Sir Lyon, who would not think to question an
assignment when there were so many seniors waiting at
Ironhall. "Forgot this--just drop it in the
mailbag, will you?" So it had slipped
by Kromman and the Guard. Very simple and very
cunning!
It had not quite worked. Instead of hammering
horseshoes all the way out to Falconsrest
to demand an explanation, Durendal had accepted
the warrant at face value. But now he was here
anyway. The only difference was a dead boy,
stiffening somewhere out there in the bushes.
"The other jerkin!" the King snapped. "An
immortal monarch and an immortal chancellor.
Yes, you also, my lord. People don't like upset and
uncertainty. I've been king, and a good king, for as
long as almost anyone remembers." He considered
Durendal carefully. "Don't worry about it.
One mouthful will change your mind. I will see that you
swallow that mouthful--whether you want to or not."
He guffawed. "Tomorrow we may try a little fencing,
Sir Durendal! What do you say to that, mm?"
A wounded man, covered with blood, riding across
Chivial on a bleak winter's day should have been
stopped by now, or even robbed of his horse and
thrown into a ditch to die. He should have fallen off
a thousand times, for the world came and went behind black
clouds. He kept waking to find Destrier had
languished into a weary walk, so he would
kick him into a canter again. Oh, his stiffening
shoulder hurt! He wasn't even sure of the
way, but Destrier seemed to know it. Faster,
faster!
He was roused by a whinny, then an answer and
dogs barking. Stupid horse was pacing into a
barnyard. The idiot, carrion brute had
scented a mare or just wanted company. Quarrel
tried to sit up and take charge, but the black
fog swirled closer and drums beat in his head.
Thatched buildings seemed familiar--Destrier
had headed back to the only warm stall he knew
within reach, the last place he'd been given
oats, The Broken Sword.
"No! No! No!" Quarrel kicked and
tugged on the reins to turn him. Losing his
balance, he slid neatly off the stallion's
back and fell into the waiting arms of the innkeeper
himself, Master Twain.
He was seated by a fire, wrapped like a parcel
in blankets, drinking something very hot with soup and
brandy in it, and being told to finish his story. His
arm had been trussed in an old enchanted bandage
that had belonged to the Guard once, very long ago, but
ought to have some power remaining, Sir Byless said.
Sir Byless kept shouting at the pregnant
woman, who shouted back, and the younger man, who was
twice his size, and the children, who were wailing in
terror.
"Father, you're crazy!" the younger man said.
"He's bled dry; he's in terrible pain.
He's in shock and doesn't know what he's
talking about. Put him to bed and get a healer here
right away and he may just possibly have a chance.
Let him back on that horse and he won't go a
mile. You're going to kill him!"
Sir Byless threw a platter at him--which he
dodged--and yelled at him to get the mounts ready
and yelled at his daughter to warm those clothes before the
lad put them on and yelled at the brats to shut
up. He kicked a dog out of the way, making it
yowl to frighten the children even more. The boy was a
Blade, he screamed, tough as steel. More soup,
wool socks. Keep talking, lad.
Could this twitching, slobbering old wreck really
have been a Blade once upon a time?
Durendal's own Second? Paragon had said
so, and Byless himself had confirmed it--do anything for
Lord Roland, he said, and bugger the rest
of them. He had tufts of white hair sticking out
everywhere. His eyes rolled and he slobbered and he
was never still, never quiet. Keep talking, lad!
His clothes were a rummage of mismatched
patches, far from clean, far short of his bony
wrists and ankles.
Quarrel swallowed, burning his throat. His
head seemed to be spinning faster and faster; it must
fall off soon. He was so weak he kept
weeping. "Did I tell you they're going to eat
him?"
"Aye, that you did. Doesn't surprise
me. Nothing would surprise me about that gang of
brutes. Or that fat criminal who runs them.
Bring the lad more soup, I say! Makes up the
blood he lost. Let me get those boots
off." He hurled the empty brandy bottle at
the younger man, who dodged it as if he had had much
practice. "Thomas Peeson, you will do as
you're told or you will get your hulking carcass out
of my house and take all your ugly spawn with
you! Now saddle up the gelding for me and Sir
Quarrel's black and be quick about it. We leave
in three minutes or I take the horsewhip
to you."
Bowman spent the afternoon down in the village--
talking, listening, and frequently confirming that,
yes, His Majesty's health was much improved, and
yes, he did intend to come down there that evening and
eat a meal in court. Yesterday's summoning of the
doctors and their subsequent dismissal before they
had a chance to examine their patient had been a
master stroke, a brilliant preparation for the grand
reappearance. Rumors of the miraculous
recovery would have spread as far as Grandon already.
Tomorrow there would be bells ringing. Kromman had
orchestrated it all.
Still, this evening's visit would need very careful
supervision. First, the King must be restrained from
making his entry too early, while he was still
visibly too young. Secondly, he would have to be
hustled away before he became too obviously
old. Kromman had suggested keeping him in as
small a room as possible and circulating the
audience through, but Ambrose never took kindly
to being managed. Tonight he would be his own worst
danger--he would glory in all the
praise and attention and want to stay on till
dawn. People would certainly notice when his hair and
teeth began falling out.
Toward sunset, the deputy commander returned
to the lodge and went in search of Dragon.
Doubtless the Commander would be a solid performer at
massacre and mayhem. He was a stickler for
detail and never argued with the King, but when it came
to subtlety he couldn't draw his sword without
gelding himself. That was why Secretary Kromman
had brought Bowman out from Grandon to take charge
here. He had not believed a word of the story until
the following sunrise, when he had seen three
fading geriatrics transformed into kids again. The
King, Kromman, and the valet--just three so far,
but if the King had rewarded a me
re sock washer with
eternal youth, then he would certainly confer it on
a faithful bodyguard when the need arose.
Dragon was in the dormitory, staring
morosely into the fire. Half a dozen other
Blades sprawled around the room, not talking, not
playing dice, just brooding. It was not good enough.
They were all bound by oath and conjuration to preserve
their ward. They had always known, every one of them, that this
might involve killing. Why should they suffer from
scruples now?
Paragon lay stretched out near the fire,
apparently asleep--which in itself was a chilling
demonstration that old age had not blunted his nerve
yet, for he must be aware of his peril. His wits
were still sharp enough. He was Danger Number One
at the moment.
Bowman caught Dragon's eye and beckoned
with a nod of his head. Frowning, the Commander rose and
followed. Bowman clattered down the stairs to the
guardroom, but that was under the King's chamber. All
the walls and ceilings had more gaps than picket
fences--there was nowhere safe to talk in the lodge.
He went outside in the twilight and then around the
corner, out of the wind.
"What by the eight is eating you?" Dragon
demanded grumpily.
"They didn't find the kid's body, did
they?"
"No."
"So who do we serve up tomorrow?"
The Commander tugged at his beard. "Lyon, I
suppose. Poxy little coward. It's what he
wanted."
"What does the Fat Man say?"
Dragon winced and glanced at the nearest
window, which was safely closed. "He says
Kromman."
Bowman had expected that. "Why?"
"Says he's getting too big for his
britches. Says Paragon's the better man and
he can't keep both of them any longer or they'll
tear the place down between them. At each other's
throats, he says. He needs Paragon
to handle Parliament, he thinks."
"He's a fool."
Dragon did not argue. He pulled his
cloak tighter around him and stared at the moon
sailing through the silver clouds. Lights were
twinkling in the village, where the great feast for His
Majesty was being prepared.
Bowman said, "Durendal doesn't approve
of the new arrangement."
"I'm not sure I do."
"But you got no choice. Nor I. He
does."
"He won't when we feed him the meat. King
says that'll change his mind."
"But will it? King has a blind spot when it comes
to Paragon. Maybe you do, too?"
Dragon turned quickly, showing anger. "What
are you implying?"
"Would you die for a cause?"
"Die for my ward if I have to."
"Yes, but for a cause? A moral
principle? Never mind. I don't care if you
would or not. I don't know if I would. But I
think Durendal would. Even if he discovers
he's twenty again and can go on becoming twenty again
every sunrise for a thousand years--he'll give all
that up if he has to, won't he? If he
thinks it's wrong? Why do the kids all call
him Paragon?"
"Same reason I do, I suppose."
Dragon did not understand rhetorical questions.
"So let's play it safe. Who do we serve
up tomorrow?"
After a long pause, the Commander said,
"Paragon."
"I'll see to it." Bowman turned to go.
Dragon shouted, "Not yet! Wait and make
sure Kromman gets back safely."
"Right," said Bowman. "Good idea." The
Secretary would want to watch, anyway.
Marie began having hysterics again, and Cook
slapped her face again. Quarrel had been
carried in by Master Caplin and Pardon the
hostler, and was now lying on a couch by candlelight with
Cook holding a mug of something to his lips. It
tasted like scorched milk. Mad Sir Byless had
collapsed in a chair near the fireplace, all
wet rags and tufts of white hair and slobber.
"We've sent for a healer, Sir Quarrel,"
the fat steward said. "Pardon's gone to fetch a
healer."
Panic deadened the awful pain of weariness for a
moment. "No! Tell him, need horses.
Paragon in danger." He saw the blank
looks, fought for strength to explain again. "Told
you--Durendal. His lordship. Got to rescue
him. Need the book. Just came for the book. Go
on." He drank again, greedily. The doublet
Sir Byless had given him was so stiff with blood
that it crackled with his every move.
"Stop Pardon!" Caplin said, sending Gwen
running. "Go where, Sir Quarrel?"
"Ironhall. Take them the book. Rescue
Paragon." He grabbed the steward's soft arm and
squeezed. "He'll die! Got to rescue
him!"
"He's out of his mind!" Cook protested.
"And that other one ..." She scowled at the
prostrate Sir Byless. "Go on? Tonight?
Blathers! They're neither of them fit to go another
step."
"I'm sure Sir Quarrel will," Caplin
said. "He's a Blade, has no choice. We
don't have a coach, lad. I can borrow one, but
it may take time."
"No time. Need horse."
"It'll kill him!" Marie screamed.
Caplin told her to be silent and bring the
first-aid box. "Pardon, saddle two horses.
Is your friend going on with you, Sir Quarrel?"
Byless lifted his head and rolled his eyes in every
screeched hoarsely. "Just a tick weary. Got
any brandy? I'm sure my old friend Durendal
keeps some good brandy handy!"
"Sir Byless," Quarrel explained, although
he thought he must have done so already. "Was Par--
his lordship's Second at
Ironhall."
Caplin seemed to conjure a bottle of brandy
out of the air. He handed it to the visitor without even
suggesting a glass. Byless tipped it to his
mouth.
"We have a conjurement for wounds, Sir
Quarrel, but you've lost a great deal of blood.
Never seen anyone so white. Cook, some hot
broth, please--quickly! What book? Gwen,
bandages, clean clothes."
They lifted him back into a saddle--
Twosocks, this time, not Destrier. Sir Byless
managed to mount Patches with some help from
Pardon. Quarrel took the reins in his good hand
and led the way out of the yard.
As Dragon and Bowman headed back inside,
Durendal quietly closed the window. He had
heard few of the actual words, but the mood had
been obvious--and so had the intended victim. He
was in more danger from the Guard now than he was from either
the King or Kromman. He went back to the
hearth. None of the Blades showed any interest in
his actions as long as he stayed away from the stair
and the King's bedroom. Dragon returned,
looking windswept and chilled.
About ten minutes later, Scofflaw appeared
and approached Durendal in a crabwise
shuffle, wearing an expression of extreme
alarm. He had lost his youth, and wisps of
loose hair on his shoulders suggested that he was
rapidly going bald under his hat. Also, his stoop
and wrinkles were starting to return. He opened and
closed his mouth a few times.
"The King wants me?"
Eager nod. The valet turned and shuffled off
again, while still contriving to watch Durendal and
make sure he was coming. The faithful half-wit
had given his king lifelong devotion, so now his
life had been extended indefinitely. A new
order of chivalry--the Cannibal Companions.
Durendal followed. Most of his aches and
scrapes had gone now, banished by the healing; but
he felt badly off balance, missing the weight
of the sword he had borne for thirty-seven
years. He went into the King's room and closed the
door behind him. Scofflaw was already down on his
rug in the corner like a spaniel.
All afternoon, Ambrose had been rummaging through
papers that Kromman had brought from Greymere the
previous day, probably just to keep him
occupied. Every hour or so, the King had sent for his
previous chancellor to question something. Now he was standing
in the brightness below a chandelier of a score of
candles, reading a sheet of parchment. He had aged
uncannily since morning--hair and beard
gray, breath wheezing. His ulcer had not
reappeared, though.
He shot his visitor a suspicious
sidelong glance. "You were keeping things from me!"
"Nothing important, sire."
"Ha! How about this? Gaylea wants to marry
this ward of his. He's thirty years older than
she is, or I'm a chicken. But you've been
sitting on his petition for two months--and he's
a duke! You still bearing a grudge against him because of
that King's Cup thing?"
"I won, remember?"
"He can deliver a lot of votes in
Parliament."
"That's why I was sitting on his petition. You
always told me that want was stronger than
gratitude."
Ambrose grunted. "So I did." He
threw that document down on the littered bed and
took up another to query. The audience continued.
His wits were as sharp as ever. It was almost like old
times.
Finally he abandoned the papers and began pacing
back and forth. "Your attitude displeases me.