"I will push all I want, Commander," the
inquisitor whispered. "I will plot and scheme,
and one day I will find your blind spot and drag you
down. The next round will be mine."
"No, it will be mine, because I am already old for a
Blade. One day quite soon I will be released from
his service, freed of my binding and my pledge.
That day you die. Enjoy life while you can,
Ivyn."
This was a very narrow interpretation of what he had
promised--a slippery, forked-tongued,
inquisitor-type of hedging--but it was all he
had, and he meant what he was saying. Kromman
could see that he did, and a shadow of doubt showed in
his face. Durendal strode on up the
staircase.
He appointed Snake as his deputy, for he
seemed the brightest of the youngsters and had shown
resolution in drawing on Hoare when that was his
duty. The King approved the promotion without
comment.
On the third day, Commander Durendal walked
in on the squirrel-like bureaucrats of the
Ministry of Royal Forests and explained that he
was taking over their offices but they could--if they
wished--occupy the Guard's old space, which was
four times the size, much more luxurious, and hidden
away where no one would ever bother them again.
He put two desks in the front room and
set his own name on one of them. Now anyone could
find the Guard without delay, and usually get the
commander in person. He sent the King a note.
On the fourth day, Snake arrived at the
Guard office to find his commander in conference with six
fawning tailors. Blade Fairtrue, who had
been unfortunate enough to be the first man to catch
Durendal's eye when he needed a victim, was
being employed as a mobile tailor's dummy.
His stolid, boyish face was screwed up in
misery as he pranced around to order, waving his
sword.
"Cockroach!" said the Commander. "Swan.
Rainbow. No, that neckline is going to throttle
you. Take it off. Snake! Tell me what you
think of these britches."
Alarmed, Snake pulled his superior aside
and hissed in his ear. "The King himself designed our
livery!"
"That explains it, then. Get your pants off
and try on these."
Snake glanced out at the hallway where about
two hundred people were parading back and forth. "Yes,
sir. If you promise not to recommend me as your
successor in your famous last words."
"I won't if you behave yourself." Durendal,
too, eyed that open door, realizing that more than just
modesty recommended a move to more private
premises. If the King had designed the
livery, then he must not be allowed to hear
what was going on until the entire Guard had
been outfitted and the old uniforms were safely
burned. Spring it on him at a big banquet,
maybe--one for the Diplomatic Corps or
something. Then he would have to pretend that it was his own
surprise. That was Kate standing in the doorway.
Words lodged in his throat. He just stared, and
she just stared--no longer as young but every bit as
desirable. Smaller even than he remembered,
a little plumper. And her companion ... No
mistaking those rebellious dark eyes, the brows
already thicker than most, the widow's peak.
Numbers whirled through his head.
Finally he said, "He's tall for his age."
Then, to the consternation of the observers and for the first time
since he had been only about five himself, Commander
Durendal burst into tears.
His years as leader flew away like swallows,
perhaps because twenty-four hours were never enough for all the
living he needed to do in a day. There was Kate,
above all, and a mutual love that never produced
a single cross word. There was winning the trust of the
hitherto fatherless Andy, who had named himself
by mispronouncing the name they shared and was quite the most
stubborn child ever spawned by a swordsman. He was
also reckless to the point of insanity, a fault that
his mother would not admit must spring from her
bloodlines. Soon, too, there was Natrina, the
loveliest baby Chivial had ever seen.
The Treaty of Fettle brought the
Isilondian war to an end, at a price.
Parliament screamed that it was a national
humiliation, which it was, but Lord Chancellor
Montpurse retorted that a Parliament that does
not vote enough funds to wage a war properly cannot
expect to approve of the results. The lopsided
Baelish struggle continued, with raiders ravaging
the coasts almost at will: burning, looting, raping,
slaving without mercy. Chivial had no way
to retaliate, for Baelmark itself was impregnable,
a poor and sparsely populated archipelago
ringed with reefs. Parliament reluctantly
granted funds to build half a dozen fast
ships. The Baels caught four of them in port
being outfitted and burned them. There was little cheering
now when Ambrose appeared before his people.
Durendal kept the Guard youthful,
undermanned, and strung tight as a lute. He
escorted the King on his progresses and royal
visitations--except to Starkmoor. There he sent
Snake. The first time a binding was scheduled, he
arranged for Montpurse to mention in passing to the
King that the founder's name might possibly receive a
louder ovation than the King's. Ambrose took the
hint and did not insist on the Commander accompanying
him.
He won the King's Cup twice more and then
retired from competitive fencing, but he pointed out
that only members of the Royal Guard had ever
won it and vowed fearful vengeance if that tradition
were to be broken. It never was while he was in
charge.
Amid the pomp and panoply, when orders
glittered and trumpets sang, he was closer to the
King than any man. He stood with drawn
sword beside the throne when the King addressed
Parliament, when the King received ambassadors,
when the King judged major disputes between great
landowners. He developed a deep respect for the
wily fat man's ability to steer his realm the
way he wanted it to go. One of his duties as
chief Blade was to stand guard inside the door at
meetings of the Privy Council, so he was soon
aware of all major state secrets. He was
amazed at the way the ministers submitted to the
King's browbeating, even Montpurse sometimes.
Could they not see that Ambrose would respect
only those who chose their ground correctly and were
then prepared to defend it to the death?
On the shadowed side of the road sat the hated
Kromman, lurking in his webs, ever plotting
against Montpurse, always ready to exploit a
mistake but seemingly
making none of his own. The
battle was unequal, for a chancellor must act
while the secretary was a mere shadow of the King
himself and rarely offered a target. Nevertheless there were
some victories, as when Grand Inquisitor
dropped dead and Ambrose accepted
Montpurse's candidate as her successor
instead of Kromman's.
There were even triumphs, as when Queen
Haralda gave birth to a healthy young prince.
The exultant king decreed a month's national
rejoicing and named the boy after himself. There were also
tragedies. The Queen died a week later, and for
half a year Montpurse ran the kingdom
until the King came back to his
senses.
That shattering sorrow reinforced Ambrose's
virulent hatred of conjuration, whose seeds had been
laid by the long-dead Countess Mornicade.
No number of assurances from the White Sisters
would persuade him that his wife had not been slain
by some antagonistic conjurer. This obsession led in
turn to the King's Great Matter and thus to the
downfall of Chancellor Montpurse.
The epochal meeting of the council at which the
Great Matter was unveiled was held in
Greymere on a dreary day in early winter, with
sleet beating on the windows. Ambrose's
overworked ankles could no longer support his
bulk for hours at a time. A couple of years
ago, Secretary Kromman had introduced a
chair of state into the council chamber, and the King
now used it as a matter of course. His ministers
remained standing, although several of them were much older
than he was and there were empty chairs all around the
walls.
The Privy Council was a strange mixture
of hereditary nobles with resounding titles and
efficient commoners who did the actual work--the
High Admiral, the Earl Marshal, the High
Constable, the Second Assistant to the Master of
Forests. They ranged in age from thirty to eighty
and were all, with the possible exception of
Montpurse, terrified of the King.
Black-clad Kromman stood at a writing
desk in the shadows, officially taking notes but in
practice fixing every speaker with his unnerving,
lie-detecting stare.
The meeting was going poorly. Negotiations for the
King's marriage to Princess Dierda of
Gevily had been dragging on for months, growing
ever more complex, until now the draft contract
included clauses on lumber exports and fishing
rights. Montpurse argued for a conciliatory
response, the soft line. When no one else
objected, the King did. Debate raged until
he had his way, and the Chancellor was instructed
to send a very hard response.
To the Blade observer by the door, it was quite
clear that Ambrose had only opposed the
original recommendation to see if Montpurse
had done his homework and would defend his
position. Once the King began to argue a case,
though, he usually convinced himself; he quite often ended
by imposing solutions he did not really want.
Durendal wondered if Montpurse had foreseen
this and therefore had begun by defending the wrong goal.
It was possible.
The First Lord of the Exchequer presented a
harrowing account of the national finances, ending with a plea
that Parliament be called into session to vote more
taxes. Chancellor Montpurse warned that there was
much unrest in the country and a Parliament would
certainly seek redress if given the chance.
Redress meant concessions, and concessions were
easier to start than finish. And so on. Ambrose
had been growing more and more flushed. The chief
Blade was laying bets with himself on how soon the
thunder would start. He won and lost
simultaneously.
"Flummery!" roared the King. "Parliament?
I'll give those pettifogging stall keepers
something to redress. Chancellor, why do you not
impose our taxes uniformly? Why does a
fifth of the kingdom benefit from our rule and
justice, yet contribute not a copper mite to the
upkeep of the realm? Is this fair? Is this
justice?"
Montpurse's face was not visible to the watcher
by the door, but his voice sounded calm. "I
regret, sire, that I do not understand to what Your
Majesty--"
"Master Secretary, read out that report you
gave me."
Kromman lifted the uppermost sheet of paper
from the pile on his desk and tilted it to the gloomy
winter light. "Your Majesty, my lords. A
preliminary survey of lands held by elementaries
and conjuring orders indicates that they constitute in
aggregate approximately nineteen
one-hundredths of the arable land and pasture of
Chivial. As examples, the Priory of
Goodham owns more than half of Dimpleshire
and large tracts in neighboring counties, the
House of Fidelity at Woskin controls one
third of the wool trade of the eastern counties, the
Sisters of Motherhood at--"
"Sisters of Lust!" the King bellowed. "They
sell love potions. The House of Fidelity
traffics in mindless sex slaves. Foul
conjurations! If you want an enemy cursed or a
virgin enthralled, you take your gold
to these purveyors of evil. And yet they pay no
taxes! Why not? Answer me that, Chancellor!"
Montpurse's voice was less calm now.
"I have no idea, sire. The matter has never
been put to me until now. As Secretary
Kromman has obviously had time to investigate
"Because it has always been done that way!" said the
King triumphantly. "Because no one ever had the
gumption to suggest otherwise. In my grandfather's
day it didn't matter. The sickness was a matter
of a pox here and a pox there. But year by year these
cancers grow richer and acquire more land, until
now they are a blight upon the whole face of
Chivial. Put that to Parliament, My Lord
Chancellor! If we levy taxes upon the
orders, we can reduce the impost on everybody
else and still raise the revenue. How do you like that
idea?"
"It is a breathtaking concept, sire. But--"
"But nothing! Why didn't you suggest it to me?
Why didn't any of you? Why do I have to rely
upon a mere secretary to point out this injustice in
our rule, mm?" The King leaned back in his
chair and smirked. "You see, not one of you can think
of an objection!"
Durendal resisted a strong desire
to whistle. He felt a distinct chill up and down
his backbone.
"Many of these orders do good work, sire,"
Montpurse protested. "The houses of healing,
for instance. Others enhance seed corn, end droughts,
treat--"
"They can do all that and pay taxes too! I
see no reason why they s
hould wax ever richer while
the crown goes penniless. Summon Parliament,
Lord Chancellor, and prepare a bill to levy
taxes on them."
Montpurse bowed and the rest of the council
copied him like sheep.
As soon as the meeting was over, Durendal
went back to his office and tore up a
recommendation to release eight Blades from the
Guard. He consulted the latest report from
Ironhall and penned a letter to Grand Master. He
wrote another requesting a meeting with the Grand
Wizard of the Royal College of Conjurers.
Finally he went to call on Mother Superior, who
received him in her private withdrawing
room, offering him dainty plates of sweet
cakes and a glass of dry mead. They were fast
friends now.
The writ to summon Parliament was issued the
following week, but rumors of the Great Matter
had escaped already. Durendal waited upon the
King.
Kromman had long since ousted the Chamberlain
from the anteroom and assumed his duties there. It
was well known that persons not in the Secretary's
favor might need another haircut before they
gained admittance to His Majesty, but that
restriction did not apply to the Commander of the
Royal Guard. Only once had Kromman
dared to challenge his right of immediate access and then
Durendal had emptied an inkwell over him.
Falcon was senior Blade on duty, with
Hawkney assisting. They sprang up as
Durendal entered.
"Who's in there now?"
"His lordship the Warden of Ports, sir."
That was excellent news. The Warden was a
notorious windbag, whom the King suffered only
because he was an uncle of the late Queen
Haralda. "Poor Screwsley! I can't let
the poor boy suffer like that. I shall relieve him."
Durendal headed for the council room.
Kromman's dead-fish eyes glittered
angrily as he went by the desk. "You can't
interrupt--"
"Then stop me."
He opened the door, causing young Sir
Screwsley to jump like a spooked frog. His
lordship the Warden was in full drone, while the
King brooded by the window, staring out at frosty
branches. He spun around with a glare. What
happened next must depend on the King's
reaction. Durendal could merely gesture
Screwsley out and take his place--a breach of
etiquette but hardly high treason. His gamble
paid off, though.
"Commander!" the King boomed. "My Lord