Lord of the Fire Lands (Tale of the King's Blades Book 2) Read online

  Twenty-four seniors stared up at him in horror. Wasp wanted to die. How could he have done that? Yawning! What a crass, imbecilic, childish thing to do!

  But Spender's rage was not just against him—it was directed at all of them. "I know what you're thinking!" He grew even louder. "You all think that the King takes the best for the Guard and it's only the failures he assigns as private Blades. Don't you? Don't you? Just nod!" he said, dropping his voice to a menacing growl. "If that's what you think, you young slobs, just nod once and I'll give you a fencing lesson with real swords. I'm a private Blade and proud of it. Burl and Dragon were my brothers and they're dead! They didn't rank second to anyone!"

  Wasp stared appealingly at Prime and so did everyone else. Say something! A week ago Wolfbiter had been Prime and Wolfbiter would have known exactly what to say. But Wolfbiter had gone, and in Bullwhip's case the sword was mightier than the tongue. He had straightened up off the wall, where he had been leaning. His mouth opened but no sound emerged.

  Spender had not finished. "You all think you're going into the Guard, don't you? Nothing but the best! Well, I tell you being a private Blade is a thousand times harder than lounging around the palace with a hundred others. It's a full-time job. It's a lifetime job! None of this ten-years-and-then-dubbed-knight-and-retire nonsense. We serve till we die! Or our ward does."

  Bullwhip's freckled, meaty face remained locked in an agony of embarrassment. Mallory, who was Second, seemed equally frozen, unwilling to upstage his leader—good manners but not good sense when a hero started having hysterics.

  Wasp jabbed an elbow in Raider's ribs. "Say something!" he whispered.

  "Hmm? All right." Raider flowed to his feet, unfolding like a flail. He was third in line, after Mallory. He also stood almost a hand taller than any other man in the school, long and lean; with that copper-red hair and green-green eyes he was never inconspicuous. Everyone looked, including Spender.

  "With respect, sir, I certainly do not believe that. I doubt if anyone here does. Wolfbiter is the finest fencer Ironhall has produced since Sir Durendal and just a few days ago we all saw him being bound as a private Blade. He put all of us to shame with steel, yet the King assigned him to someone else, not the Guard."

  Twenty-three throats made earnest sounds of agreement.

  "In fact," Raider added, perhaps hoping to change the subject, "he assigned him to Sir Durendal and none of us can imagine why."

  Spender stared at him in silence for a moment. His color flamed swiftly from its corpselike white to brilliant red. Wasp relaxed. Everyone did. They had been taught that pallor was the danger sign. Blushing meant apology or bluff. The hero sank down on his chair again.

  "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" He doubled over.

  Bullwhip waved hands at the stair, meaning everyone should leave. Raider made contradictory signs—stay where you are!—and everyone stayed. No one ever argued with Raider, not because he was dangerous but because he was always right.

  "Sir Spender," he said, "we are sorry to see you distressed, but you should know that we continue to admire you enormously and always will. We are proud to know you, and when we become Blades ourselves we shall be inspired by your example and what you and your two companions achieved. We think no less of you for being human."

  Nobody breathed.

  "The last entries in the Litany," Raider continued, "were made two years ago during the Nythian War. Sir Durendal saved the King's life outside Waterby. He defeated a team of four assassins single-handed and did not suffer a scratch. I mean no disrespect to him, Sir Spender, but he is so close to a legend that he hardly seems human. You inspire me. He makes me feel horribly inadequate. Your example means much more to me than his does, and that is because I know that you are flesh and blood, as I am." Nobody else could have taken over from Prime without giving offense, but Bullwhip was beaming gratefully.

  The Blade looked up and stared at Raider. Then he straightened and wiped his cheeks with a knuckle. "Thank you. That was quite a speech. It means a lot to me. I'm afraid I've forgotten which one ..."

  "Raider, sir."

  "Thank you, Raider." Suddenly Spender was in charge of the room again, sustained by the four or five years he had on all of them. "Sorry I lost my temper." He smiled ruefully, looking around. "Blame the King. He ordered me to come here and Return the swords. I shouldn't have let old weasel-tongue Protocol talk me into staying on. I haven't been away from my ward since the night I was bound. Commander Montpurse gave me his solemn oath that he would assign four men to keep watch over His Lordship day and night until I get back, but it isn't the same. And after what happened in Fitain, I'm extra sensitive. It's driving me crazy!" He smiled at their horrified expressions. "You didn't think being a Blade was easy, did you? You don't care about rebellion and civil war. Why should you? It isn't going to happen here in Chivial. And I need to be with my ward. So, if you'll excuse me now, I'll be on my way. The moon will see me back to Grandon." He was talking of an all-night ride and he looked exhausted already.

  When Bullwhip tried to speak, Spender stopped him. "You have other things to attend to. I promised not to warn you, but in return for the honor you have done me, I will. The King is on his way. He should be here very shortly."

  Raider spun around but not before Wasp was on his feet and looking out the window. Horsemen in blue livery were riding in the gate.

  "He is!" Wasp screamed. "He's here! The King is here!"

  His voice cracked on the high note. He turned around to face the glares of a dozen men who wanted to murder him on the spot.

  4

  By tradition—and tradition was law in Ironhall—the King entered by the royal door and went directly up to Grand Master's study. There Grand Master waited, fussing around, vainly trying to flick away dust with a roll of papers and mentally reviewing his notes for the thousandth time. A small fire burned in the grate, a decanter of wine and crystal goblets waited on the table. He was a spare, leathery man with a permanently bothered expression and a cloud of white hair reminiscent of a seeding dandelion. Foolish though it seemed, he was presently as nervous as anyone in the school. This was the first time he had played host to the King. Usually the Blades' own rumor mill ground out warnings of the King's visits, but this time it had not.

  The previous Grand Master, Sir Silver, had ruled the Order for a third of a century; but half a year ago the spirits of time and death had caught up with him at last. His memory still haunted this room—his ancient furniture, his choice of prints on the walls, even some of his keepsakes still cluttering the mantel of the fieldstone fireplace. His successor had added a tall bookcase and his own books, plus a large leather chair, which he had ordered made to his specifications in Blackwater as a celebration of his promotion. Nothing else.

  Long ago he had been Tab Greenfield, unruly younger son of a minor family, which had disposed of him by enrolling him in Ironhall—the best thing that had ever happened to him. Five years later he had been bound by Taisson II in the first binding of his reign, becoming Sir Vicious, enduring eight years of routine and futile guarding before being dubbed a knight in the Order and so freed. Having a longtime interest in spirituality, he had enlisted in the Royal College of Conjurers and had done some original work on invoking spirits of earth and time to increase the stability of buildings. He had even toyed with ambitions of becoming grand wizard, but eventually the opportunity to merge his two careers had brought him home to Ironhall as Master of Rituals. Last Ninthmoon he had been genuinely astonished when the Order chose him as Grand Master and even more surprised when the King approved the election. He was about to be tested in his new duties for the first time.

  He had a problem, a candidate who did not fit the pattern.

  The King was taking his time! Possibly he had ridden round to West House to inspect the fire damage. The noise of the carpenters working was faintly audible even here, although Grand Master had grown so used to it now that he never noticed it. He looked around
the room yet again. What might a new Grand Master have forgotten?

  Flames, his sword! Only a bound Blade could go armed into the King's presence, and Grand Master should be the last one to forget that. Appalled that he had so nearly made a major blunder, he drew Spite and stepped up on the muniment chest to lay her on top of the bookcase, out of sight. His baldric and scabbard he folded away in the chest itself.

  He was just closing its lid when the latch rattled on the inconspicuous door in the corner and in walked Hoare—a typical Blade, all lean and spry. Until now his only distinguishing features had been a grotesque tuft of yellow beard and a vile juvenile humor, which his chosen name did not deny, but now he sported the baldric of Deputy Commander across the blue and silver livery of the Royal Guard. Smiling, he advanced with hand outstretched.

  "Grand Master! Congratulations!"

  "Deputy! Congratulations to you, also."

  Hoare had a grip like a woodcutter. "My, we are coming up in the world, aren't we?" His eyes raked the room. "How does it feel to be chief keeper of the zoo?"

  "Very gratifying. How does it feel to step into Durendal's shoes?"

  Hoare shuddered dramatically. "I expect it would make me very humble if I knew what the word meant." He shot a quizzical glance at the older man. "Odd business, that! Did he by any chance drop any hints while he was here? Where he was going? Why the world's greatest swordsman needs a Blade to guard him?"

  "Not a peep. I was sort of hoping you might tell me."

  They exchanged matching frowns of frustration.

  Hoare shrugged. "Hasn't been a word from anyone. Grand Inquisitor probably knows, but who's going to ask her? The Fat Man isn't talking. Never forget, Grand Master, that kings have more secrets than a dead horse has maggots, and most of them nastier. Even Leader swears he doesn't know."

  Grand Master would believe that when Montpurse himself told him so; he got on well with the Commander. "Leader is not with you this time?"

  "Yes, he's coming. Janvier? Something wrong?"

  There was another Blade standing in the doorway, a younger one—Janvier, a rapier man who had been Prime very briefly and bound on the King's last visit, together with Arkell and Snake. He had always been quiet, acute, and self-contained, but why was he just standing there like that, head cocked, frowning as if listening for something?

  Grand Master opened his mouth, and Hoare held up a warning hand. He looked amused, but Hoare always looked amused.

  Sir Janvier marched unerringly across the room and stepped up on the muniment chest. "There's a sword up there." He sounded more aggrieved than surprised.

  Hoare grinned like a pike and waggled a reproving finger at Grand Master. "Naughty!"

  Incredible! "How does he do that?" Many Blades had instincts for danger to their wards, but Grand Master had never witnessed sensitivity on that scale.

  "Wait till you hear about the wood sliver under the King's saddle! Tell Grand Master how you do it, brother."

  Young Janvier had jumped down, holding Spite, and was admiring the unusual orange glint of the cat's-eye stone on her pommel. He looked up blankly. "I don't know, Grand Master. I heard it buzzing. It's you who should be able to tell me."

  Buzzing? "There are some reports in the archives.... I resent the implication that my sword is in any way a danger to His—"

  "Any sword can be a danger if it falls into the wrong hands," Hoare said. "You're supposed to set us kiddies a good example. Put that wood chopper somewhere safe."

  Janvier headed for the corridor door, peering at the inscription on the blade as he did so. "Why Spite?"

  "Why not!?" Grand Master snapped. Seeing another man handling his sword was a novel and extremely unpleasant experience. Spite was his and he had not been separated from her in almost thirty years.

  At that moment the door at the bottom of the stairwell slammed. Hoare ran across to Janvier and shot him out of the room, Spite and all. He had the corridor door closed again and was standing with his back to it and his face completely blank when the heavy tread approaching reached the top step.

  5

  The King ducked his wide, plumed hat under the lintel and paused to catch his breath. He stood much taller than any Blade and was visibly bigger than he had been on his last visit, much too large for a man not yet forty. The current fashions made him seem gargantuan—puffed, slashed sleeves on a padded jerkin of green and red hanging open to reveal a blue silk doublet, legs bulging in striped gold and green stockings, green boots. The tawny fringe of beard was flecked with silver, but Ambrose IV of the House of Ranulf showed no signs of relaxing the granite grip with which he had ruled Chivial for the last eight years. His amber-colored eyes peered out suspiciously between rolls of lard.

  He acknowledged Grand Master's bow with a nod and a grunt. As he unfastened his mud-spattered cloak of ermine-trimmed scarlet velvet, Montpurse materialized at his back to lift it from the royal shoulders. Then the Commander turned as if to hang it on a peg, but Grand Master had been unable to think of any reason for that peg to be there and had removed it so he could hang a favorite watercolor in its place. Montpurse shot him a surprised smile and laid the garment over a chair. With flaxen hair and baby-fair skin, he looked not a day older than he had on the night he was bound. Spirits! That was just after Grand Master came back to Ironhall ... was it really almost fifteen years ago ... ?

  The Commander closed the outer door and took up his post in front of it. Without removing his hat, the King headed for the new leather chair and settled into it like a galleon sinking with all hands. He was still short of breath.

  "Good chance, Grand Master."

  "Thank you, sire, and welcome back to Ironhall." Vicious reached for the decanter. "May I offer you some refreshment?"

  "Ale," said the King.

  Grand Master strode to the other door and peered out. Wallop and the Brat were waiting in the corridor as he had ordered—the Brat looking scared to death. But Janvier and Scrimpnel were standing there also with the patience of mountains, and Wallop held a tray bearing a large flagon, a drinking horn, two pies, several large wedges of cheese, and sundry other victuals. Wallop had been a servant at Ironhall since it was built, within a century or two, and he obviously knew the present king's preferences. Granting him a sheepish smile of thanks, Grand Master took the tray and bore it back to the monarch. He laid it on the table as Hoare whipped away the wine to make room.

  The King reached a fat hand for the flagon. "So how are you settling in, Grand Master?"

  "With great satisfaction, sire. I welcome this opportunity to thank you in person for the extreme honor you—"

  "Yes. When will the repairs be completed?" Ambrose put the flagon to his mouth and drank without taking his shrewd, piggy gaze off Grand Master.

  "By the middle of Fifthmoon, sire, they assure me. We shall be ... We are looking forward to it." The school was presently packed to the rafters, although a dozen elderly knights had been temporarily evicted to find other accommodation. To point that out to a touchy monarch might be dangerous, since the overcrowding was partly due to his delay in harvesting qualified seniors.

  "Thunderbolts in the middle of winter?" The King wiped his beard with his sleeve and glowered suspiciously. "You are satisfied there was no spiritual interference? None of those batty old pensioners experimenting with conjuration? Kids holding midnight parties and upsetting candles?" His father had always seen conspiracies where others did not. Perhaps all kings did. Why else the Blades?

  "Thunderstorms can strike Starkmoor at any season, sire. Some superstitious people tried to relate the accident to the death of my predecessor so soon before." Did the King's scowl mean that he was one of them? "I do not believe in ghosts, and if I did I could never believe Sir Silver would return from the dead to attack the Order he served so long and well. The storm brushed Torwell also. It roared half the night away here. We have some very deaf old knights among us and I don't think one of them was asleep when we were hit."

  The Kin
g grunted and reached for the drinking horn. "So what have you for me this time? How many stalwart young swordsmen, hmm?"

  "A great many, Your Majesty. A couple of them are outstanding. I fancy the King's Cup will be safe from outsiders for many years to come."

  "I'll have you drawn and quartered if it isn't!" He laughed, and the famous royal charm dismissed any threat in the words. "We don't have Sir Durendal to rely on now."

  Ah! "We don't?"

  "No we don't." The King cut off that line of conversation. "Start with Prime."

  Noting that he had not been invited to sit down, Grand Master stepped away from the fireplace in case he forgot himself so far as to lean an elbow on it. He folded his hands behind his back and prepared to perform like a soprano reciting the Ironhall creed.

  "Prime is Candidate Bullwhip, my liege. A fine—"

  "Bullguts!" The King glared as he filled the horn. Foam spilled over his hand, but he ignored that.

  "Sire?"

  "Bullballs! How shall I feel if I must address one of my guards at court when he has a name like that? In the presence of the Isilondian ambassador, perhaps? I know you said Bullwhip, Grand Master! I had occasion many times to reproach your predecessor for some of the absurd names he allowed boys to choose and that is an egregious example! I hope you will display better judgment!" Scowl.

  Hoare, standing safely out of sight behind the King, stuck out his tongue.

  Grand Master bowed, recalling that two days ago he had approved the registering of a Candidate Bloodfang who stood less than five feet high and had freckles. "I shall inform Master of Archives of Your Majesty's instructions." He wasn't going to change the tradition, no matter what the King said. The right to choose a new name mattered enormously to a recruit. It was a rite of passage, recognition that the old person was forgotten and from now on he was who he said he was, to be whatever he could make of himself. This was going to be a stormy audience if Ambrose objected to a name as innocuous as Bullwhip.