The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades Page 20

  “Well, I am sure Grand Master will not deny you any reasonable request now. He and I could use a break from each other, certainly.” Even if Badger was not much of a humorist, he could help Wart hammer on Grand Master’s coffin. “I’ll need a sword. I won’t come without a sword.”

  “Of course not. You need a good sword. I suppose you still hanker after those woodchopping sabers? Try this.” Wart offered the one he had been holding all this time.

  “That sword belongs here!” Grand Master bleated angrily.

  Badger hefted it and tried a couple of swings. “A little lighter than I prefer, but very fine!” He peered at the blade. “Durance? Whose was she?”

  “Digby’s.”

  “Digby? I remember him! Warden of Forests? He gave the Durendal Night speech last year. No, two years ago.”

  Grand Master tried again. “His sword has been Returned and belongs here!”

  “I didn’t finish Returning it.” Wart gave Badger the scabbard also. “You had not accepted it. Besides, it’s Digby’s killers we’re hunting, so I’m sure he would have been happy to lend us Durance for a few days.”

  “Candidate Badger is not bound!” Grand Master protested. “He is not entitled to wear a cat’s-eye sword. Did the King give you permission to hand out cat’s-eye swords?”

  “Fat Man pretty much gave me a free hand. Durance is a good name for a badger’s sword.”

  Badger looped the baldric over his shoulder and adjusted it to fit his thick chest. “I hope I can help her to avenge her master.”

  There was something about him that set Emerald’s teeth on edge. An earth person, certainly. And his dominant virtual? Not love, not chance. And it could not be time, because she was an earth-time person herself, and another would not give her this scratchy, unsettled feeling. That left only death. She had never met any earth-death people; there had been none at Oakendown. They made the finest warriors, of course. Human landslides. Ruthless, probably possessed of unlimited courage. Deadly.

  “I’ll go and get my cloak and razor,” Badger said in his harsh growl. “Meet you downstairs?”

  “Be so kind as to send for our horses now,” Wart told Grand Master.

  The older man seemed to be building up to an apoplectic fit. “By what right do you presume to give me orders?” he roared.

  Wart beamed and reached inside his jerkin to produce the scroll with the royal seal. The sight of it was enough. Grand Master muttered an oath. Spinning on his heel, he headed to the door.

  Badger smiled for the first time, reflecting Wart’s triumphant grin. “What is this place we’re going to scout?”

  Wart checked to make sure Grand Master was outside. “It’s in Nythia. A house called Smealey Hole.”

  All the color drained out of Badger’s face.

  7

  Nythia

  By the time they rode into Prail next morning, Wart was wondering whether Snake’s way of traveling was quite as admirable as he had at first believed. Of course Snake would not have lost the trail after leaving Ironhall and thus would not have been forced to wander the moors in a downpour all night. Snake would not have had to put up with Badger’s sarcastic comments. Emerald’s had been even worse, but by dawn she had stopped speaking to him altogether, which was an improvement. Chilled and exhausted and bad tempered, they came down to the cold gray waters of the Westuary. Not far out from the shore stood a wall of white sea fog, hiding the hills of Nythia beyond.

  Possibly some traitorous Nythians still believed that Nythia should be a separate country, but it had been a province of Chivial for centuries, despite many attempted revolutions. The last uprising, when Stalwart was a child, had been suppressed by King Ambrose in person. He had ridden through the breach at the storming of Kirkwain with his Blades around him, and Ironhall’s Litany of Heroes included several stirring tales of that campaign.

  Nythia was a peninsula. It could be reached by a short ferry trip across the Westuary inlet or by a daylong ride around it. Until very recently any seafarer risked capture and enslavement by Baelish pirates, but now there were strong rumors that a treaty had been negotiated to end the war. The raiding seemed to have stopped, and Digby had reported that ferrymen were willing to risk the crossing again.

  The fare had to be bargained over, the baggage loaded, and the horses turned in to a posting house. Badger took care of all that, because he was the least weary of the three of them. He could also look fiercer. Nevertheless, Stalwart was already wishing he had never involved Badger in his mission. He was being much less helpful than expected.

  That problem could wait. The boat was small, smelly, and bouncy, but the moment the master and his boy cast off the lines, Stalwart rolled himself up on the deck in his blanket and let the world disappear.

  By afternoon, life had become a little brighter. The sleep on the boat had helped. So had a truly enormous meal at an inn in Buran, where they disembarked. Now the sun was shining and the road was dry, winding through prosperous farmland flanked by rolling green hills speckled with sheep. The horses they had hired were fine beasts and well fitted out. It was time to form a plan of campaign.

  Stalwart rode in the middle, keeping the other two apart. When they had been properly introduced, Badger had remarked that honorable warriors did not take women along on dangerous missions and ladies did not dress like that. Emerald had been snarling and snapping at him ever since. He had always been a bit of a churl; becoming Prime seemed to have made him a lot worse, so perhaps there had been something in what Grand Master said.

  “Why don’t you begin at the beginning again?” he growled. “You weren’t making much sense last night.”

  “I’ll use nice short words this time,” Stalwart said cheerfully. “The elementaries that sell black magic are mostly located near Grandon or other big cities, because that’s where the rich customers are. The sorcerers themselves come from all over. It takes eight of them to chant a spell, and they have to learn their nasty trade somewhere. Snake has discovered that a lot of them were trained by an order that calls itself the Fellowship of Wisdom. It inhabits a house called Smealey Hole.”

  “On the south edge of Brakwood,” Badger agreed, “near Waterby.”

  “Snake’s even found letters hinting that its members organized the Night of Dogs attack. He also suspects that some of the villains who slipped through his nets may have gone back there. The Fellowship is hiding them. So when Lord Digby set off on his tour of the King’s western forests, Snake asked him to take a look at Smealey Hole.”

  Badger snorted disbelievingly. “A peer-over-the-wall look at it or a climb-through-the-pantry-window-at-midnight look at it?”

  “Probably a can-you-sell-me-something-to-get-rid-of-my-mother-in-law look at it.”

  “And that’s why he was murdered a week later? Do they kill the minstrel who comes to sing or the tinker who mends pots? Wart, are you quite sure Snake doesn’t just want to keep you out of harm’s way until you’ve grown up enough to wear Guard livery without making everyone die laughing?”

  “Quite sure. If you don’t want to help, go home to Ironhall and wipe the juniors’ noses.”

  “Grand Wizard thinks this new sorcery is a short-range weapon, so all the Old Blades are frantically rounding up suspects around Grandon, but you get blown away to the other side of the kingdom?”

  “Grand Wizard is just guessing,” Stalwart said with as much confidence as he could summon. “So’s Snake, I suppose, but his guesses work!”

  Badger would not give up. “But you don’t know what Digby found at Smealey or if he went there at all.”

  “We do know he went there. His retinue says so—he had clerks, huntsmen, grooms, and squires with him. But he left them all behind in Waterby and went to Smealey with just one local guide, so we don’t know what he saw or who he talked to. He died before he could report to Snake. He didn’t mention anything to the King, but he wouldn’t, because Fat Man had forbidden him to join the Old Blades.”

  “Doing-a
-favor-for isn’t joining.”

  “Brother, you do not argue that sort of point with kings!”

  No need to tell Badger that Snake was now in royally hot water. If Digby’s death was not explained and avenged very soon, he might find himself in the Bastion, rattling every time he scratched his fleabites.

  Badger thought for a while as they cantered along the trail. “If Digby found evidence of treason, why didn’t he send a courier to Snake? Why didn’t he rush home himself? He can’t have found much if he just carried on with his tour, counting antlers hither and yon across Chivial.”

  “We’re puzzled by that. He didn’t do either! He went to Smealey on the twelfth. He was expected back in Grandon about the thirtieth, but instead he arrived on the seventeenth. Next day he died. So he did cut his tour short, but not as short as he could have done. Nor did he tell his men why he was in such a hurry to get back.”

  “If these sorcerers were so frightened that Digby was going to tattle bad stories about them, why would they not just have someone put an arrow through him in the forest? Why do anything as risky as putting a curse on him?”

  “He was not cursed!” Emerald shouted. “The Sisters would have detected a curse as soon as he entered the palace. This is a new sort of magic.”

  “And if Wart drops dead when he gets back to Nocare, that will prove it.”

  Stalwart still held on to his temper. “When Snake told me about Smealey Hole, I recalled the name. How could I ever forget it? You mentioned it one night when we were juniors. We were discussing secret passages. Orvil told a story about being shown one, then you said that you’d found one. You’d been exploring caves, you said, and discovered a man-made tunnel, with steps carved into the rock, and you followed it up to a door. You learned later that this was a smuggler’s route, leading into the local lord’s house, Smealey Hole.”

  Badger shrugged. “I don’t remember. If I said that, then I was lying. I suppose I thought Orvil was bragging and I could top his story with a better one—we were only kids, remember.”

  Most of them had been kids, but not him. He’d claimed to be fifteen when he was admitted, but no one had believed him. He’d been shaving, even then.

  “You sounded very convincing.”

  “I’m a good liar. It’s quite likely that there is such a passage, so perhaps I’d heard about it and claimed to have seen it. The house is really Smealey Hall but it’s always known as Smealey Hole, which is the name of the pothole where the Smealey River disappears. There’s lots of caves south of Brakwood, and a secret back door is never a bad idea in wild and whiskery country like that. But my home was at Kirkwain, north of the forest. I’ve never been near Smealey Hole or Waterby. What I do know about the Hole is that there’s a curse on it.”

  “What sort of curse?” Emerald asked, looking skeptical.

  “Terrible things happen to people who live there. It’s very old, but no family has ever owned it for long. They all die nastily.”

  “For instance?”

  “For instance…if you knew the name of Smealey, Wart, you must have recognized Waterby, too. I mean, you’d heard about it before this Digby murder?”

  “Just that Durendal was named Baron Roland of Waterby because it was there he saved the King’s life.”

  “You remember what it says in the Litany?”

  “Of course.” Stalwart had heard it read out often enough, like all the other great tales of Blades who had saved their wards’ lives or lost their own in trying. Durendal’s was special. “‘Number 444: Sir Durendal, who on the sixth day of Sixthmoon, 355, in a meadow outside Waterby single-handedly opposed four swordsmen seeking to kill his ward and slew them all without his ward or himself taking hurt.’ That’s the only time a Blade has ever managed four at once,” he explained for Emerald’s benefit, “and to do it on open ground was just incredible. In a narrow passage—”

  “Two of the men he killed,” said Badger, “were sons of Baron Smealey of Smealey Hole. Another brother was executed later in Grandon Bastion, but only after he’d murdered his father, the Baron. That’s the sort of curse I mean.”

  Stalwart waited for Emerald to comment on the magic of curses, but what she said was, “So it has a long history of treason?”

  “Possibly. Look, there’s a corner of Brakwood now!” Badger pointed at hills ahead.

  Although Brakwood was a royal forest, it was not an unbroken expanse of trees from Waterby to Kirkwain. It was rough country, partly wooded, partly open; most of it hilly, none of it cultivated. It included lakes and rivers. It all belonged to the King, who would come and hunt there every three or four years. He allowed no one else to do so, or even to cut wood without his permission. Enforcing the unpopular forest laws was the responsibility—and principal headache—of Lord Florian, the Sheriff of Waterby, and it was to him that Stalwart must look for assistance in his mission.

  Snake’s instructions had been simple enough. “You proved your courage at Quagmarsh. I do not want heroics this time, understand? Don’t go blundering into Smealey Hole yourself, or we’ll have two deaths to investigate. Just track down that local guide who escorted Digby there. Find out from him whom Digby saw and what was said. Then talk around. Find out all you can about the Fellowship. If you can lay your hands on evidence of black magic—at least two independent witnesses—send a courier posthaste back here, and I’ll bring the Old Blades at a gallop. At that point you can start to scout out the country, so you can help us plan our attack.”

  Then Snake had skewered Stalwart with a glittery stare. “Can I trust you to take your commission along? Theoretically, that gives you almost unlimited power, you know. It would let you put the Sheriff and all his men under your command and go in with swords flashing. Try anything like that, my lad, for any reason short of absolute proof of treason and an imminent attack upon His Majesty, and I’ll feed you alive to the palace rats!”

  Snake had described Waterby as a pleasant little town on the Brakwater. It had long since recovered from the siege of 355, he said, but its walls had never been rebuilt; instead the stones had been put to use in a considerable enlargement of the castle. As the Stalwart expedition rode along the river meadow—probably passing the very spot where Durendal had worked his miracle thirteen years ago—that grim edifice seemed to grow ever more menacing, looming higher over the houses clustered below its towers.

  “Master Luke,” Stalwart said, “the castellan may board us with the men-at-arms. You’d better dress up as a girl pretty soon.”

  “The sooner the better. How can you wear these awful clothes all the time?”

  “I’d be a wondrous weird swordsman in yours. You, brother, ought to be Sir Badger with that sword.”

  Badger thought for a moment. “’Suppose. Can’t see how not.”

  “Isn’t it illegal,” Emerald asked, “for any man except a Blade to wear a cat’s-eye sword?”

  “Very,” Stalwart admitted. “No one except snarly old Grand Master will object to Digby’s sword helping avenge his murder, but a candidate should not be passing himself off as a companion.” Giving Badger the sword might have been a mistake, although a reasonable one, because all other swords in Ironhall were kept blunter than shovels. By wearing it he was committing a major imposture, a crime that could in theory bring the death penalty. The entire Order would scream like rabid dragons. Wart’s own status as the first unbound Blade in history was scandalous enough, although it was backed by royal edict and Leader’s approval.

  “Then introduce him just as plain Badger of Kirkwain, and let everyone jump to the wrong conclusion. And exchange swords.”

  “Huh?”

  She sighed as if he were being unspeakably stupid. “Surely there would be very little objection if you carried Lord Digby’s sword?”

  “Just about none.”

  “And surely you can lend yours to Badger?”

  The men exchanged thoughtful glances. Badger pulled one of his sour smiles. “How can you stand it, brother?”


  “Nice bit of hairsplitting,” Stalwart agreed, grinning at Emerald to show he was actually grateful. “Let’s try that.”

  Durance and Sleight were drawn, exchanged, hefted, swung.

  Frowns were frowned, pouts pouted.

  “All right if you want to chop meat,” Stalwart said. He detested sabers. He was built for speed, not strength.

  “Useful if you need to darn socks,” Badger countered.

  Sleight went back to her owner and Durance to the imposter.

  “Nice idea,” Stalwart told Emerald, “but really good swordsmen like me are all rapier men; Badger’s just a blacksmith—beef and no brain. You’re right about names, though. Brother, you’ll be Master Badger of Kirkwain. If anyone gives you titles, pretend not to notice. Keep the hilt under your cloak whenever possible. And let me do the talking.”

  “I shall be silent and invisible, Great Leader.” Badger pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  They rode through the town to the castle. The road ended abruptly at a very smelly moat, a canal from the river. It was spanned by a draw-bridge guarded by men-at-arms bearing pikes, but they made no move to challenge the strangers riding through. Hooves drummed on the planks of the bridge, then echoed in the low tunnel through the barbican. Passing under the grisly portcullis and through a final massive door, the visitors emerged into the sunlit bailey. This was a busy little town square in its own right, with washing being dried, horses groomed, men-at-arms drilled, and various wares sold from stalls. Amid all that, women gossiped, men argued, children screamed, dogs barked, and pigeons cooed.

  The newcomers barely had time to dismount in front of the door of the keep before a crowd congealed around them to gape. Boys came running to take the horses. A chubby man in servants’ garb hurried out, wiping his hands on his apron. He bowed—to Badger, naturally. He probably thought Stalwart was his squire.

  “My lords…Cuthbert the steward is not available. I am the bottler, Caplin. May I be of assistance?”