worth all the lives it takes to keep me
alive, but is your precious king?"
The outrageous question took Durendal's breath
away. "I risk my life voluntarily
to--"
"So do our challengers."
"Oh, that is absurd! That's crazy! Blast
you! We were friends at Ironhall. We were close
as brothers. Now to see a man I trusted and
admired and loved turned into ..." Into what?
There was a stranger behind that familiar face.
Argument would not bring back the old Everman.
"We did agree to let it go at that, didn't
we? You'll make it home all right?"
The monk chuckled. "Oh, I'll be stiff and
so on, but I'll make it. I brought you a gold
bar, as a memento. Throw it away if you don't
want it. You can ride a camel?"
"Not well, but I'll get by."
They drank from a water skin and bade each
other farewell as friends who know they can never meet
again. They mounted and rode off in opposite
directions.
MONTPURSE
Very
Home proved to be very far away. Everything
conspired against him--caravans, weather, and finally
war. A man alone was fragile. Many times he
escaped robbery only through his ability to stay
awake all night. Twice he felt the
approach of fever and had to bury all his
valuables in a secret place and hope he would
live to dig them up again. He found half
Eurania up in arms. Chivial was at daggers
drawn with both Isilond and Baelmark, so he
was forced to return through Gevily, and even then he
was fortunate not to fall into the hands of Baelish
pirates. He landed at Servilham on a
blustery morning in Ninthmoon 362, more than
five years after he left. Converting the very last
of the King's money into a dapple mare, he set
off to ride the length of the kingdom.
He found his homeland strangely changed.
Ambrose was no longer the popular hero he had
been. Taxes had risen sharply, trade was
depressed by the war, harvests had been
poor for three years in a row. Queen Sian
had been beheaded for treason and replaced by Queen
Haralda. Bizarre fashions now ruled the
cities. Gentlemen sported ruffs, vast
plumed hats, grossly puffed sleeves,
slashed tabards, embroidered surcoats,
fur-trimmed capes. Ladies had disappeared
inside clouds of drapery, sleeves trailing
to the ground, and little lost faces peering out from beneath
elaborate turbans. As he neared the
capital, Durendal learned that he must seek out
his sovereign at the great new palace of
Nocare. But reporting to the King could wait a
couple of days; he had a mission more important
than that.
He rode in over Starkmoor around noon, being
spied first by a pair of horsemen who veered
to intercept him. At first glance they knew him for a
Blade, but they saluted with no sign of
personal recognition.
"Candidate Bandit at your service, sir."
"Candidate Falcon, sir."
Judging their eager faces, flushed pink by the
wind, he would have taken them for juniors, and yet
they were both armed. They were so typical and he had
been away so long that they seemed almost like twins
to him. He noted that Falcon had an upturned
nose and Bandit's heavy eyebrows met in the
middle. He berated himself for using such trivia
to distinguish men with as much right to be counted
individuals as he had, but he had nothing else
to go on in a first encounter, out here on the blustery
heath.
He did not give his name, which must have been
forgotten by now. They would assume he was making a
joke in very poor taste. He said only, "I
come to return a sword. I cannot stay."
They exchanged frowns, then Falcon wheeled
his mount and galloped off to give warning, while
Bandit escorted the visitor in. He had both
the sense to realize that Durendal did not wish
to converse and the poise to remain silent. When they
rode through the gates, the great bell was tolling.
door and handed the reins to a groom he did not
know. "I shall not be staying. See to her needs and
bring her right back."
He had thought that time had blunted the heartache,
but he felt it all anew as he extracted
Fang from his pack and strode up the
steps. He mourned again for Wolfbiter; for
friendship; for absolute loyalty, quick wits,
unfailing endurance; the great promise that had been
wasted to so little purpose. He mourned his own
guilt. Never would he accept another Blade from
the King. He had sworn that oath a hundred times
since Samarinda, and he swore it again there, in the
shadow of the Hall. Monarchs might bear such
burdens, but not simple men like him.
No task took precedence over a Return.
All the school had assembled under the sky of
swords: masters, knights, candidates, with
anonymous servants huddled in the background,
hushed and solemn. His tread tapped a slow
knell on the stone as he entered, holding the
sword before him. No whispers of excitement
greeted his appearance, for he had been five
years gone. One or two of the most senior
candidates might have witnessed his last visit, but
they would have been mere children then. He had won no
cups since, felled no foes. Even the faces
at the high table took time to light up with
recognition, and some of those were a surprise to him.
Many he had expected to see were absent. There was
a new Grand Master, a man who had been
retired from the Royal Guard just after
Ambrose's succession and whose name was Sexton
or Saxon or Sixtus or something like that. The
candidates seemed like babies to him, the knights
like mummies. This was his fourth arrival at
Ironhall, and now he knew he wanted it to be
his last. He was thirty! He owned an estate,
after all, Peck-something in Dimpleshire. He
would not need to join that row of impotent pensioners when
his arm grew slow. He had served his King well
for eleven years, longer than most Blades.
If she was still free, he would marry Kate and
retire to be a country gentleman.
The tables and benches had been cleared away.
He paced along the lines of candidates to where
Grand Master stood waiting for him below the broken
Nightfall. Already the second Durendal wished
he had not come at all. Had he waited, the King
might have given him permission to reveal some of the
story, although that was not likely. As it was, the
details must remain secret, and Wolfbiter's
heroism untold. Bitter the injustice! On the
other hand, Ambrose might have forbidden even this
small tribute.
"I bring Fang," he said, hearing his
voice echo dismally in the hush, "sword of Sir
Wolfbiter, companion in our order. He died
in a far land, defending his ward, whom he saved
then and had saved several times before. Cherish his
sword and write his name in the Litany, for none
better deserves to be remembered there."
Grand Master waited for more. Then, frowning, he
stepped forward to accept the blade. He said only
the required minimum: "It shall hang in its
proper place forever."
Durendal stepped back one pace and drew
Harvest to salute the broken blade on the
wall. Then he turned on his heel and walked
out. He rode away over the moors in the
eye-watering wind.
"By the eight, you've aged!" Commander Hoare
boomed cheerily. "I hope I don't look as
bad as that. Good to see what's left of you,
though!" He enveloped Durendal in a
bone-breaking hug.
His face had not changed very much, although he had
finally discarded his much-derided pale beard and there
were flecks of premature silver in his hair.
The rest of him was resplendent in a redesigned
Guard livery, which seemed totally impracticable
but might be appropriate within the new palace's
sprawling wonders of gilt and marble. True, many
parts of it were still scaffolding and ugly brick;
to see gracious gardens in the current swamp and
abandoned farmland required a considerable amount of
imagination--but the inhabitants were all grandiose
as peacocks.
"You look much the same," Durendal
retorted. "Congratulations, Leader! Is it
permissible to ask what happened to your
predecessor?"
"The Chancellor, you mean? Wench? Wench!
Bring ale for our guest! Sit down, man, sit
down!"
The visitor sank into a swansdown-padded
chair and gazed all around the sumptuous office of
quilted silk walls and ankle-deep carpets.
Back in his day, the headquarters of the Royal
Guard would have been rejected as stabling by the
royal hostlers, while this looked like a
potentate's harem. Then he stared in even greater
disbelief at his elaborately bedecked
host, observing that his surcoat was embellished with
complex heraldry of anvils and flames and
swords, topped by a motto, To Be Withand
Serve.
"Can you fight in that ensemble?"
Hoare cleared his throat and stretched out his
legs to admire his elaborate buskins.
"Probably not, but when was the last time we had
to fight?"
"Things have changed?"
"You could say that. The King no longer
campaigns in person." The Commander glanced a
warning as a buxom maidservant bustled in with
tankards and a small keg.
"Chancellor?" Durendal said. "Montpurse
is chancellor? Um, good for him! What happened
to Lord Centham?"
Hoare busied himself tapping the barrel until
the door had closed behind the maid. "Treason.
He was to be put to the Question today, actually."
"How is His Majesty?"
"Ah! Well, very well. Truly the greatest
monarch Chivial has ever seen." The remark was
accompanied by an expansive gesture with both
hands, and a raising of expressive eyebrows.
"We have a new queen, you know."
"The former Lady Haralda, I understand."
"And a real beauty! A very sweet sixteen.
Just five years older than Princess
Malinda. Your health, Sir Durendal, and your
happy return!"
They clinked tankards.
Durendal smacked his lips. "I missed this.
You really ought to try fermented goats' milk.
Nothing ever tastes bad again."
"No wonder you've aged! Tell me where
you've been all these years."
"Not until I have reported to the King, I'm
afraid. How is Montpurse enjoying his new
duties?"
"Like a double dose of crotch rot. Lord
Montpurse, of course. Companion of the White
Star and so on." Hoare donned an expression of
cross-eyed idiocy that said nothing and hinted at a
great deal. His humor bore a cynical odor
it had lacked in the old days.
Yes, things had changed. All the myriad
questions frothing up in the newcomer's mind had best
be postponed until he learned better how the land
lay. Ambrose must be ...
forty-five? Yes, forty-five. He should not be
losing his grip yet. And a wife of sixteen!
He would still crave a male heir, of course.
"I must request an audience to report on
my mission."
"I'll arrange that for you," Hoare said. "I
do have some powers, and access to the Secretary's ear
is one of them. An unpleasantly hairy ear,
yet a very acute one. But it was the Secretary
..." He fell silent, staring.
Puzzled by the look, Durendal said, "I
trust you can find a corner for me to call my
own?"
"Absolutely! Will a two-wench bed be
adequate? You realize you're officially dead,
don't you?"
Durendal had been about to quaff ale. He
lowered his tankard. "News to me. How did that
happen?"
"I do believe that it was Secretary
Kromman himself who originated that report. The
King issued--"
"Kromman? Ivyn Kromman, the
inquisitor? He's alive?"
His host kept an intent gaze on Durendal
while taking a long drink. "Very much alive. Very
close to His Majesty. Useful fellow.
Relieves the Chancellor of many of his burdens."
"Do keep talking." Durendal caught himself
transferring his ale to his left hand, which was a
danger signal in a swordsman.
Hoare had noticed. "He returned from some
foreign mission about a year ago. He had picked
up some very valuable intelligence in Isilond--
on the way back from somewhere else, rumor has
it--and that brought him to His Majesty's attention.
About a month ago, he was appointed personal
secretary." Pause. "He has taken up his
duties with celerity and diligence."
"Tell me how I died. I've forgotten."
"No details were revealed."
"Would it be possible for me to have that audience before
the Secretary learns that I am undead?"
"How long since you came in the gates?"
"About fifteen minutes."
"Too late, then."
Silence.
"You know Master Kromman?" Hoare asked
quietly. "But of course, he arrested your--I
mean the late lamented Marquis. You
met him that morning?"
"I have met him since, too." To reveal more,
even to Hoare, might be very unwise.
More silence. Granted that Kromman had
witnessed the rejuvenation conjuration in the monastery,
had he actually managed to steal a sample of that
revolting feast and use it to save his own life?
No. From what Everman had said, even a single
mouthful would have bespelled him, so he would have been
forced to go back to Samarinda and join the brethren
or else die the following dawn. But
Kromman's cache of inquisitorial
conjurements had included spiritually enhanced bandages
and simples, so it was just possible that he had
managed to heal himself. Just barely possible--
wounded, without horse or water, stranded in the endless
wastes of Altain. Even if he had possessed
some means of calling his horse back to him, it could
not have been a pleasant experience. He would be no
more friendly now than he had been before.
What had he told the King?
"I believe that an audience may be more urgent
than I first thought, brother."
The Commander pushed away his tankard half
full. "Give me an hour. He's going to be
inspecting the west wing. I'll borrow livery for
you--you can't meet him looking like that. You want an
escort in the meantime?"
"Flames and death, man! In the palace?"
Hoare shrugged. "No, of course not. I'm just
jumping at shadows."
"There must be a lot of them around," Durendal
said grimly.
He had an hour. He went straight to the
White Sisters' quarters and asked to see Mother
Superior. Several of the sniffers came and went
while his heels were allowed to cool in the
corridor outside the ornate door, and he
noted that they, at least, had not changed their
traditional habit for any of the newfangled
fashions.
The door opened again. Mother Superior was a very
tall, gaunt woman with a supercilious nose and
awl-sharp eyes. Her hennin almost touched the
lintel, which was a good ten feet up, and she brought
with her an eye-watering fragrance of lavender.
She had not been Mother Superior when he left,
but he remembered her. Judging by her expression,
he had the spiritual attributes of a warm
dung heap.
He bowed. "I am Durendal of the Royal
Guard, Mother. I have been away for some time on
His Majesty's business. I have just returned."
Her gaze traversed from his face down to his
travel-scuffed boots and back again. Her
pursed lips said pity!
"I wish to see one of the sisters. We were friends.
Sister Kate?"
The pursed lips had become a clenched jaw.
"We have no sister by that name." She began to close
the door.