reported to be expecting another child, although
Princess Malinda was still a few days short of
her second birthday. The Countess was rarely
seen at court anymore. Gossip had it that she
would soon be banished completely.
A trumpet stilled the crowd, sounding
unpleasantly muffled inside Durendal's
padded helmet. The umpires bowed to the
King. The contestants raised their swords in
salute, which seemed no small concession,
considering what they weighed. He turned himself
to face his opponent, seeing again the kid's
confident smirk from inside the cave of steel
encasing his head. The bigger they are the harder they
fall.
The harder they hit, too. Durendal's
shoulder still throbbed from this morning's saber bout, where
a padded plastron had not completely absorbed the
Earl's vicious blow. The broadswords were
blunt, but his armor would crumple like parchment when
Muscle Brat started beating on it. Because a
Blade could not guard his ward if he were injured,
Durendal's spiritual binding might compel him
to escape the dilemma by losing the match. He must
gamble everything on a very quick win.
This was not a fair fight.
"My lords, prepare!" cried the senior
umpire. Aldane raised a gauntlet the
size of a bucket and closed his visor.
Durendal did nothing.
"Prepare, my lord!"
"I'll fight like this. It's hot in here."
Fighting with an open visor was rank insanity, but
it was also a bluff. Aldane would be sorely
puzzled, wondering what exotic technique his
Ironhall opponent knew that he did not.
The umpire hesitated, glanced at his
colleagues and even across at the King's box, and
then shrugged.
"May the spirits preserve the better man. Do
battle!"
The umpires scuttled out of the way. The
contestants lumbered forward over the grass.
Durendal aimed his sword like a lance and tipped
himself forward into a near run. Aldane copied him
at once, for if they collided he would
contribute twice Durendal's weight and
knock him down like a skittle. Soon he was
sprinting in full armor, an awesome display of
strength. He raised his blade, aiming at that
temptingly open visor.
Of course, he could not see very well. He must
have been sorely puzzled when his opponent
disappeared.
Durendal dropped to hands and knees in front
of him. That act alone was reckless, for armor was
no place to try gymnastics and he might
injure himself before taking a single blow.
As a tactic, it was insane. If he failed
to trip the Earl, he would be at his mercy. If
both of them were knocked prone, he would have gained
no advantage. Its only merit was that no one
had ever done that before.
Aldane pitched headlong over him, striking the
ground like a falling smithy. Fortunately his
weight neither toppled Durendal nor came down
on top of him--it just tried to push the Earl
into his own helmet. The bout was reduced to a question
of which man could regain his feet first and start
hammering the other into scrap metal. As Aldane
was at least momentarily stunned, Durendal had
no difficulty in clanking himself erect and
setting a foot on the kid's back. He put
the point of his sword at a suitable gap in the
armor.
"Yield, miscreant!" he declaimed.
The umpires went into a hurried consultation.
The crowd's jeering was a constant roar, like a
mountain torrent.
Aldane began screaming, "Foul!" and tried
to rise. Durendal poked him in the kidneys with a
dull edge--a fairly dull edge. After that the
noble earl just lay and beat mailed fists on the
turf, still yelling muffled protests.
The umpires waved a flag to declare a
victory. The crowd became even noisier.
The contestants clattered side by side toward
the royal box with their helmets tucked under their
arms. Aldane was demonstrating a virtuoso
command of indecent language.
"Did they teach you those words at Steepness?"
The kid glared down at him with the beginnings of
two lush black eyes. His nose had not stopped
bleeding yet, and his purse would bleed even harder
to pay for all the expensive healing he would need.
"Did they teach you to cheat at Ironhall?"
"Look, you've got another twenty years
ahead of you. Making the semifinals at your age
is a wonderful feat."
"Losing the match doesn't matter, you oaf!
It's the flaming money!"
Not being a gambling man, Durendal had
forgotten that side of the tournament. "What odds?"
"I was taking thirty to one at
lunchtime," the Earl admitted.
It was very hard to sound sincere. "That's a
shame."
"There are hundreds of losers out there. You'll
be lucky to leave the palace alive, you
blackguard peasant!"
Not so funny.
The King was not amused either. When the contestants
came to halt in front of the royal box, he
leaned back in his chair of state and glared at
Durendal. At the King's side, the
diminutive Duke of Gaylea was an alarming
gray color. How much had he wagered on his
baby boy? Indeed, most of the nobles present
seemed to have bet on the favorite, but Blades
in the background were grinning like pike.
The Marquis was there, being guarded by Hoare.
He was smiling, which was something he did only in
public now. He had been seated three rows behind
the King, almost in among the baronets, and likely
would not have been admitted at all had his Blade
not been fighting, because the entire Mornicade
family was seriously out of favor at the moment.
He had been dismissed from his naval office; his
uncles and cousins had all lost their sinecures
and privileges.
"You disapprove of broadswords?" the King
inquired menacingly of Durendal.
Tricky! "I do prefer rapiers, Your
Majesty."
"My liege!" Aldane bleated. "I
protest the decision!"
The royal glare was turned on him. "We
did not address you."
The Earl made unpleasant noises, as if
gargling blood.
The King looked back at Durendal. "And
what is it you prefer about rapiers?"
"Um. I suppose it is the greater element of
skill, sire."
"I see. Well, we saw no evidence that
brawn triumphed over brains in this instance." The
amber eyes had begun to twinkle.
"Your Majesty flatters me."
"You won a duel without striking a blow! You have
created another legend. It seems to be a
habit of yours. Congratulations."
R
elieved, Durendal managed a small bow
without falling over.
"And as for you, my lord, I applaud
your remarkable showing in our tournament. You and your
honored father will dine with us tonight, of course."
Aldane stepped forward to the barricade. The
King rose and hung a ribboned semifinalist's
star around the giant's neck, even he having to stand
on tiptoe to do so. Everyone else was upright also,
of course, applauding politely.
The Marquis had not been invited to dine. When
the royal party had left, he came down to the
barricade and beamed at his Blade, undoubtedly
for Hoare's benefit. He had grown plump in
the two and a half years Durendal had known him.
He was seldom sober.
"Well done, my man! How soon can you get
out of that bear trap?"
Displaying his habitual cryptic smile,
Hoare said, "I will be happy to attend his lordship
until you are ready, Sir Durendal."
"About ten minutes, my lord."
"Hurry, then. I have business to attend to.
Meet me at the coach yard."
As Durendal trudged off to the marquee, the
crowd began booing again.
Nutting was waiting beside his carriage with the
footmen and driver already in place. What
business could be so urgent? His only occupation these
grandiose mansion he had built, and his wife
invariably overruled his decisions. He drank
excessively and wandered the halls at night.
Durendal nodded his thanks to Hoare, who
rolled his eyes sympathetically, bowed to the
Marquis, and strode off. Nutting scrambled
aboard. The carriage began to move as
Durendal followed him in.
"That was very well done!"
"Thank you, my lord. I should not have lost to him this
morning, though."
"Yes, but you will be pleased to hear that I had
faith in you. It has been a most lucrative
afternoon for me."
It might prove less profitable if an
angry crowd was waiting outside the palace
gates. As it happened, the few spectators
there confined themselves to booing. The Marquis did not
seem to notice, and the carriage rumbled
unmolested into the cramped and dirty streets of
Grandon.
After several minutes of idyllic silence, he
said, "Unfortunately, the odds will be less
favorable on tomorrow's match. You are the
favorite, at four or five to one."
"I do not deserve so much. Sir Chefney is
a brilliant fencer."
"Um, yes." The Marquis chewed his lip for a
moment. "I hate to mention a subject as
sordid as money, Sir Durendal ..."
The title was meaningless, but he had never used it
before. Durendal felt a sharp stab of worry.
What was coming? He had absolutely no money of
his own. He was given his board and his clothes but
never wages. He sponged his recreations off the
Royal Guard--horses and ale. The only
purpose for which he would have liked to have some cash was
to give presents to women, but pride forbade him
to ask for it. They had to be satisfied with the
legend, which fortunately they always seemed to be.
"My lord?"
The coach rattled over cobbles, making slow
progress through the crowded streets. It seemed
to be heading for a very seamy part of the city.
"Nutting House has cost considerably more
than I anticipated, you see."
"If I win the cup tomorrow, then of course it
belongs to your lordship, as my patron." As he
had taken last year's, the skinflint.
"Yes, but ..." The Marquis's eyes wandered
shiftily, not meeting his Blade's. "I'm
afraid a hundred crowns is a drop in the
gutter. My winnings today are in the thousands and I
have staked them all on the finals."
Death and flames! "Am I to infer, my
lord, that you are counting on winning tomorrow? I am by no
means certain that I can beat Sir Chefney.
He trounced Commander Montpurse very
convincingly."
"I was pleased to see-- What I am
suggesting, Sir Durendal, is that you should lay a
bet of your own."
"I have nothing to wager, my lord."
Nutting pointed at the sword breaker on his
thigh.
"No!" Seeing his ward flinch in alarm, he
drew a deep breath. "I mean, I cannot in
honor hazard losing a gift from the sovereign,
my lord! He would most certainly
notice its absence."
"Bah! He will never know. You don't wear it
to fence. You need only part with it until the match
is over. I have a friend willing to advance six
thousand crowns against it."
"It's worth ten times that!"
"Only as an outright sale, boy. This is
merely a short-term loan."
"And if I fail to win the match, what then?"
The Marquis sniffed plaintively. "Your
task is to defend me, yes?"
"Of course. But only--"
"Does debtors' prison rank as a
specified peril? If I cannot raise certain
amounts within days, Sir Durendal, then that is
where I will be. I presume you must accompany
me."
"You poxed pig's bastard." Durendal did
not raise his voice--shouting was unnecessary when stating
facts. "You mean your harlot sister can't wring
any more money out of the King?"
Nutting's eyes glittered for a moment, then his
air of dejection returned. "As you say. And
no one will pay my debts, so we shall rot in
jail for the rest of our lives. Men die quickly in
Drain Street, Blade. Will you defend me
against the coughing sickness?"
"By the eight, I am a healthier man than you
are! When you die, I can walk free--free of
you and free of the worst duty ever laid upon an
honorable swordsman."
"As you please. We have arrived. Is that your
final decision?"
The carriage had stopped in an alley,
gloomy and stinking and so narrow that men could barely have
squeezed by. As if the visitors had been
expected, a door opened in the wall
alongside, revealing a fat, bald man, who
smiled to show black and broken teeth.
Durendal discovered that he was trembling
violently. Never had the binding been so at odds
with his personal inclinations. He wanted
to strangle this human toad beside him and stamp his
corpse into mud.
"The King gave it to me!"
"And you shall have it back."
"Don't you trust me?" His voice cracked.
"Do you fear I won't try my best? I
swear, my lord, that I will fight tomorrow as if your
life depended on it. I don't need
talk of debtors' prison to keep me honest!"
"But it is true. My life is at stake--
indirectly, I admit, but very surely. I
merely ask to b
orrow that thing on your belt for a
day. Is that so much to ask of a man bound to defend
me against all foes? Decide. Shall I signal
the coachman to proceed?"
It was true that life expectancy in
debtors' prison was a matter of weeks. The
binding might ignore a danger so indirect, but
Durendal had sworn an oath. Sick at
heart, he detached the sword breaker from his belt
and handed it over.
Smiling, the Marquis passed it down to the man
waiting in the doorway, receiving a roll of
vellum in return. He scanned it quickly,
nodded his assent, and rapped on the window to the
driver. The carriage clattered into motion. Not a
word had been said.
How had the turd arranged all this without his
Blade knowing? Of course Durendal had spent
much time fencing in the last few days, leaving his ward
in the care of the Guard. There had been more letters coming
and going than usual, so he should have suspected
something evil was afoot. What difference would it have
made? He could not oppose his ward in anything that
mattered.
"You realize," he said, his mouth dry, "that if
I lose and the King asks me what happened to the
breaker, I shall tell him the truth?"
The Marquis of Nutting smiled slyly. "You
will lose, dear boy, and he won't notice,
because it will not be missing. We are betting on Sir
Chefney, not on you. I can get odds of five
to one and he will win. You must lose to get your
sword breaker back."
The autumn evening was fading into night when the
Marquis arrived back at Nutting House, but
he at once proceeded to inspect the gardens,
complaining loudly to his Blade that the army of
workmen had left without achieving anything during the
day. Indoors, it was the same story. All those
painters, artists, carpenters, and plasterers had
obviously been idling since dawn, wasting his
money.
My money, Durendal thought. The King's
money.
The Marquise had been dispatched a few days
previously to visit her parents, so the
half-completed house was empty except for the
fifty-two servants. Nutting screamed for his
valets, demanding a shave and fresh clothes--
bathing was a danger he seldom risked. While
the lackeys tended his noble carcass, Durendal
prowled restlessly around the grandiose dressing
room.
There was something wrong, something that should be obvious
but remained maddeningly out of sight. Foul as the
turd's explanations had been, the whole truth