the Guard, and launched a scandal, for now the story
must come out. The Marquise became almost
hysterical and insisted that her husband dismiss his
errant servant. She refused to believe that he
could not be dismissed.
The worst part of being a Blade, Durendal
decided, was that he could not simply disappear down
a rabbit bole when necessary. Perhaps other Blades,
lacking his genius for causing trouble, never felt the
need.
The reception ended at last and the court sat
down to eat the King's health at a
twelve-course banquet. Blades stood around
the walls again, but this time Durendal attached himself
to a group of them. They were civil to him, no more.
They made little jokes about men who wore gold
uniforms, although they were careful not to make
them about squirrels or upstart pimps who
invented such uniforms, because that sort of talk might
trigger Durendal's still-tender binding. They came
and went, visiting a buffet in the next room.
Since none of them offered to spell him and he was
determined not to ask for relief, he did not
expect to eat at all.
Montpurse drifted into the group, acknowledging
the problem Blade with a curt nod.
About two minutes after that, a diminutive
page appeared in front of Durendal, bowed,
handed him a box of polished rosewood bearing the
royal arms, and departed.
"You have your lunch delivered?" Montpurse
stepped closer to see. The others gathered around.
"I don't know anything about this!"
"Then you'll have to open it, won't you?"
Anything but that! But he had no choice. He
opened it. On the red velvet lining lay a
sword breaker of antique Jindalian design
--a dagger with deep notches along one side.
Its hilt and quillons were inlaid with gold,
malachite, and what appeared to be real lapis
lazuli. At a guess, it was worth a duke's
castle and change. The card bore a brief
message:
For him who broke the King's sword,
A.
"Flames and death!" Durendal slammed the
lid before anyone could steal the contents. He hugged
the treasure to his chest in both arms and stared at
his companions with a sense of panic.
Montpurse's pale eyes were twinkling.
"Been robbing the crown jewels, have you?"
"No! No, no! I don't understand. What do
I do?"
"You wear it, you flaming idiot. If the King
is watching, as I expect he is, then you bow
now."
He was, his grin visible right across the hall.
Durendal bowed.
"Right. Then--here, let me help."
Montpurse hung the marvel on Durendal's
belt over his right thigh and said, "Oh, that's very
nice! I'm jealous. What do you think, lads?"
A few days after that, an excited Byless
turned up at court, bound to Lord Chancellor
Bluefield, who already had two Blades. Then
Gotherton was reported to be in Grandon,
assigned to Grand Wizard of the Royal
College of Conjurers, who had three and ought to have
less need of them than anyone in the kingdom.
Although the Guard had numerous well-informed but
ill-defined sources, there were some secrets it could
not penetrate. When word came that Candidate
Everman had been bound to a certain Jaque
Polydin, gentleman, no amount of prying could
discover anything at all about him, except that
Blade and ward together had vanished off the face
of the earth the following day. Even Montpurse
claimed to have been kept in ignorance. Men
whispered longingly about high adventure and secret
agents traveling in foreign lands.
Durendal wanted to scream with frustration and
wring his ward's neck. His self-control
prevented the first and his binding the second.
It became official: The Queen was with child. The
King showered wealth on every elementary order that could
provide her with appropriate charms,
Over the next couple of months, Durendal
adapted to his strange double life in court.
By day he was bored to insanity, following the
Marquis from party to ball to reception to salon
to dinner, and almost to bed. All suggestions that his
lordship should take up riding or hawking or fencing
or anything at all interesting fell on deaf
ears. Besides, such pastimes would all incur a
slight element of danger, and thus the binding
conjurement impeded Durendal's efforts
to promote them. He tended to stutter and develop
a headache.
Boredom was not the worst of it, though.
Nutting's official duties for the navy occupied
about ten minutes a week, when he signed the
documents that his staff prepared and brought to him.
Unofficially he ran a thriving business of his
own. Much of it was dealt with through clandestine
correspondence--letters he burned as soon as he
had read them--but some of it required
face-to-face negotiations. During those
meetings with various savory or unsavory
persons, he would order his Blade to stand at the
far end of the room, so he could not eavesdrop. The
details did not matter. Durendal was soon
able to work out that his lordship was taking kickbacks on
contracts, accepting bribes to overlook
defects in the supplies delivered for the
unfortunate sailors, and selling access to the
King himself by passing petitions on to his sister.
It was all nauseating, but there was nothing Durendal
could do about it. He could never endanger his ward in
any way at all.
By night he flew free. One of the Guard would
relieve him as the palace went to sleep, so he
could join the others in their revels. Two horns
of ale was his limit, but one satisfied him. His
body absolutely demanded exercise, so he
fenced. When there was moonlight he went riding in
mad chases over the fields or joined
bacchanalian swimming parties in the river. He
indulged in quick romances, having no trouble finding
willing partners.
He learned how to beat Montpurse with
sabers, if not with a rapier.
He wore the royal sword breaker everywhere
except in bed.
The King never indulged in fencing now, and for that the
Guard was duly grateful to Durendal.
He saw the King frequently. Even if they
just passed in a hallway, when the King had
acknowledged the Marquis, he would always greet his
Blade by name. It would be very easy to fall
victim to that famous charm--and what it would be to be
bound to such a man!
Alas, fickle chance had decreed otherwise.
However great his swordsmanship, he knew he was
stuck with the job of guarding the obnoxious Marquis
for the rest
of his days. Never would he serve the king
he revered, never ride to war at his side or
save his life in lethal ambush, never battle
monsters, unmask traitors, rise to high
office, travel on secret missions in far
dominions.--never be anything at all except a
useless ornament around the court.
Even the greatest of swordsmen can be a lousy
prophet.
NUTTING
II
"Very well!" Kromman spluttered. "You
may leave. You will remain at your residence
until you are summoned." He was scarlet with
fury.
"Let go your sword, Sir Quarrel,"
Roland said, edging between the two men.
But Quarrel was a very newly bound Blade,
and the new chancellor very obviously a danger to his
ward. For a moment it seemed as if that order would not
be enough. Then the white-faced boy made an
effort and released the hilt he was holding.
"As you wish, my lord." He glared hatred at
Kromman.
With a silent sigh of relief, Roland headed
for the door. Quarrel arrived there before he did and
opened it to peer out, as a well-trained bodyguard
should.
Roland whispered, "Mask!" It was an old
Ironhall warning, a reminder that in real contests
a man's face was not hidden from his opponent's
view.
"My lord." The boy's mouth smiled as he
swung the door wide. The angry glitter in his
eyes remained, but none of the watchers would be
close enough to notice that. Few of them would even be
astute enough to realize that the new Blade's face
might not be as uncommunicative as his ward's
notoriously was. It was the principle that
mattered, for serenity would deceive no one tonight. The
King's Secretary had arrived posthaste from
court and gone into the Chancellor's office; if
Lord Roland then emerged without the chain of office
he had worn for twenty years, was the conclusion so
hard to draw?
Half a dozen men-at-arms were standing in a
bored and puzzled huddle. Obviously
Kromman had not told them what he had
expected them to do, for they sprang to attention at
the sight of the former chancellor and made no effort
to block his departure. Six? Even Quarrel
might have had trouble with six--but of course Roland
would have been there to help him. He was gratified that
Kromman had thought six might be necessary to arrest a
man of his years.
The first ordeal would be just to stroll across this wide
antechamber, crowded with men and women
waiting to see him, some of whom had been there for
days. Now none of them had reason to see him and
most would prefer not to be seen anywhere near him,
lest his fall from favor prove to be infectious,
as it so often did.
He watched the news flash through the room ahead
of him--the startled gasps, the exchanged glances,
the calculating looks. Who was smiling, who
frowning? It did not matter! He had no friends
now, only enemies.
"They say," Quarrel remarked, "that the Earl
of Aldane is already clear favorite to win the
King's Cup this year."
Ah, the disgraced minister still had one friend! Even
royal disfavor could not alienate a Blade from his
ward. "Too early to tell, my lad! Don't
lay any bets yet. Is he another of the
Steepness school?"
"I believe so. Steepnessians are fast, I
understand."
"Lightning with diarrhea." The onlookers were
watching, listening, but now none came crowding forward
to clutch Lord Roland's sleeve.
"What do they use--air and fire?"
"Plus a hefty dose of time, I imagine.
That's what's dangerous. The subjects rarely
live to see forty. The present duke, his father, was
one of theirs, although he is still hale, last I
heard. I fought against him once, when he was the
earl." The great lout had never forgiven him for that
day.
"Oh, I have heard tell of that bout, my lord!
It is one of the legends of Ironhall."
Quarrel babbled more appropriate nonsense, his
youthful face displaying pure innocence. He was
doing splendidly, and his ward must tell him so as
soon as they were alone. They would first go around by his
personal quarters and collect a few
keepsakes. After that, the gauntlet would continue
down the great staircase ... on and on, until
he could clamber into the coach, leave Greymere
Palace forever, head home to Ivywalls. There
he would await the King's pleasure. The King's
displeasure would be a more apt description.
What was he going to do about his Blade, though?
The ex-chancellor's troubles suddenly seemed very
minor as he contemplated Quarrel's. He had
brought disaster upon the boy only three days after his
binding. If the King tried to arrest him, Quarrel
would resist to the death. No matter how
hopeless the defiance, he would have no choice.
A Blade whose ward was accused of plotting
against the King--Lord Roland knew that dilemma from
personal experience.
Sunlight shone on the brilliant array of
watchers massed in the stands like flowers in boxes.
The wind snapped bright-colored pennants and
flapped the brilliant awnings; it ruffled
striped marquees. The court was assembled in a
great display of tabards and blaring trumpets,
heraldic banners and fair ladies in
sumptuous gowns.
Clank, clank went the armor as
Durendal plodded over the muddy grass. The
broadsword in his hands already weighed as much as an
anvil and would soon feel like an overweight
horse. He could swing it convincingly if he did
not have to keep up the effort for long. In a few
minutes, a much larger man than he was going
to start smashing at him with an even larger sword,
and the two of them would chop away brutally until
one of them went down. Encounters in full armor
involved very little skill, only strength and endurance
--and quite often serious injury. He was not looking
forward to the contest, but he had only himself to blame
for this predicament. He had made a mistake that
morning and must now pay the price.
Curse Ambrose and his stupid
broadswords!
Although the King no longer fenced, he had not lost
his interest in fencing. Each year he sponsored a
great tournament modeled after the jousting of olden
days before advances in conjuration made armored
knights an absurdity and trial by combat
unnecessary. Each year he donated a gold cup
worth a hundred crowns, enough to attract
contestants from all over Chivial. The first
King's Cup had been won by Montpurse and the
second by Durendal himself, so he was now defending
his title. He had reac
hed the semifinals without
trouble. This morning Montpurse had lost
to Chefney, another Blade, so tomorrow the finals
would pit Chefney against either Durendal or
Aldane, that mountain of metal now thumping forward
to meet him.
The Duke of Gaylea was a smallish man but
rich enough to have had his son's growth enhanced.
He must have paid well, because at sixteen his little
boy now stood a full head taller than any
Blade and was muscled like a bull. He looked
more fearsome stripped than he did in plate
armor. Ironically, this young giant had
developed ambitions to be a fencer, which was
absurd for one of his size; but wealth could always
find a way. The Steepness school specialized
in quick results for aristocrats unwilling to waste
years in secular learning; it substituted spiritual
speed for skill. As a fencer, the Earl of
Aldane was technically crude and
unbelievably fast for his size--for any size.
Durendal had lost to him that morning at
rapiers, which he should not have done. He had then won
at sabers; and perhaps that success counted as a
second mistake, for under the King's elaborate
rules it forced a deciding match with two-handed
broadswords. Few contests had gone so far,
and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. At
broadswords, when strength was vital and skill
unimportant, Aldane had an almost insuperable
advantage.
Right foot forward, left foot forward, right
foot forward ... every move was a conscious effort.
Armor was ridiculous stuff. The padding stank as
if someone had lived in it day and night since the
Fatherland Wars. It was already growing unpleasantly
hot. His right knee squeaked. When he lowered his
visor, he would peer out at the world through a slit,
which turned fighting into a mindless brawl with no art
whatsoever. Unlike the rapier and saber
matches, this bout would be decided by a single round,
when one contestant could not or would not fight longer.
Contrary to popular belief, it was possible for a
man who fell down in plate armor to get up
again without help, but not if someone else was beating
on him with a six-foot sword.
One of the red-and-gold umpires gestured for
Durendal to come no closer. He stopped and
clanked around to face the royal box, noticing
at once that the Queen was there now. She was