knocked her hat flying but didn't. Eventually
they broke loose and began to walk, holding hands
still. Passersby coughed disapprovingly.
"It didn't work," she said. Statement, no
question.
"I had no chance to ask. He called me in and
gave me a posting, too."
Her eyes scanned his face for clues.
"Dangerous. And long. If it were short you'd be
making plans."
He would not lie to her. He never lied to women
or had reason to lie to men. "And yours?"
"Just a dull guild of merchants in
Brimiarde, worried in case some conjurer
tries to steal their money." She shivered. "Their
halls will all be stinking with conjurements. Never
mind. Is it true that Blades never sleep?"
"Almost never."
She forced a smile. "Then we have the whole
night ahead of us."
They talked. They made love. They did
both all over again. Moonlight crept down the
wall, across the bed, and up the other side, dragging
inevitable morning behind it.
"I will wait for you," she said many times.
His heart ached. He had always believed that was
only a manner of speaking, but there was a real pain
in his chest.
"No, dearest, you must not. A Blade is not
meant to be loved, because the King will always come first in
his heart. I could have told him about you. Then he
might have withdrawn his orders or delayed them.
He's not a cruel man by nature. I just
couldn't. Much as I adore you, I had to obey.
Find a better man and forget me."
"Will you come back? Do you expect to come
back?"
"I hope to come back, but not for years."
"I will wait for you, no matter how long."
Once, after a long kiss, he said, "You have
told me how Blades sound and feel and seem,
but how do they taste?"
"Like strong wine."
"Tis passing strange! So do White
Sisters."
"I will wait for you."
"You mustn't, but if I do come back and you are
still free, then I shall sit on your doorstep till
I die or you agree to marry me."
Although he had revealed nothing about his task, he
did let slip a remark about inquisitors--a
breach of security, perhaps, but his mind was on other
matters. It was one of those times when women like
to talk and men don't but will humor them in a good
cause.
"Horrible people!" she said. "All time and earth and
death. No love or air at all."
He was sitting up cross-legged, admiring her
body in the moonlight, exploring its contours with
his fingers, not really listening. "You can tell what
elements were used in a conjuration?"
"Usually. You do have scars! I hadn't
noticed them before. Let me see your back."
"No, I'm busy. What elements do you
sense in a Blade?"
"Love, mostly." She sat up also. "I
want to see your back."
"No. Lie down and submit. Love, you
say? I'm a killer, and you think I was made
by spirits of love?"
She kissed him in passing, climbing
around and over him. "Love isn't only man and
woman. It is many other things--motherhood, man and
master, brother and sister, men in bands, simple
friendship. Turn around; your back's in shadow.
There they are. They're closer together at the back.
Love can be dying for someone, even. Understand?"
"Love can be this, too!" He pulled her
back into her proper place. She had already found
his ticklish spots. The wrestling became heated.
"Now you see why Blades are such great
lovers," she said. "Because they're bound by
mmmph--"
Her lips were too precious to waste on
speech.
It was dawn.
"I will wait for you."
"I will be true to you."
"Just come back safe and I will never ask if--
mmmph!"
"So we have. I was not at my best that day."
Durendal knew the sallow face, the
bloodless lips, the lank hair, because they were part
of his Nutting nightmares. He would not have known the
name, Ivyn Kromman.
Grand Inquisitor's gloomy office was a
room oppressed by too many papers, folders,
bookshelves, tomes, and unhappy
implications. Even the dust and cobwebs seemed
to whisper of broken lives and buried secrets.
Mother Spider herself had her back to the window, a
huge and hunched blackness against the light.
Durendal had been placed across the desk from her,
better lit. Kromman sat at the end so that
he, too, could watch the Blade's face.
Making other people uneasy must be an inquisitors'
instinct, like dogs' barking.
"Have you reservations about having Inquisitor
Kromman as your colleague, Sir
Durendal?" Grand Inquisitor's fish eyes
neither blinked nor moved. Her fat white hands
lay like dead things on the desk.
"I welcome his help in my mission."
"You do understand that he has been working on the
case for a long time and that your experience of foreign
travel is considerably less than
his?"
"I have the King's word for it that I am to be the
leader."
She ignored that. "How much do you know of the
matter?"
"Assume I know nothing at all and begin at
the beginning."
"Why do you not answer questions directly?"
Perhaps he was managing to give her a rash--he
hoped so. "Why do you never blink?"
"Is that question relevant?"
"Yes. If Inquisitor Kromman stares
at everybody as he likes to stare at me, then
he will attract suspicion."
She smiled without making a wrinkle. "I
assure you that Ivyn can evade attention most
expertly and has done so many times on His
Majesty's service. Does staring make you
uncomfortable?"
"No. It just annoys me as a demonstration of
bad manners. I have nothing to hide."
"Do you feel happy at being chosen to undertake
such an exotic quest?"
"Any man would be honored to be so trusted."
She smiled again, but only with her mouth. "You
see? You do have something to hide. By "any
man" you mean "all men" and thus you are lying,
because you have some reservation you do not wish to admit. A
romance, perhaps? Ah!"
He reminded himself sternly that she was just
guessing. She had a conjured ability to smell a
spoken lie, but if he remained silent she was
forced back on purely secular skills like
face watching--at least that was what the Blades
believed. It was also why criminals were put to the
Question. Nevertheless, she had nettled him.
"Must we fence all day, or can we start shedding
blood?"
"As you wish. Six years a
go now, Master
Polydin came to His Majesty with a wild
tale of faraway lands. He told of the city
called Samarinda in Altain, wherever that is, at
the back of nowhere--ancient and isolated, a
place of strange legends. Yet he swore that
he had been there and that the strangest of these legends
was true. The city is ruled by a military
order, the Knights of the Golden Sword. He
thought that there were twelve of these knights. They
possess the secret of the philosophers' stone and
so they live forever."
"Wild indeed! A sword of gold would be
useless, of course, soft as wax. Unless it was
enchanted, I suppose. What proof did he
offer?"
"Only what he had seen. He may have been
deceived, but he believed that he was telling the truth.
I can testify to that--he was convinced in his own mind.
He told us what he had witnessed. Each
morning at dawn, the order will accept a
challenge from any man of quality. One of the
knights comes out to the courtyard of their castle, and the
two of them fight with real swords. Almost always,
the knight slays the challenger."
Durendal was both skeptical and intrigued.
Of course the King would have chosen to send a Blade
to investigate such a story. His first choice had
been Durendal himself, the candidate reputed to be
the finest fencer Ironhall had produced in
memory.
Grand Inquisitor smiled, reading his interest
in his face or just guessing it. "A champion who
succeeds in wounding the knight--a rare event,
apparently--is rewarded with as much gold as he can
carry to the gate. In so poor a land, there are
aspirants aplenty. Men wait months for the
chance to win their fortunes with a single stroke. And some
do, that is the surprising thing. The house does not
win every time, so it never lacks for players. It
charges no entry fee and pays out in real gold.
Where does the gold come from, if not the
philosophers' stone?"
It might be always the same gold, "won"
by accomplices and smuggled back into the castle
by night.
"You mentioned wounded? The knight is never
slain?"
"Apparently not, although Master Polydin
swore that he had seen one run through. A wounded
knight reappears the next morning, healed and
ready to fight again. They are reputed to be
immortal. Old men swear that the current
knights are the same ones they saw in their youth,
still as young and virile as they were then."
Durendal tried to consider the problem and
decided that considering the problem would be a waste of
time. The King and others must have investigated
thoroughly and been convinced. He wasn't, though.
There would be a trick somewhere. "Our conjurers could
not manage any of that."
"Exactly. His Majesty resolved
to send an expedition to the city in an effort to buy
or steal the secret."
"Buy? From men who own the philosophers'
stone? What could you offer them in return?"
Grand Inquisitor shrugged her heavy
shoulders. "K. The King authorized Master
Polydin to steal the secret if he could. He
provided him with many arcane conjurations to offer in
trade if he could not. If both approaches
failed, and if he believed there was anything to be
gained, Sir Everman had royal permission
to accept the challenge."
Everman had been a daredevil. He would not have
been able to resist.
"And now? The King said he has an agent in
Samarinda."
"Hardly an agent. A collaborator at
best. A local merchant who had befriended
Master Polydin in the past and had dealings with him.
He wrote a letter, which reached us a few months
ago, claiming that Sir Everman has himself joined
the order, the first new member admitted in
centuries. He lives in the castle. Every
twelve days or so, he answers the challenge."
Gladiator, the King had said. But when
Durendal had asked if Everman was to be brought
back even if he did not want to return, the
King had evaded the question. An immortal
swordsman, the ultimate Blade.
"Those are the bones of the matter," said Grand
Inquisitor. "Ivyn knows the details and can
provide them to you at leisure. You will have much time
together for conversation."
Durendal glanced at that flesh-crawling
inquisitor and thought of several million people he
would rather have as companions on a long journey.
Almost anybody except Mother Spider herself, in
fact. "I need a lesson in geography."
"Ivyn has studied the route and spoken
to merchants with connections in the east. In brief,
the day after tomorrow you will sail from Brimiarde
to Isilond, landing at Furret, and thence
proceed overland to the Seventh Sea by whatever
route seems advisable. The shortest route is
across Fitain, but they have a civil war raging at
the moment. Your way then takes you across or around
the sea to Thyrdonia and up the Yvusarr River
until you find a caravan traveling the Jade
Road. A few deserts and mountain ranges
later, you should arrive at Samarinda,
probably on the back of a camel."
He had been wondering if he should recruit more
helpers, and the answer was obviously no. More people
would merely find more opportunities for trouble.
"Money?"
"His Majesty has been more than generous.
Ivyn has been provided with ample funds in
drafts drawn on reputable banking houses.
You will have to convert most of them to gold before you enter
Thyrdonia, of course."
Ah! Someone was feinting. He turned to consider
Kromman's waxen features. "These drafts?
Do they specify you by name?"
"Most do. Some are bearer instruments."
"The King put me in charge of this mission--am
I speaking the truth?"
The well-remembered croaky voice said,
"Of course, Sir Durendal."
"And are you prepared to accept my orders
until we return to Chivial?"
After a barely perceptible pause, Kromman
repeated, "Of course, Sir Durendal."
"I want those drafts redrawn. I do not
mind your keeping some minor amounts in your name in
case we become separated or I meet with
misfortune, but the bulk of the funds will be under my
control and I will carry them." Whoever had the money
would have the power.
The inquisitor looked to Mother Spider.
"Your request is much less reasonable than you
realize," she said. "Ivyn must leave in a few
hours, and the clerks of Privy Purse are
overworked as it is. To burden them further for a
purely symbolic personal advantage
seems very petty."
"I will acc
ept no other terms. Attend to it
please, Inquisitor."
Kromman nodded impassively. "As you
wish, Sir Durendal."
"I must be at Ironhall tonight. I can meet
you tomorrow in Brimiarde. Where?" He had never been
there. He had seen the sea only once.
"The Brown Fox in Seagate is
adequate, Sir Durendal. I shall take a
room in the name of Chalice, posing as a
successful merchant who has hired two mercenary
soldiers down on their luck for service in a
private militia. You and your Blade should be
dressed in suitable style--patched and threadbare.
Please remember that cat's-eye
swords are well known in this country and keep the
hilts under your cloaks. Make quite certain that you
bear nothing that can be identified--no papers,
letters, lockets, signets, nothing. The same
goes for your horses' tack, but you may lodge
the horses themselves at the inn and I will have them
attended to. You are listed in the ship's log under
the name of Sergeant-at-arms White, accompanied
by Man-at-arms Ayrton, so you may as well
use those names at the Brown Fox. The names on
your passport for Isilond may be different, of
course."
Barely controlling his temper, Durendal said,
"I can see why we may have to behave like
criminals in Samarinda, but when did Chivial
become so dangerous that a gentleman cannot use his
own name?"
Kromman revealed a brief flicker of
amusement, undoubtedly deliberate. "A
swordsman should understand the importance of
practice, Sir Durendal. His Majesty's
Office of General Inquiry is not merely
responsible for the internal security of the realm, it
also watches the King's enemies in foreign lands.
I have been smuggled in and out of other countries so
often that all these habits are second nature
to me. You and your Blade have much to learn if we
are to survive our journey."
"I accept the rebuke, Inquisitor.
Thank you for correcting me. By the way, can you
use a sword?"
"Not by your standards, Sir Durendal."
"He is an expert by any others'," Grand
Inquisitor said dryly. "He has slain
several men. Did you think I would choose an
incompetent?"
Two inquisitors were certainly cutting one
stupid swordsman to shreds. Keeping his anger as
far from his face as possible, he said, "Chalice,
White, Ayrton, at the Brown Fox. Is
there anything else I need worry about?"