King's Blades 01 - The Gilded Chain Read online

  from business of our Privy Council ... will

  hold himself available to answer certain grave

  matters. ...

  Dismissal!

  His first reaction was sweet relief that he could

  now throw down all his worries and go home

  to Ivywalls and the wife whom he had never been

  allowed time enough to love as she deserved. His

  second thought was that Kromman, here designated

  his successor, was an unthinkable choice, totally

  incapable of handling the work.

  He looked up blandly, while his mind raced

  through this deadly jungle that had suddenly sprung

  up around him. He should not be surprised, of

  course. Ambrose IV tired of ministers just as

  he tired of mistresses or favorite

  courtiers. The King grew weary and sought new

  beginnings. He would hope to shed some of his current

  unpopularity by blaming his own mistakes on the

  man who had faithfully carried out his policies.

  Loyalty was better to receive than to give.

  With the silent grace of an archer drawing a

  longbow, Quarrel rose to his feet. For most

  of the last two days, the poor kid had been

  slouched on the couch by the door, leafing through a book

  of romantic verse, bored out of his mind. He

  would have registered that the latest visitor was unarmed

  when he entered and then lost interest in him. Now he

  had sensed something amiss.

  "Your treason is uncovered!" Kromman said

  again, gloating.

  Roland shrugged. "No treason. Whatever

  forgeries you have concocted, Master Kromman, they

  will not withstand proper examination."

  "We shall see."

  They stared at each other for a moment, lifelong

  foes harnessed too long together in service to the

  same master. Roland could never consider himself

  guilty of treason under any reasonable definition

  of the word; but treason was a slippery concept, a

  mire he had seen trap many others--

  Bluefield, Centham, Montpurse.

  Especially Montpurse. He had organized

  Montpurse's destruction himself. To be dragged

  down by the odious Kromman would be excessive

  irony, though. That would hurt more than the

  headsman's ax.

  Again he found himself contemplating murder

  and this time he was not altogether joking with himself; this might be

  his last chance to slay the vermin. Alas, the

  revenge he should have taken years ago would now be

  seen as an admission of guilt, so he would die

  also and leave Kromman as posthumous winner of

  their long feud. Better to stay alive and fight,

  face down the deceit and hope to win, however

  unlikely that might be--Kromman was very sure

  of himself.

  Meanwhile, the dusty files on the desk and the

  garrulous petitioners in the waiting room could

  equally be forgotten. Lord Roland could walk away

  from them all with a clear conscience and head home a

  day earlier than he had planned. Tomorrow would be

  soon enough to start worrying about treason and a trial

  and the almost inevitable death sentence.

  "Long live the King," he said calmly. He

  walked around the desk, lifting the weighty chain from

  his shoulders. "This is not gold, by the way, only

  gilt. Chancery knows that, so don't try accusing

  me of embezzlement."

  With a leer of triumph, Kromman bent his

  head to receive the chain. It rattled around his feet like

  a golden snake as Roland released it.

  "Put it around your neck yourself, Master

  Kromman, or have the King do it. The writ does

  not require me to bestow it."

  "Oh, we shall teach you humbler ways soon!"

  "I doubt it." Then Roland recalled the wording

  of the warrant and the authority it granted to his

  successor. "Or are you contemplating immediate action

  against my person?"

  The new chancellor's amber-toothed smile was

  answer in itself. "Indeed, I shall now have the

  pleasure of completing a task I was prevented from

  completing many years ago." Meaning he had a

  squad of men-at-arms waiting in the anteroom

  to escort the prisoner to a dungeon in the

  Bastion, probably in chains. What sweet

  triumph that would be for him!

  But he was still unaware that there was a third person

  present. He had come scurrying in with his mincing,

  pigeon-toed walk and gone right by the witness beside the

  door, too impatient to notice his victim's

  guardian. As quiet as mist, Quarrel had

  crossed the room to stand at the inquisitor's

  back--tall and supple and deadly as a spanned

  crossbow. He could be Lord Roland's twin

  brother, born forty years too late.

  For the first time Roland looked directly

  at him. "Have you met Master Kromman, the

  King's secretary?"

  "I have not had that honor, my lord."

  Kromman twisted around with a gasp.

  "It is no honor. He plans to have me

  arrested. What say you to that?"

  Quarrel smiled at this sudden improvement

  to his day. "I say not so, my lord." One hand

  rested on his sword. He could draw faster than

  a whip crack.

  "I thought you might. This is Sir Quarrel,

  Chancellor. I deeply regret that I shall be

  unable to accept your gracious invitation

  voluntarily. I hope you brought adequate

  forces?"

  Kromman's jaw hung open. Quarrel's

  hose and doublet had been outrageously

  expensive, his jerkin and plumed hat even more so,

  but they could be matched on a score of young dandies

  around the court. It was not his athlete's grace or

  his darkly sinister good looks that proclaimed him

  unmistakably as a Blade, nor yet his

  sword, for his hand concealed the distinctive pommel.

  Perhaps it was his bearing. There could be no doubt that

  even if he were one against an army, he would litter

  the floor with bodies before he let anyone lay a

  hand on his ward.

  Kromman had a problem he had not

  anticipated.

  "Where did you get him?" he squeaked.

  "On Starkmoor, of course." Roland should have

  guessed that something unexpected would happen right after

  he went back to Ironhall. Every visit he had

  ever made to that gloomy keep had marked a turning

  point in his life.

  As Durendal raised his wineglass to his

  lips, loud booing broke out at the far end of the

  hall, which could only mean that the Brat had come

  in. An immediate cheer announced that he had been

  tripped up already. The kid scrambled to his

  feet in a shower of crusts and chop bones, and was

  promptly tripped again. He had a long way

  to go, because he was not past the sopranos' table yet

  and must still run the gauntlet of the beansprouts, the

  beardless, and the fuzzies before he reached the

  seniors. Undoubtedly Grand Master had sent

  him to summon Prime and Second
to a

  binding, and it was his misfortune that they happened to be

  at dinner.

  It was a rough game, but some of the games were even

  worse; and everyone started out as the Brat.

  Durendal had endured that ordeal longer than

  most, beginning right after the supremely joyous

  moment when he had been able to tell his grandfather to go

  back to Dimpleshire and stay there. Spirits! Had

  that been five years ago? It was hard to believe

  that he was Second now and the Brat was heading for

  him. Most-wondrous!

  He glanced at the high table to confirm that Grand

  Master's throne remained unoccupied. Master of

  Horse and Master of Rapiers caught his eye and

  smiled knowingly. Nothing but a binding would be keeping

  the old man away on Ironhall's most

  important night of the year, the Feast of

  Durendal, the legendary founder whose name Second

  himself had assumed in a mad act of defiance.

  Tonight the seniors were allowed wine. Soon the

  Litany of Heroes would be read out and speeches

  made. For Grand Master to be absent required

  something epic afoot. Possibly the King himself

  had arrived.

  Durendal had been Second for less than a

  week. He had not expected to make the leap

  to Prime just yet. He glanced at Harvest beside

  him, but Harvest was arguing so intently with Everman

  that he had not even noticed the disturbance.

  Five years, and soon it would be over--

  possibly as soon as tomorrow night, if the King

  wanted more than one Blade. Manhood in

  place of adolescence; farewell to Ironhall.

  Feeling his mind strangely concentrated by this sudden

  nostalgia--and possibly also by the wine, he

  realized--he scanned the great hall, as if

  to fix it more tightly in his memory.

  Servants hastened back and forth from the kitchens,

  striving unsuccessfully to keep platters heaped

  against the onslaught of voracious young

  appetites. Candlelight flickered on scores

  of fresh faces at the long tables and reflected

  on the famous sky of swords overhead--a

  hundred chains slung from wall to wall, with a

  sword dangling from almost every link, more than five

  thousand blades. Visitors and newcomers

  notoriously lost their appetites when offered their

  first meal in the hall, especially when it was

  accompanied by vivid descriptions of what would

  happen if just one of those ancient chains

  should break. Residents soon learned to ignore

  the threat. The oldest of those swords had been up

  there for centuries and would probably remain there

  for a long time yet. The oldest of them all hung

  alone in a place of honor on the wall behind

  Grand Master's throne, and that was Nightfall, the

  sword of the first Durendal, which had been found so

  inexplicably broken after his death.

  Soup sprayed over the Brat as he passed the

  beansprouts' table.

  There were seventy-three candidates in

  Ironhall at the moment. Second was

  responsible for keeping them all in line, so he

  had that number branded on his heart. There ought to be

  a hundred or so, but there was a new King on the

  throne. In his first year Ambrose had replaced

  more than a score of his father's aging Blades.

  He had slowed the pace a little since then, but

  lately he had been gifting Blades to his

  favorites. The candidates considered that

  Ambrose IV was being profligate with his

  precious swordsmen, although they were hardly

  unbiased observers. How many did he want

  tonight? Harvest was Prime, and candidates

  invariably left Ironhall in the same order

  they had entered.

  The Brat arrived at last, panting and well

  spattered with gravy and fragments of salad. He

  stared in dismay at Harvest's back, hesitant

  to interrupt the awesomely exalted Prime while

  he was talking; but all the seniors except

  Durendal were still arguing at the tops of their

  voices, blissfully unaware of the drama. The

  hall hushed as the audience realized what was

  happening and waited in amused suspense. The

  distant sopranos had climbed up on their

  benches to watch.

  Young Byless was in full throat. "And I say

  that we're the most deadly collection of

  swordsmen in all Eurania.!" He

  apparently meant the seniors, including himself. This

  was certainly the first time in his life he had ever

  tasted wine, and it showed. "We'd be a match for a

  whole regiment of the King of Isilond's

  Household Sabreurs. We ought to send them a

  challenge."

  "Shinbones!" said Harvest. "We'd be

  massacred!"

  Byless turned an unsteady gaze on him.

  "What if we were? We'd have created a

  legend."

  "Besides," said Felix, "I think they're a

  lot more deadly." He gestured over his shoulder

  at the tables behind him.

  He was making better sense. That was where the

  masters and other knights sat, those Blades who

  had played out their game and retired to teach another

  generation. There were bald heads and liver spots and

  missing teeth there. Some were truly ancient, but not

  one of them was fat, senile, or even stooped; and

  by and large they were all still functional. Blades

  might rust, but they did not rot. Among them were

  some unfamiliar faces, visitors enjoying the

  nostalgia of a Durendal Night. Knights who

  had completed their stint in the Royal Guard might

  be anything from doorkeepers for rich merchants

  to senior ministers of the Crown. The only one

  Durendal recognized there tonight was Grand

  Wizard, head of the Royal College of

  Conjurers. They were all having as much trouble as the

  juniors in suppressing their laughter.

  Red-faced, Byless drained his glass and went

  on the offensive with a loud burp. "Urk! Them?

  They're old! There isn't one of them under

  thirty."

  Durendal decided it was time to stop his friends

  making fools of themselves. He scowled at the

  Brat, who was a smartish nipper and had been

  Brat long enough to know that the current Second was

  no danger to him.

  "Miserable lowlife!" he shouted.

  "Bottom-feeding, snot-nosed, festering slug,

  you dare to creep in here and mar the merriment of your

  betters?"

  The Brat shot him a wary glance. Harvest

  looked around, gaped in horror for a moment, and then

  made a fast recovery. "Scum! Bed-wetting

  troglodyte!" He swung a blow at the

  Brat's head, but it was well signaled and

  failed to make contact.

  The Brat sprawled realistically to the floor

  and groveled appropriately. When he had been

  Brat, Durendal had found groveling the hardest

  duty required of him. He had learned, of

  course--oh yes, he had le
arned! The hall

  whooped in approval. They had all been there

  once, every one of them, down on the floor, butt

  of all Ironhall.

  "Honored and glorious Prime!" the kid

  squeaked. "Most noble, most illustrious

  Second, Grand Master sent me to summon you!"

  "Liar!" Harvest boomed, tipping his

  wineglass over the lad. "Get out of here, you

  human pestilence. Go and tell Grand Master

  to eat horse dung."

  The Brat sprang to his feet and fled,

  running the gauntlet of flying food and extended

  feet again. The knights joined in the laughter as

  if they had not witnessed such scenes a thousand times

  before.

  Tumult died away to an excited murmur.

  "That was good," Durendal said.

  ""Bed-wetting troglodyte" was good!"

  Prime tried to hide his apprehension and

  failed miserably. "You suppose there might be

  something in what he said?"

  "It's your blood, brother," Durendal

  declared confidently.

  It would not be his blood, not tonight. Only

  Prime was going to be bound, or Grand Master would

  have summoned more than two. They rose together, bowed

  to high table together, and headed side by side to the

  door. An ominous hush settled over the hall.

  Most-wondrous!

  Durendal closed the heavy door silently and

  went to stand beside Prime, carefully not looking at

  the other chair.

  "You sent for us, Grand Master?" Harvest's

  voice warbled slightly, although he was rigid as a

  pike, staring straight at the bookshelves.

  "I did, Prime. His Majesty has need

  of a Blade. Are you ready to serve?"

  Candles flickered. Durendal had not been in

  this chamber since the day he caught the coins,

  five years ago, yet he could see no change.

  The grate had never been touched by flame, the

  same stuffing was still trying to escape from the chairs,

  and even the wine on the table was the same deep red.

  Of course Grand Master's eyebrows were thicker

  and whiter, his neck more scraggly, but Durendal

  had watched those changes coming day by day. He himself

  had changed far more. He was as tall now as Grand

  Master.

  He remembered how, that epic first day, he had

  gone to report to this same Harvest and seen his

  face light up with ecstasy. Three months

  later, Durendal himself had reacted the

  same way when his own replacement had appeared.

  Three months of hell--and yet those three

  months had been nothing compared to what had followed