were somehow conspiring together and that Radgar was in grave
danger of dying suddenly, as had so many other
throne-worthy men of late. No one could clarify
the details of how this would be achieved,
unfortunately, but it showed how little respect
Cynewulf commanded in his own shire.
  When dismal afternoon began to darken into evening, the
werod clamored to hear from the atheling himself.
Reluctantly he approached the upturned
wooden bucket that served as a podium. Before he
reached it, Ceolmund caught hold of his cloak
and pulled his head down.
  "You are related to both contenders. You are not
strictly a thegn. You don't have to attend."
  He was wrong. Radgar had been away for
years. If he shunned this contest, the fyrd would
lose all interest in him. "No, I must go."
  "Then support Wulfwer. If he wins the
siding, your uncle will retire. Your cousin will
become earl and appoint you tanist, his closest
relative."
  "No!" Leofric clutched Radgar's other
arm. "You must support your uncle. You are his
obvious successor. Wulfwer is thrall-born
and useless. He has guessed you will replace him
and is making a desperate last stand. Cynewulf
will have Big Edgar or someone make fillets of
him and then you can become tanist."
  Radgar smiled thanks at each man in turn
and gently pulled free. He climbed up on the
bucket. So much conflicting advice swirled
inside his head that he did not know what he was going
to say.
  He looked around at the expectant faces--
well over a hundred of them. Of course his new
Faro`edhengest brothers would support him to the
last drop of blood--theirs or anyone else's
--but there were many other werodu represented. He
could not ask any man to support Cynewulf, that
slimy villain. Nor Wulfwer, who had also
tried to kill him.
  He must shout, because the great dome had been
designed to swallow sound, not echo it.
"Ealdras, thegns ... friends ... I thank you
dearly. If I hesitate and stumble, it is because
I am truly at a loss for words, more touched
by your support than I can say. I know many of you
came here to honor the memory of my
father, and for that I am truly grateful. I can offer
you no more wisdom than you have heard already and I will
not presume to steer you in your decision. I am
royally born, yes. I will fight any man who
says otherwise, but I do not consider myself
throne-worthy. Not yet. Someday I hope to win
your respect, but I cannot claim it now."
  A cloud shadow of dismay darkened the elementary.
Modesty? What sort of a man doubted his own
manhood? Glances were exchanged, comments
whispered. ... They had not expected that. From
portly landowning elders to horny-handed,
rollicking sailor boys, they all wanted him
to be his father returned to them. If it didn't work
and he died, well it had been a good idea. ...
  Too late he saw that his refusal betrayed
those who had already risked everything by backing him--
Leofric, Ceolmund, Aylwin, his new
shipmates. He had blundered. His Ironhall
training had let him down, for he had responded
as a dutiful courtier or royal bodyguard
might, not as a braggart Baelish atheling. Like
Wasp, he had not been ready for this world.
  But even as he floundered for some way to repair
his blunder, a young man pushed forward through the
spectators. His mail shirt and helmet marked
him as a house thegn and he must be proud of his
status, for he would have been a cniht until very
recently. He stopped some distance from Radgar and
called to him in a voice as thin and arrogant as his
orange mustache.
  "Atheling, your king summons you."
  A premonitory shiver ran up Radgar's
backbone. He would sooner drop in on a
moray eel in its crevice than answer that
invitation. But the spirits of chance had offered him a
way out of his error.
  "Cynewulf cannot summon me, for he stands under
challenge. I have other business to attend to. Go
tell my uncle that I will wait upon him tomorrow and will
settle then all matters outstanding between us."
  The youth stared at him in horrified disbelief,
but a deafening whoop of relieved laughter from the
crowd drowned out anything he might have tried
to say. The laughter swelled to applause and
applause exploded into cheers. That was more the sort
of talk they wanted to hear.
  Spirits! Did they expect him to seize the
throne by force? He certainly had less than a
tenth of the fyrd here, and already he could see
men on the outskirts melting away from a group that
had suddenly become dangerous company. Anything
less than half must fail. He shouted for
silence.
  "Friends! Brothers! Baels! I believe my
father was murdered and his brother had a hand in that
crime, but I lack the proof I need to swear
blood feud. I am certain that his son, my
cousin, tried to murder me that same night. Neither
is fit for the office he holds. They are of my
blood but I cannot in good conscience side with either.
At the thegn moot I shall stand apart."
  A plague on both their houses! That was not
a solution anyone had proposed in all the hours
of arguing. It was not in the rule book, but Dad
had spurned rule books, too. Radgar had
only just thought of it himself and saw at once that it was
horrible folly, because it must make enemies of
both factions. But it was a way out of his
dilemma. A roar of approval greeted it.
In his strange, soft-spoken way, the young atheling
was proclaiming revolution, so perhaps there was a
streak of his old dad in him after all. They would
follow him--for now.

                  

  The only reason Wasp could not just lie down and
die was that there was nowhere comfortable to try it. His world
was a bed of nails, a universe of razor
edges. He had fashioned his baldric into a
tourniquet to stop the bleeding from his crushed hand,
and the rest of his injuries seemed to be only
bruises, from sole to scalp. Desperately
thirsty, he could hear a slow drip of water not very
far away. For some reason that sound drove him
to rage rather than hope or despair--surely no
master torturer had ever subjected his victims
to anything worse than this! The lack of a draft was
not necessarily fatal, he told himself. It
proved that the tunnel was blocked in one
direction, not necessarily both. A Blade
couldn't give up. He could burst his heart and
drop dead, but he could never give up.
  Having no idea of direction, he must just head
for the drip. He used Nothing as a probe
to establish where the rocks were and were not, and he began
to move. Once or twice he found himself in a
large open space where he could find no walls,
no roof; at other times he had
to wriggle through narrow burrows full of broken
glass--that was how they felt, anyway. The drip
seemed to be slowing down, and he was tormented by the
thought that it might stop altogether. He even began
to wonder if it was retreating as he advanced, a
phantasm created by some evil spirit to torment him.
He seemed to crawl through the nightmare for days, and
he never did find the drip. Before he reached it,
he saw a glimmer of daylight on the roof
ahead.

  The Weargahlaew end of the tunnel had been
almost blocked by a landslide. A puddle of water
had collected there and he was able to slake his
thirst. There was even a heap of natural
porridge where the meal sack had burst; he forced
himself to swallow some of the muck just to make his belly
stop feeling so empty. His broken hand throbbed
with a savage beat, pain echoing all the way through
him. Without that he might have curled up and slept
away the rest of his life, but there was no way he
would ever find comfort again.
  He clambered over the debris that had fallen
from the cliffs and peered out at Weargahlaew. He
could see very little. Storm and eruption between them had
turned day to night, but he judged that if the sun
had not set it must be about to, because the ruddy glow
within the crater itself was brighter than the clouds
overhead. He could hear crackling and smell
smoke in the stench of sulfur. For the forest to be
burning was hardly surprising. A strong wind
gusted the muddy rain around--air, water, earth, and
fire--all four manifest elements were present
in abundance, and that thought reminded him of
Healfwer.
  Obviously he could never find the conjurer in this
mad murk--and it would do no good to do so at this
stage anyway--but he had nothing better to try and
could think of no better reason for coming here. He
scrambled painfully down to the crater floor and
limped wearily into the trees.
  Radgar must know that Healfwer had been
Fyrlaf, but only once had he called the old
cripple eald foeder--grandfather--in
Wasp's hearing. He would brag about great-grandfather
Cu`edblaese and father Aeled, but Fyrlaf was
rarely mentioned, as if the shame of what the former
king had done to the Gevilians still lingered.
Cu`edblaese had died fighting a drake.
Aeled had lured his to the sea and quenched
it. Healfwer-Fyrlaf had driven his monster
against the invaders, and only after it had destroyed the
Gevilians had he plunged it into the healing
sea. How? And what had happened after that? He
had mumbled something about the water not being deep enough.
If he had fallen on his left side and the
drake went over him ...
  Mad and hopelessly crippled, he had been
exiled to Weargahlaew and publicly written
off as dead. Why so much shame? Was it possible that
he had not merely directed the firedrake but had
actually summoned it, much as he had summoned
Yorick's ghost? Firedrakes were supposed
to be something that just happened, like thunderstorms; but a
skilled conjurer might be able to create one,
especially during a volcanic eruption, when
fire elementals swarmed. That would be a terrible
crime, invaders or not. And last night the
madman had heard how one of his sons had
murdered the other. How much crazier could a man
become?
  Something had summoned Wasp, drawing him here.
He paused at the edge of a steaming lake whose far
shore was hidden in the trees. He would have to wade
that and hope he did not get boiled on the way.
... Something in Weargahlaew was a mortal
threat to Radgar.






















               AELEDING

                 IX

                  

  From the Haligdom to Cynehof in a downpour was
far enough to soak a man to the marrow of his bones.
Cowering under his cloak, Radgar paused on the
edge of the square to glance back at his followers:
Leofric; Ceolmund; and better than two
hundred thegns, ranging from striplings like Wasp--
and where was poor Wasp?--to elders so ancient they
could barely totter along on the arms of brawny
grandsons. He had lost his Blade and gained a
retinue. Satisfied that it had not melted away
yet, he uncovered his head, squared his shoulders,
and led the way toward the gaping porch.
  A few score sword-girt men lingered at the
base of the steps, some of them huddled under
thrall-held umbrellas. These must be the
cautious ones, waiting until they could back a
clear winner. Around the edges of the plaza, a forest
of hats, hoods, and umbrellas covered
ceorls and loetu and also many women and children, no
doubt families of thegns. None of them had any
say in a change of earl--and the result of the vote
would make no difference to their drab lives
anyway--but they probably enjoyed watching the
atheling lead in his army. Could they tell that he was
an illusion and it was really led by the ghost of King
Aeled? His followers were not following him, they were
pushing. He had never dreamed that he might win
acceptance solely on his father's reputation.
  He strode up the three steps, and for the second
time that day surrendered Yorick's sword to the
house thegns. Many feet tramped up behind him.
  The big hall was dim and clammy on this dismal
evening and at first glance seemed almost empty, because
the occupants were packed in along the walls.
Although the scents of generations of feasting still hung in
the air, tonight the hearths in the center were cold. Beside
them stood three elderly witan in heralds'
tabards, adjudicators acceptable to both
candidates. Two men who had preceded Radgar
into the hall went to them, bowed in unison, and then
parted, going to stand on opposite sides of the hall
--most likely brothers, prudently dividing the
family vote.
  Honored guests had been arrayed on benches
on the dais at the far end: earls,
wives, mothers, grandmothers, a few children close
to adolescence. At the extreme left of the
platform Cynewulf slouched on his throne,
crowned and sumptuously robed in crimson, but
scowling. Queen Charlotte sat very erect on
an ornate chair of narwhal ivory at his
side. Behind them stood grim Ro`edercraeft,
watching as his armed minions kept order in the
assembly.
  Wulfwer stood on the extreme right, ignoring
the low milking stool that his father had generously
provided for him. With massive arms folded, he
was glowering brutishly at the unfolding drama.
He had done much better than Leofric and
Ceolmund had predicted he would. More than a
quarter--perhaps almost a third--of the thegns had
assembled on his side of the hall.
  Every eye fastened on Radgar as he approached
the witan, for it must seem that he could decide the
fate of the kingdom. If he took his retinue
to Wulfwer, he might tip the balance in the
tanist's favor, or at least make it very
close to even. This was another illusion. His
supporters were following him only because he had
promised to take no side. Before reaching the
waiting elders he stopped and folded his arms like
big cousin Wulfwer. He did not attempt the
scowl, but smiled instead at the three old men.
His followers bunched up at his back, and the hall
stilled into a puzzled silence.
  It did not last long. The rafters creaked
first, then the walls. The floor lurched under his
feet and kept on lurching, so he staggered
wildly. Everywhere men tripped and stumbled, the
woodwork screamed in every joint, and all noises
seemed to merge in a single monstrous roar as the
world danced. It was the worst quake he had ever
experienced. Dust poured down from the roof and
swirled up from the hearths. After an
excruciatingly long time, the motion faded and then
stopped.
  He hurried forward to assist the three witan,
who had landed on their backs. Dust settled and
fallen men climbed sheepishly to their feet, but
neither Cynehof nor its occupants seemed to have
taken any serious harm. The siding would continue,
because no red-blooded, redheaded Bael would ever
accord a mere earth tremor any more respect
than he would spare for a rough sea. They made their
buildings to survive and so would they.
  As he returned to his place, one of the
witan came shuffling after him. "Ealdras! You
must go to one side or the other." He lacked about
a dozen teeth for true clarity of speech.
  "We take our lead from Atheling Radgar,"
Leofric said.
  "Aeleding!" roared the men at his back.
  The old man looked to the upstart, frowning
angrily under bushy white brows. "You must
choose sides."
  "I will take no side, and my companions are
of like mind."
  "That is not allowed."
  "I cannot choose between those two offal
buckets."
  "So leave, if you shun your duty!" Outrage
made him shrill.
  "I will not leave."
  "Ealdor Ceolmund! Ealdor
Leofric! You know that this is improper."
  "Unorthodox," Leofric admitted.
  The wita's slurred complaints grew shrill.
"You are breaking the customs and abusing our
ancient rights. You must decide between the two men.
If you do not like the result you can challenge again.
Dividing the fyrd into more than two factions
risks standoff and open warfare."
  That was probably true, but Radgar could not
change his tactics now. He glanced around
to make sure his band was still with him and was amazed
to see that he had gained at least another fifty
men. The fence-sitters were entering now, and most of
them were joining his party. Perhaps he had misjudged
their motives.
  "We shall not take sides, ealdor," he
said. "Go and count those who did."
  As the old man hurried back to discuss the
bad news with his associates, Leofric
adjusted the thong that held his eye patch. Two
men left Cynewulf's supporters and strolled
over to join his dissidents. This devious strategy
had been suggested and arranged by Ceolmund, whose
thinking was as twisted as his backbone, and it worked
beautifully. Three innocents decided to follow
the shills' example and then four from Wulfwer's
side did the same. More came, and suddenly there
were hints of revolution in the air. The witan
began bleating; the King roared in fury.
  A war horn's wail signaled the end of the
siding; the great double doors were slammed.
The judges announced that changes were not allowed and
every man who had moved must return to his
original team.
  They would have done better to threaten Cwicnoll.
No one obeyed, and more men defiantly left the
sides and strode over to join Radgar's center
party. He turned to share glances with Leofric and
Aylwin, struggling to keep his face from displaying his
excitement. This was working far better than they had
predicted! He could not guess how long his
supporters would back him, or how far, but he
now had about as many as Wulfwer. Suppose he
finished up with more than either father or son? Or even
more than both together! If Cynewulf had
provoked this challenge to impress the
witenagemot with his support, then he had
harpooned himself.
  A warning frown from Leofric spun him around
again and cracked his jubilation like glass. Queen
Charlotte had left her ivory chair and was
advancing along the hall to chide her unruly
son. Every eye in the hall was on her and every eye
would watch their meeting. It was another of
Cynewulf's sly tricks, and Radgar's
hatred burned up hotter. Never since his first
days in Ironhall had he ever truly lost his
temper. He had believed the dragon burned out
of him and gone forever, but now he knew it could rise
again. Alas, this was not a childish fistfight where
anger was both sword and shield; in a battle of
wits anger was snare and impediment. He wrapped
his mud-soaked cloak around himself and waited.
  Queen Charlotte moved with grace in trailing
robes of rich burgundy. Jewels glinted on
her hands, at her neck and ears; a silver
coronet shone in her high-braided hair. She
did not look old, although she was of an age that
saw most women ravaged by childbearing
into toothless, white-haired crones. She held out
her hands. When he did not take them she clasped
them nervously before her. Peering up anxiously at
his face, she spoke only to him, although at least
a hundred men would hear.
  "You have greatly angered your king, Radgar!"
  "My king was murdered and that man helped."
  "Silence! I will not listen to such sedition. Why
did you not come when you were summoned?"
  "Because I feared for my life." He noted that
her voice was slurred, her breath reeked of
wine. Being married to Cynewulf would
drive anyone to drink, but perhaps his own behavior
had not helped much lately.
  "That is madness!" she bleated. "The King
seeks only your advancement. He approves of
you and always did. Wulfwer has ever been a great
disappointment to him and now has had the folly
to challenge. You can see he has lost, the fyrd
siding against him. Your uncle--stepfather, I mean
--Cynewulf wants you to be his tanist now."
  "Oh, Mother! Dear Mother! You always believe
whatever you want to believe, don't you? You
refuse to see the shadows or think what may
lurk in them. No wonder life always disappoints
you!" He wanted to shake her. He needed to hug
her. He fought down both impulses. "You are a

fool to believe one word that man says."
  She frowned as if the world had become
difficult to understand. She whispered, "I can't
help loving him, Radgar."
  His heart twisted. "No. And I can't help
loving you, Mother."
  "Oh, Radgar!" Again she reached for his hands and
again he kept his arms bundled in his sodden
cloak.
  "But him I hate." Rage burned in his
throat like lava.
  "Pity him, Radgar! Pity him! Now he must
choose a champion to fight his own son. Help
him! He says you are the finest swordsman in
Baelmark?" She could not believe she had really
produced such a monster.
  "Probably." If Wasp was not present--
Where was poor Wasp now?
  "All he asks is that you will hurt Wulfwer
as little as possible. In return, he will appoint
you his tanist and in a year or two--no more than
three years, he promises--he will step aside
and let you be King of Baelmark. Oh, Radgar,
this is a wonderful--"
  She stopped in dismay. The bitter laughter had
exploded out of him before he could stop it.
  "Cynewulf wants me to fight Wulfwer for
him? Fight him and let him off with a slit nose?
Oh, no! Go tell your pillow partner, Mother, that
if I ever see that brute spawn of his at the far
end of my sword, I will spill his bowels all
over the floor. And if I ever become tanist
I will do the same to him within the first hour. It would be
both duty and pleasure. Take that message
back to your fat friend."
  She recoiled, ashen-faced. "Radgar! You
forget who he is!"
  "No, Mother. I will never forget. He kills
by treachery and evil conjurations. The man who slew
Dad has testified that Cynewulf let him
into the house that night. He raped you with a conjured
potion and tried to slay me. He is dung,
Mother, sewage. Go back to your dung and spit
on him for me."
  He was shaking, almost sick with the effort of containing
his rage. Leofric's hand gripped his shoulder in
warning. Queen Charlotte backed off in
horror, then raised her skirts and fled back
to the dais. All the hundreds present watched the
King's face darken as he heard her whispered
report.
  More thegns drifted away from the sides of the
hall to join Radgar. Then a ship lord--a man
he did not know at all, even by sight--deserted
Cynewulf's side and came to him with his entire
werod following.
  "Declare!" Cynewulf bellowed at the three
dithering witan in the center. Ro`edercraeft
shouted to the house thegns, who quickly spread out
along the line of royal supporters to block
any further desertions.
  The judges conferred hurriedly. Now the center
obviously held more votes than the tanist's
side and possibly as many as Cynewulf's.
Two more werodu or so would make Radgar the
choice of more than half the fyrd, but he was not a
candidate. The witan hurried over to the King and
bowed to him as the signal that he had won. His
supporters broke into cheers, which were drowned out
by booing from the other factions.
  "May all your victories taste as sour!"
Leofric muttered.
  Ceolmund cackled. "I wonder what the
earls think of this?"
  The war horn howled again to hail the decision.
Cwicnoll shook the hall peevishly. The
groups on the floor merged and began flowing
closer to the dais, but house thegns held them
back to leave an open space--there was a fight
to come. Most of the ladies rose, curtseyed to the
throne, and trooped to the far end of the hall, where one
flap of the door was opened briefly to let them
depart. They did not succeed in dragging their young
sons with them, and not one man went. Nor did the
Queen.
  Wulfwer stripped off cloak, baldric,
tunic. Bare to the waist, he stepped down from the
dais and tried a few practice swings with his
two-handed sword. His coarse face puckered in
a gruesome smile, a killer scenting blood.
"Pick your man, Father! Who will die for you?"
  At the far side of the hall, Cynewulf
ignored the jeer. He offered his arm to Charlotte
and led her along the platform to the center, then
turned to address the fyrd.
  "Thegns, we thank you." He could teach a
pike to smile. "We shall endeavor to continue to be
worthy of your trust. And our dear lady thanks
you also. Now, alas, it is our sad duty
to empower a champion to redress the insult done
to our honor." He was good. Anyone who did not
know his slimy habits would find him a convincing
speaker. Potbellied little monster.
  "Go on, Father!" Wulfwer yelled. "Find a
man to die for you. I'm waiting."
  "Alas," Cynewulf said. "That the culprit
is our own flesh and blood hurts us deeply and
we can only hope that he will not pay too dearly
for his folly. Nevertheless, this is the price of
ambition, and those who venture for great prizes must
be prepared to pay great price for failure.
Kings and earls would know no peace if the penalty
were slight." He brandished his smile again. "We
shall be true to the tradition that says a king's
champion is showered with enough riches to inspire the
scops for a hundred years."
  "Or his widow is given a wiser husband!"
Wulfwer's werod whooped at his wit.
  "Quite so," Cynewulf agreed. "But first we have
a happier duty to perform." He snapped his
fingers and a gangling cniht paraded forward
proudly. He bore a red silk cushion, across
which lay a shining sword. He dropped to one knee
at the front edge of the dais, displaying it to the
werod.
  "Honored guests," the King declared, "earls,
ealdras, thegns. It gives us abundant
pleasure to welcome back to his own country after
so long an absence, our dear nephew and
stepson, Radgar Aeleding. ..." He waited
for the cheering and booing to fade. And waited. And
waited, tiny eyes flickering from side to side as
he assessed who was making the most noise.
Eventually he began to speak again, and the noise
diminished until he could be heard.
"... and of our own father, Fyrlaf. The guard is
silver and bears the Seven Tears, a fabled set
of blue pearls handed down from forgotten ages.
These precious gems have graced many crowns and
scepters and the flesh of great queens. The scops
can sing their history for hours. Radgar, my son,
come forward and accept from us this precious heriot."
  Radgar's feet froze to the floor. What
new treachery was this? Now the King had survived the
challenge, to refuse his command would be an
unfri`ed. Where had he seen that sword before?
  Leofric whispered in his ear: "Don't go!
It's another trap!"
  At the same moment Ceolmund muttered
to his elbow: "You must go or be counted craven."
  Nobody had ever said politics would be easy.

                  

  Healfwer had very nearly run out of time. Steaming
water lapped close to the octogram, fire was
licking at the forest canopy over his head, and the
air was so full of smoke and fumes that it seemed
impossible to breathe. Yet still he was screeching out
a conjuration and reeling around on his staff, a
bizarre figure silhouetted against the curtain of
flame.
  "Stop!" Wasp croaked. "Stop it! What
are you doing?" The enchanter either did not hear or
else paid no attention.
  Wasp was floundering through hot water that at times
was almost chest deep. His progress was slowed
by drowned undergrowth and floating debris, including
the remains of the log cabin that had once stood
here. Steady seepage of blood from his crushed hand
had drained his strength. He could make no speed
as he struggled toward the madman on the bank,
yet his instinct screamed that Healfwer must not be
allowed to complete that conjuration.
  The ground moved and a major quake thundered through
the crater. The poisonous lake surged.
Crazy old Healfwer on the bank fell
headlong. The backdrop of fire roared even
louder, dropping branches, hurling burning
trunks to the ground. Wasp staggered and paddled with
his good hand in a desperate effort to remain upright
as flaming debris hissed in the water all around.
  Gradually the tortured mountain fell still again,
and the clamor of falling rock faded into the constant
roar of the fire. With wild contortions the
old sorcerer struggled upright again and took up where
he had left off. He had stripped naked, and the
fires' light displayed all his horrible
mutilation--old man on one side and on the other
a moving corpse, a human cinder with no arm and
barely enough stump of leg to hold the straps of the
wooden extension.
  "Stop! Stop!" Through streaming eyes, Wasp
could see that there was something humped on the ground in the
center of the octogram.
  For the first time Healfwer heard. He looked
around, puzzled, and saw Wasp wading toward him.
At once he began chanting faster than ever,
pirouetting around the octogram on his staff from
point to point.
  But the water at last became shallow. Wasp
could lurch into a run, scramble up the final
slope, slithering and blundering. He waved his
sword.
  "Stop or die!"
  Healfwer did stop, leaning limply on his
staff, his chest heaving, although it almost seemed that
only the human side moved. He barked with a
spasm of coughing. His one eye streamed tears, but
the grimace that twisted the living half face
registered triumph. "Done!"
  The smoky air above the octogram glowed with a
pearly light and the ash-covered eight-pointed star
itself shone even brighter, as if written in fire.
The thing in the center was an eagle. It was alive,
fierce eye glaring at Wasp, but its legs had
been tied to a log. How had a cripple
managed to catch an eagle? A bull was how
Aeled's firedrake had been described, but the
one that destroyed Cu`edblaese had been likened
to a great bird.
  "You were conjuring a firedrake!" How could any
man be evil enough to do such a thing?
  The conjurer let out a screech of laughter.
"Cynewulf's crimes compel revenge. But he
will not escape me now. Stand aside."
  "If you loose a drake here, how can you
control it? You mustn't! It may kill Radgar
as well as everyone else."
  "My foes to fiery fates I send. Radgar
is fireproofed! Let all others perish but the
noble Aeleding as I slew the Gevilians."
  "No! Stop it!" Wasp had no doubts that
Radgar would see it as his family duty to do
battle with the monster if it appeared.
  "Too late, slave! The elements are
summoned."
  The light in the octogram shone through the smoke,
brighter than a noonday sun. The eagle stretched
its wings and screeched. Burning twigs fell like
rain, and Wasp's lungs were bursting. He was
going to pass out from heat, loss of blood, lack
of air. ...
  "If you won't stop it, I will!" He stepped
into the octogram and stabbed Nothing through the
eagle's heart.

                  

  Radgar had lost his temper. He had not been
conscious of doing so, but he was very glad of it now it
had happened. He had forgotten how good it felt
to throw off the shackles, to be free to do anything
he wanted without counting the cost. Hard it is
to kill a king ... No, very easy, if you did
not care whether or not you lived to brag of it. He
smiled at the sight of all the house thegns
watching him like cats. He was going to kill their lord
right in front of their eyes and they would be helpless
to stop him when he made his move.
  He stalked forward. Anger rarely made him
reckless, only ruthless. He stopped before the
human vomit on the dais, the kneeling
cniht, his mother. ... He had seen that jeweled
hilt somewhere. ... He made a barely
perceptible bow.
  "Uncle?"
  "We must be speedy," the King proclaimed to the
werod. "There is no need to drag out this painful
business. Son, it is not seemly for a man of
your breeding to go unarmed, but before you can be admitted
to the fyrd we must witness that you are of noble birth
and accept your oath. Thereafter we shall ask you
to redeem our honor in the matter of the challenge
that has--"
  A howl of outrage from the fyrd and even the
guests behind him informed King Cynewulf what they
thought of a man being delegated to fight his own
cousin. Men like Swetmann might slay kinfolk
for ambition, but it was not approved behavior. For a
king to order such a murder was unconscionable.
  "Did not my mother pass on my message,
ni`eding?" Radgar yelled. "I told her that
Wulfwer tried to kill me when I was a child and if
I ever saw him at the end of my
sword, I would cut out his tripes. Is that what
you want me to do?"
  Cynewulf spluttered, unable to make himself
heard in the resulting pandemonium. Apparently
that was what the human fungus wanted, though. Was
there no depth to which this human dreg could not sink?
Of course not! He had proved that five years
ago.
  The uproar drained away reluctantly.
Radgar said, "I need no heriot, Uncle.
I found a sword on the wall. Up there. A
king-slaying sword!"
  It was a satisfaction to watch the monster glance
guiltily at the exact place on the planks
and a joy to see him pale. Radgar laughed
aloud. He knew he should be content with this small
triumph, but now his temper was in the saddle,
spurring him on to folly. Now he would tell the
world what had happened on that terrible night in
Twigeport. Then he would have to swear blood
feud. As soon as he began doing that, the house
thegns would cut him down, so just enough words to let
everyone know what he was doing, then snatch up the
heriot sword, and bury it in that royal
belly--
  "King-slaying sword, ni`eding! I have seen
it slay lesser men too. Your tanist can tell
us how Hengest and Frecful died, can't you, dear
Wulfwer? What matters more is that earlier that
same evening--"
  "Radgar!" Queen Charlotte shouted. "It
is time to take the oath, Son. Behold,
everyone, the Queen honors Atheling Radgar!"
She reached out in a rustle of fabric and took the
sword of Seven Tears from the cushion, needing
both hands to lift it.
  "Charlotte, no! Do not!"
  Ignoring her husband's cry, she raised the
blade in formal salute. "Atheling, may all
your great ancestors ..."
  "Mother!" Radgar shouted. "You stay out of this!
Give me that sword--"

                  

  The moment he struck the eagle, Wasp knew
that he had blundered. Instead of blocking the
conjuration, he had loosed spirits of death and completed
it. The bird had not been there for the reason he
supposed. He spun around in time to see
Healfwer's half face twist with terror in the
instant before he burned away to ash. The battle
for Weargahlaew was decided; spirits of fire
triumphed over the spirits of earth. The ancient
crater roared back into life, consuming forest and every
living thing within it in one great blast of flame--
everything except Wasp, because he was within the
octogram. Then he too was swept away.
  Like a crimson-orange rose unfolding, the
fiery fountain sprayed into the night sky. For an
exquisite, timeless instant the flower hung there,
air and fire rejoicing in liberty. Far below, the
ice-clad peaks of Baelmark stood as islands
in a sea of cloud under the cold stars. Then
earth's ancient tyranny reasserted itself. Down
the plume plunged, raining incandescent death upon the
slopes of Cwicnoll. A myriad elementals
battled for supremacy: Fire and water to make
lava, fire and earth in burning ash, fire and
air, air and rock for thunder, death and chance ...
Roiled together in confusion, the disparate spirits
shrieked conflicting aims, while in among their
millions one small voice of sentience
screamed unheard.

                  

  With the passing of daylight and the King's failure
to call for candles, the hall had grown very dim.
That changed even as Radgar reached for the sword his
mother was so unsteadily holding aloft. A ruddy
glow streamed in through the gable window as if the sun were
rising again on a clear morning. Radgar
hesitated, and then he saw the King. He had
turned away, hands over his face in despair.
What ...?
  The Queen swayed. The sword waved
uncertainly.
  "Mother!" Radgar jumped to aid her and narrowly
missed disaster as she swung the blade down.
  "It's very heavy. ..."
  She released her grasp. The weapon clanged
on the flagstones. He caught her as she
toppled and lowered her to the dais.
  "Mother, Mother!"
  She smiled up at him vaguely. "Dizzy
spell. I get them at times. ..."
  Clutching her in his arms, he looked up at the
King and read terrible things in those hateful,
bloated features, lit by that bloody
light. "No, it is not just a dizzy spell!"
He had turned his back on Wulfwer, which was
folly. "What ails her, Uncle? What foul
trickery is this?"
  "I don't know what you mean ..."
Cynewulf looked to his son.
  The tanist ran forward. "Cut out my
tripes, will you? If we must fight, then let us
start now!" He swung his sword at the
kneeling Radgar.
  The stroke should have rolled his head on the
floor. That it did not was due partly to cries of
alarm from the spectators, partly his
Ironhall-honed reflexes, and partly because a
wild surge of earthquake made Wulfwer
stagger and sent his would-be victim tumbling out of the
path of the murderous slash. Thunder roared through the
hall. Radgar reeled to his feet, ripped
away his cloak, and snatched up his grandfather's
sword.

  Now he would kill Wulfwer. There was no
doubt in his mind about that, no alternative. He
could see nothing except that detestable face as the
tanist leaped in to try again. Radgar deflected
the slash: Clang! He did not riposte, just
smiled. Wulfwer tried again, a thrust this time,
parried again. Clang!
  Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!
Clang!
  "Keep trying, Cousin!" Radgar jeered.
He was in no danger, although dueling in an
earthquake was not part of the Ironhall
curriculum. Clang! The tanist was far
less nimble than he was, so the heaving ground
impeded him more. The pressure--clang!--he
could put in his blade was incredible, but subtlety
was not in him. Clang! Clatter! Now
Radgar danced back before the frantic
onslaught, enjoying his opponent's steadily
rising panic, but aware that he had total control
of the duel. "Hurry! You need to kill me,
remember? Right ear!" He cut. Nice
sword.
  Wulfwer's scream sounded more like fury than
pain. He carried on with the battle, streaming
blood.
  Clang! Spectators tried to clear out of
their path, staggering as the ground shuddered. Several
times Radgar had to--clang!--jump
over rolling bodies. He wondered what the
fyrd thought of this, the first demonstration of real
fencing ever seen in Baelmark. He could tell
what dear Wulfwer thought. He knew he was
doomed.
  "Left ear!" More blood.
  "Stand and fight!" the giant howled, eyes
wide with fear.
  "Come and get me!"--Clang!--"You couldn't
kill me when I was only"--clang!--
"thirteen! You tried to"--clang!--clang!
--"drown me. It's harder to fight men, isn't
it--Cousin?"
  Tiring of the game, Radgar slashed the
tanist's wrist, almost severing his hand. Wulfwer's
sword rang on the stones, leaving him staring in
disbelief at a fountain of blood. The fight was
over.
  Simultaneously, the world steadied. Although that
strange red light still lit the hall with a gory
glow and the mountain continued to roar hungrily, the
floor no longer heaved. Those who had fallen
scrambled to their feet, or were helped up by others,
while Radgar and his cousin faced off in the center,
panting, and no one spoke. Then--
  "Mercy!" Wulfwer clasped his wrist and
squeezed, trying to shut off the flood of
lifeblood.
  "Speak!" Radgar roared. "Confess! Tell
the truth if you hope to live. Why did you
challenge your father?"
  "Mercy!"
  "No mercy!" Radgar swung a
woodcutter's chop at the giant's knee,
cutting him down like an oak. A thousand voices
cried out in horror at this breach of honor.
Ignoring them, he straddled the fallen thegn and
delicately put sword point on cheekbone.
  "One wrong word and you lose this eye. Speak,
brute! What was the plan tonight?" He did not
recognize his own voice. "You were going to kill
me, weren't you? How?"
  "The sword!"
  "Louder! Let them all hear. Confess or
I cut you to pieces."
  Wulfwer howled, still clutching his wounded arm in
an effort to stem the bleeding. "The sword was
cursed. Whoever was first to lift it would be dazed.
It wouldn't have killed you! Just giddy."
  If Radgar had been first to raise
it, he would now be dead. That went without saying.
  "I am your bane, Wulfwer. Did
Healfwer never tell you that? were you going to kill
me the night my father died?"
  "No!"
  Jab! Radgar spared the eye but opened the
flesh back to what was left of the ear.
  Wulfwer screamed. "Yes! Yes! I was
going to drown you. Help me! I need healing!"
  "Who killed King Aeled?"
  "Don't know--Father told me to stay in the
hall. Said I was to be seen there so no one could
suspect me."
  "So he told you Aeled was going to die before it
happened?"
  Wulfwer's lips curled back in terror, but
then he mumbled, "Sort of ..."
  That was enough.
  "Murderer!" Radgar cut his cousin's throat
as his father's had been cut. The hall resounded with a
great animal sound of mingled cheers and protests:
approval, disgust, outrage, and delight. He
did not care. Leaving Wulfwer gurgling and
thrashing in his death throes, he hurried back
to see to his mother, not knowing if it was his legs or the
floor that trembled so.
  He wondered why there were so many people fussing around
her--until he saw the blood. Wulfwer's
wild slash, which had so nearly decapitated him,
had struck the Queen instead, cutting her chest
open, severing ribs. A couple of house thegns were
struggling to bandage her, but blood foamed out with every
breath. She was unconscious. From what he
recalled of Ironhall's classes on wounds,
she had only seconds left to live.
  "Get her to a healer!" he yelled. He
dropped the sword and knelt to lift her.
  Four house thegns grabbed him from behind and hauled
him upright to face the King.
  Cynewulf struck him across the face.
"Murderer! You slew an unarmed man--we saw
it ourself!"
  "Get your wife to a healer, monster!"
Radgar squirmed vainly in the house thegns'
grip. He tasted blood, for the rings had cut
him.
  "That was unfri`ed! You slew our son before our
eyes, unarmed and wounded. Ro`edercraeft, take
this criminal outside and cut his head off." The
King was trying to play an outraged father,
but his glee kept oozing around his mask.
  He had right on his side. The duel had been
completed. There had not even been formal declaration
of blood feud. No thegn in the room would see
his son slain in cold blood and not then take
reprisal. A monarch, especially, must defend
his rights and honor. The spectators were roaring,
half supporting Radgar and half Cynewulf.
Meanwhile Ro`edercraeft's armored toughs
controlled the hall.
  "Yea, lord!" the marshal said. "A pleasure!
Take him, men."
  The house thegns turned Radgar around and
hauled him along the hall toward the door.
Another dozen closed in around as escort. They
were all bigger than he was and his sword lay
abandoned on the floor. He had played right into the
King's hands. He was as good as dead. Bitter the
taste of defeat!
  Roaring defiance, Leofric and his men charged
past the posse and formed up ahead, cutting them off
from the exit.
  "Release him!" bellowed the one-eyed man,
and the men of Faro`edhengest roared their agreement.
It was a convincing roar, but it was bluff. They had
no weapons.
  Ro`edercraeft was right behind Radgar. He
yanked the prisoner's head back and laid an
ice-cold dagger across his throat. "We can do it
here as easy as outside in the square. Stand
aside."
  "He deserves fair trial!"
  "On the count of three he dies," the marshal
barked. "One ..."
  Radgar could barely see his would-be rescuers,
for he was forced to stare at the rafters, still so
strangely lit by the bloody glow. His case was
hopeless, but his plight was his own fault and
certainly no reason for his friends to die in a
hopeless cause.
  "Stand aside, ealdor!" Radgar shouted.
  Nothing happened.
  "Two ..."
  Radgar tried again. "My father would not want the
men of Catterstow slaughtering one another for my
sake. You cannot rescue me. Stand aside."
  Leofric ground his teeth. "He is to be
held for trial!"
  "Certainly."
  It was a lie, and everyone knew it, but
Leofric stepped back. "Let them past!"
  "Thank you!" Ro`edercraeft said brightly.
"So kind! Clear the way." He kept the dagger
where it was until the Faro`edhengest men had moved
back to the sides. "Forward!"
  So died the last of the House of Catter ...
  Just before the prisoner and his escort reached the
doors, the doors blew off their hinges in an
explosion of flame. The firedrake standing
outside peered in under the lintel.

                  

  Healfwer? Had the old maniac summoned this
awful thing, or had the mountain spawned it?
  Radgar picked himself up from where the house thegns
had dropped him and backed away while he
considered the problem. Everyone else had fled
screaming to the far end of the hall. His ordeal in
Twigeport had left him with a terror of fire,
but he had overcome it in Ironhall on the
night he had rescued Wasp and the others. Fire
no longer scared him very much at all--but a drake
was no ordinary fire. Already the heat on his face
was painful.
  "Healfwer?" he roared.
  "Arrrh!" answered the firedrake, almost as
if trying to speak. "Arrrh, arrrh!" It flowed
into the hall, tearing away part of the wall.
  Radgar turned and ran after the others. There
really ought to be a back door to this place. Why
him? It would have to be him, of course. He was
fireproof and Aeled's son; and he must try to do
something, because no one else could; and the monster might
even be his fault, if his crazy grandfather had
conjured it up after hearing the ghost's story. The
entire Catterstow fyrd was trapped here in
Cynehof along with every earl in the kingdom except
one. If the firedrake killed them all,
Baelmark would collapse in anarchy.
  His mother's body lay deserted on the edge of the
dais with the sword of Seven Tears nearby.
Even before he reached them, he began to strip, for
he knew how clothes prolonged the pain as they
burned away. His fingers shook so badly that he
had trouble unfastening his belt buckle, but there was
no shame in being afraid now, not when the entire
fyrd had collapsed in screaming terror. He
would not have thought so many men could all fit on the
dais, but they could--and on the rear half
of it, too. Those at the back must be crushed and
suffocating, but they were in less immediate danger from the
firedrake's wrath.
  He was stamping his feet back into his boots
when the firedrake rumbled angrily and surged
closer.
  "Arrrh!" it said in jets of fire. "Arrrh,
arrrh, arrrh, arrrh!"
  It was black clinker and burning rock and heat
so intense that it was difficult to look at, even
along the length of Cynehof. A red haze glowed
around it. At times it rose up into a man's
shape, although two or three times a man's
height, and at others it was merely a fountain of
rock and lava, surging and flowing and crumbling,
never the same for more than a few seconds. As it
progressed it left behind it a smoking, bubbling
ridge of broken ground like a solidified wake,
so it seemed to be erupting out of the floor, but in
its manlike moments it waded forward on
massive legs, churning up the flagstones.
Even when it was at its most human it had no
face, and every move or change of shape caused
its outer crust to crack and break off, exposing the
glowing fires within.
  Once inside the hall it reared up to the
likeness of a giant, and the rafters over its head
began to smoke. "Arrrh!" it said again, a roar of
complaint. The ground trembled.
  A dozen men made a dash for the door. The
firedrake caught them as they went by, although no
one could say for certain whether it swatted them with a
giant stone hand or just collapsed in their
direction, engulfing them in an avalanche. They
had time to scream once and roll over a few times
before they became cinders half buried in glowing
rubble. Flames ran up the wall beside them. As
the firedrake reassembled itself from a new
upsurge of lava, the greasy rafters above it
ignited. The whole building would go in minutes.
  Stripped to his boots, Radgar snatched up
his grandfather's sword again. Cu`edblaese had
died; Fyrlaf been horribly maimed, but
Aeled had survived. Now it was his turn. Dad
had battled his drake outdoors, not trapped
inside a tinderbox like this with no room to run. The
air was already pain to breathe, and his skin was pumping out
sweat so he could hardly see or clutch the
sword. He had never realized a firedrake
would be so enormous.
  He turned to look at the terrified mob behind
him and located Cynewulf the Good, still in his
crown and robes. Like everyone else he was
whimpering and trying to burrow his way into the mob, but
his bulk and flab could not displace the tight-locked
muscle of the other men.
  "Come, Uncle!" Radgar seized a handful of
ermine-trimmed velvet. "If I must die, then
you certainly die first." With the strength of youth he
hauled the King away from the crowd, ran him across
the dais, and hurled him off. Screaming, the fat
man sprawled down on the floor.
  "Arrrh, arrrh!" The firedrake lurched
slowly forward. It was almost to the hearths now, plowing
up the floor like a man wading through slush. All
the front end of the hall was ablaze. "Arrrh?"
  As the King scrambled to his feet, Radgar
jumped down after him and prodded with his sword.
"Move! Die on this blade or move!"
  Wailing and struggling--and bleeding, for Radgar
had no time for mercy--Cynewulf backed toward
the firedrake. "What are you doing?" he
screamed. The heat became unbelievable, but
worse for Radgar at the moment than for him. His
fur collar and crown protected his neck and head
and the rest of him was well shielded.
  "I want the truth! Whose idea was it to kill
my father?"
  "I know nothing about--arrrh!" Cynewulf's
scream sounded very much like the firedrake's roar,
octaves higher. With one slash, his grandfather's
sword had opened Cynewulf's garments from
collarbone to waist, and opened the flesh under it also.
Blood spurted even redder than the robes.
"It was Ambrose! That Blade he sent
promised me the throne. His orders were to get a
peace treaty and kill Aeled."
  "Ambrose ordered him to kill my father?"
  "Yes! Yes! He had never forgiven him for the
Candlefen foering."
  "And the Queen? Speak!" Radgar drove his
victim onward, ever closer to the raging furnace
of the firedrake.
  Cynewulf fell back from the sword, clothes
smoking, hair and beard frizzling in the heat.
"Charlotte was my prize, my price! I had
wanted her for years. Mercy, mercy!"
  "You showed no mercy, ni`eding! Tell of the
rest of your crimes. How did you manage
to hang on to the throne? Speak! I will
make you speak!"
  The King tumbled to his knees, writhing as the
heat worked through his robes. "I confess! I
confess everything. I used a conjurement on your
mother. I take Chivian gold--four hundred
thousand crowns a year Ambrose sends me
to turn a blind eye and keep the peace."
  The firedrake continued to move closer, coming
slowly, cascading lava from its joints. It
glowed brightly in the dense smoke that now filled the
hall, looming over the two men like a sun in
cloud. Radgar could hardly breathe for coughing, but
he forced out one more question.
  "And Ae`edelno`ed?"
  "He was plotting treason!" Cynewulf
screamed. "When Ambrose sent word that you were on
your way home, I knew he would conspire with you
against me."
  It was enough, more than enough. If any witnesses
at all survived from this disaster, Cynewulf would
be condemned forever in the annals of his country.
  "Up!" Radgar dropped his sword and used
both hands to drag the wailing monarch to the
firedrake. Lava spewed up from the floor.
The fat man's garments burst into flames. So
did Radgar's boots. Screaming, he hurled
himself aside, rolling away in agony.
Cynewulf was trapped and engulfed, although in the
smoke it almost seemed as if the firedrake
lifted him up in both hands and peered at him
curiously while he burned away.

                  

  Radgar hauled himself back from the edge of
madness. He could indulge in faints and hysterics
later. First he must deal with this fiendish thing before it
killed everyone in the hall. He snatched up his
sword again and also--with some vague instinct that it was
important and should not be lost--the golden crown of
Baelmark.
  Dad had told him, "I just made it notice
me and then ran like an otter for the water." But
Dad had met his firedrake in the open air.
This one was blocking the only way out.
  Somehow he must attract the firedrake's
attention and lead it back the way it had come. If
he merely angered it, it might charge straight
at the fyrd. If he did not do something soon,
everyone would broil or suffocate.
Shuddering, he ran at the monster.
  Strike it and get past it and keep running--
simple but almost certainly impossible. It had
collapsed into a heap again and seemed to be trying
to rebuild its manlike form once more. Why did
it choose that shape? Screaming in fury and agony
both, he scrambled up the rising slope. Aiming
at where its heart would be if it were human, he
drove the sword into a crevice, hoping to vault
over that hint of a shoulder, come down on the far
side, and keep on running. That did not happen.
He had expected his blade to meet resistance,
but the molten inside of the abomination was runny as
water, so the sword went in up to the hilt. A
huge slab of the outer crust broke off, releasing
torrents of fire and lava. The fiery
avalanche swept Radgar down the
firedrake's left side and rolled him across the
floor until he hit the wall. There he lay,
at the monster's mercy.
  The firedrake did not turn on him as he
had expected. It roared as if it, too, was in
pain. It went straight out a side wall, which
exploded into fiery ash. Radgar was ripped and
bleeding, bruised in a thousand places, but out there
was rain and cold ground, so he scrambled up from the
rubble and lurched after it. His quarry was fleeing and,
houndlike, he must pursue, his insane hatred
burning hotter than the drake itself.
  Some crazy citizens had gathered to watch the
destruction of Cynehof. They fled as the monster
churned toward them, moving almost as fast as a man
could run--as fast, anyway, as a seriously
injured man running on raw feet.
  Like a dust devil crossing a field on a
summer day, the firedrake waded through
Waro`edburh as if seeking to escape the puny
figure behind it. Whatever Dad had said about being
chased by his firedrake, this one fled, a
complete reversal. Clothed in steam and flame,
it mainly followed the winding streets, but at times
it cut corners, and then buildings vanished in
spouts of flame, raining burning debris and
starting a thousand fires. Only the torrential
rain and the wide spaces between houses saved the
entire city from destruction. In retrospect,
Radgar remembered very little of that mad pursuit.
Some deep, hunter instinct continued to function and
he ran through pain and exhaustion, driven insane
by hate. This was what anger was for! Once
or twice his quarry wavered, as if about to turn
and fight, but each time it resumed its former
downhill path before he reached it.
  At the harbor the drake seemed to sense its
bane, the sea, for it veered off course and moved
along the beach, exploding boats and longships.
Radgar tried to cut it off, screaming at it.
He had lost too much blood; he was almost too
weak to brandish what remained of his sword. Just as
he decided that he would have to close with the monster
again, it turned away and waded through a rocky
outcrop to the water's edge. Without hesitation, it
plunged off. A single mountain-sized scream,
and the drake was gone, the harbor had a new pier.
Radgar was deluged in boiling spray, which was a
welcome relief after what had gone before.
  The only way out of his torment was to faint, so
he did.

                  

  He lay on a very hard surface, wrapped in
a cloak or blanket. He could guess that he
was in an elementary, because conjurers were chanting,
sending waves of spirituality washing over him and through
him, healing, soothing--and just as flaming well! He
felt as if he'd been grated like carrots and
threshed like grain. Still, by rights he should have been
burned to ash a dozen times over, so he should not
complain. The voices seemed distant and had a
curiously muffled tone that told him he was back
in the Haligdom.
  He kept his eyes shut, feeling the spirits working
their miracle and enjoying it, for the fading away of
pain was intense pleasure. Even when the conjurers
completed their incantation and fell silent, he had
no great inclination to return to the world. Cynewulf
was dead and Wulfwer, too, so it would be a better
world. So was Charlotte Aedeswif, poor soul,
and Wasp also, if he had gone back
to Weargahlaew. Neither had deserved the troubles
life had given them. The witenagemot would
elect a new king, no doubt, and the runner-up
would immediately challenge.
  So? Radgar had a good claim now, after
defeating the firedrake. But a great weariness had
settled over him. No! Let them kill one
another off to their hearts' content, to the last
tanist. He had survived his first taste of
political life, if only barely,
and one sip was enough. The estates that rightfully
belonged to him would make him very rich, so all he
need do was stay off the booming sea and never go
a-foering on the western wind. Then no one
would try to involve him in politics. He could
grow fat and live to a ripe old age on the
fame he had earned that night. He could acquire
a concubine, just to find out what all the fuss was
about, and perhaps in time a wife. He had conquered a
firedrake! That was good, very good. Radgar
Dracan-bana! His father would have approved. He
was a worthy Cattering, fit to stand with his
ancestors.
  Yet he still had unfinished business.
Cynewulf was dead and Yorick as good as, but the
real culprit behind his father's murder was still very much
at large.
  "He's frowning," said Leofric's voice.
"Is that a good sign?"
  He tried not to react, but then his mouth smiled
so he opened his eyes and looked at a complete
ring of faces peering down at him--red beards,
white beards, no beards, male and female.
Few of them were recognizable against the light of the
lanterns hung high on the eight pillars.
Someone was being extraordinarily extravagant with
lamp oil! He moved a few muscles
experimentally and everything seemed to be present and
functioning. His feet hurt. He tried to speak
and nothing happened, but then strong arms raised him
and a beaker was put to his mouth. He drained it
six times before uttering a sound, and the first words he
spoke were a demand for more. They sat him up so
Aylwin and another man could slide a tunic on
him, dressing him like a child.
  The great dome seemed almost empty, although it
held the eight conjurers and a score or so of his
shipmates from Faro`edhengest. It was good to be
alive, to see those smiles. Why, though, had he
not been treated in one of the smaller elementaries--
and why all by himself? There would be many injured people in
Waro`edburh after so many fires. The rain was still
falling, for he could hear its deep drumming on the
roof, but there was another noise that he could not
identify, a vague rumble like surf on a
rocky coast.
  "Well?" Leofric demanded. "Nothing's
missing. All we can see wrong on the outside
are some bruises and gashes, and they should clear up
very shortly. How do you feel on the
inside?"
  "Weary. A bit sore, still."
  "Spirits, man! Is that all? After what you
did?" His single eye glistened. It was not like him
to show such emotion. "These learned people have done
wonders for you and want to be the first to thank you for
what you did. Do you feel up to that?"
  "I must first thank them for what they have done for
me."
  They helped him stand. Reluctantly he
accepted the stool they brought, for he was absurdly
shaky and his feet hurt, which was a novel
humiliation for a man who had not known a day's ill
health since childhood. Aylwin knelt
to dress him in leggings and garters without as much as a
by-your-leave. The exuberance of the conjurers'
thanks was yet another embarrassment. Three men
and five women ... he had never had people fawn
over him before, except some of the sillier juniors
at Ironhall the day he bested Wolfbiter at
fencing. He had only done his duty, he
insisted, and without their healing skills he would not be
here now.
  Then--over his vehement protests--Leofric
knelt to kiss his hands, followed by Aylwin,
Ceolmund, and his Faro`edhengest brethren.
They hailed him as hero and dracan-bana,
talking much nonsense. They all had an ominous
sparkle of excitement about them. They did not
seem to realize that Radgar Aeleding had decided
to retire from political life, and he was beginning
to suspect that telling them so would make very little
difference to whatever it was they were plotting. No one
threw away this much lamp oil just to heal one
battered boy. The door was being opened and closed,
as if people were going in and out, and every time it opened the
sound of heavy surf surged briefly.
  "Have I passed the test?" he demanded sourly.
"Am I making sense? No slobbering, gibbering,
or detectable hallucinations?"
  The ship lord raised his golden eyebrows.
"All right so far. I think we can turn up the
heat a little."
  "Please! Can't you find a more tactful turn
of phrase?"
  Leofric chuckled approvingly. "This is
yours." It was a lump of metal. It had once
been a sword but half the blade had melted
away and the pearls were gone from the hilt.
  "My grandfather's," Radgar said.
"Hang it in Cynehof if you want. When it's
rebuilt. Yes, I'd like you to do that." Fyrlaf
was another who must have died tonight in the eruption.
  Leofric laughed. "See to it yourself. I think
this is yours, too."
  It was a badly misshapen tangle of metal,
but before being half melted it had been the crown of
Baelmark.
  "Where by the eight did you find that?" Was this why
they were all grinning like idiots?
  "On your head, of course. You wore it when you
chased the firedrake out of town."
  "Spirits! I did? Did I?" He could not
remember.
  Aylwin guffawed. "That and nothing else. There
are seventy-seven beautiful maidens lined up
outside, all very eager to meet you."

  First in when doors were opened was the Catterstow
fyrd. The leaders began chanting Rad-gar!
Rad-gar! in time with their feet--and the beat was
picked up by all the rest, a great snake of
warriors, hundred after hundred. When the front
ranks reached the circle of Leofric's werod
standing guard around the hero, they divided and
encircled it. The followers pressed in around.
Rad-gar! Rad-gar!
  Radgar stood on a stool in the center and
watched the cordon grow to fill the Haligdom--
a multitude, all facing him, cheering him:
Rad-gar! Rad-gar! It was an
extraordinary sensation, far stranger than he would
have guessed. He had never been worshiped before.
His throat hurt. He could not speak. Few were
armed, for the firedrake must have melted all the
swords stacked in the porch. Behind them came
wives and children, even ceorls.
  And finally came the earls and their werodu,
anxious to see what the locals were up to. They
clustered near the door, glowering suspiciously.
Big Edgar of Hunigsuge was there, and
Aelfgeat of Su`edmest, whose sneak attack on
Su`edecg had caused the witenagemot to assem-
#. With both the King and his tanist dead, there was no
king in Baelmark. At least three of the earls had
ambitions. All nineteen of them might be dreaming
of glory now. So who was in charge? Probably
Ordheah of Hyrnstan; he was senior.
  The chant of Rad-gar! was being drowned out by a
rising chorus of Hlaford
Fyrlandum! That made the earls scowl even
more, for the song was a royal honor. But Radgar
remembered the last time he had heard it, the night
his father died. So he stood and wept while everyone
else rejoiced.
  At last he raised his arms for silence; and the
tumult subsided to a low rumble, merging with the
volcano's grumbling. Before he could find his
voice, Aylwin bellowed at the top of his big
lungs, "Catterstow!"
  "Catterstow!" roared the fyrd in response,
and there was frenzy again: "Catterstow!
Catterstow! Catterstow!"
  Earl Radgar of Catterstow! Could this be real?
--the sea of faces, the acclaim? Why could his mother
not be here to see it? Or Dad? Or even
Wasp. Realizing he was going to start weeping again
if they didn't stop, he raised his arms again.
  "I am deeply honored! You want me as
your earl?"
  Stupid question--it set them going all over again.
  Leofric gripped his arm. "Claim the throne,
too, lad. You're the only royally-born one
among them. It's yours."
  Ceolmund grabbed his other wrist and tugged for
attention. His voice squeaked down near
Radgar's knee. "No, no! Wait until
they call a proper moot! You must not seem too
eager."
  It so happened that both of them had managed
to find bruises to squeeze. Radgar shook
free of them.
  "What are you going to say?" Leofric demanded.
  He looked down to meet the stare of one eye and
an emerald. "I haven't decided yet,
thegn."
  Leofric managed a smile. "Forgive me,
Aeleding. Very much Aeleding!"
  "I will try to be. Thegns! Ealdras!"
  His shouts brought an attentive, excited
hush. Before he could open his mouth, Aylwin, that
well-meaning sailor idiot, set the
half-melted crown on Radgar's head and
bellowed, "Haletta@th hlafordne
Fyrlandum!" [Hail the Lord of the Fire
Lands!]
  More tumult--wild cheering from the Catterstow
fyrd, booing from the earls' werodu. The crown
was heavy and painfully knobbly, but Radgar left
it where it was. Yet again he gestured for
silence, and the din sank to a low surf sound.
  He could see that the earls were not convinced.
Fighting firedrakes did not necessarily
qualify him for kingship.
  "Before I can even think of being your king ... before
I even think of giving you my oath as earl, there
is another oath I must swear. Hear this one and
then decide if you want me. Listen!" He
might not get the words exactly right, but he could
certainly come close enough. He roared out the
ancient and most terrible of curses:
  "Woe to Ambrose Ranulfing, King of
Chivial! For the evil he has done me, I
swear I will not rest from strife until his blood
has soaked the land, balefire has eaten his
flesh, and the winds have scattered his name. May I
be counted ni`eding if I show fear or mercy
to him or his."
  Shock! The silence was absolute. Even the
rain seemed to have been frightened away. In real
life blood feuds were either a grave breach of the
king's fri`ed or mere romantic nonsense in
scops' ballads.
  "Ambrose ordered the murder of my father. He
broke the terms of the treaty he had signed. He
perverted our ancient rights with wholesale
bribery. If you take me as your king, then you
get a war as well. The killing will come again--the
looting, raping, burning. There will be booty and
pillage aplenty, but you, ealdras," he
yelled, pointing at the earls, "will have to win your
riches honestly, by deed of arms. You heard what
Cynewulf confessed. There are traitors among
you, cowards who took the foreigner's gold."
  Big Edgar had the strongest lungs in the
Haligdom. "Are you calling me coward,
Aeleding?"
  "Wear the skirt if it fits, ealdor.
Coward or bribe taker. Or prove me wrong
--come with me when I sail against Chivial, for
I swear that I will harry it as it has never been
harried, until it screams for mercy and
Eurania is appalled. My sword will glut
on blood until I have taken Ambrose's
head, but no more will his carrion gold fatten
cowards' bellies in secret. I do not know the
traitors' names yet, but I expect my
uncle kept a record somewhere. So, are you with
me, Earls? And if you are not then yes, I
call you cowards! And traitors. And
ni`edingas!"
  Had the firedrake not destroyed the swords
stacked in the porch at Cynehof so that almost no
one was now armed, those words might have started a
massacre. Or perhaps not, because the earls'
werodu were looking deeply troubled by this talk of
bribery. The first earl to speak up was not Edgar but
another of Cynewulf's accomplices,
Aelfgeat. Shouting, "Death to Chivial! I
side with King Radgar!" he plowed into the crowd.
His werod cheered.
  It was Big Edgar who made it through first, though,
hurling men aside until he could grab
Radgar's hand and swear to be his man, faithful and
true, and death to Chivial. So Radgar swore
to be his lord and worthy of trust. When he had done
that ten times, he was King in Baelmark, lord of the
Fire Lands.

  The last of the nineteen was the most junior,
only a month in office and little older than
Radgar himself. When he released the man's hands,
Radgar was so shaky from sheer weakness that he
descended from his stool by falling into Aylwin's
arms. Held upright, he made appointments, good
until further notice--Chancellor
Ceolmund, Marshal Leofric, and Tanist
Aylwin. That involved more oaths.
  "Now," he said, "start running the kingdom, because
your sovereign lord is going to bed now and will sleep
for a week."
  Twisted Ceolmund uttered a brief but
ominous laugh. "As my lord commands. Ealdras,
in the absence of our sovereign lord, the tanist will
convene the war moot here at noon. King Radgar
expects all of you to attend on pain of death."
  The earls chuckled, but even in his weariness
Radgar sensed the undertow of danger in this
raillery. Besides, the thought of Aylwin trying
to run a moot was bloodcurdling.
  "It can't wait?"
  "You have just declared war, lord," his government told
him blithely. "Is it your royal command that
hostilities commence immediately and without notice?
If so, you will be accused of treacherously breaking a
treaty and the Chivians will undoubtedly take
reprisals against every Bael they can catch. We
must have two hundred ships in foreign waters at
the moment. Your lordship might even consider issuing
a royal decree right now ..." And so
on.
  He did not quite say that some of the earls were
planning to head straight home and send out the
foxes while the chickens were still snoozing on their
roosts. But he meant that. He implied that only
Radgar could rein them in.
  Ironhall had not taught much of this.

                  

  Rain still fell on Waro`edburh, but an honest
man reigned in Baelmark. Catterstow had an
earl it was not ashamed of, the guilty had died, and
Cwicnoll was starting to sound sleepy. Things were
looking up.
  On the other hand, when the new monarch hobbled out
of the Haligdom, he encountered the beginnings of a
civil war. Loyal subjects were trying
to organize a torchlight procession to carry him
home to his palace, and both earls and fyrd
claimed the right to bear him on their shoulders.
Only Radgar himself could settle that argument, so
he demanded a horse instead, earls to follow in
single file and order of seniority on the right,
ship lords likewise on the left and everybody
else shut up! Life was going to be full of
tricky decisions like that from now on. Men ran
to obey.
  The air reeked of ashes. Even over the
muttering rumble of the crowd, he could hear faint
chanting as casualties were treated in the smaller
elementaries. Huge areas of Waro`edburh must
lie in ruins, although he could see no fires still
burning. His the task of rebuilding his capital.
He also had a war to launch, a government
to organize, family estates to run, a mother
to mourn. As he drooped there in the drizzle,
waiting for the horse to appear, he wondered why in
the world he had been such a fool. For Dad? For a
mother who would have been so proud to have a king for a son?
His father would have reserved judgment, he thought, saying
he had not won the crown honestly but this would not
matter if he wore it wisely.
  Where, by the eight, was the accursed horse? He
could have walked to the palace sooner. He was
swaying on his feet, yet men kept chattering at
him--bowing, fawning, even kneeling in the mud
to kiss his hand, reminiscing about their adventures
foering with his father, daring to comment how much my
lord looked like my lord's honored
father. He must be the first man in history to win a
kingdom on the shape of his ears, but many of those
bloodthirsty old monsters were weeping with joy, and
every one of them must be answered courteously and
hailed by name if possible.
  Then a disturbance, a man trying to break through the
mob: "Radgar! Radgar! Radgar!" That was
Aylwin's bullhorn voice. Perhaps he had
brought the seventy-seven beautiful maidens?
  No. He heaved a few more earls aside and
appeared, flushed in the flickering light of the
torches, panting but maidenless. "Radgar--I
mean my lord--he's asking for you! He's hurt but
they think he'll live. Wants to see you.
He's hurt quite bad, Radgar. This way--"
  "Belay! Now, from the beginning. Who's asking for
me?"
  Aylwin had paused only to suck in one more
enormous breath, and now he blew it all out in
another torrent of words. "They found him floating
facedown in the harbor but the healers were sure he
was a thrall because he was a foreigner and he had
nothing on and besides they were sure he was dying and they
only just got around to treating the thralls and then he
told them what he thought of them and they realized he
wasn't a thrall at all and-- What? Oh, that
Chivian hoeftniedling of yours. Yes,
sir, er, lord, I do mean Waeps Thegn."

                 

  It was one of those spring mornings when the whole
world erupts with life--lambs bouncing, birds
screeching insults at one another from every bush, and
butterflies flying complex colored patterns in
the hedgerows. After a two-week tantrum,
Cwicnoll had repented of his ill humor and
gone back to sleep for another generation or so,
trailing hardly a wisp of smoke from his fancy
new cone. The woodlands of Hatburna had never
seemed lovelier. King Radgar slid down from
Isgicel's back and looped his reins around a
sapling. Then he continued along the path on
foot. It was possible that the patient was still
asleep. ...
  He wasn't. Outside the royal cabin lay
Wasp, stretched on a couch, staring at the boughs
overhead and covered from toes to chin by a fleecy
rug. He had not heard Radgar's approach
over the noise of the waterfall. He
looked up and scowled. Visitors not welcome.
  Kings could ignore such hints. Radgar
dropped to his knees on the grass. "Came
to ask if you want to go riding!" Royal grin.
  "No."
  Royal frown. "Bathing, then?"
  "I can't swim. I doubt if I could even
get on a horse. Go away!"
  "What do you want?"
  "To be alone."
  That was all he ever wanted.
  Radgar sighed. "Anything except that. I
need some fencing practice. I'm getting
rusty."
  Wasp looked straight at him for the first time.
His pallor was not so extreme as it had been. His
physical injuries had pretty much healed, according
to the doctors--other than the loss of his arm, of
course, but even enchantment could not replace a
missing limb. Mental ... That was more tricky,
the healers agreed, and then they would mumble. They
thought he would recover in time. They hoped he would.
  "A one-armed fencer?" the patient sneered.
"My balance is hopeless. Just walking I stagger
and trip over my feet. You have ten thousand
pirates--go and practice on them."
  Radgar tried the grin again. "I don't dare.
They might learn Ironhall technique from me
and then challenge. Come on, Wasp! So you lost
an arm? You'll learn a new balance soon
enough. It wasn't your fencing arm. It wasn't the
hand you write with. And you saved a king. Anything
I can give you is yours. Just name it, friend. Land?
Tell me you like Hatburna and I'll give it
to you. Ships? Money? Slaves? Women?"
  "Women?" Wasp snapped, displaying some
welcome emotion. He heaved himself more upright with his
right arm--his only arm. "Explain to me why this
patch of woodland is swarming with pretty girls
all of a sudden. Redheads, brunettes,
blondes ... all simpering and puckering red
lips at me. "Fresh towels, Waeps
Thegn." "Your wash water, Waeps Thegn."
"Some iced wine, Waeps Thegn?"' You are a
pimp, Radgar Aeleding! You think you can
distract me by throwing girls at me?"
  There was enough truth there to warm Radgar's cheeks,
but not enough to make him feel truly guilty. "I
didn't mean to be a pimp! I hadn't learned
then what happens when a king expresses
a wish. I just said I hoped my dear friend Wasp
would feel happier soon. Everyone in earshot
assumed that meant I would shower treasure on
anyone who could make you smile. Next time I
rode over here, I found the place swarming with
daughters, sisters, cousins. ... Take whatever
comes your way, I'd say."
  Wasp struggled off the couch and stood up. His
left sleeve dangled pathetically empty. "I
told you. I just want to be left alone, with
nobody in sight or sound. If I'd wanted
to swarm I'd have called myself Bee, not Wasp.
You want to please me? Go away!" He turned
as if to leave.
  Radgar sat back on the dewy grass and
leaned his arms on his knees. "I was going to ask
you to be my drhytguma."
  Wasp went rigid. "Your what?"
  "Bridesman ... like best man."
  That won a reaction almost like the old Wasp, the
missing Wasp. He swung around, eyes wide.
"You! Married? That's pretty fast work,
isn't it?"
  Radgar shrugged. "Politics. When the first
foering goes against Chivial, I'll have
to lead it. Have to prove I'm my father's son. The
witan all agree I ought to sire an heir before
then. In fact they more or less told me they
won't let me go until I do."
  Obviously intrigued, Wasp said, "Does
she have a name? Where did you find her?"
  "Her name's Culfre, eldest daughter of the
late Earl Ae`edelno`ed, so she's a
Nyrping. It's a good match--she has two younger
brothers who will be the first royally born contenders
I'll have to worry about, but they're less likely
to challenge if their sister is queen. May not
work, but that's the theory. I'm told she's very
sweet-natured and a real looker."
  They would tell him that if she had three eyes
and a beard. The prospect was almost as scary as
having to fight another firedrake. Two days
to go ...
  Wasp said, "Hmm." Then he pulled a
face, a very cynical expression. "How does
the Lady Culfre feel about being a political
pawn and broodmare? One foal right away,
please! Have you thought to ask her?"
  This time Radgar felt his face turn brick
red. A king must learn to be more
impassive. "Yes, I have. Ceolmund and I
picked her out as the most suitable candidate and I
wrote her a private, personal letter,
explaining the situation and asking if she would be
interested. I stressed that it was entirely her
decision and if she did not like the terms, then nothing
more need ever be said."
  "And?"
  "Her fourteen-year-old brother wrote back
that his sister would be honored to marry the King, and he
consented to the match, subject to suitable terms
... and so on."
  For a moment Wasp looked ready to grin. "So
her mother reads her mail? Women don't get much
say in such matters in Chivial, either. Your mother
could have told you that. No, I won't be your best
man. Put me in a crowd now and I'd go
screaming mad. Ask Aylwin. He's the best
man around."
  "Not so, Wasp," Radgar said quietly.
"You're the finest man I know." Besides, anything
a king did had political repercussions.
Aylwin and his father were uppity enough already.
  Wasp bit his lip, his eyes glistened.
"Half man!" He turned his back. "Go
away, please," he whispered. "Oh, please!"
  "In a moment. There's something else I must
ask you. I'm sorry, I've tried to ignore
it and ... Well, I must know. When I stabbed the
firedrake, just that one time in the hall, a great
chunk of it fell off."
  Wasp waited, not looking around, not speaking.
  Radgar took a deep breath and asked it.
"Is that why your arm--?"
  "No. I told you. You hurt us, yes. I
very nearly lost control of them when you did that. If
they'd broken loose, we'd have ... they'd have
wrecked the hall and ... It would have been a
massacre. Our--I mean my arm came after,
when the spell was broken. The water wasn't quite
deep enough, that's all. My arm was left
exposed. I got off lighter than Fyrlaf.
Now, please, please, can I be alone? Come
back in a year. Maybe then I'll know who I
am."
  Radgar sighed and stood up. Whatever the
horrors of the firedrake enchantment, it had
burned away Wasp's binding. He was a free
man, no longer a Blade.
  "Of course. Just one more thing. I
tracked down the ship lord who sacked
Haybridge and slaughtered your family."
  He waited, staring at Wasp's back, but
Wasp just stood there.
  "He knew about the treaty. He was on his first
foering with his own ship, so I suppose he--
He knew, he disobeyed the royal command,
Wasp. You want him put on trial, I'll
do it. His werod were just following orders, but
he'll be found guilty and enthralled. If you
want, I'll give him to you then and you can do
anything you--"
  "Do whatever you want," Wasp said hoarsely.
"Go away."
  "I'll cut his head off, then. Oh, Wasp!
I can't give you back your arm, but I can give
you flaming near anything else in the world you can dream
of. I want you as my advisor, my trusted
companion--as my fencing partner, so I can keep
up my skills and no blustering Bael earl will
ever dare challenge me. My friend, I owe you my
life, although no Blade ever saved his ward
by anything remotely like the means you used. It cost
you. I'm sorry. I'm grateful. Anything you
ever want, just ask."
  "Right!" Wasp roared. He spun around,
stumbled, flailed his arm, and recovered his balance.
"Stop the war!"
  "What?" Anything except that, Radgar thought.
  "Stop the war. Is that so hard to understand?"
Wasp's face had gone from pale to scarlet. His
eyes were fever bright. "You're going to start the
horrors all over again--foering, you call
it? I call it rape, theft, murder, slaving,
bestiality. I saw it happen at Haybridge
and it marred my life. It cost me everyone I
held dear." Shouting, he advanced, and Radgar
stepped back, almost tripping over a tree
root. "You think that's why I agreed to be your
Blade, you barbarian Bael--so you could start the
war all over again?"
  Radgar just stared at him.
  After a moment Wasp crumpled. He looked
away, mumbling, "Sorry, Your Majesty.
Mustn't speak like that to a king."
  Radgar went forward and hugged him. Wasp
tried to break loose, but the King was stronger and had
two good arms.
  "I had to do it, my waspish friend. Stop
squirming! It was the only way I could
get the throne. Will you hold still!"
  "No! Let me go. Please! Please!"
  "No I won't. Listen! I'm
three-quarters Chivian by blood and I'd been
living in Chivial for years. Half the earls
thought I was a Chivian spy and the other half were
worried about losing their bribe money."
  Wasp had stopped struggling, but he was shivering.
"You didn't just call for war! You swore your
precious blood feud against Ambrose himself.
You expect Chivial to hand over its king in
chains? The war you're starting won't ever end. It
can't. If you want to show your gratitude, King
Radgar, then give me that--call off your war!
Start right there!" He stopped, choking and gasping.
  "I can't. Maybe I made a mistake, but
there is no way I can undo it now. We all
make mistakes, Wasp. Sometimes the
consequences are terrible. Remember Dad's
motto about the she-wolf? We all of us forget the
she-wolf sometimes. Look at Gerard of
Waygarth, drawing his sword against an army of
Baels--and think of everything that followed. My father
thought he could steal the throne by stealing a wife.
Well he did, but he got a lot more than he
expected. Crown Prince Ambrose talked his
father into starting a war and it turned on him. My father
trusted my uncle and died of it. Yorick thought
he could sell a prince like a cask of stolen
wine. And you? You insisted on being bound as my
Blade. I warned you then that I was a Bael.
You wouldn't listen. Did you think I was just a
rabbit in disguise? You destroyed the firedrake
and saved my life. I'm very grateful for what you
did, but I'm still a Bael. This war is your
she-wolf."
  "You're saying it's my fault?"
  "No, because that would mean that you owe me now, and that
isn't true. Do you regret saving me?"
  Wasp seemed to think for a moment, then he
sighed. He leaned his head against Radgar's
shoulder and awkwardly returned the hug,
one-armed. "No, you big monster, I don't
regret it one bit. I owed you that, remember?
I'd do it again, even if I knew you'd go and
start another war." He sniffled. "I'll be
honored to be best man at your wedding."
  Radgar laughed and squeezed him even harder.
"And best friend evermore?"
  "And still best friend, always."
  "And you don't mind me throwing girls at you?"
  "I'll try to get used to it," Wasp said.






















               AFTERMATH

                  It

  So war came again. Chivians called it the
Second Baelish War, but to the Baels it was
always Radgar's War; and the thegns soon swore that
he was an even better fighter than his father before
him. Ironhall had not taught him
siegecraft, logistics, or strategy, but he
had witan aplenty to help him with those. What he
had learned in his lonely exile on Starkmoor was
how his opponents thought, and no military skill
is better rewarded. Perhaps King Ambrose
guessed as much, because the story of their meeting and how
the lost atheling had found refuge in his cousin's
realm was totally suppressed, the darkest and
deepest of all state secrets.
  Years passed. Chivial bled. Chivial
burned. Its commerce wilted. Lord high
admirals came and went, earls marshal rose and
fell, yet Radgar Aeleding was always where they were
not. Lacking the manpower to conquer the country, he
could still strike far inland, looting, slaving, and
sacking. Even the Baels grew bored of war and
sick of slaughter, yet it seemed that
no one knew how to end the pain.

                  

  Spry, trim, and clean-shaven, mijnheer
Vanderzwaard seemed younger than his twenty-eight
winters, yet he was one of the most respected and
envied burghers in Drachveld. He owned a
mansion in town, an extensive estate on the
Willow Canal just outside the city, and shares in
many profitable enterprises. His aristocratic young
wife had already given him a son and a daughter and
was still renowned for her beauty. Her wit, charm, and
skills as a hostess made the Vanderzwaards
bright lights in the younger set of society and
frequent guests at the palace. Their marriage
was reputed to be one of fairy-tale happiness.
  One fine morning in the late summer of 368,
mijnheer Vanderzwaard had his men row him into town
in his launch and then walked along Cowrie
Street, heart of the financial district.
Nimbly dodging hawkers, delivery boys,
drays and wagons, carriages and carts, he
came at last to his place of business. Its
discreet entrance was identified only by two
unobtrusive brass plates. The first said:
      CONSUL-GENERAL OF BAELMARK
  and the other, even smaller:
        HOUSE OF VANDERZWAARD
          MARITIME ACTUARIES
  Through this unassuming portal flowed gold in
tidal-wave quantities. Hardly a ship that
flew the flag of Chivial or had business in
Chivian waters did not avail itself of the
services of Vanderzwaard, either here or with its
branches in Fitain, Isilond, and Gevily.
The House of Vanderzwaard specialized in
warranty against a single peril, one that other
brokers of maritime insurance were happy to shun
entirely--Baelish piracy. Mijnheer
Vanderzwaard's methods were unorthodox. He
never asked for particulars of the vessel or its
cargo. He merely sold pieces of parchment that
would, when shown to a Baelish ship lord, cause the
man to sigh, salute, and sail away. The
Baelish blockade of Chivial was now so tight
that almost no cargo entered or left that country without
safe-conduct from the House of Vanderzwaard.
Would-be blockade runners ended in Baelish
hands, with their cargo and craft confiscated
and their crews bound for the slave markets. The
value of a Vanderzwaard passport was measured in
bushels of gold.
  Whistling cheerfully he came, garbed in the
height of fashion, which this year involved ruffs like
cartwheels, flowerpot hats with brims even
wider, voluminous and elaborate doublets and
knickerbockers. His entire outfit today was white
with gold beading; long dark tresses hung
loose down his back. His fashionably gloved
left hand clutched the scabbard of his rapier
stiffly, but he swung his right arm nimbly enough and that
hand was bare. An elegant gentleman was
mijnheer Vanderzwaard, but he was a swordsman
first.
  Arriving at the consulate, he trotted up the
steps, turned the handle, and strode forward into a
dim anteroom smelling of ink, candles,
polish, and leather. It held about two dozen
comfortable chairs, some well-stocked bookshelves,
and an oaken writing desk. Here Hans, his
industrious and ingenious bookkeeper, spent long
days standing at his desk, tallying incredible numbers
in a great ledger and shuffling callers in and out of the
mijnheer's chamber. He also embezzled money
for the benefit of his parents and sisters at an
incredible rate, apparently unaware that his
employer knew very well what was going on and had
so far been content to watch in amused silence. There
was lots more where that came from.
  It was only as the heavy door thumped shut at
his back that mijnheer Vanderzwaard sensed anything
wrong and by then it was too late, because two of the
intruders were already behind him with swords drawn. A
third was holding a dagger at Hans's throat.
Blades! With a mental scream of fury at being
suckered so easily, Vanderzwaard whipped out his
rapier and leaped, landing with his back to the
bookcases.
  He had always known that the Order neither forgot
nor forgave, and the murder of Sir Janvier must
remain as unfinished business in its annals.
Evidently that account was about to be closed. He
could have had very little hope against even one Blade
nowadays, and three were a certain death squad.
  "How do you work?" he snarled. "All together or
one at a time?"
  "I so sorry, mijnheer Wesp," said one
by the door. "Did we startle you?"
  Flames and death, it was Bullwhip!
He had put on weight and his face looked more like
a pudding than ever. The other was Victor, still as
blond--pale and skinny as a victim of the coughing
sickness. They would both be full knights by now,
released from their binding--available to take on a
little unfinished business, no doubt. Hungry and
desperate, quite possibly. In their Ironhall
days he had been able to thrash either of them with one hand
behind his back, but now his left arm wasn't behind his
back, it was eleven years gone and although grueling
practice had taught him how to fight again with a
prosthesis in its place for balance, he could never
hope to achieve his old Ironhall standard.
  Then Wasp looked at the third man and sheathed
his rapier, ignoring Victor and Bullwhip. The
third man was Durendal, who was in a class
by himself and always had been--right from his beansprout
year, according to the legends. Wasp had seen him fence
only once and then he had made even
Wolfbiter look like a crippled turtle. He
was tall for a Blade, although not as tall as
Radgar--dark-haired, bony, aquiline
features with heavy eyebrows, dark eyes of
startling brilliance.
  Flames! Wasp did not want to leave his
wife a widow, his children orphans. Things had been
going so well. ... He made a courtly bow.
  "Sir Durendal! I am honored. I did
not know a man of your eminence stooped
to executions."
  "That is not why we came, Sir Wasp."
Durendal's voice was deep and melodious.
"I am sorry if our precautions lead you
to believe otherwise." He removed his dagger--
an ornate and valuable-looking sword breaker
half an arm long--from the vicinity of Hans's
gullet and slid it back in its sheath on his right
thigh. Then he stepped well clear of Hans.
"Would you be so kind as to explain to your scribe that
we intend him no harm? He ought to be sent home
to change, but I prefer to keep him here until
we have cleared up any misunderstandings."
  Wasp hoped his own face was not displaying
anything like the expression of sick terror that he
could see on Hans's. "They mean you no harm,"
he said in Thergian. "I know them." Then he
caught a whiff of what had upset Durendal.
"Don't sit on the furniture, will you?"
  "I apologize for our unorthodox entry,
Sir Wasp." Durendal negotiated
as he fenced--graceful and deadly. "Desperate
situations require desperate remedies." He
offered a hand. "We have met before, but I confess
I do not recall you, brother."
  Of course not. He would have noticed the tall
redhead standing beside him that night, but Wasp had never
been memorable like Radgar. "When you came
to Ironhall to bind Wolfbiter. I remember
you, Sir Durendal." He had first seen
Durendal a few years earlier, when he
returned to Ironhall for a second binding, but
they had not met then.
  The visitor withdrew his ignored hand with no
sign of annoyance. "If you would be so kind as
to spare me a few minutes I hope we can do
business together. Even if we do not, I swear that
we mean you no harm."
  "Then I swear not to throw you all out on your
ears," Wasp said curtly. "Pray follow
me."
  Being the finest swordsman of his time,
Durendal had succeeded Montpurse as Commander
of the Royal Guard, although he must have been dubbed
knight by now--Wasp did not keep up with the
affairs of the Order to which he had so briefly
belonged. The man had a reputation for honor, but
the effort it took Wasp to turn his back on the
intruders told him that he did not trust the
protestations of friendship. Their respective nations
had been at each other's throats for eleven
years now, and nobody remained untouched by the
steady piling up of hatred. Whatever the
Blades' purpose in coming, it was not to reminisce
about old times on Starkmoor.
  He led the way into his office, which was large and
bright, offering an unexpected view of the Grand
Canal. The furnishings displayed the sort of
pleasing simplicity that comes only at incredible
cost--a half dozen chairs grouped around a
solid oak table, an escritoire, a cabinet
for refreshments, a few candelabra, some oil
paintings. The intruders had been sniffing in there
already, for on the table lay a folded and sealed
parchment he had not seen before. He walked around to the
far side as Durendal closed the door. The
henchmen having remained outside to guard Hans,
the two of them faced off across the table.
  The visitor gestured to the letter.
  "Tell me," Wasp said angrily.
  Those brilliant dark eyes were
missing nothing, studying him as intently as if
swords had been drawn already. "A royal
pardon for all events related to the death of Sir
Janvier, companion in the Order. It applies
to both you and your ward, although I doubt he will be
interested."
  "What makes you think I am?" In theory,
Wasp could overcome this visitor with a surprise
attack, lock the door, and escape out the
window. With only one arm it would be tricky, but it
might be done. Against any man except
Durendal he might even try it.
  "It is not meant as a bribe, Sir
Wasp."
  "It looks like it."
  "Then appearances are deceptive. I insisted
on that pardon as an expression of good faith,
nothing more. I am satisfied that you acted that night
in the best interests of your ward as you saw them. I
also insisted that your name be entered in the rolls of the
Order--you were never expelled, because you had never
been recorded. As of now you are a companion in
good standing. Obviously your binding is no longer
operative." He tried a smile. "I am
most curious to know by what means--"
  "I fail to see where this is leading," Wasp
said angrily. He had noticed that repeated word
insisted, and knew he was intended to notice it.
"My allegiance lies with Baelmark. I am
no longer bound to King Radgar, true, but I
serve him loyally and always will. I could add that King
Ambrose himself ordered me to do so, but I have no
intention of testing that argument in a Chivian
treason trial. Kindly state your business,
Sir Durendal."
  "To end the war."
  Flames! Wasp took a deep breath.
"I have no authority to negotiate."
  "I do. I want you and me to settle it here and
now, across this table, as brothers in the Order who
should trust each other to speak without deceit. You have
the ear of King Radgar and I am Lord Chancellor
of Chivial."
  Oof! Wasp should have known that and had not.
Montpurse was gone, of course, after many years
as Ambrose's first minister. The replacement
appointed last Firstmoon or thereabouts had been a
Lord Someone, a name that had meant nothing to him.
Now his ignorance had put him one point down in
the match--a match in which he had nothing
to win and his life to lose. If Durendal couldn't
wring out a treaty, he might yet settle for
settling old scores instead.
  "I beg your lordship's pardon. May I
ask if the government of Thergy is aware of your
presence here in Drachveld?" Wasp saw no
reaction in those obsidian eyes--he had never
met a man so unreadable--but he suspected that
he had just evened the score. Durendal must be under
enormous pressure to conclude the meeting
speedily and return to his ship.
  "It is not. This is a very brief and very
private visit. May we sit down?"
  "I prefer to stand. State your terms, my lord.
Why should Baelmark end the war?"
  "Because it is ridiculous, uncivilized.
Baelmark is not big enough to invade and conquer
Chivial, but you have command of the seas and can prevent us
building and training a fleet to use against you. The
result is bloody stalemate. It causes
suffering and waste and tragedy. Must it drag on
forever to so little purpose?"
  That was all very true. Even in Baelmark
everyone was sick of the war, but Chivial was hurting
much worse, as Durendal's presence here
proved. Radgar had learned his craft well.
  Wasp shrugged. "Chivial is doing the
bleeding, not us. Did you know we now use gold
bricks for ballast? They conserve cargo
space."
  If the Chancellor saw the humor in that
remark, he contained his amusement admirably.
"Your "Maritime Actuary" scheme is highly
ingenious. I could hardly believe it when it was
explained to me. Who invented that?"
  "One of His Majesty's witan," Wasp said
modestly. The very best part was that piracy had
become almost bloodless and yet the noose around
Chivial had never been tighter. "I do believe
King Radgar earns more from duties on Chivian
foreign trade than King Ambrose does."
  "I am certain of it," Durendal said
coldly. "What are his terms? What might he
be persuaded to accept, do you think, brother?"
  That presumed brotherhood was really beginning
to rankle. Wasp took a turn to the window and
back. "This would be the fourth set of
negotiations."
  "And you were one of the Baelish commissioners each
time." Durendal had done his homework.
  "I swore I would never get involved again."
  "I have wide authority to settle the matter.
You are conversant with the problems. My sources
insist that you are the King's friend and most trusted
advisor."
  Why the sudden rush? Was the new guard dog just
trying to show his royal master he could bark louder
than his predecessor, or was there a new scent
on the wind?
  "Every time," Wasp said, "the talks broke
down over the same point--King Ambrose must
make public acknowledgment that he ordered the
murder of King Aeled and must apologize for it as
a barbarous act unbecoming a civilized
monarch."
  Durendal displayed an excellent set of
teeth. "I have discussed this at length with His
Majesty, and so did Lord Montpurse when he
was chancellor--"
  "Ah, yes!" Now Wasp recalled that
Montpurse's head had dropped in a bucket
just after the new chancellor took office. "What
exactly was the case against Montpurse--
brother?"
  He had found a chink in the armor. Something
terrible burned up in the midnight eyes and a
warning pallor outlined the strong cheekbones.
Wasp had drawn blood--and might be about to die
of it. Durendal took hold of a chair back with
both hands, knuckles blanching as if he were
trying to break it.
  "That is a very long story, Sir Wasp," he
said hoarsely. "Let us deal with the war first."
  "As your lordship wishes. We can reminisce
about old friends later."
  "The fact is that even the greatest of men may have
a weak point. I honestly believe that King
Ambrose is a great man, but he has
failings, too. Thirty years ago, as Crown
Prince, he was grievously humiliated in his
cousin's house at Candlefen Park. He has
admitted to me that he talked his father into starting the
First Baelish War over that affair. That war
dragged on for years and was finally settled the day
King Aeled died."
  "Was murdered."
  "Was allegedly murdered. The evidence has
been disputed and the accused, Sir Yorick, is
long dead. It was Ambrose who sent him
to Baelmark, and Ambrose is the only
man living who knows exactly what instructions
he gave his former bodyguard. His version--and he
is thoroughly convinced of this in his own mind, I am
certain--is that he expressly forbade Yorick
to take revenge for the Blades who fell at
Candlefen." The Lord Chancellor studied his
audience in search of a reaction and then shrugged.
"Whether that is what an independent witness would have
heard, I have no idea, but kings' instructions can
be very deniable, Sir Wasp. Their memories are
often very supple, too. We all tend
to remember things as we want to remember them; this
is a universal human weakness and in my
experience the great are as prone to it as the humble.
For better or worse, this is what my master now
believes--he is convinced that he not only did not
order the murder, he expressly forbade it."
  Wasp also leaned straight-armed on a chair
back, staring across at his visitor. "In that
case he chose a bad emissary. He should have
foreseen the danger."
  Durendal raised his heavy black brows.
"He might be willing to admit that much. I cannot
promise but--"
  "It would not suffice. Your king's memories
may be supple, my king's are totally rigid.
His father was murdered. The deathbed testimony of
three men confirmed the sequence of events. The war
goes on until Ambrose issues a confession
and apology--not a mealymouthed diplomatic
weaseling, but an explicit admission of guilt
and appeal for mercy. Radgar swore blood
feud. To accept anything less than
Ambrose's head would be an enormous concession
for him to make."
  For a long minute they stared at each other
defiantly, like duelists planning their next
moves. This moment had been foreseen, of course.
Without some new stroke in mind, Durendal would
never risk a clandestine dash into a foreign
country. The Thergian government would blow all the
tiles off its roof if it discovered him here,
chief minister of a foreign power threatening the consul
of another with drawn swords. How long before the
day's crop of merchants arrived to buy
safe-conducts? How long could Bullwhip and
Victor hold them at bay when they did?
Durendal did not have long to try out his new
gambit.
  Here it came.
  "I understand," the Chancellor said, staring very hard
at Wasp, "that Queen Culfre recently
died."
  Implications swarmed like bees. Words flashed
out in thrust, parry, riposte--
  "Could you deliver that?"
  "He suggested it himself."
  "Would she agree?"
  "She will do her duty."
  "Indemnities also."
  "Of course."
  "That is still not an apology!"
  Durendal smiled. He glanced down at the
chairs and then cocked an eyebrow at his
reluctant host. The man had incredible style.
  Wasp said, "Please do be seated, my lord,"
and pulled out a chair for himself. Needing time to think
he spoke of Culfre, a safe topic
requiring no thought. "Her life was very tragic.
She almost died losing a baby a few months after
their marriage and her health never recovered. More
children were out of the question. But she never complained, was never
bitter, even as she suffered. Her death was a
release. Radgar has not slept alone these ten
years, but he has always been discreet. He showed
her great kindness and respect, and he never
flaunted his mistresses. He refused to put
her away, as kings are wont to do with wives who
cannot bear heirs." As King Ambrose had done
with his first wife.
  "The Princess will be reassured to hear this
testimonial."
  Not so fast! "I repeat, a princess is
still not a confession and apology."
  "But as good as." Durendal leaned back and
stretched his legs. "You understand, Sir Wasp, that
everyone in Chivial has been taught since
birth that Baels are ogres, lower than beasts.
They live in caves and eat children. King Aeled
is officially described as a pirate chief.
I believed much of this nonsense myself until a
few months ago, when the war became my business
and I started asking questions. Few Chivians ever
return from Baelmark, but there have been
embassies, both ours and other countries', so
I was able to find people who had been there. I was
astounded to learn that the average Bael lives in
much better conditions than the average Chivian,
that the nobility has more ... Well, you already know
all this. Chivial does not know it. The
rest of Eurania is not much better informed.
Ambrose is aware of the truth, of course, and
has been for years. were my royal master to sign
a treaty with yours and seal it by giving his own
daughter in marriage, this would be a recognition of
equality. Perhaps it is not the explicit
apology Radgar seeks, but it would be a very great
concession. He and his house would be elevated
to truly royal status in the eyes of the world, and
Baelmark would no longer be dismissed as a
brigands' nest."
  Wasp smiled for the first time. "You are
eloquent, brother, but Radgar has never been
much impressed by fine words." Was it possible?
Spirits, could they stop the madness and suffering at
last? It had all begun with a wedding. Perhaps
another could end it. "As I recall, King
Ambrose has one son and one daughter?"
  "Crown Prince Ambrose is a very loud and
still-damp-at-times heir apparent. Princess
Malinda is almost seventeen now--not a legendary
beauty, but attractive enough to speed any man's
heartbeat. She is, um ..." Durendal
cleared his throat. "Were I not being a
diplomat at the moment, I should describe her
as a strapping wench. No weakling, certainly. His
Majesty has just announced his betrothal
to Princess Dierda of Gevily."
  "And expects to produce several more children? Is
he capable?"
  The Lord Chancellor of Chivial shrugged.
"His current mistress says he is.
Fifty-one is not really old."
  "Still fat?"
  "Fatter."
  If Malinda was seventeen the match was not
unreasonable. Radgar had recently turned
thirty. Negotiations would have to be set in motion
quickly, for he needed another wife to secure the
succession. Which explained Durendal's flying
visit. There were always Baelish ships in port
willing to whisk Waeps Thegn back to the Fire
Lands. ... He was about due for another trip there
anyway. Could Radgar be persuaded that the hand of
Ambrose's daughter was the only apology
anyone would ever wring out of the man, and that the rest of
Eurania would see it as confession and surrender?
  "Will it work?" Durendal asked quietly.
  "I have no idea," Wasp confessed. "I have
known Radgar since we were children, yet he
can still astonish me. He owes much of his success
to being completely unpredictable--as Chivial
well knows. I have seen him be gentle, ruthless,
generous, and implacable inside an hour. The
only thing predictable about Radgar is that he
always gets what he wants."
  "That is a habit of kings," Durendal said with
feeling.
  "Quite! But the prize is noble and worth pursuing
at any odds. I will convey your proposal
to him."
  Wasp rose and went to the escritoire.
Needing several trips, he returned with paper,
ink, and a handful of quills. From the cabinet he
brought two glasses and a decanter of schnapps,
but what he was really after was a few minutes
to regain control of himself, because he kept imagining
the astonishment on Radgar's face when he heard
the news. To burst out laughing at this stage in the
negotiations would not be good diplomacy.
  He sat down again and proposed a toast
to fruitful negotiations.
  Durendal concurred. His eyes opened very wide
as the schnapps kicked him on the palate. He
coughed.
  "What other terms are you offering, my lord?"
Wasp put pen to paper. His guest did the
same, so they could produce identical memos.
"Heads of Agreement, This Seventh Day of
Sixthmoon, 368. King Radgar to marry
Princess Malinda. All conditions of the
Treaty of Twigeport to be reaffirmed and
reinstated. And in addition ..."

                  

  Inevitably, rumors of the proposed match were
soon tip-toeing through the courts and capitals of
Eurania. King Ambrose had already set
tongues wagging by contracting marriage with a
princess a month younger than his own daughter. It
was no surprise that he should plan to rid himself of the
daughter, because wise monarchs avoid exposure
to ridicule, yet no one really believed that he
would be so cruel as to send her off to dwell among
savages on barren ocean rocks. By fall the
story was confirmed. Commissioners from Chivial and
Baelmark, meeting secretly in Drachveld,
had signed a treaty to end the long war, and the
betrothal was part of it.
  Then the scandal thickened. Ambrose, it was
said, had sent his Lord Chancellor to inform
Princess Malinda of the arrangement. That being the
first she had heard of it, the aforesaid Princess
struck the aforesaid Chancellor so hard that her rings
cut his face open. There was known to be no love
lost between those two. She had then--if one believed
the more outrageous versions--stormed into a formal
state reception and shouted abuse at her royal
father in front of the entire court and diplomatic
corps. The enraged King had ordered his renowned
Blades to remove the Princess, but the
Blades had ignored the command. Malinda had
gone on to accuse her father of abusing all three of
his previous wives and of selling her to a gang of
slavers to escape from a war he was incapable of
fighting. At that, the King had either knocked her to the
floor or stormed out of the hall--or both.
Courtiers all over the continent sniggered loudly
and waited eagerly for more.
  There was more, although little of it was ever confirmed. The
Princess swore she would not speak the marriage
vows; the King threatened to lock her up in the
Bastion; only when jailers came for her with
manacles did she lose her nerve and submit.
She wrote to her royal fianc`e, swearing that
she was overjoyed at the match and entering into it
voluntarily--but at the formal betrothal
ceremony she seemed close to tears. The
families of all the Princess's
ladies-in-waiting raced up to court and snatched
away their respective womenfolk--daughters,
sisters, aunts, or dowager mothers--before they could be
loaded into pirate longships. The King's own
marriage had been postponed until spring.
Long Night was not a happy festival in the
Chivian court that year.
  Some things were certain. Although news of the treaty
had been greeted with jubilation throughout the land, the
prospect of the second in line to the throne being
married to a foreign pirate was wildly
unpopular. The King called Parliament
into session so he could bask in its praises. He
prorogued it very quickly when it began debating the
succession. His ability--or inability--to father more
sons was none of its business.

  Winter could not last forever. On a morose,
drizzly day in Thirdmoon, 369, Princess
Malinda married King Radgar of
Baelmark in the palace of Wetshore, a
league or so downstream from Grandon. Everything had
gone quite well until then.
  Arrangements for the wedding had been organized
by the Princess herself and the Thergian ambassador
on behalf of the Baels. The ambassador was
reliably quoted as saying that King Ambrose,
who normally meddled in everything, was so engrossed in
organizing sumptuous month-long celebrations of
his own forthcoming marriage that he had not noticed
what his daughter was doing. He became
memorably enraged when he discovered she had
omitted everything that normally defined a royal
occasion--balls, banquets, parades,
masques, fireworks, and extravagant pomp.
Royal weddings were invariably held in
Greymere Palace in the capital. She had
chosen instead a ramshackle edifice,
impossibly inadequate, and scheduled for
demolition. The guest list omitted, and thus
insulted, three-quarters of the nobility and
diplomatic corps who were entitled to invitations.
By the time the King learned all this, it was too late
to make other arrangements. His daughter would be
married like a fishwife's daughter, he bellowed
--small beer, sausages on sticks, and
straight into bed.
  The gossips sniggered that this must be the whole
idea. The young lady was letting the silence speak
for her, showing what she thought of the match. No one
believed her protestations that she had moved the
event out of Grandon only because the populace would
riot in protest, and she did not want anyone
hurt or killed for her sake. Worse, although the
Baels had offered to provide a caravel
to transport the bride to her new home, she had
requested that they send a dragon ship instead. That
was, she explained, a tradition in the family.
At that point Sir Bandit, Commander of the Royal
Guard, stepped between the King and his daughter. ...
  Only two attendants would accompany the
Princess into exile, Lady Ruby and Lady
Dove. They were about her own age, but she hardly
knew them. They had accepted the honor that
nobody wanted--so it was said--because Ruby had no
backbone and Dove no brains. Their
respective families had pressured them into it
because the King had bribed or coerced them, and if he
had settled for only two, he must have had to pay
dearly--large estates had changed
hands.
  The Thergian ambassador certainly passed
all this scandal along to his royal masters, who
in turn informed their Baelish friends.

  It was too late to make changes. The wedding
proceeded as planned.
  The groom was not present in person, of
course. Monarchs never visited other realms
except in the ways of war, and in this case King
Radgar was so feared and detested in Chivial that
he would have been torn to shreds had he set foot
in it.
  A former minister and longtime advisor, Thegn
Leofric, had been called out of retirement to be
his proxy. Although he was too polite to mention the
fact while he was there, this was not his first visit
to Chivial. He and the King's father, Aeled, had
shed blood there side by side on their first
foering, almost forty years ago. Later he
had lost his eye in a bloody sea battle off
Brimiarde, and of course there had been the
Candlefen caper. He had even seen Wetshore
a couple of times from afar. The Chivians'
greatest dread had always been that Baels would sack
their capital, so Radgar and his father before him had
feinted at the mouth of the Gran often enough to make
Ambrose keep his forces concentrated there, leaving
the rest of the coast more vulnerable. The palace itself
had never been molested, because the shores of the estuary
were flanked by tidal mud flats--deadly terrain
on which to beach dragon ships. With peace now
restored, the royal architects presented plans
for a grandiose ornamental pier to commemorate the
happy occasion. The Princess specified a
simple, temporary, wooden jetty.
  Here, on a very wet morning, Leofric
disembarked from Woeternoedre. Her escorts,
Woel and Wracu, stood offshore--and all
alone, because the sight of three dragon ships had
been enough to empty the mouth of the Gran of other
shipping. He was greeted by Sir Dreadnought,
Deputy Commander of the Royal Guard, backed
by a flurry of multicolored heralds. The thegn
confirmed that his werod would remain aboard, as had
been agreed. The war was still too recent for either
side to trust the other. He was then conducted off
to the palace and a tense audience with His Majesty.
  Woeternoedre loaded six chests of the
bride's luggage and withdrew to drop
anchor beside her sister ships.
  The wedding took place the following morning.

                  

  Like all state occasions, even that meager
ceremony ran late. Nevertheless, tides would not
wait for royalty, and at the agreed hour of
noon, Wracu was rowed in. As she approached
the jetty, her werod could hear bugles being
blown up on the meadow, which was probably a
signal to speed up the final farewells.
  A spiteful wind stirred the dismal drizzle.
River and clouds were leaden; leafless trees on the
bank equally colorless. Doubtless the courtiers
were all bedecked in dazzling splendor, but the
Baels down on the water could see nothing of the
ceremony, only the bank itself--which was admittedly
a brilliant grass-green--and the steps leading
up from the jetty, which were fresh plank color. From
farther out they had glimpsed the tops of gaudy
canopies and striped awnings.
  A dozen or so Blades in the blue livery
of the Royal Guard appeared and lined up along the
top of the bank. If they were intended as a warning
to the visitors, they failed to intimidate
anyone. There would be a lot more where they came from,
though, and probably a regiment of cavalry just out
of sight.
  The rowers sat in patient silence, huddled under
leather cloaks and never taking their eyes off their
leader. They were all veterans of many foerings
during the long war, and every man of them must be
remembering similar occasions when the signal they
awaited had been a call to battle. This was
supposed to be a peaceful and festive outing, but
they would not relax their vigilance. Marriage or
mayhem, their smiles conveyed the same eagerness
for action.
  The ship lord waited a few minutes for the wedding
party to appear, or at least a herald to bring an
apology and explanation. When neither happened, he
waved an arm and the werod threw off coverings and
sprang into action. In seconds they were up on the
jetty. The Blades on the bank displayed
excitement. There was shouting, running back and forth,
and more bugle blowing. Another dozen Blades
arrived as reinforcements.
  Commander Bandit himself in his silver baldric
came to see what was happening. Nothing was
happening. There was no reason to worry. The other
two dragon ships were still at anchor far out, almost
at the limit of visibility in the misty rain.
Seventy-two bare-chested pirates had lined up
along the jetty, thirty-six on one side with
drawn swords and thirty-six on the other with
axes, a narrow aisle between them. No doubt the
Chivians saw naked savages, brutal
predators, but by Baelish standards they were an
honor guard in formal dress. What if it had
been agreed that no Bael would come ashore? What
if their formal dress was skimpy to the brink of
indecency? From boots to steel helmet every man
flashed and glittered with a fortune in battle
honors--golden necklaces, rings on arms and
fingers, elaborately jeweled and enameled
belts, buckles, and baldrics. Rain made
their bronzed skin shine also, but none of them looked
in the least cold. Most of them were grinning widely
at the effect they were producing.
  The only Bael who might be classed as
decently dressed by Chivian standards, and the only
one lacking flashy gold and jewels, was the ship
lord himself, who had remained on board. Nobody
was looking at him. He was watching the Blades,
though. There were Blades up there who had known a
certain Candidate Raider twelve years ago
--Bandit himself, for one, although he had been a very
new soprano when Raider disappeared. They
might never have equated the lost Raider with the
monster Radgar but they ought to recognize
faces. Oak, Huntley, Burdon, Denvers
... It was Foulweather who suddenly screamed in
astonishment and pointed at the ship lord.
  Radgar waved back.

  Of course it was only a few minutes before
Ambrose was informed and arrived at the top of the
steps, swaddled within a living hedge of Blades.
  Radgar waved again.
  The King of Chivial did not look pleased.
Nay, His Grace seemed close to having an
apoplectic fit. Down there--his longtime
foe, the murderous pirate king, the monster to whom
he had been forced to sacrifice his only daughter
... and there was nothing he could do! He did not
return Radgar's wave. Obviously he
slammed the door on any prolongation of the wedding
ceremony, though. In moments the bride appeared
on Leofric's arm and began her
descent of the steps.
  Radgar watched her approach with a strange
inner turmoil. All his life he had been able
to make up his mind quickly. At times, as when he
lost his temper, he made it up much too quickly.
Conversely, when there was no urgent need for a
decision, he could always set problems aside. But
this matter of his second marriage presented
complications he had still not resolved. It was more than
half a year since Wasp had brought the
proposal to Waro`edburh, grinning like a moray
eel. The witan had debated it at interminable
length. Baelmark was sick of war--children wanting
their fathers, wives missing their husbands, husbands
worrying that their wives might be entertaining the
thralls. But the King had sworn blood feud!
How could he back down from that most terrible of
oaths? Radgar had spent many days pacing the
moors or riding the hills, wrestling with all the
implications. And even now, as his bride
descended the steps, he was still not certain what he
should do.
  And what he would do might be quite different
anyway.
  She was wearing a very simple, ankle-length
blue gown with an open skirt displaying a
kirtle of cloth of gold. Anything more
elaborate would have been absurd for an ocean
voyage in an open boat, and the lappets of her
gable hood would keep the worst of the weather off her
face. She was tall--he had been warned about that
as if it were a flaw--but very little else about her
person could be discerned. Her hair was dark brown,
he had been informed, and so long that she could sit on
it, but at the moment he would not have been able to tell
if she were as bald as a turtle. He noticed
a total absence of jewelry and wondered if she
were again making the silence speak for her. High
cheekbones. Sensuous lips! Maybe even
voluptuous lips?
  She looked even younger than he had expected,
more vulnerable.
  It was highly unlikely that Princess
Malinda had ever seen a hairy chest before, other
than on a shepherd or plowman in the far distance.
It was equally unlikely that she had ever been so
close to naked swords, but she showed no
hesitation as she reviewed the unexpected honor
guard. Leofric fell back and let her
proceed alone, and she came marching
along the jetty, glancing at each face in
turn--right, left, right, left. ... As soon
as she passed them, the thegns relaxed their stony
stares--older men nodding approval, youngsters
grinning lecherously. They liked the look of their
strapping new queen.
  She reached the end of the guard, the end of the
jetty, the stern of the ship. She was pale but well
in control of herself, not revealing the turmoil she
must be feeling at this crucial transition in her
life. The boardwalk was roughly level with the
rail; Radgar had thought to outfit the warship with a
stepladder. He offered a steadying hand and she
climbed down, muttered thanks without really
noticing him.
  The two ladies-in-waiting had been found and
were now descending the bank, escorted by a
Blade. The crest of the bank was packed with
neck-craning courtiers--barons, viscounts,
earls, marquises, dukes, government
officials, military officers, consuls and
ambassadors, and their grand ladies, all
bleating like goats at their first sight of a dragon
ship and real pirates.
  Leofric was showing his age now. Old wounds were
acting up. Instead of jumping aboard, he hobbled
down the steps, although the men would never let him hear
the last of that. He pulled the royal signet ring
off his finger and returned it to its owner,
accompanying it with a roll of parchment--the marriage
contract, of course--and also a meaningful nod. That
might be the briefest report any wita ever
delivered, but Radgar understood it. The ship lord
approved of the Princess and believed that she was there
of her own free will.
  Did anyone other than Ambrose possess
free will in the court of Chivial?
  Before the Blade and two women reached the
jetty, Leofric took hold of the steering oar and
shouted, "Board!"
  Fast getaways were a Baelish specialty,
frequently a matter of life and death, and always
one of the first drills a werod practiced. In
two precisely timed waves, seventy-two
Baels boarded in a double crash of boots on the
gratings. Wracu lurched violently.
Malinda staggered.
  Steadying her elbow, Radgar said softly,
"My lady, I am Radgar Aeleding."
  "Good chance to you," she replied
absently. "Thegn Leofric, you need not wait for
those two women. Go without them. Depart at once,
please."
  She knew how to give orders. Leofric said,
"Gea, hloefdige!" without even a glance
to Radgar for approval. "Cast off!" Two
cables were flipped and two oars pushed. Wracu
slid away from the jetty and began to turn as the
wind caught her. Seventy-two ports were
flipped open and seventy-two oars run out.
  Then the words registered. Malinda spun around.
"What did you say?"
  She had been sent a drawing of him. He had
picked out the least flattering of half a dozen, not
wanting to raise false expectations. He hoped
she was not disappointed--he prided himself that he
wore his years better than she could have expected.
His figure was still that of a youngster, and no silver
glinted in his trim copper beard. Princess
Dierda of Gevily had not fared so well in the
stakes matrimonial.
  He smiled and repeated his previous statement.
  "Your Grace!" She tried to kneel and his
hands flashed out to catch her arms.
  "You don't kneel to me!" he said sharply, but
the contact was a mistake, informative for both of
them. She felt his strength. He learned that her
arms were as thick as a man's and not flab, either.
As her stare turned to a blush, he released his
grip. He felt the first stirring of lust and
suppressed it, determined not to let his
beallucas make this decision for him.
  They wanted to, though! He had known a girl
with lips like those and she had been a hurricane in
bed. ...
  "My pardon if I startled you. Did not your
father tell you I was here?"
  She shook her head, eyes searching his face,
perhaps wondering where the fangs and horns were. She
had the golden eyes of the House of Ranulf.
  "Did he even tell you that we knew each
other of old?"
  "Why ... No, Your Grace." She looked
around. Wracu continued to drift slowly away from
the jetty. The ladies-in-waiting and their
Blade escort had stopped, uncertain whether
or not to continue. Up on the bank, her father was
peering over the heads of his cordon of Guards,
and the fury on his fat face was clearly visible.
  "He assured me, Your Majesty,
that he had good reason to believe that you were gracious
in your person and of gentle manner."
  "How kind of him!" Radgar said angrily.
"Such was not his opinion when we met twelve
years ago. It seems he came very close
to lying to you about our acquaintance. Would you agree that
he was trying to deceive you?"
  Leofric waited patiently for orders. The
sailors smirked as they watched their monarch's
wooing. Malinda, understandably, was at a loss for
words.
  Radgar raised his eyebrows. "An honest
answer, my lady! Did your father deliberately
hide from you the fact that he and I know each other
personally?"
  Reluctant to call one or other king a liar,
she said, "Perhaps he forgot a brief--"
  "I am sure he did not. What other
tricks did he use on you? What threats did
he make to force you into this marriage?"
  "Your Majesty, I wrote to you! I
testified before the--"
  "Yes, you did, because I would not sign the
treaty until I was given assurances that you were not
being forced into a union you found distasteful. I must
still hear it from your own lips."
  "Your Grace ..." The multitude onshore
had fallen silent, staring at the longship.
Wracu had turned almost right around and was drifting
upstream in an eddy. Her oars remained spread
like wings, her crew sat patiently.
  "Why did you not wait for your two ladies
to board?"
  Malinda was understandably bewildered. "My lord
husband, why don't we sail?"
  "Later. Because you knew they did not want
to come? Because they had been forced into accompanying you?
So what about yourself? You are happy at the
prospect of spending the rest of your life in
Baelmark bearing my children?"
  "I am honored to wed so fine a king!"
  "Oh, rubbish!" He despised himself for
bullying the child, but the marriage had not been his
idea. He was sworn to avenge his father's murder.
"You may be terrified or disgusted or shivering with
excitement. You cannot possibly feel honored.
I'm a slaver and a killer of thousands. But my
mother was forced into her marriage and I will not take you
as my wife unless I am convinced that you are
truly happy at the prospect. I
think you were bludgeoned into it. Speak! Persuade
me otherwise."
  She gasped. "Unfair, my lord! I have
told you already and you refuse to believe me. You
call me liar?"
  "I call your father worse than that. Did you not
accuse him of slaving?"
  Color flamed in her cheeks and she dropped
her gaze. "I may have used intemperate words in
the shock of--I mean--The news was sprung on
me. ... I promise most faithfully, Your
Grace, that I will never presume to speak that way
to you."
  That was the worst thing she could possibly say.
In his lonely deliberations, Radgar had realized
that what he wanted more than anything else was someone
to talk back to him. Nobody dared contradict a
king, or call him a fool, or tell him he was
making a mistake. They all waffled and mumbled.
Even Wasp and Aylwin these days--make a man
rich and he has too much to lose. Culfre had
been a dove, all sweetness and feathers.
Argument was what a king needed, argument from someone
whose interests were the same as his own, who had no
hidden purposes or allies. Yes, a lusty
mate to wrestle in bed would be welcome, but he
could buy those anytime.
  Before he could find words, Malinda spoke again,
trying to sound defiant. "I am of the blood, so
I will marry whom I am told to marry. I have
always known this was my purpose, and I presume
to say, my lord, on first sight you seem much less
offensive than other suitors whose names have been
bandied around me in the past. The Czarevitch is a
congenital idiot. Prince Favon is said to be
fatter than my father. The Count of--"
  "I am flattered," Radgar said dryly, "but
I did not mean Radgar Aeleding as a
two-legged male animal. All men are much the
same in the dark. Most women close their eyes
in the action, anyway. Kings also marry sight
unseen, lady, and it is not your appearance that
makes me reluctant--far from it! No, I
mean any king of Baelmark. My name in
Chivial is held in low esteem."
  Her chin came up. "You will force me to beg?
A royal marriage is often a bridge between
former combatants. What of the treaty? If you
refuse me, must not the war continue?"
  Now the tide was carrying the longship
slowly downstream and farther out over the
rain-speckled water. The crowds on the bank
continued to buzz with puzzled comment. Everyone must have
guessed by now that the man holding up proceedings
could only be the Monster himself.
  Radgar shook his head sadly. "I could have
ended it any time in the last ten years, my lady.
I did not want to retract my juvenile
boasting and that is a foolish reason, mere
pride. As it happens, there are legends of
heroes who swore blood feuds but then became
entangled in coils of love and so were forced
to recant their oaths--I am sure you can fill in
the details for yourself. Thus marriage to you would
provide a face-saving excuse for me.
Strange that it was your father and not I who thought
to roll you up in the treaty scroll."
  She opened her mouth and then closed it quickly.
  "Aha! You thought the match was my idea?"
  "That was what I was told, but I thought it was
Lord Roland's."
  "Durendal?" Radgar said scathingly. "No.
He has too much honor to sell a lady, but
he fetches when his master throws. It was your father's
idea. He was desperate to end the war, and
evidently he lied to you yet again. Well, I will
end it without you, I promise."
  "Oh!" She stared hard at him, as if anyone
could read a killer's thoughts in his face. "You
swear that?" She could not have imagined this discussion in
a lifetime of nightmares.
  "I swear that. You are free to go."
  "You shame me!"
  "I honor you, mistress. My father carried
off my mother by force, but I refuse to abuse a
woman so."
  Fire flickered in those golden eyes.
"Indeed? What of the thousands you carry off
into slavery?"
  "Except that. That is war, and I hate it.
I do truly intend to end it now, Princess, and
you need not be sold into slavery. I give you
back your freedom."
  "You shame me!" she repeated uncertainly.
  "I shame your father. Having shown the world how low
he will sink, I am content. Go in peace. You
need not breed pirate babies for a living."
  Abandoning the unequal struggle, she bowed her
head and whispered, "I will obey Your Majesty's
command."
  Radgar raised her hand to his lips. "My
loss, Princess. This was not a pleasant nor
an easy task. Take us in, helmsman."
  "Yea, lord!" Leofric said angrily.

                  

  The old pirate had not lost his touch. In that
calm he could have moved Wracu by himself with just the
steering oar, but he nodded to the aft pair of rowers,
Aylwin and Oswald. Expertly the three of them
swung her around and backed her until her stern
nudged the end of the jetty with a barely detectable
bump. Radgar moved the steps into position and
held Malinda's hand to steady her as she
disembarked. For a moment she looked down at him
with a plaintive expression that made him want
to cut his own throat.
  "Who knows, my lady, once peace has been
established between our two nations, what the future
may hold? I shall still need a wife, and you a
husband. I may yet press my suit on
honorable terms. I bid you good chance."
  She blinked at him in confusion and then turned
to begin her lonely walk back to her own people. Her
two ladies in waiting had already gone. Some
Chivians who had ventured down to the jetty now
fled back up to safety, joining the crowd
struggling for a view. Wracu began to drift
away again.
  "Steady as you can," Radgar said.
  "You never had the least intention of taking that
girl!" Leofric snapped--not loudly, but
audible to at least some of the crew.
  Radgar spared him a brief glance. "Not so."
  "She wanted to come."
  Then she should have said so more convincingly.
  Receiving no answer, Leofric said, "She
despises her father!"
  "So she should."
  "You'll never find a better wife than she
would have made."
  "It was a very close call."
  The old warrior could not know that the finest string of
rubies in the entire world presently nestled in
Radgar's pocket, safely out of sight but
available had he needed a wedding present. He
did not produce it. He just forestalled further
argument by repeating, "Steady as you can,
helmsman."
  Glaring but obedient, Leofric concentrated on
nudging the ship's bow around to meet the ripples,
making her as stable as possible. Up on the bank
the wedding guests were still babbling in amazement. There
must be some clever people among them, though, people who would
realize that no bride meant no wedding, no
wedding no treaty, no treaty no peace. In a
few seconds someone would start taking
precautions. In the meantime Ambrose himself was
standing there at the top of the steps, glowering over the
heads of the Guard, who were all intent on the
Baels--show a Blade a sword and he could
see nothing else. Sending the werod ashore
earlier had been a typical Radgar ruse
to distract his opponents' attention from some other
front, force, or--in this case--weapon. He
had won a dozen battles with feints no more
subtle than that.
  The Princess reached the landward end of the jetty
and the Blades on the slope moved aside,
emptying the stair for her. They cleared a path right
to the King's toes. A blind limpet could not miss
at that range. Radgar stooped and lifted away
the leather sheet covering the crossbow. He took
up the bow, already spanned, and laid the bolt in the
groove. He had practiced at least an hour
a day for the last half year--unheard-of dedication
for him. In one swift motion he stood erect,
aimed, and squeezed the trigger. Thwack! said the
bowstring.
  "Get him?" asked Leofric, who had been
watching the river for stray ripples, but the question was
drowned out by the werod's scream of triumph and
howls of horror from the crowd onshore.
  "Right between the eyes. Isn't that what I
promised? Make a wake, helmsman." There
might be bowmen up there on the bank, and one dead
king was enough.
  Leofric responded with a yell and a thump of his
mallet on the rail. Seventy-two oars bit
the river, sending Wracu bounding forward. She was
capable of astonishing speed in calm water, and the
scene ashore dwindled fast behind her.
  Radgar drooped on the rail, limp with
unexpected reaction. It was over! Finished at
last, Dad avenged.
  Avenged in plenty! A major riot was
developing. Screams drifted over the water.
The biggest drawback of the Blade system was that
the poor dupes went berserk when their
wards died, especially if the death was caused
by violence. Bystanders and horsemen were fleeing in
all directions, even plunging into the river, although
some of those might be demented Blades trying
to attack the longship. Ambrose would have company
on his last journey.
  Farewell, Fat Man! Imagine that
pompous fool thinking his daughter would buy his way
out of a blood feud! Now the King of Chivial was
a sickly three-year-old boy. Chivians would
scream treachery, but in a month or two they would
be ready to settle. They had no option, thanks
to Wasp's blockade.
  Wasp was going to be devastated. Radgar did
not want to face Wasp.
  "You haven't done your reputation much good,"
Leofric said sourly. He had the crew singing their
stroke now and could spare some thought to nagging his
monarch.
  "What reputation?" Radgar leaned his elbows
on the rail and stared at the flat shore receding,
the palace that had come into view, the rain. ...
"Chivians have been demonizing me for years.
How can they complain if I start running true
to form?" Realizing he was still holding the bow, he
hurled it overboard and watched it vanish in the
murky water even before the ship carried him away
from the spot. "Ambrose did not bargain in good
faith. He forced his daughter into submitting and then
claimed she was marrying voluntarily. That's what
we tell the ambassadors."
  "Scytel!" Leofric said. "You just made a
serious mistake!"
  "Shut up, old man!"
  Dad was avenged, that was all that mattered.
  Now he could get on with his life.
  Would take some getting used to.
  Pity about the girl. She'd have made a fine
queen.










              Epilogue

    Year 369, A Year of Sorrows:
  In Thirdmoon the spirits took the spirit of
Ambrose, King of Chivial, the fourth of that
name, betrayed by Baelish treachery in the twentieth
year of his reign, and his body was returned to the
elements. His successor, the fifth of the name of
Ambrose, being an infant in his fourth year, was
smitten by fever and his body was returned to the
elements, the crown of Ranulf then passing to his
sister, the Lady Malinda, a virgin unwed.
...
    Annals of the Priory of Wearbridge