from business of our Privy Council ... will
hold himself available to answer certain grave
matters. ...
Dismissal!
His first reaction was sweet relief that he could
now throw down all his worries and go home
to Ivywalls and the wife whom he had never been
allowed time enough to love as she deserved. His
second thought was that Kromman, here designated
his successor, was an unthinkable choice, totally
incapable of handling the work.
He looked up blandly, while his mind raced
through this deadly jungle that had suddenly sprung
up around him. He should not be surprised, of
course. Ambrose IV tired of ministers just as
he tired of mistresses or favorite
courtiers. The King grew weary and sought new
beginnings. He would hope to shed some of his current
unpopularity by blaming his own mistakes on the
man who had faithfully carried out his policies.
Loyalty was better to receive than to give.
With the silent grace of an archer drawing a
longbow, Quarrel rose to his feet. For most
of the last two days, the poor kid had been
slouched on the couch by the door, leafing through a book
of romantic verse, bored out of his mind. He
would have registered that the latest visitor was unarmed
when he entered and then lost interest in him. Now he
had sensed something amiss.
"Your treason is uncovered!" Kromman said
again, gloating.
Roland shrugged. "No treason. Whatever
forgeries you have concocted, Master Kromman, they
will not withstand proper examination."
"We shall see."
They stared at each other for a moment, lifelong
foes harnessed too long together in service to the
same master. Roland could never consider himself
guilty of treason under any reasonable definition
of the word; but treason was a slippery concept, a
mire he had seen trap many others--
Bluefield, Centham, Montpurse.
Especially Montpurse. He had organized
Montpurse's destruction himself. To be dragged
down by the odious Kromman would be excessive
irony, though. That would hurt more than the
headsman's ax.
Again he found himself contemplating murder
and this time he was not altogether joking with himself; this might be
his last chance to slay the vermin. Alas, the
revenge he should have taken years ago would now be
seen as an admission of guilt, so he would die
also and leave Kromman as posthumous winner of
their long feud. Better to stay alive and fight,
face down the deceit and hope to win, however
unlikely that might be--Kromman was very sure
of himself.
Meanwhile, the dusty files on the desk and the
garrulous petitioners in the waiting room could
equally be forgotten. Lord Roland could walk away
from them all with a clear conscience and head home a
day earlier than he had planned. Tomorrow would be
soon enough to start worrying about treason and a trial
and the almost inevitable death sentence.
"Long live the King," he said calmly. He
walked around the desk, lifting the weighty chain from
his shoulders. "This is not gold, by the way, only
gilt. Chancery knows that, so don't try accusing
me of embezzlement."
With a leer of triumph, Kromman bent his
head to receive the chain. It rattled around his feet like
a golden snake as Roland released it.
"Put it around your neck yourself, Master
Kromman, or have the King do it. The writ does
not require me to bestow it."
"Oh, we shall teach you humbler ways soon!"
"I doubt it." Then Roland recalled the wording
of the warrant and the authority it granted to his
successor. "Or are you contemplating immediate action
against my person?"
The new chancellor's amber-toothed smile was
answer in itself. "Indeed, I shall now have the
pleasure of completing a task I was prevented from
completing many years ago." Meaning he had a
squad of men-at-arms waiting in the anteroom
to escort the prisoner to a dungeon in the
Bastion, probably in chains. What sweet
But he was still unaware that there was a third person
present. He had come scurrying in with his mincing,
pigeon-toed walk and gone right by the witness beside the
door, too impatient to notice his victim's
guardian. As quiet as mist, Quarrel had
crossed the room to stand at the inquisitor's
back--tall and supple and deadly as a spanned
crossbow. He could be Lord Roland's twin
brother, born forty years too late.
For the first time Roland looked directly
at him. "Have you met Master Kromman, the
King's secretary?"
"I have not had that honor, my lord."
Kromman twisted around with a gasp.
"It is no honor. He plans to have me
arrested. What say you to that?"
Quarrel smiled at this sudden improvement
to his day. "I say not so, my lord." One hand
rested on his sword. He could draw faster than
a whip crack.
"I thought you might. This is Sir Quarrel,
Chancellor. I deeply regret that I shall be
unable to accept your gracious invitation
voluntarily. I hope you brought adequate
forces?"
Kromman's jaw hung open. Quarrel's
hose and doublet had been outrageously
expensive, his jerkin and plumed hat even more so,
but they could be matched on a score of young dandies
around the court. It was not his athlete's grace or
his darkly sinister good looks that proclaimed him
unmistakably as a Blade, nor yet his
sword, for his hand concealed the distinctive pommel.
Perhaps it was his bearing. There could be no doubt that
even if he were one against an army, he would litter
the floor with bodies before he let anyone lay a
hand on his ward.
Kromman had a problem he had not
anticipated.
"Where did you get him?" he squeaked.
"On Starkmoor, of course." Roland should have
guessed that something unexpected would happen right after
he went back to Ironhall. Every visit he had
ever made to that gloomy keep had marked a turning
point in his life.
As Durendal raised his wineglass to his
lips, loud booing broke out at the far end of the
hall, which could only mean that the Brat had come
in. An immediate cheer announced that he had been
tripped up already. The kid scrambled to his
feet in a shower of crusts and chop bones, and was
promptly tripped again. He had a long way
to go, because he was not past the sopranos' table yet
and must still run the gauntlet of the beansprouts, the
beardless, and the fuzzies before he reached the
seniors. Undoubtedly Grand Master had sent
him to summon Prime and Second
to a
binding, and it was his misfortune that they happened to be
at dinner.
It was a rough game, but some of the games were even
worse; and everyone started out as the Brat.
Durendal had endured that ordeal longer than
most, beginning right after the supremely joyous
moment when he had been able to tell his grandfather to go
back to Dimpleshire and stay there. Spirits! Had
that been five years ago? It was hard to believe
that he was Second now and the Brat was heading for
him. Most-wondrous!
He glanced at the high table to confirm that Grand
Master's throne remained unoccupied. Master of
Horse and Master of Rapiers caught his eye and
smiled knowingly. Nothing but a binding would be keeping
the old man away on Ironhall's most
important night of the year, the Feast of
Durendal, the legendary founder whose name Second
himself had assumed in a mad act of defiance.
Tonight the seniors were allowed wine. Soon the
Litany of Heroes would be read out and speeches
made. For Grand Master to be absent required
something epic afoot. Possibly the King himself
had arrived.
Durendal had been Second for less than a
week. He had not expected to make the leap
to Prime just yet. He glanced at Harvest beside
him, but Harvest was arguing so intently with Everman
that he had not even noticed the disturbance.
Five years, and soon it would be over--
possibly as soon as tomorrow night, if the King
wanted more than one Blade. Manhood in
place of adolescence; farewell to Ironhall.
Feeling his mind strangely concentrated by this sudden
nostalgia--and possibly also by the wine, he
realized--he scanned the great hall, as if
to fix it more tightly in his memory.
Servants hastened back and forth from the kitchens,
striving unsuccessfully to keep platters heaped
against the onslaught of voracious young
appetites. Candlelight flickered on scores
of fresh faces at the long tables and reflected
on the famous sky of swords overhead--a
hundred chains slung from wall to wall, with a
sword dangling from almost every link, more than five
thousand blades. Visitors and newcomers
notoriously lost their appetites when offered their
first meal in the hall, especially when it was
accompanied by vivid descriptions of what would
happen if just one of those ancient chains
should break. Residents soon learned to ignore
the threat. The oldest of those swords had been up
there for centuries and would probably remain there
for a long time yet. The oldest of them all hung
alone in a place of honor on the wall behind
Grand Master's throne, and that was Nightfall, the
sword of the first Durendal, which had been found so
inexplicably broken after his death.
Soup sprayed over the Brat as he passed the
beansprouts' table.
There were seventy-three candidates in
Ironhall at the moment. Second was
responsible for keeping them all in line, so he
had that number branded on his heart. There ought to be
a hundred or so, but there was a new King on the
throne. In his first year Ambrose had replaced
more than a score of his father's aging Blades.
He had slowed the pace a little since then, but
lately he had been gifting Blades to his
favorites. The candidates considered that
Ambrose IV was being profligate with his
precious swordsmen, although they were hardly
unbiased observers. How many did he want
tonight? Harvest was Prime, and candidates
invariably left Ironhall in the same order
they had entered.
The Brat arrived at last, panting and well
spattered with gravy and fragments of salad. He
stared in dismay at Harvest's back, hesitant
to interrupt the awesomely exalted Prime while
he was talking; but all the seniors except
Durendal were still arguing at the tops of their
voices, blissfully unaware of the drama. The
hall hushed as the audience realized what was
happening and waited in amused suspense. The
distant sopranos had climbed up on their
benches to watch.
Young Byless was in full throat. "And I say
that we're the most deadly collection of
swordsmen in all Eurania.!" He
apparently meant the seniors, including himself. This
was certainly the first time in his life he had ever
tasted wine, and it showed. "We'd be a match for a
whole regiment of the King of Isilond's
Household Sabreurs. We ought to send them a
challenge."
"Shinbones!" said Harvest. "We'd be
massacred!"
Byless turned an unsteady gaze on him.
"What if we were? We'd have created a
legend."
"Besides," said Felix, "I think they're a
lot more deadly." He gestured over his shoulder
at the tables behind him.
He was making better sense. That was where the
masters and other knights sat, those Blades who
had played out their game and retired to teach another
generation. There were bald heads and liver spots and
missing teeth there. Some were truly ancient, but not
one of them was fat, senile, or even stooped; and
by and large they were all still functional. Blades
might rust, but they did not rot. Among them were
some unfamiliar faces, visitors enjoying the
nostalgia of a Durendal Night. Knights who
had completed their stint in the Royal Guard might
be anything from doorkeepers for rich merchants
to senior ministers of the Crown. The only one
Durendal recognized there tonight was Grand
Wizard, head of the Royal College of
Conjurers. They were all having as much trouble as the
juniors in suppressing their laughter.
Red-faced, Byless drained his glass and went
on the offensive with a loud burp. "Urk! Them?
They're old! There isn't one of them under
thirty."
Durendal decided it was time to stop his friends
making fools of themselves. He scowled at the
Brat, who was a smartish nipper and had been
Brat long enough to know that the current Second was
no danger to him.
"Miserable lowlife!" he shouted.
"Bottom-feeding, snot-nosed, festering slug,
you dare to creep in here and mar the merriment of your
betters?"
The Brat shot him a wary glance. Harvest
looked around, gaped in horror for a moment, and then
made a fast recovery. "Scum! Bed-wetting
troglodyte!" He swung a blow at the
Brat's head, but it was well signaled and
failed to make contact.
The Brat sprawled realistically to the floor
and groveled appropriately. When he had been
Brat, Durendal had found groveling the hardest
duty required of him. He had learned, of
course--oh yes, he had le
arned! The hall
whooped in approval. They had all been there
once, every one of them, down on the floor, butt
of all Ironhall.
"Honored and glorious Prime!" the kid
squeaked. "Most noble, most illustrious
Second, Grand Master sent me to summon you!"
"Liar!" Harvest boomed, tipping his
wineglass over the lad. "Get out of here, you
human pestilence. Go and tell Grand Master
to eat horse dung."
The Brat sprang to his feet and fled,
running the gauntlet of flying food and extended
feet again. The knights joined in the laughter as
if they had not witnessed such scenes a thousand times
before.
Tumult died away to an excited murmur.
"That was good," Durendal said.
""Bed-wetting troglodyte" was good!"
Prime tried to hide his apprehension and
failed miserably. "You suppose there might be
something in what he said?"
"It's your blood, brother," Durendal
declared confidently.
It would not be his blood, not tonight. Only
Prime was going to be bound, or Grand Master would
have summoned more than two. They rose together, bowed
to high table together, and headed side by side to the
door. An ominous hush settled over the hall.
Most-wondrous!
Durendal closed the heavy door silently and
went to stand beside Prime, carefully not looking at
the other chair.
"You sent for us, Grand Master?" Harvest's
voice warbled slightly, although he was rigid as a
pike, staring straight at the bookshelves.
"I did, Prime. His Majesty has need
of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"
Candles flickered. Durendal had not been in
this chamber since the day he caught the coins,
five years ago, yet he could see no change.
The grate had never been touched by flame, the
same stuffing was still trying to escape from the chairs,
and even the wine on the table was the same deep red.
Of course Grand Master's eyebrows were thicker
and whiter, his neck more scraggly, but Durendal
had watched those changes coming day by day. He himself
had changed far more. He was as tall now as Grand
Master.
He remembered how, that epic first day, he had
gone to report to this same Harvest and seen his
face light up with ecstasy. Three months
later, Durendal himself had reacted the
same way when his own replacement had appeared.
Three months of hell--and yet those three
months had been nothing compared to what had followed