The Night of Dogs had been only the start.
Fortunately, Ambrose IV had never been a
coward. The more they attacked him, the more determined
he became. No chancellor ever had better
backing.
"I'd like to hear some of those stories, my lord."
"Ah, old man's rambling! Ancient
history. The point is that we won. The King
brought conjuration under the rule of law, and a lot of
other countries envy us now. He did very well out
of it, of course. He sold off the lands,
usually; but sometimes he made gifts of them, and
Ivywalls was one of those. He gave it to me like
a huntsman throwing the entrails to his dog."
"My lord! No! You weren't his dog. You were his
army."
"Not I, lad, nor the Guard, either. It was the
Old Blades we called back who were his army,
and Lord Snake was his general. I was just the spider
in the attic, plotting where we would strike next.
In time we ran out of enemies and life became
much less exciting."
After a moment, Quarrel coughed politely.
"It wasn't exciting this evening?"
"Indeed it was!" Durendal said, abashed.
"Please don't think I am not grateful. You
may have set an Ironhall record--saving your
ward only three days after your binding."
"I didn't even draw!"
"You did exactly what was required, neither more
nor less. Few Blades ever draw in anger.
No, I am very grateful when I think where I
would be now without you."
Emboldened, Quarrel said diffidently,
"Then ... I know a Blade should never question, but it
does seem ... I mean I don't see ..."
The poor kid wanted to know why he was going to have
to die.
"You're wondering why the King assigned a
Blade to me last week and today sent Kromman
to charge me with treason?"
"It puzzles me, my lord, if you don't
mind my--"
"I don't mind at all. It puzzles me,
too. Being unpredictable is an attribute of
princes, I suppose. His Majesty
certainly did not mention assigning me a Blade
the last time I saw him." To leave the story there
would be a snub. "I went to visit him just before
Long Night. You know he's at
Falconsrest."
"I've been told of it, my lord. There's a
house on a crag and some other buildings below it in
the valley." Quarrel was demonstrating that
Ironhall's political lessons were up
to date. "Only the King and his intimates stay
at the lodge."
Only idiots went there at all in
midwinter, but Ambrose had shut himself up at
Falconsrest a month ago. Was that the action of a
completely rational man?
"He did not mention Blades. To be honest,
he was not at all pleased with me. Bestowing honors
on me was very far from his mind. He was rather curt,
I'd say."
He was also dying, but no one said that.
As Sir Bowman came twitching and shambling
across the scenic spread of the Chancellor's office,
Durendal rose to greet him. He honored
any fellow Blade that way, and the deputy commander
was always amusing company. He was a gangly,
sandy-haired man, who gave an impression of
extreme clumsiness, as if all his limbs were
moving in different directions; but this was pure
illusion, as he had proved by twice winning the
King's Cup. He usually seemed ready to burst
into tears, yet he had a sense of humor
to rival Hoare's--whom no one remembered
anymore, of course.
"Pray be seated, brother."
"How may I assist, my lord?" Bowman
flopped into the chair as if he had tipped himself out
of a sack. He peered morosely across the desk
at the Chancellor.
"A couple of things. First, I'm trying
to locate a place called Wizenbury. No
one seems to know where it is. But you have Guards from
all over, so if you wouldn't mind asking around
"Appleshire," Bowman said gloomily.
"I was born near there." Blades never discussed
their past, but he had still a trace of the west in his
voice.
"Ah, thank you." The Chancellor had found the
sheriff he needed for Appleshire, and he
suspected that Bowman knew perfectly well
why he had asked that absurd question. "The second
thing is a little harder. I must go and visit the
King. Do you think you could find a couple of
patient souls who might bear the tedium of
walking their horses beside my palfrey?"
Bowman uttered a moan of ironic
disbelief. "Suicidal daredevils who might
just be able to keep up with you, you mean? I think I
have some crazies who may accept the challenge.
The entire Guard," he added with an abrupt
descent into ever deeper melancholy.
Five days before Long Night, the palace of
Greymere ought by rights to be bespangled with
decorations and throbbing with jollity. This year it was
a drab barn of boredom, and the longest faces were
the Blades'.
"You miss His Majesty. We all do."
"Mice don't play when the cat's away,
my lord. They die of irrelevancy. I wish
Dragon would let us rotate the men, but he's
stopped doing even that. Useless wear and tear on the
horses, he said. He doesn't think of the rust
on the men."
"Would you consider a suggestion?"
"Very happily, my lord--from you."
"Your livery's frowzy and old-fashioned. I
can say so, because I designed it myself, but that was
years ago. Something more modern would make them
feel better, liven them up."
Bowman gave him an especially lugubrious
look. "You think His Majesty would approve it?
He doesn't even like to change his socks these
days."
"No, I don't suppose he would, but ...
Never mind."
"Yes. Well, my lord, I will very gladly
provide you with an escort. When?"
"An hour before dawn. We'll be back for the
festivities."
The Blade sighed. "I doubt if you'll
miss much if you aren't. Nothing more?" He began
to lurch upright.
"Not for me. Anything I can do for you?"
Bowman sagged back again quickly, as if he had
been hoping for such a question. His voice dropped to a
confidential murmur. "Well ... it isn't
really any of my business, my lord,
nor of yours either, and I know you'll pardon my
presumption saying so, but I know that Grand Master
has seniors stacked up to the roof. I just thought,
if you get a chance to sort of drop a word to the
King, maybe? We could use some young blood in the
Guard; but even if he doesn't want to go there
himself just now, he might assign them to others,
perhaps?"
Durendal shrugged. It certainly was not his
&nbs
p; business, because he was government and the Order was in the
King's personal prerogative. Ambrose was
very touchy about that distinction. "I'll see what I
can do. You don't have to tell me that he doesn't
answer his mail."
At first light, Durendal rode out of the
gates on Destrier, in the company of three
boys. They would be furious if they knew he
thought of them as that, but their ages combined would not
exceed his by much. Their names were Foray, Lewmoss,
and Terror, and they were all glad of a chance to seem
useful. He noted that they were well mounted and all
had good seats, which meant that Bowman had sent his
best horsemen--probably with strict orders
to prevent any repetition of the embarrassing
incident that had marred the Chancellor's last
journey to Falconsrest, when a certain
geriatric Chancellor had shown certain young
Blades his heels. Well, he would see how
he and Destrier felt on the way back.
A miserable wind moaned under a dreary sky,
once in a while throwing snowflakes just to warn that
it had plenty in hand. Falconsrest was an
all-day ride from Grandon, but they could stay
overnight at Stairtown if the weather turned
worse. Going two by two, his guards took
turns riding at his side, courteously wheedling
tales of the past from him, flattering him by asking about
the Monster War or even the Nythia campaign
--none of which ancient history could possibly be
of any interest to them.
They were all hoping that Commander Dragon would
let them stay on at Falconsrest, relieving
three of the dozen or so men he kept there.
Durendal found this ambition amusing, because there was
absolutely nothing in those wild hills that should
attract spirited young men in the middle of winter. It
was their binding talking. They pined at being kept
away from their ward. When Foray even had the
audacity to ask why the King had shut
himself up in such a burrow over Long Night,
Lord Roland sternly suggested he ask the King
himself. The answer, alas, was that he hated people
watching him die.
He questioned them about recent news from
Ironhall. They would not realize that it was none of
his business; as a knight of the Order, he was
expected to be interested. They confirmed what
Bowman had said about a surfeit of seniors
waiting for assignment.
Between chats, he pondered the unfamiliar
future that lay beyond the King's death. For the first
time, he would be free to do what he wanted.
Travel, probably, because Kate wanted
to travel. He had friends and correspondents
all over Eurania now, and standing invitations
to visit. He would be a private citizen, but a
famous one, welcome in a dozen great cities.
Thanks to Ambrose, he was rich. It would seem
very strange.
He led the way into the valley as the winter afternoon
faded out in despair. The group of thatched
buildings cowering under the snow-covered hills was
commonly known as the village, although it consisted
entirely of overflow accommodation. The lodge
on the rock that loomed almost directly above it was
the palace proper, but it had only four rooms.
There was something bizarre about the court of Chivial
sheltering in sheds.
While he shed his cloak and stamped snow off his
boots, he was greeted by Commander Dragon, who
was a beefy, thickset man by Blade standards,
with a luxurious black beard and a swarthy
complexion that made him seem older than his
twenty-eight years. In complete contrast to his
deputy, Dragon had no sense of humor at
all. He was a plodder who would never question an
order or think for himself, which was precisely why the
King liked him.
"Much the same, my lord," he said before
Durendal could ask the inevitable first question.
"I'll send someone to tell him you're here. A
posset to warm you now?"
"Add some hot bran mash for my horse and
I will be in your debt till the sun burns out.
Although I think that may have happened already."
"It will be back," Dragon assured him
solemnly.
Shack or not, the barn-sized room was
bright and hot. Some amateur musicians were
screeching out dance music. Strips of colored
muslin added a seasonal gaiety above the long
tables at which people were guzzling great slabs of pork,
while the rest of the hog sputtered and sparked on a
spit. Durendal's insides rumbled
imploringly for attention.
Sternly telling them to wait their turn, he
sent for the royal physicians and conjurers. They
would not commit themselves on their patient's condition,
perhaps deterred by the law that declared imagining the
King's death to be high treason. They certainly
offered no hope. He looked around the ring of
haggard, tight-shut faces and resisted the
temptation to try a royal bellow on them.
"I trust you will give me as much warning as you can
of any change you foresee in His Majesty's
condition?"
They nodded in noncommittal silence. He
went off to eat. Just when he was about to start on a
high-piled platter, a Blade with snow on his
eyebrows appeared to inform him that the King would receive
him at once. On his way out he had to pass
Foray, Terror, and Lewmoss, all chewing
vigorously with grease running into their beards.
He hoped they choked on their stupid grins.
As he was donning his damp cloak at the
door, Dragon appeared again, glancing around
furtively.
"My lord?"
"Leader?"
"If you get the chance to drop a word to His
Majesty ... I know he listens to you, my lord."
"Sometimes he does. What can I do for you?"
"The Guard, my lord." The Commander was
whispering, which was very unlike him. "I've got
twenty men I want to release, you see.
They're all well past due. I've mentioned
this, but ... well, he won't even discuss it with
me. It would be a nice Long Night present for
them, I thought."
Durendal sighed. "Yes, it would. I'll
see what I can do."
Obviously Ambrose was neglecting his
precious Blades, and that was a very bad sign.
Was he incapable of making decisions or merely
clinging to the past, the old familiar faces?
Huddled against the snow, the Chancellor rode a
dogged little mountain pony up the steep track to the
lodge. Where the village had been
festive, the lodge was dreary as a tomb, although
it was crammed full of men. To cross the
guardroom he had to pick his way along a narrow
path through a clutter of bedding and baggage, passing
half a dozen Blades playing a morose
&
nbsp; game of dice by the light of a single candle. The
stairs took him up to another dormitory, which was
little brighter and so congested with men that it was hard
to believe they would all find room to lie down
later. They seemed to be grouped into three snarly
arguments. He wondered who they all were:
cooks, hostlers, valets, doctors,
nurses, secretaries? He had seen no
women, but he had not looked into the kitchen, which
probably also served as a communal bathhouse and
another bedroom. People swarmed on a king like bees
on a queen--there might well be tailors,
musicians, falconers, vintners, or even
architects and poet laureates in attendance at
Falconsrest. Every one of them would fight for the right
to live in the squalor of the lodge rather than the
relative comfort of the village, just to prove that he
was of the indispensable elite. This is what happened
when monarchs tried to escape.
At least the King's bedroom was not stuffed like a
fish barrel. It held a few chests and a great
four poster, whose faded purple draperies
rippled in drafts that rattled the shutters and
baffled the best efforts of a roaring fire. The other
rooms had reeked of bodies and overworked
garderobes, but here those stinks were overwhelmed by the
rancid stench of the suppurating ulcer that was killing
Ambrose IV. He sprawled back on
heaped pillows, a face of melted tallow above
an enormous heap of furs. were those just shadows
under his eyes or mildew?
He had outlived four wives and his son; he
had never seen his grandsons. After a reign of
thirty-nine years, his realm had shrunk to this
windy kennel, and every gasping breath was a noisy
effort. Durendal knelt to him.
His voice rasped disturbingly. "Get up,
fool! Can't see you down there. Sorry ...
drag you all this way such weather."
"It is a pleasure to get some exercise,
Your Majesty. They tell me that your health is
improving."
"Told you ... all I needed was a rest!"
The King glared defiantly. He was still not yet
admitting anything.
With extreme annoyance, Durendal noted the
odious Kromman standing inside the closed door,
almost invisible in his midnight robes. He was
stooped now, a sinister cadaverous scarecrow, but
the fish eyes still held their sharklike menace.
"What's this I hear," the King wheezed, "about
you steeplechasing, beating my Guard?" The question
showed, and was intended to show, that he had other sources