unusual versatility. Had they laid her among
a hundred others, he would have picked her out as
his. He admired his own heart's blood on
her, then slipped her through the loop on his belt.
He would name her Harvest--a good name for a sword,
a tribute to a friend who'd been treated badly
by chance.
Byless was fussing, trying to help him into his
shirt, Grand Master was congratulating him, while
he was still trying to think of all the people he must thank
before ...
Suddenly his attention was caught by the Marquis,
that green-faced, shivering pimp in the background.
How strange! It was as if that
pseudo-aristocratic ninny was the only
illuminated thing in the room, with everyone and everything
else in darkness. Nobody, nothing else
mattered. The turd was still a turd,
unfortunately--the binding had not changed that--but now
he was obviously an important turd. He
must be looked after and kept safe.
Most-wondrous!
Sir Durendal walked over to his ward and
nodded respectfully. "At your service now,
my lord," he said. "When do we ride?"
The Marquis did not ride, he traveled
by coach--but that came later, in the morning. First
there was the customary small-hours dinner in the
hall, when the new Blade and his ward sat with the
knights, when juniors went quietly to sleep
with their heads among the dishes, when men made
foolish speeches. Harvest's death should have
cooled the merriment this time, but it did not seem
to.
"We were all so sorry for him," Master of
Archives explained. "Two weeks is
average. I only had to endure a couple of
days of it myself. But here, this poor little fellow--"
The hall guffawed in unison. "--th
unfortunate mite had been the Brat for three
whole months! And he really wasn't good at it.
He couldn't grovel. He cringed badly. His
whining was just appalling. But, finally, at long last,
something crawled in the door, something that
Grand Master could in reasonably good conscience
accept. No, I don't mean Candidate
Byless; he came later. So the Brat was
allowed back into the human race. He came
to see me to choose a name. "No," I said,
"you can't have that one. It's special." And he
said, "But you said ...""
And so on. If it kept the children happy,
Sir Durendal could smile tolerantly. It
had been the sopranos who had hung that name on
him and he had turned the tables on them by keeping
it.
Master of Rapiers was next to rise up on his
hind legs. "... not true that he could beat me
on his second day in Ironhall. Absolute
nonsense! It was the third day."
More howls of mirth. It had been two years,
and three before Durendal had been able to do it
consistently. He sipped his wine--and almost choked.
"What in the name of the evils is this piss?" he
whispered.
Master of Sabers chuckled as if he had been
waiting for that. "It's an excellent vintage."
Other faces were smiling.
"It tastes like--"
"Yes, but only because you're on duty,
Blade. One glass is your limit now."
Durendal glanced at his ward, who was pouring the
stuff down his throat like a dairymaid washing out
a churn. He looked at the amused Grand
Master on his throne and then at all the other
grins.
"When am I off duty?"
"Probably about forty years from now," said
Master of Horse.
The Marquis's coach bore his arms in
cobalt enamel and gold: azure, two
squirrels adorsed or. It had padded leather
seating, was drawn by eight matched grays, and
represented a splendid example of the benefits
to be gained by being brother of a woman the King
wanted in bed--Olinda Nillway, now
Countess Mornicade, the greatest beauty of the
age. Gossips whispered that she had enhanced her
natural charms with conjuration, but they could not
explain how she might have smuggled an enchantment
a great beauty, she was also a shrewd
negotiator, who had won titles and
estates for all her relatives. A couple of
her uncles served the King as minor officials.
Her brother was controller of naval provisions and
made weevils seem wholesome.
Two hours after leaving Ironhall,
Durendal had not raised his opinion of his ward
at all. The man wrapped in ermine was a
small-minded, vainglorious nonentity. His
gossip was pointless, his humor spiteful, and his
general conversation utterly lacking in tact.
"Can't you grow a beard yet?"
"Never tried." But he'd been shaving every day
since he ate at the beansprouts' table. His chin
grew stubble like marble-cutters' grit.
"Try. That's an order. His Majesty sets
the standard for the court, and at the moment it is
mustache and full beard."
Yesterday, while wondering what to meditate
upon, Durendal had decided to let his beard grow
in. Now, clearly, he would have to keep shaving it
off.
"Is your hair naturally wavy, or do you
curl it?"
Spirits preserve me! Curl it?
"I asked you a question, boy."
"I heard it."
Nutting fell silent, looking puzzled. He
could not remain silent long. Soon he laughingly
mentioned that a Blade had been his sister's idea.
"She persuaded the King to make out the warrant and
gave it to me at my birthday banquet last
week--such a lovely surprise!"
Up until then Durendal had hardly
spoken, being intent on viewing the world he had not
seen since he was fourteen, but at that news he
felt a sort of high-pitched twang, like a string
snapping on a lute.
"My lord, I am not your servant. I am the
King's. He has decreed that I shall serve him
by defending you to the death, so that is what I shall do.
How I do it is entirely up to me. I don't
need to pander to your whims. I am a Blade, not a
gift from a harlot to a pimp."
Nutting's jaw dropped. "You can't speak
to me like that!" he screeched.
"Yes, I can. I won't do it in public
unless you provoke me."
"I will have you flogged!"
Durendal chuckled. "Try. I'll bet you
I drop six of them before they lay a hand
on me." Three for certain and why not six?
"I'll report you to ... to ..."
"Yes?"
"To the King!"
"He can bring me to heel, I admit. But I
shall be with you when you tattle, because from now on I am
always going to be with you. I advise you not to have too
many other witnesses."
The rest of the journey was more peace
ful.
Still the coach continued to bounce and rattle through
fields and pasture, with no sign of Grandon.
Just as Durendal realized it was not going to the
capital at all, a bend in the road revealed
gates ahead and a high stone wall that stretched
almost out of sight. Over it showed glimpses of
fine trees, gable roofs, innumerable tall
chimney pots. A Blade should be a
saturnine, silent, menacing sort of person, but
there would be time enough for that later. Not today.
"This's the palace?"
"Oldmart Palace." The Marquis shrugged.
"It's better than most. Newer, for one thing."
"The King's in residence?" Flames and
steel! He was babbling like a child. Why else would
they be going there?
His lordship curled his shapely mustache in a
sneer--he had been complaining again of the grand ball
he had missed last night. "Today he's hosting a
reception for the Isilond ambassador. It will be
a very august affair."
A man could relax, then. He would not be
invited to ... but where the Marquis went, his
Blade went. Mustn't ask. Didn't have to.
"Of course," said the turd, "correct
protocol requires a new Blade arriving
at court to be presented to His Majesty as
soon as possible. I imagine even the Lord
Herald will not object if I change first. Can't
do much about you, though. It is regrettable that you have
nothing decent to wear."
Durendal glanced down at the smart new
hose, doublet, and jerkin Ironhall had
provided for his departure, much as a merchant
might package an expensive purchase leaving
his premises. "These are the finest garments I've
ever worn, my lord."
"Bah! Rags! Disgusting. Those slashed
sleeves went out two years ago. As my
Blade, you will have to be suitably
arrayed, but we can't help that today."
"If I may presume, my lord ... you could
take me into town, dress me, and present me
tomorrow."
"No! It must be today."
Obviously the Marquis could not wait
to flaunt his new symbol of greatness before the
court. Durendal sank back on the bench in
silence.
An hour or so later, he followed his ward
down marble steps and out into the palace grounds.
Ironhall had taught him the basic skills
he would need for court--protocol, deportment,
etiquette, and even how to tread a reasonable
minuet or gavotte. This was all real, so why
did he feel like a child playing make-believe?
He surveyed acres of lawns and flower beds and
little ornamental lakes, all divided
by waist-high hedges and paved paths, with striped
marquees and bright flags in the distance.
Orchestras played under the trees. It was
grandiose and fairy-tale, but it was real. The
weight at his side was Harvest, a real sword,
his own personal sword.
His eyes picked out other Blades right away,
the distinctive blue and silver livery with a royal
lion emblem over the heart, the uniform of the
Royal Guard, which he would give all his teeth
to belong to and now never would. Soon he was close enough
to recognize some of those who had been ahead of him
in the school and others who had accompanied the King
on his visits there. Two of the former noticed him
and beamed a welcome from a distance. They must know the
man he was warding. Would he have to live with their pity
all his life?
There were also men-at-arms holding pikes, wearing
helmets and breastplates, probably secular,
although he must never assume that a possible
opponent was not spiritually enhanced. There seemed to be
more servants than courtiers. The women in white,
wearing high white conical hats trimmed with
muslin--those must be the White Sisters, the
sniffers.
Nutting plunged straight ahead through the throng
of silks and satins, jewels and ermine, ruffs and
gold. He smiled and waved and cried out
greetings to those he deemed worthy of his notice.
Heads turned, which was the whole idea. Had he
no shame, no sense of rightness? Had he
never heard of subtlety? The better Durendal
came to know him, the worse he seemed.
As the Marquis led his Blade through a gap in
the final hedge, entering onto the lawn where the
royal party stood, he brushed past two
men-at-arms, undoubtedly without seeing them. Even
Durendal assumed they were ceremonial, for they were
chatting earnestly with a sniffer, but suddenly she
shouted, "You--stop!" and there was an emergency.
The men-at-arms began to level their pikes
to challenge, but Durendal had already thrust the
Marquis aside, drawn Harvest, and was just about
to spit the first man through the eye when the woman
screamed.
"No! Stop! Stop! It's all right!"
He managed to halt the sword about an inch from
its target and retain his balance too. Which was good.
The sniffer waved both hands at the guards, who
had not finished reacting to her original shout. "I
made a mistake."
Fortunately there was no one else close enough
to have noticed. Even more fortunately, the woman
had retracted her challenge extremely quickly.
Now came reaction, analysis, reproach--he
had erred. He had been too quick. There had been
no threat to Nutting, only to him, but he had almost
slain two of the King's men-at-arms on the King's
lawn.
"My lady, your mistake was nearly
fatal!" He slid Harvest back into her
scabbard, noting with unworthy pleasure that his
potential opponents had both turned almost as
white as the stupid woman's antique clothing.
She was about thirty, old enough not to make such
dangerous errors. Her face was pleasantly
plump, the scarlet blush of embarrassment
intriguing. The towering hennin made her seem much
taller than she actually was.
The Marquis had begun to splutter
predictably. "What is the meaning of this
outrage?" He kept trying to dodge around
Durendal, and Durendal kept moving in front
of him.
"My lord, I apologize!" she said. "Your
Blade is very recently bound, my lord?"
"What of it? Confound it, boy, get out of my
way!"
"The smell of the Forge on him is very strong,
my lord."
The Marquis flustered like a mad
duck. "That's no excuse! Don't you know who
I am? You dare accuse me of practicing
conjuration, and against His Majesty at that? You almost
provoked a major scandal, sister!"
"I was merely doing my duty, my lord, and
what I almost provoked was a lot worse than
scandal."
Good for her! She was not going to take any
nonsense from the turd
, even if she had made
unpleasant allegations about Durendal. She
nodded stiffly to him. "My apologies to you also,
sir knight."
He bowed. "Mine to you for startling you, sister."
"I shall complain to Mother Superior!" Nutting
snapped. "Now come along, Blade, and let us
have no more embarrassing scenes."
He strode off huffily. Durendal risked
a wink at the sniffer and followed his ward.
He had seen the King often at Ironhall,
although to the King he would have been just one of dozens of
faces. He would not have known the Queen from any
other well-dressed lady in the land. He took
note of her features, realizing that they were
singularly nondescript and someday he might
meet her by chance in a hallway. Godeleva was
a slender woman, but she might not have seemed so
frail and colorless had she not been standing next
her vibrant, domineering husband. In eight
years of marriage, she had not yet brought a
baby to term, which might explain her air of
worry and sorrow.
But the King ... Ambrose IV was
thirty-four and had reigned for two years already.
He was taller than any other man around him,
monolithic in his sumptuous attire of fur and
brocade and jewels, blazing brighter than the
rosebushes behind him. His hair was tawny, the
cropped fringe of beard closer to red. He
broke off what he was saying to frown at the
Marquis's brash intrusion.
Nutting could bow gracefully, give him that.
But he did not wait to be acknowledged.
"My liege, I have the great honor of
presenting the Blade Your Majesty so generously
assigned to me. Sir Durendal has--"
"Sir Who?" The royal bellow could be heard
all the way to the hollyhocks. Every head turned.
The Marquis blinked. "Durendal, sire."
Ambrose IV stared at the young man kneeling
before him. "Stand up!"
Durendal rose.
"Well!" The famous amber eyes raked him
up and down. "Durendal, hmmm? A
descendant?"
"No, Your Majesty. Just an admirer."
"We all are. Welcome to court, Sir
Durendal."
"Thank you, sire."
"Very impressive! I don't believe," the
King said loudly, "that I intended to be quite so
generous."
Amid the thunderstorm of laughter, the Marquis
turned redder than the geraniums. A royal
jest like that one would linger around the court for days, like
a bad smell.
The Marquis, surprisingly, had a marquise