Sky of Swords Read online

  Sky of Swords

  A TALE OF THE KING’S BLADES

  DAVE DUNCAN

  Note

  Like The Gilded Chain and Lord of the Fire Lands, this book can be read as a stand-alone novel. However, all three together tell a larger story, so if you read any two, you will discover discrepancies that can be resolved only by reading the complete set.

  The House of Ranuff in 368

  Contents

  Note

  The House of Ranulf in 368

  The Trial, Day One

  The Trial, Day One (CONTINUED)

  The Trial, Day One (CONCLUDED)

  The Trial, Day Two

  The Trial, Day Three

  The Trial, Day Three (CONCLUDED)

  Aftermath

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Eos Books by Dave Duncan

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Trial, Day One

  Chin up and arms swinging, Malinda strode in through the doorway and sped along the hall, heading straight for Grand Inquisitor as if she intended to strangle him. Heels drummed on flagstones and metal clattered as her escort scrambled to keep up, for they were encumbered by their pikes and half armor, and not one of them was as tall as she.

  The Hall of Banners in the Bastion was ancient and dowdy, with walls of bare stone and floor of planks, a gloomy barn at the best of times. On this squally spring day the wind was belching white clouds from the fireplace and rippling the soot-blackened tatters of ancient flags that hung from the high rafters. A hundred lanterns and candelabras barely raised a glitter from the dignitaries’ finery. Behind scarlet-draped tables they sat, a row of thirteen commissioners stretching almost the whole width of the room with Grand Inquisitor in the center. A single unadorned wooden chair set in the center of the hall was presumably intended for Malinda, but she swept by it and kept on going until she came to a halt before the table, across from the horrible old man. The men-at-arms stamped to a stop behind her, and for a moment there was silence.

  She had recognized him from the doorway by his height; even sitting he towered over the others at the table, the tallest man she had ever met, a human gallows. All inquisitors affected a glassy, unblinking stare as a reminder that they had a conjured ability to detect lies, but his skull-like features never revealed any expression whatsoever. Her father had appointed him to head the Dark Chamber and on her accession she had confirmed him in office, so he was one of those who had betrayed her. His treason had obviously prospered—he had been promoted. His red robes and the gold chain around his neck marked him as Lord Chancellor of Chivial; having been locked up for months, she knew nothing of recent events.

  “By what right do you presume to maltreat me so?” she demanded. “Sending armed men to drag me here like a common felon!”

  “Would you prefer to remain in your cell?” he murmured. Then louder—“Malinda of Ranulf, you are summoned in the King’s name to—”

  “The Usurper’s name!”

  The Chancellor’s dark eyes were filmy, as if he had spilled milk in them, and hair like white cobwebs fringed his red hat, but age had not softened him. “You are indicted of high treason, numerous murders, evil and illegal conjuration, fornication, misprision, conspiracy to—”

  “Considering my youth, I must have been exceedingly busy! As rightful Queen of Chivial, I do not recognize the authority of this court to try me on these or any other charges.”

  His name had been Horatio Lambskin on the night he swore allegiance to her. Now, as Chancellor, he would be Lord Something-or-other. He posed always as a bloodless state servant, an altruistic tool serving only the common weal. He probably believed his own lie, so he would not view his change of allegiance as a crime, just a higher loyalty. At the moment his mission was to see her condemned to death, but if he failed and she ever won back the throne that was rightfully hers, he might well turn up for work the following morning in full expectation of carrying on as before.

  “I will acknowledge nothing less than a jury of my peers,” she said.

  They had found a way around that argument, of course. “This is not a court, mistress. A bill of attainder has been laid before Parliament, condemning you to death for high treason, divers murders, evil—”

  “You sound like a parrot.”

  Nothing changed on the skull face. “If this bill is passed by Parliament and signed into law by His Majesty, then your head will be struck off. Parliament has therefore appointed a committee to consider the evidence against you. If you do not wish to testify, you have the right to remain silent.”

  Meaning she was under no duress to answer, except that she would be beheaded if she did not. If she did, she would be beheaded anyway. He was also threatening to send her back to her lonely cell, where she had languished so long without conversation or comfort or news of her friends, where every day lasted a week and a month was a year. He must know that she would do almost anything to stay here in human company for a while, even submit to the ordeal of being questioned and browbeaten.

  She glanced quickly at the judges—six men to right and six to left, not one under fifty, all in furs and satins, gold and gems, a flock of kingfishers. Those closest to the chair were peers, in coronets and ermine-trimmed scarlet robes. The burghers at the outer ends were birds of lesser plumage, but even their grandiose jerkins and cloaks and plumed hats were in clear violation of the sumptuary laws. She knew all of them except two of the commoners, for they had done homage to her, swearing to be faithful and true. Amazingly, several of them were able to look her in the eye even yet. She noted the insipid Lord Candlefen, who was a distant cousin, and the Honorable Alfred Kildare still sporting the regalia of the Speaker of the Commons…. They had been sent here to condemn her, which they would not find difficult—two days’ work, maybe three, to pretend they had tried to be fair.

  So why bother? Why not just drag her out to meet the ax? Because the proprieties must be observed. Parliament must be shown evidence of some sort before it could pass the bill. Then its members could go home to the shires and towns of Chivial and report that the ex-queen had been a monster and her execution just. Nor was Chivial alone. Rulers of other lands would greet the execution of a monarch with screams of outrage. In the shadows behind the commissioners sat a hundred or so lesser folk: clerks and flunkies and certainly more inquisitors to detect falsehoods, but among them she recognized men she had seen in attendance on ambassadors and consuls. So at least part of the reason for this mock trial was to convince other lands in Eurania and perhaps to win foreign recognition of the Usurper. There would have to be some pretense of fairness, however slight.

  “I protest this injustice!” She addressed the chairman, but she was speaking to the witnesses at his back. “I was given less than a full day’s warning of this hearing. I have barely had time to read the charges against me, let alone prepare a defense. I have been held in solitary confinement for half a year without news or servants or even books. I am denied legal counsel, denied a jury of my peers, and yet I am expected to answer for my—”

  “This is not a courtroom. Will you or will you not cooperate with the inquiry?”

  “I shall happily advise the noble lords and honorable members of the truth of these matters, provided certain reasonable conditions are met. I require that I be given the royal honors due me: a chair of state, a royal title—”

  “The hearings are now in session, Mistress Ranulph, and if you remain obdurate, you will be returned whence you came.”

  He might not be bluffing. This brief appearance might be all they needed to convince the foreign observers that she was still alive and had refused a chance to tell her side of the story.

  “Let the minutes show that I testify o
nly under extreme protest!” She spun on her heel and strode back to that lonely chair in the middle. There she would have to speak over-loudly to make her case and would be constantly aware of her isolation—all very typical of the Dark Chamber’s methods.

  “The committee will come to order,” the chairman said. “Master Secretary, pray remind the noble lords and honorable members of the wording of Clause I.”

  A weedy voice began whining behind him. Malinda squirmed on the hard seat and adjusted her skirts, well aware that her dress fell far short of court standards, for although it was the best she had, carefully stowed away against the long-hoped-for date of her release, moths and mildew had taken their toll. Her jewels had all been confiscated, of course. She had been forced to dress her own hair without a mirror or even a decent comb.

  Strategy…she must think strategy. Somewhere beyond these gruesome walls, out in the world of smiles and sunshine, her supporters would be plotting on her behalf, although of course they dare do little while she was a prisoner. The Usurper could not rest easy on his ill-gotten throne as long as the rightful Queen of Chivial lived. Assassination was what she had expected: poison or poniard or the silken noose. Every new dawn had been a surprise. She had not seriously considered the possibility of a public execution, and a public trial she had never even dreamed of before the warrant for this inquiry was thrust in her hand the previous day. Perhaps Lord Chancellor Whatever-his-name-was-now did not have Parliament quite so much under control as he would like. Had an outcry forced the Usurper to stage this farce?

  Dare she consider the faint possibility that she might not be going to die of it? Alas, when hope flickered, the rage that had sustained her waned and gave way to fear, so that the skin on her arms puckered in gooseflesh and her fingers began to shake. She was on trial for her life and the deck was stacked against her.

  The clerk had stopped.

  One of the peers jumped in with a question. “…that you conspired to effect the murder of your father, His Late Majesty Ambrose IV—”

  “No!” she snapped. “I deny that charge utterly.”

  “How would you describe your relations with your father? Warm? Loyal? Dutiful?”

  “It was no secret,” Malinda said deliberately. “As a child I was taught to hate him, fear him, and despise him. When I was old enough to make up my own mind, I found no reason to alter those opinions. He drove his first two wives insane and murdered the third; his fourth was to be a girl a month younger than I. I sincerely believe that he was a strong and effective king of Chivial and the realm has suffered greatly from his untimely death. In his private life he was a tyrant, and I never loved him, but his death was not something I planned or desired.”

  She had never intended to kill him. That had been an oversight.

  1

  Love can hurt: that is the last lesson of childhood.

  FONATELLES

  On a bright and frosty morning in Eleventhmoon, Malinda came awake with a start, remembering that this was the second day of her ninth birthweek. She jumped out of bed and opened the door to peer along the corridor at the Blade who sat at the top of the stairs near her mother’s door, guarding her as he was bound to do. Blades were all built much the same, lean and nimble, and Queen Godeleva’s two were so much alike that Malinda could not be certain from this angle whether she was seeing Sir de Fait or Sir Arundel. It didn’t matter in the slightest. What did matter was that he was wearing forest green livery. The Queen’s Blades rarely brought out those outfits now, for seven years’ exile had left them patched and darned and faded. Their swords were still as sharp as ever, or so they claimed.

  Sensing her eyes on him, the Blade closed his book on a finger and turned his head to smile at her. It was Sir de Fait.

  “Today?” she said. “He’ll come today?”

  Yesterday there had been a grand party to celebrate her birthweek. Almost the entire population of the island had packed into the hall, bringing strong odors of sheep and other livestock—not fish, fortunately, for Ness Royal had no port. She had been given wonderful gifts: a gown of golden silk made by Mistress de Fait, a sheepskin bedcover from Lady Arabel, and hundreds of horn buttons, bird nets, wooden whistles, and other things made by the children of the island; gloves and bed socks knitted by their mothers. Remembering the courtly manners Lady Arabel tried so hard to teach her, she had given thanks for every one, even if she did now have about fifty-seven wooden whistles and no use for any of them. Her mother had given her a leather-bound book of poetry she couldn’t understand but would when she was older.

  Other people’s birthweeks were not so honored, but Malinda was Heir Presumptive—as she would happily explain to anyone who did not understand how important that made her—and every year her father the Monster sent her a gift, a very special gift. Last year, it had been a necklace of blood-red garnets; the year before, a clock with a cuckoo that came out to chirp the hours; and before that a cloak of sable, soft as smoke. The cloak was too small for her now, the cuckoo’s works had rusted in the damp sea winds, and she was not allowed to wear the necklace outside of Kingstead itself, in case she forgot and went exploring caves or climbing cliffs in it, but the Monster’s gift was always the most special part of her birthweek. A Blade came all the way from Greymere Palace in Grandon, three or even four days’ hard riding, just to kneel to the Heir Presumptive and proffer her a package and a beautifully lettered scroll, both sealed with the royal signet. She never knew exactly which day the wonderful event would occur, because the roads could be very bad so late in the year and Kingstead’s count of the moon might not be exactly the same as Grandon’s. But Queen Godeleva’s two Blades always knew when the day had arrived. They said it was part of the enchantment that bound them, like the sword stroke through the heart.

  Sir de Fait nodded and put a finger to his lips.

  “Is Mother awake yet?” Malinda spoke loudly, because she knew that nothing would happen until the Queen was up and dressed.

  He frowned and shook his head.

  Malinda went back inside, slamming the door. She walked across to the window to scowl out at the blue-green sea—white surf and white birds; the cliffs of the coast fading away into misty distance. She saw no whales, no seals, not even fishing boats.

  How long to wait? Her mother’s hours were unpredictable. She spent nights and days immersed in spiritual lore, poring over books of spells, corresponding with conjurers in both Chivial and other lands, ever seeking an enchantment to bring back the King’s love. Once in a while she would emerge to lecture the world on her misfortunes, and then even Malinda was required to address her as Your Majesty or Your Grace. The price of a cuddle on her mother’s knee was listening to yet another tirade on the evil deeds of the Monster. She had gradually come to realize that the price was too high. She was well aware that Mistress de Fait and Lady Arabel had effectively adopted her into their families; the Blades were her fathers, their children her siblings. She was, she supposed, grateful. She certainly could not imagine life without them around.

  Deciding she would have time to dress properly later, Malinda pulled on what she had been wearing the previous day, except that she chose shoes with harder soles. Then she went in search of breakfast, skipping noisily past her mother’s door.

  She had a long way to go, but not because Kingstead was large as royal houses went. It wasn’t—it had been put together by joining several buildings into one. She slept up on the cliff top; the hall was down in the hollow, among the trees. Lots of stairs. The moment she entered, Dian de Fait came running to hug her. Dian was Malinda’s most special friend. They shared a love of horses, hair-raising exploration, and contempt for authority. They had differences, naturally. Dian tended to plumpness, and was ever eager to hug and cuddle; Malinda was gangling and had to watch her royal dignity. Dian kept one arm around her all the way over to the Queen’s table, where Lady Arabel and Mistress de Fait sat, deep in conversation.

  The two ladies were almost as hard to tell apart at
a distance as their husbands were. They were both rotund, motherly, and enormously fertile. They differed in that Mistress de Fait was blond and pink and always bore a scent of fresh bread or pastry. As a native of Fishport, just along the coast, she loved Ness Royal’s wild solitude, the cry of gulls, the constant rumble of surf. Lady Arabel was dark and ruddy faced and smelled of flowers; as an earl’s daughter she had retained her title when she married a commoner and was the Queen’s official matron companion. She sighed for the bustle and petty intrigues of court, and told endless tales of its dazzling balls and masques. The two ladies between them instructed the forsaken princess in the gentle arts of reading, dancing, and music; their husbands taught her riding and archery. Now they broke off their talk and rose to offer the Princess curtsies. That was new! Perhaps being nine made a difference. She was a lady now.

  Malinda acknowledged them with a nod and squiggled onto the bench, close enough so she could eavesdrop without being too obvious. “Good morning, ladies. Is not the weather clement for so late in the season?” That was a courtly pleasantry Lady Arabel had taught her, and the ladies responded…. Was something wrong? Unable to puther finger on what troubled her, Malinda turned to her friend. Dian was sitting much too close, as usual. She did that to everyone, as if she had to be in contact with someone all the time, no matter who. Her mother called her the human flea.

  “Your father says this is to be the day!” Malinda said offhandedly.

  “Course it is. It’s going to be Sir Dominic, same as last year. He is so handsome!”

  “You don’t know that!”

  Dian’s eyes gleamed with triumphant confidence. “Do so! He arrived yesterday. He spent the night in Widow Nan’s cottage.”