The Ethical Swordsman Page 2

  “How we defend ourselves when You taunt us.”

  “I appraise you as an insolent young upstart. And how do you appraise me?”

  This was getting tricky. He paused a moment to hint at a smile. “I do not assess you as just a foolish, peace-loving little woman, Your Majesty.”

  The Queen turned to Grand Master. “I agree,” she said.

  Agree with what?

  The stranger opened his mouth for the first time. “So do I.”

  “Very well.” Parsewood took a deep breath of relief. “Candidates, you should go straight to the Forge now. Master Armourer will be there, and you can each tell him what name you want on your sword. No food until after the bindings, I’m afraid, but the Forge is certainly the best place to be on a cold day like this. Prime, stay a moment. We need to discuss the dormitories.”

  Turning toward the door with the others, Niall remembered that he was Prime now, or would very soon become so. Why dormitories? And why was that stranger grinning at him?

  Chapter 2

  We allow Lord Roland to come armed into our presence, and now we extend that same distinction to Sir Stalwart.

  king ambrose after the death of silvercloak

  The almost-Blades went trooping out in a furious buzz, chastened and undoubtedly agreeing what a horrible old bitch....

  Niall followed the Queen’s party through the other door, wondering if his smart-alecky speech to the Queen had ended his career before it had even begun. The dim and draughty corridor was a welcome relief after the stuffy flea room. Dormitories? Yes, as Prime he would have to help Grand Master straighten out that mess, but why couldn’t that wait until tomorrow, after the newly bound Blades had gone?

  Ironhall was in chaos. In normal times, the school held about 100 candidates. Now that number stood at 139, so the five most junior sopranos were sleeping on pallets on the Hall floor, and some seniors were still roomed with beardless. The one inviolable rule in Ironhall was that the candidates must leave in the order of their admittance, although they were ranked by the quality of their swordsmanship.

  That was another problem for the new Prime. As soon as the Queen drove off with her newly bound Blades in tow, the best soprano candidates must be promoted to beansprouts, the best of those to fuzzies, fuzzies to beardless, and beardless up to seniors. Grand Master decided all that, but Prime must advise him. The truth was that Ironhall needed the Queen to harvest far more than the half dozen she had just accepted. Her dying father had let candidates pile up like snow in a blizzard. Not all thirty-nine seniors were ripe for binding, but she would ease the strain a lot if she took, say, a score or so. She had brought about that many horses with her, so what could have changed her mind since she arrived?

  Four corridors and two stairways brought the royal party to Grand Master’s study, which was warm, almost too hot. It was a snug, friendly room, although shabby and in need of renovation. On top of the south tower, it offered fine views of both bleak Starkmoor and the Ironhall yard—which on a better day would be packed with boys fencing. As Niall closed the door, the stranger was helping Queen Matilda shed her fur cloak and Commander Bowman was talking with Grand Master.

  An odd fish, Bowman. Most of the time he looked like a halfwit put together with string and dressed in some older brother’s castoffs, but put a sword in his hand and he transformed into a lean and ravenous tiger. No one knew how he managed that transformation.

  Saying, “A round dozen, then,” Bowman turned away as if to leave, but then paused to ask Niall: “Savage is the one with crooked teeth and ears like eagles’ wings, right?”

  Niall gave him a warning smile. “Yes, but you’d better not tell him so, or you’ll find you have your hands full.” Then he remembered all those extra horses and grabbed the commander’s arm. “Hold it! Why do you need Savage? He’s not Second yet.”

  And Niall wasn’t officially Prime yet. Glowering, Bowman detached that insolent hand. “Royal business.” He went out, closing the door with a thump.

  “Don’t mind the commander,” said another voice. “He’s just mad because he can’t have you.” Hands lifted Niall’s cloak from his shoulders.

  “He can’t?” Niall whirled around to face the speaker, the mysterious stranger.

  “They can’t bind Savage before me!” he protested. That he was two years older than Savage was irrelevant—that he had been admitted sooner was what counted.

  So just who was this mysterious interloper, now draping Niall’s cloak on a peg that already held Grand Master’s? Average height, age about forty, but still trim and nimble in his movements? Obviously, he must be an ex-Blade, a former member of the Royal Guard, a knight in the Order.

  “Sit there,” Parsewood said, gesturing with a hand holding a silver goblet.

  Niall obeyed, and then realized with horror that there were only four chairs, all tightly grouped around the fireplace. He was being included in a chat with the Queen herself! That was certainly not an honour normally granted to an unbound candidate, even Prime, probably not to any Blade other than the current Leader.

  He was also sitting directly opposite her, at the end of the curve. This might not be the place of honour, but did make him very visible. She was wearing a plain black gown as mourning for her father, her only decorations being a simple silver coronet and an eight-pointed diamond brooch, the mark of a Companion in the Order of the White Star. Next to her sat the stranger, and lo!—now he had shed his cloak, he could be seen to be sporting both an identical star and the cat’s eye sword of a Blade.

  Think! Only bound Blades of the Royal Guard were allowed to bear arms in the royal presence, excepting two former Guardsmen. One was Durendal Lord Roland, who had been Lord Chancellor since before Niall was born. The stranger was too young to be he. But the other....

  A Blade would have to do something stupendous to be appointed a Companion of the White Star. Each evening at dinner, Grand Master would read out a passage from the Litany of Heroes, which listed every Blade who had ever saved his ward’s life or died trying. Only seven of the heroes named had been rewarded with the White Star, and only two with the eight-point version. Durendal and... Niall recalled a very vague and imprecise entry... At that point the stranger caught him staring and winked.

  Got it—Stalwart!

  Before he could speak, the Queen said, “Candidate Niall, we are minded to assign you to very special duties on a matter dear to our heart. We are aware of the law commonly known as the Blades’ Charter, which decrees that we can only request this, not command, but we would appreciate a quick summary of your background. Any crimes you may have committed, short of treason, are already pardoned.”

  Royal requests were commoners’ commands. Besides, if Niall did stand on his rights and refuse, they would throw him out and he would never learn what this was all about.

  “I am honoured by your interest, Ma’am. I was born in Grandon city, where my father was a merchant banker. We did not consider ourselves rich, but we employed servants and never went hungry. I had four sisters and no brothers. I was educated by a former Blade, Sir Quincy, who ran a school a few minutes’ walk from our house. He taught boys their letters and men their swords. When I turned twelve, I started work as my father’s office boy.

  “At fifteen I was earning clerk’s wages, although I gave most of that to Sir Quincy, because I had an ambition to be a great duellist. That summer saw my father and my youngest sister taken from us by the sweating sickness. My father’s will named his partner, Ephraim Morley, as executor. Morley promptly married my remaining sisters off to tradesmen, then claimed that their dowries had eaten up my father’s entire estate. My mother and I were ordered out of our home. When I asked to see the papers, he fired me for insolence.

  “My mother had a very small income of her own, just barely enough to live on, and he couldn’t touch that. It was Sir Quincy who suggested Ironhall for me, Ma’am.
He wrote Grand Master a letter of commendation. Whatever he wrote must have been flattering, because Grand Master admitted me, although I was already sixteen, over age, and too tall.”

  “A decision I have never regretted, Ma’am.” Grand Master said. He did not add, “until this morning,” but was probably thinking it.

  Sir Stalwart chuckled. “How did the sopranos take to a Brat who shaved?”

  The Queen ignored that, frowning at Niall. “You had no recourse in law?”

  “I was penniless and had to eat, and I was threatened with violence if I made trouble, Ma’am.” Of course, he had dreamed of returning from Ironhall as a world-class swordsman to exact his own justice on the accursed Ephraim Morley, but he had grown out of that. Almost.

  He realized then that someone had given him a silver goblet, and tried a sip of the contents. Wonders! As a child he had been allowed small amounts of wine, always well watered. This ruby-coloured stuff was pure. And gorgeous.

  Parsewood had settled in the empty seat between Niall and Stalwart. He cleared his throat. “As Your Majesty pleases? Candidate Niall, would you be willing to read this aloud before witnesses?” He handed over a sheet of parchment bearing a few lines of handwriting that Niall did not recognise.

  Upon my soul, I, Niall, candidate in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the Queen’s Blades, do irrevocably swear my absolute and undivided allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Malinda, her heirs and successors, and will faithfully obey, serve, and defend her as a companion in the said Order, setting my own life as nothing to shield her from peril and uphold her reign.

  It wasn’t the oath of binding, but it was close. (Whatever could one Blade do to uphold a reign?)

  “I would be proud to,” he said, and returned it. “Why?”

  “The purpose,” Grand Master mumbled, “is to make you a bound Blade, but bypassing the normal sword-through-the-heart conjuration.”

  “But the charter—”

  “The Order lies within the royal prerogative, so Her Majesty can override the charter, in specific cases. There is a precedent—my Lord Hedgebury?”

  “Me,” said the former Sir Stalwart. “Back in the time of the Monster War, when King Ambrose was trying to shut down the evil elementaries, a thousand conjurors were trying to kill King Ambrose.” He sipped his wine without taking his eyes off Niall for a moment. “Almost every day the White Sisters would detect some deadly conjuration being smuggled into the palace, but the spells were becoming more and more subtle, so that it took more and more White Sisters on duty to be sure of recognising each new variant. The Blades were going crazy. Durendal and Snake decided that the culprits must also need more and more sniffers, just to judge the quality of their inventions. So they set up a White Sister as bait, with me as the trap.”

  Now Niall knew where this led. “And you didn’t have a binding scar, because it would prove that you were a Blade!”

  The hero nodded. “More important, its absence seemed to prove that I wasn’t.” He must have walked right into the villains’ den undetected. Was even that enough to earn a companionship in the White Star? Ambrose had never been overly generous with honours and titles.

  The Queen’s quiet voice took over. “Our father had a knack for picking out good men. After my marriage ended the Baelish war, he appointed Lord Hedgebury as his ambassador to Baelmark. For some years he and I—and his wonderful wife, Lady Agnes—were the only Chivians in that country.”

  So naturally they had become personal friends? And after Hedgebury’s term ended and he was recalled, had he and his wife continued to be friends of the Queen of Baelmark? No doubt they had corresponded. Now she was also Queen of Chivial, a land that must have changed a lot during her twenty-year exile. She needed advisors she could trust, and who else but the former Sir Stalwart? Even if she had not appointed him a minister in her cabinet, he obviously had her ear.

  Niall realized that the Queen was watching him intently, almost as if she were reading his thoughts.

  “May I ask how you would have me serve you, Ma’am?”

  “You tell him, Stalwart.”

  Hedgebury pulled a face and drained his goblet. “Her Majesty has honoured me several times in the last few hectic weeks by asking my advice. I regret to say that I have had to report what I consider a serious problem. As I am sure you learned in your history lessons, brother, Chivial has not been well served by previous Queens regnant.”

  Niall took a third cautious sip of wine. “Yes, my lord.” Queen Estrith had angered the barons, and died conveniently just before they chopped off her head. Queen Adela had been deposed after her Blades declared her insane.

  “Frankly, many people consider that a crown should only be worn by a man. I have heard such pig swill from some very important people, or people who consider themselves important. Rich landowners, I mean. But many lesser folk agree. The Act of Succession is centuries old and is quite specific that women may rule. Without mentioning names, brother, have you overheard any such rubbish being spoken?”

  Again, Niall said, “Yes, My Lord.” Several of the ancient knights mouldering away in Ironhall were upset by the notion of a female ruler.

  Glances were exchanged.

  “Here in Ironhall?” Malinda asked.

  Where else did she think he had been over the last five years? “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Do you agree with it?”

  “No, Ma’am.” But he wished she hadn’t penned Durendal in the Bastion.

  Hedgebury continued. “It is early days yet, little more than a month since Her Majesty arrived in Grandon and began her reign, so we can hope that my forebodings are premature, or utterly wrong, but if they are not—if whispers of revolution do begin to rustle the bushes, who will be most likely chosen as figurehead, do you suppose?”

  Lectures on the royal family tree had never interested Niall much; they felt too much like backyard gossip. Ambrose’s only son had died in childhood. Malinda was his sole living descendant, other than her own sons, back in Baelmark. King Radgar himself had a faint claim though his mother, and another through his wife, but he would be torn to shreds if he ever set foot in Chivial. “I suppose her nephew, my lord? The Marquis of Thencaster? Except for, um... the bend sinister?”

  The Queen said, “Whether legitimacy matters is arguable, Sir Niall. It is true that our father freely acknowledged his illegitimate son and let him style himself Granville Fitzambrose. The lad grew up to be a spectacularly good general. Ambrose later made him an earl and later still a marquis. Granville himself was eventually killed by the Wylds but his son, Neville Fitzambrose, lives on, and his birth was legitimate.” She turned to Hedgebury. “Does he display the bend on his bearings, do you know?”

  “I do not know, Ma’am. I would be surprised if he does.”

  The plot was now obvious. There had been no change of plan about the extra horses. Commander Bowman had gone off to find Savage and tell him to bring another dozen or so seniors to the flea room. It wouldn’t hold any more than that at one time. And they planned to register Niall as a Blade without the proper sword-through-the-heart binding. He would simply vanish between the two tranches, as each group assumed he had been bound with the other, and it might be weeks before anyone noticed that he had never appeared in the palace guard.

  He looked to Hedgebury, who was supposed to be breaking this news to him. “And just how do I serve Her Majesty?”

  “I know Thencaster. He’s my next-door neighbour. When he heard I was heading south, he mentioned that he’s looking for a private secretary. Grand Master says that you write an elegant hand.”

  Niall kept his eyes on the hero, for he would not dare answer this directly to the Queen. “So I am to be a spy, not a swordsman? I will worm my way into his house, win his trust, eat his bread, and finally betray him?”

  Grand Master bristled.

  Hedgebury avoided his eye. “Only for
a year or so.”

  Niall rose, and laid his goblet on the mantel. “With respect, Grand Master, that was not what I was told when I came to Ironhall, nor is it the reason I have spent five years here. Now I humbly beg my leave, because I see I have a long, cold walk ahead of me tonight.”

  He noticed that the two witnesses were changing colour—Hedgebury turning scarlet and Grand Master white.

  “Sit down!” the Queen snapped.

  Niall sat down, wondering how much deeper his present troubles could become.

  “Tell us about Cat,” she said.

  He muttered a curse under his breath. “Cat is a soprano—that’s the most junior class. His fencing is superb. He ought to be promoted to beansprout tomorrow, except he has two duffers ahead of him. I hope for Cat’s sake that Grand Master can bring himself to promote them also, so they don’t hold Cat back any longer. He’s a reckless young idiot, but ten years from now, Ma’am, you may very well be appointing him Commander of your Royal Guard.”

  The Queen pursed her lips. “Will we, indeed? Your father’s name?”

  What had he to do with anything? “Absalom Scribner, Ma’am.”

  “If what you told us is true, it would seem that your odious Ephraim Morley is guilty of grand larceny, breach of trust, and likely several other offences, any of which could hang him. Swear that oath, Candidate Niall, and we will have our chancellery investigate his handling of your father’s estate. If the facts are as you claim, then we will stretch Morley’s neck on the gallows.”

  Clever, clever lady! She had found his weak spot on her first try.

  Niall rose and stepped across to kneel before her. Ignoring the parchment that Grand Master again held out to him, he raised his right hand, and repeated what he had read on it earlier, word for word. Show-off!

  Malinda smiled triumphantly. “You are accepted. Welcome to the Royal Guard, Sir Niall.”

  Queen takes pawn.

  Chapter 3