shame, not an hour, not an unnecessary minute.
There was his cloak in the road, staining the mud
red. Then five horseman ahead, coming after him.
He tried to reach for his sword, and Destrier
took the chance to leave the track altogether. Angry
shouts faded in the background as the big black
pelted across a meadow at full gallop, dodging
willows, dodging boulders. The pursuers shouted
and followed.
Quarrel doubled up with his head alongside the
horse's sweaty neck to avoid having it
knocked off by branches. He tried not to scream.
He yelled instead. "Turn 'round! Turn
'round! That's twice you've done this to me, you
carrion brute! I've got to fight. I've
got to die with Reason in my hand."
Destrier raised his ears for the first time since the
gate, appraising the river ahead: steep
banks, foaming white water, sharp rocks.
"You can't!" Quarrel screamed, then gathered
up the reins and sat into the saddle and did everything
he could to help as the black took wing.
They made it with about an inch to spare, but it
felt as if they landed on his shoulder and the world swam
in blackness.
Loss of blood was making him feebleminded,
perhaps. He howled at his horse to turn back, but
Destrier refused. The Guard had balked at that
impossible leap and even at trying to ford the
torrent, which meant that Sir Quarrel, companion
in the Loyal and Ancient Order,
etc., had escaped when he was never supposed
to escape. He would be the first Blade in four
hundred years to run away and leave his ward
to die. Just dying of loss of blood in the woods
would still be a disgrace, if he couldn't do it nearer
his ward. But it would be better than nothing.
The dog-food horse had found a game
trail to race along.
If only he were certain that Durendal was
dead! Then he could dismount, unsaddle Destrier,
and happily bleed to death himself. But Dragon had
been shouting to take the fugitives alive.
Human sacrifice--they wanted Paragon so the
King could eat him. First Blade ever to run
away, first Blade to let his ward get eaten.
If they did take him alive, they might not
kill him until they were ready to do the conjuration--
dawn tomorrow.
Rescue?
He'd tried to die. If he hadn't been
wounded he could have controlled this worthless hack, and
then he would have died as he was supposed to. It
wasn't his fault that he was alive! But since
he was, wouldn't it be a sensible idea to try and
organize a rescue, just in case his ward was still
alive?
Who?
Having lost most of his terror, Destrier was
growing rather tired of all this exertion. He slowed to a
trot, which jarred hot knives into Quarrel's
shoulder. He kicked the brute back into a
canter.
Who? Who would help a disgraced, wounded,
runaway, cowardly Blade against the King and his
Guard?
The Queen's men, of course.
Mad! Crazy! Absurd! They were half the
kingdom away. Delirium.
He would never reach them. His horse had worn
itself out already. He was still bleeding and covered with
blood, so he'd certainly be challenged and
stopped by somebody. He would die and drop off before
he got close. Even if he made it, he
couldn't possibly convince them and bring them back
before sunrise tomorrow. They wouldn't believe him. The
masters and knights wouldn't let them do anything about
it if they did. They couldn't possibly achieve
anything against the Royal Guard.
The fires they couldn't! A dozen of the best
swordsmen in the world?
A time to thrust and a time to parry, Paragon had
said.
He patted his horse's lathered neck.
"Home, Destrier," he whispered. "Take
me home."
It seemed to Durendal that he had achieved a
on forever. His guardians would neither speak in his
presence nor let him speak. It was a commentary
on their tortured state of mind that they did not
even fall to playing dice, the Blades'
traditional pastime of last resort. He heard
men being relieved and sent off down to the village
to eat. He heard a meal arriving for the King, because
the royal household could not know that the dying man
had gone off to gallop a horse over the hills.
He was startled to discover that there was another
reborn in the lodge. A pale-faced man, young
and stringy in servant's livery that seemed too
short for him, came scurrying out of the King's
bedchamber, shot a frightened, wide-eyed gaze at
the prisoner, and disappeared rapidly down the
stairs. It took Durendal several minutes
to realize that it had been Scofflaw, the King's
eternally ancient valet, who wasn't ancient
anymore. The pump down in the kitchen squeaked
for a while, then he came trudging back up with a
metal bucket in either hand. Without looking at
Durendal at all, he placed them on the
dormitory fire to warm, filled two more, and
took those into the bedchamber. Later he went down
to fetch firewood also, but he was no more
talkative in his youth than he had been in his
old age, and rather more obviously short of wits.
It was past noon when sounds of horses
outside, then new voices down in the
guardroom, caused his guards to break into smiles
of obvious relief. The King had returned
safely.
Memory: Before he was Durendal, on his
second night in Ironhall, when he had been
very new as the nameless Brat, very lonely, and very
frightened by this strange new life--things had turned
suddenly even worse. He had been informed that he
must participate in a conjuration, not merely with the
exalted Grand Master, but also with Prime
Candidate Montpurse, whom the rest
of the school almost worshiped already, and Crown
Prince Ambrose, who had come to bind Prime
to his personal guard. He'd been almost
thirty, just three years before his father died--a
domineering young giant, fiery and handsome, with
brilliant amber eyes, with hair and beard of
fine-spun red gold. He had filled all
Ironhall with his personality, rousing the
candidates to wild enthusiasm for the glory that would
come when he ascended the throne. He had not
noticed the Brat, and the Brat had been so
afraid of forgetting his lines that he had barely
noticed the Crown Prince.
Heavy tread came up the stairs. First to enter
was Dragon, hairy and suspicious, a black
bear of a man. He looked the prisoner over and
then stood back beside Spinnaker and the others, his hand
on his sword hilt.
Durendal stood up, having already decided on
his strategy. Whatever the ethics, Ambrose was
still his liege lord. Outright defiance would be
profitless, while unquestioning deference would not deceive
anyone who knew him as well as the King did.
Between those two extremes, he must be respectful
to the monarch and opposed to his actions. Nothing
new in that.
In rolled Ambrose, restored to the prime of
manhood, virile and intimidating. There was even
something of that long-ago demigod about him once
again, but the conjuration had not removed his fat, so the
big man was a grotesque parody of what he
should have been. Nor had he yet had time
to acquire a suitable wardrobe. Even allowing
for the predictable horse sweat and grass stains and
general dishevelment, he was an untidy mess,
with clothes bulging in the wrong places and loose
in others. He stopped and stared at Durendal,
fat hands on widespread hips. What he saw
seemed to amuse him.
Durendal bowed.
"By the eight, you look old!" The fat man
laughed, but his laugh was heartachingly familiar as
the King's laugh, which no one had heard for almost
two years. It took all the sting out of the remark.
He had his charm back.
"Your Majesty looks much better."
The tiny boar's eyes seemed to stab through his
guard and scan his innermost thoughts. "And you are
pleased to see this, Lord Roland?"
"I rejoice to find you in good health,
sire."
"But the medicine disturbs you? Long live the
King!" His little mouth puckered in a smile.
"Say it, my lord. Say the words."
It had not taken him long to demolish
Durendal's defenses and drive him back to that
one place beyond which he could not retreat. The King
is dead, long live the Queen? But that would be
suicide. The Blades were already glaring
dangerously. Bowman had come to join them.
Durendal said nothing, waiting for the thunderbolts.
But the King was in excellent humor, chuckling
as if he had expected that reaction. "Come on
in. We need to talk." He began to move, and the
Blades surged forward in a mass. "Not you!"
Dragon hesitated. Bowman growled,
"Leader!" warningly.
"This one's dangerous, sire!" the Commander said.
"Dangerous? That old man? Here!" The King
pulled out his dagger and tossed it hilt-first to the
Commander, who caught it with a catlike flash of his
hand. "There! No weapons. Do you think I can't
handle him now?"
He was a head taller than Durendal,
twice his weight, thirty years younger.
Chortling, he marched into the bedroom with his former
chancellor slinking at his heels like an aging hound.
Durendal closed the door, although he was certain
that Bowman would eavesdrop through the chinks in the
garderobe wall.
"Took you long enough to get here!" The King
hauled off his coat, brushing away Scofflaw's
fussy attempts to help him.
"Was that why you sent me that assignment
warrant, sire? To bring me running?"
Off came the sweaty shirt, buttons flying.
"I thought it might. You always got loud and
impudent when I tried to give you a Blade.
But this time you accepted. Well, that kept you out of the
Bastion, didn't it? You should have heard Master
Kromman! Blast you, Scofflaw, can't you even
heat a bath properly?"
The King proceeded to sit down in a copper
basin much too small for his blubbery mass.
Water cascaded over the brim and drained away
between the floorboards.
"You didn't keep him long, sirrah!
Flaming waste of one of my Blades. Give
me the soap, man! I suppose you think he
belongs in the Litany, when he died
fighting his king? They haven't found his body yet.
Well, he can still serve me when they do!" The
piggy eyes glanced at Durendal, appraising
his reaction to this abomination.
"Sire, how long have you known that Kromman
knew the ritual?" That was a gamble on the King's
good humor, for monarchs should never be questioned.
Today he was too pleased with himself to take
offense. "I guessed right away. Surprised you
didn't. Memory enhancement's standard for
inquisitors." Ambrose lathered and splashed
for a moment. "Immortality didn't interest me
much in those days, of course. He brought up the
subject ... oh, about ten years ago, I
suppose. Parliament being stingy voting taxes.
Could have used the gold."
"That would certainly have saved me from listening to a
lot of boring speeches."
A throaty chuckle. "Ah, but you wouldn't have
liked the price! I wouldn't pay the price.
Kromman's price was always your head--old
man." The youthful king made an effort to bring one
fat pink foot inside the basin with him and gave
up. "Here, you wash 'em!" Throwing the soapy
flannel at Scofflaw, he leaned back,
sending more torrents into the guardroom. "I wouldn't
buy. Hope you appreciate that, my lord. Ten
years! But Kromman trapped me in the end. I
was dying last time you were here, yes?"
"Yes."
"Yes. He couldn't bear to think of the country
falling apart. That mad daughter of mine has no
following except Baelish barbarians and
Chivial would never stand for them. Don't know why
I listened to you when you talked me into sending her off
to live with those savages on their seagull-infested
rocks. There was going to be civil war after me.
Kromman could see that. He wouldn't let the
country suffer."
Ambrose heaved his bulk out of the basin with a
display of youthful agility, swamping the floor
again and also Scofflaw, who had not been expecting
the move. The valet rushed for towels.
"Master Kromman has always been loyal
to Your Majesty," Durendal admitted, lacking
any way to deal with the King's readjustment of
facts.
"Yes, he has. He told the Blades how
they could save my life, right here at
Falconsrest. It was fortunate that we
had an octogram here, already seasoned, and none of
those snoopy sniffers in the house." The King
peered at his audience to see if he was being
believed.
"And who was the first victim?"
Ambrose leered with a full set of shiny white
teeth. "A murderer. A highwayman who robbed
and slaughtered travelers. He was hanged at
Stairtown right after Long Night. The Commander and
his men rode over and cut him down. Does this
trouble your conscience, Lord Roland?"
Durendal shook his head--it didn't if it was
true. But what about Ned, the simpleton? Why
were Blades going mad and killing t
hemselves? "I
suppose they made Kromman try it first?"
"Oh, of course! When they saw what it did
for him, they slipped a taste of it to me. I
knew what had happened right away. Not that shirt,
you idiot!"
So Kromman really was one of the reborn! He
had seemed more sprightly than usual on the night
he came to collect the chancellor's chain.
Durendal had noticed but assumed that it was just because
he was having fun.
The rest was all lies. None of it could have
happened unless the court had come to Falconsrest,
which had certainly been Ambrose's decision.
Dragon was a stolid plodder--loyal as any
Blade, but bereft of imagination. He would never
have obeyed any order from Kromman until he
had cleared it with the King. On his lonely deathbed,
Ambrose IV had sold his soul and agreed
to pay his secretary's price. Now he was lying
about it.
"So what happens now, Your Majesty? You have
a new chancellor."
"Not those hose, blockhead! Yes, I do."
The King winked. "But not for long, mm? At the
moment, Master Kromman is in Grandon,
suppressing the White Sisters. Once we've
disposed of them, we can move court back
to Greymere without creating ripples. We don't
need him anymore, do we? The Blades know the
ritual. The only possible source of trouble is
Parliament, and Parliament won't ever tolerate
Kromman. You, they will. Even the Commons trust
you."
So it was double-cross time. Durendal knew
he ought to be pleased and wondered why he felt so
ill.
"I'm afraid I still don't understand why you
sent me that warrant, sire."
The King just grunted, but his piggy eyes flashed
warning. He was afraid of the listeners. And that was
why he had not simply written Durendal a letter
--because he had been prevented. By accepting the
rejuvenation ritual, he had put himself in
Kromman's power. When the Blades had seen the
monster their ward had become, they had feared that the
people would find out and rise up to tear him limb from
limb. Kromman would have played on those fears,
and the King had found himself a prisoner of his own
guard at Falconsrest. It was obvious.
How had the wily old fox managed to dispatch
even the warrant? Because those warrants were standard
forms and every Blade knew what they looked like. So
the royal rogue must have filled it out and handed it very
innocently to one of the juniors, perhaps even young