he had not thought to mention. She was even younger than
Durendal--although not younger than he was feeling
by then, which was about seven. She was another gift from the
King, having been a ward in chancery, but her
husband seemed genuinely fond of her. She was very
pretty, impeccably well mannered, incapable
of rational thought. Her family tree was as
tangled as a briar patch and blighted by inbreeding;
and her only serious interest was clothing.
In the Marquis's absence, his establishment had
been moved to a vast new suite in the main wing
of the palace. He preened at this additional
evidence of royal favor, ignoring his wife's
complaints that the servants were laughing at her for not
having enough gowns to fill all the closet space.
She told her husband's Blade to stand there. And
there. And there. Look at the window. Perfect.
When company called, would he please lean against the
mantel with his left profile to the door. She
assumed she was giving an order, so he did not
need to answer the question.
He thought he could detect invisible hands at
work on his behalf, though, because the new quarters had
obviously been designed with security in mind,
having but a single entrance and windows accessible
only to bats. Any midnight intruder must
pass through the outer rooms, where he would be. The
servants were billeted elsewhere. There were ropes
available in case of fire. What else need
he worry about?
Two things. The first was that no assassin
in the world had the slightest interest in harming Tab
Nillway, Marquis of Nutting. The second
was that Durendal knew that and could no more stop himself
behaving like a real Blade with a real ward than a
sheepdog could resist herding sheep.
Fortunately on this, his first night on the job,
his ward announced that he was incredibly exhausted
by the hardships of his visit to Ironhall and was
going to bed early. The Marquise went with him;
valet and maid departed. Durendal locked and
barred the door, checked every cranny for concealed
murderers, and then settled into a comfortable chair in
the outermost salon. There he chewed over his
problem while he stropped Harvest into the sharpest
sword in the known world.
As he had not been warned of all the side
effects of a binding conjuration, he must be expected
to work them out for himself. He already knew he could not
drink more than one glass of wine. Now, after two
nights without sleep, he felt as fresh as a
new-laid egg. Bizarre! Blades were
normally assigned in pairs or larger groups,
and he should have realized that sooner. He was all
alone, but he already knew that he could not bear to let
the unspeakable Marquis out of his sight. How were the
two of them going to stand each other for the next thirty
or forty years? How was he ever going to take
exercise, make friends, and even enjoy a little
romance?
He must have advice. The logical source was
the Royal Guard, but how could he consult them?
Even now, when his ward was as safe as he could ever
be, Durendal could not walk out and leave him, not
if that door had a hundred locks on it.
During the day, he would be in constant attendance.
He was going to go crazy.
An hour later, when the tap came, he had
guessed the answer. Even so, he had Harvest in
his hand as he opened the door a crack on the chain
and peeked out. There were two of them, and one of them was
Hoare, who had left Ironhall only two
months ago. The other was Montpurse himself.
"You're late," he said brashly and let them
in.
They were both typical Blades--lean,
chiseled men who studied the world intently and moved
like cats--but Hoare had not yet lost his
distinctive juvenile nonchalance, an insouciance
that gave him a permanent air of knowing some
secret joke. He was about a month
into an ill-advised beard, much fairer than his
hair. Montpurse was clean shaven, with hair like
flax and eyes the blue of buttermilk. His
babyish complexion made him seem ten years
younger than his companion, but he must be in his middle
twenties now. Was it an advantage to be always
underestimated? Did it amuse the King to have a
permanent adolescent in charge of his Guard?
"Brother Durendal, Leader," Hoare said,
cuing Durendal to call him "brother" and
Montpurse "Leader." Hands were clasped.
"I'd never have forgotten that name," Montpurse
said. "You must have been after my time."
"Yes, Leader." Not quite, but Durendal would not
say so.
Then the mist-blue eyes lit up. "No! You
were the Brat! You gave me my sword!"
"And you came and thanked me afterward. You have no
idea what that meant to me!"
"Yes, I do," Montpurse said firmly.
"Now, you must have questions."
Durendal remembered his manners and bade his
visitors be seated. He apologized for not
having refreshments handy.
Montpurse settled onto a chair like a
falling leaf. "You can get anything you want
by pulling that bell rope. Don't bother now,
though."
"First question, then. How do I guard a man
twenty-four hours a day?"
For a moment the Commander reflected Hoare's
secret smile. "You can't. You'll find that the
urgency wears off in a couple of weeks. As you
learn the ropes you gain confidence. You stay out of the
bathroom, is how we describe it. In the
Guard, of course, we take turns; and whenever
your ward is in the palace we can spell you off
also." He cut off Durendal's thanks.
"No, we do it for any single. We regard it as
part of our job. There are far too many of us just
to guard the King, and it would be no advantage to him
to have crazy Blades running around."
Durendal had guessed right, which was satisfying.
"Do I ever sleep?"
This time the smile was broader. "You may doze
in a chair for an hour or so, but you'll waken every
time a spider sneezes. One gets used to it.
Take up a hobby--study law, finance, or
foreign tongues. Helps to pass the time. Even
Blades age, you know. You can't be a
crack swordsman forever."
Durendal thanked him again. There was something
exhilarating in this frank, brotherly talk with
two men he had admired for so long. Hoare had
been part hero, part friend, permanently ahead of him
although Durendal had been the better fencer for
years. All the candidates worshiped
Montpurse in absentia for his legendary
swordsmanship and meteoric rise in the King's
service.
"Is there any reason I don't know why the
Marq
uis needs a Blade?"
Awkward pause.
"Not that I am aware of," Montpurse
admitted reluctantly. "The King will refuse
the Countess nothing. But don't feel slighted.
Look on the sunny side--your assignment will
stretch you to the limit. We guard the King, but
there's a hundred of us. Most of the time we're
bored silly."
That was Sir Aragon's Rationalization to Comfort
Unfortunate Colleagues.
Hoare leered. "Tell him about women!"
"You tell him, you lecherous young beast."
"I hope one of you will," Durendal said
frankly. They knew how innocent he was.
They'd been there.
"Oh, they're overrated. They always drift
off to sleep."
Montpurse rolled his eyes in disbelief.
"You wear them out, you mean. That's part of the legend,
Durendal, one of the best parts."
"I'll find you a good tutor," Hoare said
thoughtfully. "Let's see ... Blondie?
Ayne? Rose? Ah, yes ... married to a
royal courier, so she gets lonely and won't
chatter or start dreaming of permanent arrangements
... bonny, bouncy, eager ..."
"He knows a hundred like that," his commander said
scornfully. "I won't let him play
tricks on you."
Durendal gulped and said, "That's kind of you."
"Now, how about leaving our philandering friend here
to guard your gate and coming for a stroll with me?"
Every muscle tensed in alarm. "Not tonight, if you
don't mind. I'd love to, but it just feels a
little soon, if you understand?" He could see that they
had expected that response and were trying not to laugh
at him. But he couldn't! No matter what they
thought of him, he just couldn't.
"I give you my oath, Blade to brother,"
Hoare said, keeping his face as solemn as it could
ever be, "that I will guard your ward until you
return."
"It's very kind of you, but ..."
Montpurse chuckled and stood up. "The King
wants you."
"What?"
"You heard. The King wants to speak with you.
Coming?"
That made a difference! He was a King's
Blade. "Yes, of course. Um, I'd
better shave first."
"You'll only nick yourself," Montpurse
said. "Come! We don't keep him waiting."
There could be no more argument. Although Durendal
heard the bolts and chains closing behind him, he still
felt unsettled as he headed off along the
corridor with Montpurse.
"Like ants walking all over you, isn't it?"
the Commander said. "But it does wear off, I
promise you. Or you get used to it."
They clattered down a long flight of marble
stairs. The palace had fallen silent; the
corridors were dim as the candles burned low.
"I'm a King's Blade bound to a subject.
How does divided loyalty work?"
"Your binding is to the Marquis. He's first, the
King second. If they ever come into conflict, you will
have a serious problem."
That seemed like a good cue for a very tricky question,
and the middle of a huge, deserted hallway a good
place to ask it. "Why would the King give a
valuable property like a Blade to a man who
has no enemies?"
"I thought I told you that."
"Tell me again."
"Are you questioning the royal prerogative?"
Montpurse opened an inconspicuous door
to reveal narrow fieldstone stairs leading
downward.
"I would not want to think my sovereign was a
fool, Leader."
The Commander closed the door behind them and then
caught his companion's arm in a steely grip.
"What do you mean by that?" The pale eyes were
ice-blue now.
Durendal realized that he was being held under a
lamp, where his face was clearly visible. How had
he managed to stumble into quicksand so soon?
"If the King had doubts about a man's loyalty
--perhaps not now, but his loyalty in future--
well, conspiracy would be very difficult with a
Blade around, wouldn't it? And he would make a
good touchstone. If he suddenly goes insane,
investigate."
Hard stare. "Oh, come, Brother Durendal!
You don't suspect your little marquis of
treasonous ambitions?"
"No, not at all. But His Majesty couldn't
plant Blades only on the doubtful, could he?
He would have to spread some dummies around too."
A longer stare. Faint sounds of male
laughter came drifting up from the cellar. "I do
hope you won't spread such crazy notions around,
brother."
Spirits! That meant yes! "No, Leader. I
won't mention them again."
Without seeming to move a muscle,
Montpurse shed about ten years and was a boy again.
"Good. Now, one thing more. If His Majesty should
choose to try a little fencing with you--about three times
in four, understand?"
"No."
"Any less than that and he gets
suspicious. Any more and he may be a little
resentful. It is foolish to upset the mighty,
brother." He led the way downstairs.
Puzzled, Durendal followed.
The cellar was rank with odors of ale and
sweat, plus the eye-watering stench of whale oil
from lamps hanging low overhead. There were no
chairs or tables, only a row of barrels and a
basket containing drinking horns. Of the thirty men
twenty-five were Blades in the blue-and-silver
livery of the Guard. The rest were almost certainly
Blades of other loyalties or just out of uniform
--all but one, the largest man present, who was the
center of attention. Judging by the relaxed din,
Blades off duty had no problem drinking their
fill and this was their private haunt.
The King completed a story that sent his listeners
into peals of mirth. What a king! After only two
years on the throne, already he had reformed the tax
system, ended the Isilond War, and gone a long
way to master the great landowners who had so
defied his father. Yet here he was, one of the
greatest monarchs in all Eurania, roistering with
his Blades as if he were one of them, making them
laugh and--much more important--bellowing with
laughter himself when they responded. This was the man
Durendal had been created to serve, not that
wretched Marquis of Nothing now snoring away
upstairs.
Ambrose swung around to stare over heads at
the newcomers. Although his face was flushed at the
moment and sequined with sweat, the gold eyes were
clear and steady. Durendal offered a
three-quarter bow that he judged appropriate
to a first personal audience set in an informal
atmosphere.
"I have heard some impressive tales, Sir
Durendal," the King boomed.
"You
r Majesty is most gracious."
"Only when I want to be!" He glanced at
his companions to trigger another laugh. Then he
frowned. "What happened to Harvest?"
The room stilled instantly. It also seemed
to grow much colder, in spite of the stuffiness.
"I am not qualified to judge, sire." That
was not good enough. The King knew that. "But, if you
are asking for my opinion, I believe he was not
ready. He lacked confidence in himself."
The royal brows frowned. "Come over here."
He led Durendal to a dark corner. Backs
turned and the rest of the room became very noisy again.
Nothing was less visible than a monarch
incognito, but the King's personality at close
quarters was an experience akin to being trapped in a
cave by a bear. It was a long time since
Durendal had needed to look up to anyone.
"It was unfortunate."
"Yes, sire." Oh, yes, yes, yes! But
a man should mourn a lost friend for the friend's sake, not
for what that death had cost him personally.
"Who's next? Give me your assessment of the
next six."
That would be tattling. Officially even Grand
Master did not pass such information on to the King,
although no one believed that. Conflicting loyalties
howled in Durendal's mind--loyalty
to Ironhall, to the men who had trained him, to his
friends there. But the Order was the King's, and a
companion's fealty was to the sovereign.
"My liege. Candidate Byless is Prime
now, excellent all-round material, but
he's only seventeen--"
"He lied about his age?"
Byless told tales about a sheriff after him and
Grand Master rescuing him from a hangman's
noose, but no one believed them. "I expect
so, sire. He needs at least another year--
better two." Three would be better yet, but who
would dare say so to this impatient King?
"Candidate Gotherton is very sound, probably
better at thinking than he can ever be at fencing, but
not at all below standard. Candidate Everman is a
year older than me. He's superb.
Candidate--"
"Tell me about Everman." The King listened
intently as Durendal raved about Everman. Then
he said, "Is he as good as you?"
Trapped! A man should fall on his sword.
"Not yet."
"Will he ever be?"
"Close, I'd say."
The King smiled, showing he was aware of the
feelings he had provoked. "Good answers,
Blade! The ancients taught us: Know thyself!
I admire a man who can assess his own worth.