THE GILDED CHAIN
A Tale of the King's Blades
by
DAVE DUNCAN
BOOK JACKET INFORMATION
FANTASY
"Just the sort of marvelous yarn that lured me
into reading fantasy and sf."
ANNE McCAFFREY
DAVE DUNCAN is an award-winning
author whose fantasy trilogy, The Seventh
Sword, is considered a sword-and-sorcery
classic. A former geologist, his numerous
novels include Strings, Hero, the popular
tetrologies A Man of his Word and A
Handful of Men, and the remarkable, critically
acclaimed fantasy trilogy The Great
Game.
As unwanted, rebellious boys, they find
refuge in Ironhall ... Years later they
emerge as the finest swordsmen in the realm--
THE KING'S BLADES
A magical ritual of a sword through the heart
binds each to his ward--if not the king himself,
then to whomever else the monarch designates--with
absolute loyalty. And the greatest Blade of
them all was--and is--Sir Durendal.
But a lifelong dream of protecting his beloved
liege from enemies, traitors, and monsters is
dashed to bits when Durendal is bonded till
death to an effete noble fop at his king's orders.
Yet Destiny has many strange and inscrutable
plans for the young knight--for a mission, a contest,
and, perhaps, a treasure await him in a faraway
land. But he soon finds himself enmeshed in treason
and foul intrigues, compelled to betray the king he
had hoped to serve. The Blades have ways
to protect their own, but death and madness haunt the
path to salvation--and few ever return unscathed.
"Classy ... irresistible ... a handsomely
crafted commentary on honor and betrayal ...
Duncan's people are marvelously believable, his
landscapes deliciously exotic, his
swordplay breathtaking."
Publishers Weekly (starred
Review)
www.eosbooks.com
DAVE DUNCAN
"Dave Duncan writes one excellent
book after another."
Locus
"He explores heroism, betrayal, and
sacrifice, all within the context of breakneck
adventure ... But in a Dave Duncan
story, "rollicking" should not be mistaken for
"insubstantial.""
Calgary Herald
THE GILDED CHAIN
A TALE OF THE
KING'S BLADES
"A truly great story ... Duncan is a
true master of his craft ... [He] has a
rare talent with words and uses them to his
advantage ... Buy this book, you won't
regret it."
SF Site
"Fast-paced ... Sharp humor and
swashbuckling action add charm and vigor to this
fantasy adventure."
Library Journal
"Good characters; fine plotting; a lean and supple
narrative."
Kirkus Reviews
"A rollicking and clever tale of adventure,
loyalty, and derring-do set against a briskly
sketched landscape of court politics and
intrigue ... The quirky plot never quite goes
where expected. Though this story stands well alone,
it would serve nicely as the foundation for other tales
of the King's Blades. If so, I want to be
there."
SFREVU
Other Avon Books by
Dave Duncan
THE GREAT GAME
PAST IMPERATIVE
PRESENT TENSE
FUTURE INDEFINITE
THE KING'S BLADES
AND IN HARDCOVER
SKY OF SWORDS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents either are the product of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated with
all my love to my grandson
Brendan Andrew Press
in the hope that one day he
will find pleasure in it
CONTENTS
Part Page
VOLUME I
Prologue ......................... 1
1 Harvest ......................... 8
2 Nutting ....................... 103
3 Everman ....................... 162
VOLUME II
3 Everman (continued) .............. 215
4 Wolfbiter .................... 233
5 Montpurse ................... 356
VOLUME III
5 Montpurse (continued) .......... 431
6 Kate ........................ 469
7 Quarrel ...................... 569
Epilogue ....................... 641
This braille edition contains the entire text of the
print edition except illustrations.
THE GILDED CHAIN
Prologue
Grand Master looked even older than the
Squire, but he had a hard trimness that age had
not softened, as if he would still be deadly with that
sword he wore. There was a ferocity in his gaze
that the boy had never seen before in any man's; so
he forced himself not to flinch when those terrible gray
eyes turned on him, meeting the stare as
impassively as he could, determined not to show any
sign of the tumult in his belly. While the two
men discussed him, he stood in silence, clutching
his cap in both hands. He had never seen the
Squire be so most-wondrous polite to anyone
before, fawning at Grand Master the way the goose
wife did to him.
The boy had expected the famous Ironhall
to look like a castle, but it was just a cluster of
buildings all alone on barren Starkmoor,
black stone walls and black slate roofs. The
inside was even bleaker: bare walls, plank
floor, wooden ceiling; a cold wind sighing in
one unglazed, barred window and out another. Two
big chairs, a table, a shelf of books, a
grate so clean that it was hard to believe any
fire had ever burned there--no prison cell could
be grimmer. If this was Grand Master's room,
how did the boys live?
"Vicious!" the Squire said. "Intractable.
Don't suppose even you can make a man out of
such trash." He had been telling everything--the
boy's entire life from his shameful birth out of
wedlock fourteen years ago to last week's
attempt to run away and the subsequent whipping,
with not one prank or misdeed overlooked. That was
no way to sell a horse. After that catalogue
of wickedness there could be no chance at all of his being
accepted. He was going to be sent home
to Dimpleshire most-wondrous fast.
Grand Master drained his wine and replaced the
goblet on the table. "You will withdraw, please,
while I speak with the lad."
The boy watched uneasily as the Squire
rose, bowed low, and departed. What was the use of
prolonging the matter? Why not throw them both out and
be done with it? The iron-studded door thudded shut.
He was not invited to take the vacant chair.
He met the gaze of the terrible gray eyes and
steeled himself not to twitch, fidget, or
even swallow. After several long minutes, Grand
Master said, "Why did you steal the pony?"
"It's mine. My mom gave it to me before she
... long time ago."
The old man smiled grimly. "If it was
only this high, couldn't you have walked faster on your
own two feet?"
The boy shrugged. "They'd always caught me on
"Worth a try," Grand Master admitted.
He reached his left hand into his doublet and brought out
a bag. It clinked. Now what? "You don't
get to keep this money--I take it back. Put
your cap on the table."
The boy obeyed suspiciously.
"Go back to where you were standing. Catch!"
The boy caught the coin. Most-wondrous!
"Can you throw it into your cap? Good. Ready?"
Another coin.
The boy caught it and tossed it beside the first. The
next throw went wider. Then higher, so he had
to jump--and there was another coming already and he was throwing
and catching at the same time. Soon he was going in
four directions at once, grabbing and throwing with
both hands.
The barrage stopped. He had put every one in the
cap.
"That was impressive. Very impressive!"
"Thank you, my lord." It wasn't bad.
Kids' stuff, though.
"Call me Grand Master. Your grandfather was
certainly correct when he said you were agile. But
he did tell me one untruth, didn't he,
although he uttered no deliberate falsehoods?
What is the real story?"
The boy resisted a need to lick his lips.
Would he rather be thought wicked or stupid? The old
man must be using some sort of conjurement to detect
lies, so stupid it would have to be.
"The girl, Grand Master. That one was not me."
The old man nodded. "I guessed that from your
reaction. The rest don't matter--only signs
of a spirit caged. Violence against women is
otherwise. Yet you took the punishment without
protest? Why?"
Because I am stupid! "He's a serf's son.
They'd have hanged him. She was only scared, not
real hurt."
"And suppose the next time he does rape
someone? Won't that be your fault?"
"I don't think he's truly evil,
Grand--"
"Answer my question."
The boy thought for a moment. "Yes."
"Do you regret your decision now?"
"No, Grand Master."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't think he's truly evil,
Grand Master."
"You have confidence in your own judgment. Good.
Well, the choice is yours--not mine, not your
grandfather's. Yours. If you wish to stay, I
accept you. If you do not, then I shall tell your
grandfather that I refused you. I warn you that you will be
embarking on a whole new life, a life of
complete obedience. It will be made a hard life,
deliberately, for we have no use for the soft. For the
first few weeks you will not even possess a name; you
will be only the Brat, the lowest of the low. You will be
free to leave at any time--and many do--but what
happens to you then will be no concern of ours. You will
walk out of the gate with nothing and never return.
"On the other hand, if you survive your
training, you will have achieved a position of some
honor in society. You will very likely live at
court, one of a very select brotherhood, the finest
swordsmen in the known world. Again, you will be embarking
on a life of complete obedience. You will serve
your King or whomever else he decrees. You will
have no say in the matter. Indeed, this decision you
take now is in a sense the last decision you will
ever make of your own free will."
And the first one, too. The boy had not expected
to be offered a choice.
Grand Master said, "Have you any questions?"
"Who picks my new name?"
"You do, usually from the list of former Blades,
although other names are sometimes accepted."
That was fairer than he had expected. If he
left, he would never know whether he could have been
man enough. Being the Brat in Ironhall could not
be much worse than being a bastard son in a
family with very little money and no social
importance. The alternative was to be
apprenticed to some craftsman or merchant, a
nobody evermore. He would not be the Brat for
long. "I wish to stay, Grand Master."
"Don't be too hasty. There are many things you
do not know. Ask more questions or just think about it. You can
have five minutes."
"No, Grand Master. I wish to stay."
"To make such a decision lightly can be taken
as a sign of folly."
"I have confidence in my own judgment, Grand
Master."
The dread eyes narrowed. "If you were already a
candidate, that remark would be treated as insolence."
The only safe answer to that was, "I understand,
Grand Master."
The old man nodded. "Very well. You are
accepted. Brat, go and tell the man waiting
outside that he may go now."
HARVEST
I
"Treason," Kromman whispered. He
repeated the word, mouthing it as if he found the taste
pleasing: "Treason! Your treachery is uncovered
at last. Evidence has been laid before the
King." He smiled and licked his wizened lips.
Human wood-louse!
Roland considered drawing his sword and sliding it
into Kromman until the blade would go no farther,
then taking it out again--by another route, for variety.
That would be an act of public service he should have
performed a lifetime ago, but it would create a
serious scandal. Word would flash across all
Eurania that the King of Chivial's private
secretary had been murdered by his lord
chancellor, sending courtiers of a dozen capitals
into fits of hysterical giggles. Lord Roland must
behave himself. It was a pleasing fantasy, though.
Meanwhile, the winter night was falling. He still
had work piled up like snowdrifts, a dozen
petitioners waiting to see him, and no time to waste
on this black-robed human fungus.
Patience! "As you well know, Master
Secretary, such rumors go around every couple of
years--rumors about me, about you, about many of the
King's ministers." Ambrose probably started
most of the stories himself, but if his chancellor said so
to Kromman, Kromman would tattle back
to him. "His Majesty has more sense than
to listen to slander. Now, have you brought some business for
me?"
"No, Lord Chancellor. No more business for
you." Kromman was not hiding his enjoyment; he was
up to something. Even in his youth, as a Dark
Chamber inquisitor, he had been repugnant
--spying and snooping, prying and plotting,
maligning anyone he could not destroy. Now, with
age-yellowed eyes and hair trailing like
cobwebs from under his black biretta, he had
all the appeal of a corpse washed up on a
beach. Some days he looked even worse. Even
the King, who had few scruples, referred to him
in private as rat poison. What secret
joy was he savoring now?
Roland stood up. He had always been taller
and trimmer than this grubby ink slinger, and the years
had not changed that. "I won't send for the Watch.
I'll throw you out myself. I have no time for
games."
"Nor I. The games are over at last."
Kromman slithered a letter onto the desk with all
the glee of a small boy waiting for his mother to open
a gift he has wrapped for her. Definitely
up to something!
Over by the door, Quarrel looked up from his
book with a puzzled expression. No voices had
been raised yet, but his Blade instincts were
detecting trouble.
Roland's face had given away nothing for
thirty years and would not start doing so now.
Impassively he took up the packet, noting
that it was addressed personally to Earl Roland of
Waterby, Companion of the White Star, Knight
of the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King's
Blades, et cetera, and closed with the privy
seal, yet it bore no mention of his high office.
That odd combination warned him what he was going to find
even before he lifted the wax with a deft twist of his
knife and crackled the parchment open. The
ornately lettered message was terse to the point of
brutality:
is therefore commanded to divest ... will absent himself