advise Your Majesty to prorogue
Parliament." That would save Montpurse.
"What?" The King's jaw dropped onto a
layer of chins. "Go on, man, go on!"
"Well, why just tax them if Parliament will
let you shut them down? You could confiscate their
lands entirely. Begging your pardon, sire, but
who needs taxes?"
The King stumped over to his chair of state and
lowered his bulk onto it. Durendal waited to be
told that he was an ignorant blockhead with
congenital insanity. If the solution was so
simple, surely Kromman or Montpurse
or the King would have seen it long ago? Ambrose
was going to laugh him to scorn and in a few months
--just long enough that he would not have to admit he had
made an error of judgment--he would find himself a
new chancellor, one who did not advocate
absurdities.
Yes, the King did begin to laugh, but he
laughed until his belly heaved and tears streamed
down his roly-poly cheeks into his
beard. When he managed to catch his breath, he
wheezed, "And I accused you of not being a fighter!
You're proposing outright war! Stamp them out!"
This sounded promising. "They started the war,
sire. Of course, there will be considerable danger
when they realize what we are up to." The
Guard would have a thousand fits--Bandit already
looked as if he had just been kicked in the
duodenum.
But Durendal had guessed his king would not shrink
from the prospect of danger and the supposition was
correct. The royal fist thumped on the chair.
"Blast them all! If we have to call on the
Destroyer General, we'll do it! How will you
proceed? Who'll bell this cat?"
"The inquisitors will want to, of course, and
so will the College. I'd prefer to set up an
independent Court of Conjury. Investigate,
convict, disband, expropriate, and move on to the
next. Obviously, some of the orders are
beneficial--license them and let them continue.
I don't for a moment suppose you can reclaim the
entire one fifth that Secretary Kromman
mentioned, and you may glut the real estate market,
but I doubt that your treasury will run dry for a
year or two."
"By the eight, I was right to pick you! A pox
on Parliament! This is sumptuous!" The King
smacked his lips, but then his habitual
suspicion returned. "Who's going to run this
Court of Conjury?"
"Your Majesty will name the officers, of course,
but what I suspect you will need most is a band of
fighting men brave enough to storm these lairs of
evil. It will be close to war, I am sure.
And the obvious men to recruit, sire, are the
knights of my order. As you saw on the Night
of Dogs, sir, there are dozens of them still fit and
strong, loyal to Your Majesty--some married, some
not, some rusting away in Ironhall, many of them with
no real purpose in life. They will leap at such
a chance to serve you." That was the part of his plan that
appealed to him most, and he would give all his
teeth for the chance to lead the army. Alas, he knew
he could not hope for that.
The King muttered, "Sumptuous!" a few
times. "By fire, we'll do it!" He seemed about
to heave himself out of the chair, then he paused. He
smirked at Durendal with his fat little mouth. "I
reward those who serve me well. What
do you need?"
Montpurse safely out of the country?
Kromman's head in a bottle? Ten more hours
in the day? "I have given you only promises so
far, sire. Should not rewards wait until I can
show results?"
The piggy eyes seemed to shrink and withdraw,
making Durendal think of two hot chestnuts on
butter. He wondered uneasily what was brewing
inside the sly, unpredictable mind behind them.
"Blast honest men!" the King muttered. "I
could deed you a county and you'd stuff it in a drawer
and forget it. There must be some way to make you fawn
like the others!"
"Your Majesty's approval is ample
sounded like bootlicking, and yet it was true. On
his first bout in the political arena, he had
impressed this devious, lifelong schemer, and that
felt like winning the King's Cup.
"Ha! I know what's wrong with you. Thought you
looked peculiar! You're running around half
naked." Ambrose peered around him. "Guard?
Oh, it's you, Commander, er, Bandit. Get me the
Chancellor's sword!"
With an understandable blink of surprise, Bandit
opened the door and called to one of the Blades in the
anteroom, who were guarding Harvest as a minor
part of their duties.
What?
The King heaved himself out of his chair.
"Secretary!"
Kromman scuttled in like a giant, unwinking
beetle. "Your Majesty?"
"Make out a warrant!" said the King. "A
decree of ... Oh, make up a name.
Addressed to the Guard." He accepted the sword
from Bandit. "Henceforth, at all times and places,
Baron Roland may come armed into our presence."
Durendal, Bandit, and Kromman all said
"What?" simultaneously.
Then Kromman bleated, "But the readings,
sire ..."
Bandit growled, "He's worth three of ..."
Durendal protested, "Your Majesty, I
am not ..."
The King silenced them all with a glare and
extended Harvest hilt first to Durendal. "No,
you're not bound now. We reward you with our trust,
my lord."
Speechless, Durendal hung his sword back
in her proper place at his belt. Armed and
unbound! It was an honor he could not have dreamed
of--the only man in the kingdom so trusted. For
once, the Secretary's face was an open
book, and the fury written on it was worth a
dukedom. The King was smirking, so probably the
Chancellor was being fairly readable himself.
Moments like those taught a man a lot about
loyalty.
Even the King had underestimated the fury in
Parliament. Merely throwing Montpurse in the
Bastion did not sate his enemies--it just whetted
their appetites. Suddenly the ex-chancellor was the
greatest villain since Hargand the Terrible, and
neither Lords nor Commons would debate anything
except a Bill of Attainder, condemning him out
of hand to the Question. Duly passed by both houses, it
arrived at the palace one snowy evening to receive the
King's signature and become law.
The new chancellor slept very little that night and
doubted that his sovereign did either. To accuse
Montpurse of treason was absolute insanity
--incompetence perhaps, for all men made
mistakes. Indiscretion in accepting gifts from
inappr
opriate persons was possible, but he could
have done nothing to deserve what the act demanded.
Yet if the King refused consent, Parliament
might cut off his revenues. The decision was his
to make; his Chancellor must advise him.
By morning Durendal had almost convinced himself that
duty to King and country required throwing
Montpurse to the weasels. After all, although the
Question was very harrowing, it was not fatal and would
certainly clear him of the charges.
Almost convinced himself.
That must have been the right decision, though, because
Montpurse agreed with it. Even then he served
his King or his former friend. His signed confession
arrived not long after dawn, leaving Durendal no
choice. He took the bill into the King's
bedroom to be ratified.
Later that day he rode to the Bastion,
accompanied by a squad of Blades. He had
adamantly rejected the King's offer to assign
personal Blades to him--quoting a precedent
set by Montpurse--but he could hardly
refuse an escort. The lads enjoyed the
unnecessary outing with their former leader.
In less than a month, Montpurse had
aged ten years. His scalp showed through his hair, his
face was dragged down in pouches, his arms were thin.
Much more surprising was an apparent serenity quite
improbable in a man confined to a dark and
malodorous cell with chains on his ankles and
only a prison shirt and britches between his skin
and the cold.
"You have absolutely nothing to fear,"
Durendal said. "You will throw their charges back in
their faces."
Montpurse smiled sadly. "Everyone has
secrets, my lord. When will it be done?"
"I'm hoping I can hold them off until the
King prorogues Parliament."
"No, no! Get it over with, please. As
soon as possible."
"As you wish. I'll see to it."
Knowing the man, Durendal had anticipated that
request and had already given the necessary orders. He
did not need to countermand them, as he would have done had
Montpurse wanted a delay. He sat with the
prisoner and talked about the good old days, although
to him all past days must seem good now. And when the
inquisitors came, Montpurse was taken
by surprise.
He drew one sharp breath and then said, "You are
efficient, my lord! Thank you for this."
In a case of high treason, a member of the
Privy Council must attend when the suspect was
put to the Question. Durendal would not delegate that
terrible duty, but if it was not the worst experience
of his life, he could never decide what else
was. It went on forever. The elementary in the
Bastion was just another stinking dungeon, so small
that he must lean against a slimy wall with his toes
almost on the lines of the octogram. Montpurse
sat bound to a chair in the center, his face
mercifully concealed by the near darkness. Halfway
through the ritual, Durendal realized with fury that
one of the chanting conjurers was Kromman, but by then the
spirits were gathering and he dared not interrupt.
The conjuration invoked water and fire, but mostly
air, until the silences seemed to whistle with
hurricane winds. Montpurse whimpered a
few times and writhed against his bonds. At the end,
he sat with his head slumped forward.
"Have you injured him, you fools?"
"He has merely fainted, my lord," Grand
Inquisitor said calmly. "Quite normal. Do you
wish us to throw a bucket of water over him?"
"Of course not, you idiot! Put him to bed and
call a healer."
"I hardly think that is necessary, Chancellor."
Interpreting the regulations as liberally as he
dared and telling himself that he was merely being
considerate of his patiently waiting escort and
Montpurse's own feelings, Durendal left
and returned to the palace.
Having to waste time on sleep was a nuisance.
Being deprived of it was a torment. Two days
later, he went to the King feeling as if his head
had been marinated overnight in vinegar. He
dropped an inch-thick statement on Ambrose's
lap.
"Drivel!" he said. "Claptrap!
Picayune maundering! There is nothing in here
to convict a fox of stealing chickens. He accepted
gifts--but they never influenced his decisions. He
spoke harshly of you behind your back--what sort
of a man would he have been if he had not? I have said
much worse myself. He delayed carrying out orders
in the hope you would change your mind--which you did,
several times. He let you beat him at fencing.
When did flattery become a capital offense?
Sire, this man is innocent! You can never have had
a truer or more faithful servant."
The King scowled at him with his piggy little eyes.
"Go and talk with him!"
"What?"
"Go and talk with the prisoner! That is a command,
Chancellor!"
So Durendal rode back to the Bastion.
He found Montpurse in the same dark,
stinking cell as before, frantically trying to write
in the near darkness--on the floor under the narrow
shaft that admitted what little air and light there
was, because he had no table. Heaps of paper
surrounded him.
"Lord Roland!" He scrambled up eagerly,
rattling his shackles. "I am so glad you have
come!" He sounded close to tears.
"I have read your statements and--"
"But there is more, much more! So many things I
wanted to include and they would not let me! Oh,
my friend, I welcome this chance to tell you how I
betrayed you. I was jealous. I hated you
for your skill with a sword! When you defeated me in
the King's Cup I wanted to come after you with a real
blade. When you fenced with the King on your first night
at court, exposing us all as toadies and
lickspitters, I said such awful, dreadful things
to you! I detested you for my own shame, the disgrace
I had brought upon myself and the whole Guard. The first
time we ever spoke, on the night of my binding,
I came and thanked you, but not because I was in any
way grateful to you. No, only to make me
feel gracious and lordly. I was a detestable
person in those days. Do you know I played with
myself, back there at Ironhall? Oh, I know
every boy does, but that doesn't excuse all the
lecherous images and unclean thoughts ... Wait,
I have it all in writing here."
He began to scrabble among his papers. He
would not, could not, stop confessing to every imaginable sin
or fault he had ever committed or even
contemplated, no matter how trivial. In
minutes Durendal was pounding on the door and
yelling for the guards to let him out. The change, he
was informed, was perm
anent.
He went back to the palace. In silence he
took the death warrant to the King, and in silence the
King signed it.
KATE
VI
The coach crawled interminably through the snowy
night, following the lackey who walked ahead with a
lantern to keep it out of ditches. Shivering even
with two of the three rugs wrapped around his old
bones, Lord Roland was tempted to reach for the third
also, because his young companion did not seem to need it.
Pride would not let him.
He was brooding again. He must say something.
"You know, it's almost exactly twenty years
to the day since the King made me his chancellor--
Firstmoon, 368. About the time you were born, I
suppose?"
"Roughly." Quarrel's face was invisible.
His tone implied that it was shameful to be so young, so
another topic was required.
"Not very far to go now. Ivywalls is nearer
Nocare than Greymere, of course."
"It's a beautiful place. I look forward
to seeing it in spring."
Would the malevolent new chancellor allow either
of them to see spring? Worry about that tomorrow. "When the
King suppressed the elementaries, it was my share
of the loot."
"My lord!" Quarrel sounded almost comically
shocked. He would have been only a child during the
suppressions.
"I speak crudely but not inexactly. It was
never used as an elementary itself, or my wife
couldn't go near it even now, but it was a fairly
typical case. The land had belonged to the Curry
family since the previous dynasty. ... The
house is much more recent. In his last illness,
old Lord Curry called in healers from the
Priory of Demenly. While they were
supposedly enchanting him back to health, they
enchanted him to leave his entire estate to the
priory. His wife and children were thrown out in the
fields."
"Spirits! What? That's outrageous!"
"Oh, we uncovered much worse things than
that--children turned into sex toys, men and women
enslaved or deliberately addicted so that they would
die or suffer horrible pain unless they paid for
fresh conjurations every day. Some of the ways the orders
used to fight back were equally vile. It wasn't
called the Monster War for nothing. Had
you been my Blade in those days, Sir
Quarrel, you would have had your work cut out for you. The
assassins usually tried for the King or Princess
Malinda, but they honored me a few times."