Impossible Odds Page 3

  But then, just a week later, the King had decided on impulse to appoint a new ambassador to Baelmark. The hapless designate, Lord Baxterbridge, had arrived at Ironhall with a warrant for three Blades. Grand Master should have dug in his heels then, but how could he condemn a man to go off to that nest of bloodthirsty pirates without adequate protection? Diplomatic immunity carried no weight in Baelmark. Only steel and the skill to use it mattered there, and the season on ambassadors never closed. So Grand Master had released three more candidates, very much against his better judgment.

  And today another warrant. It took five years to turn an outcast rebel boy into a Blade and even Prime Candidate Ranter had been in the school for less than four. Not since the worst days of the Monster War, forty years ago, had Ironhall suffered such a dearth of trained, competent seniors.

  “Eagle did look somewhat sparse,” Tancred remarked caustically.

  Eagle was a dormitory with a dozen beds and only three occupants—Ranter, Ringwood, and Goodwin. Two of them had not been billeted there a full week yet. A moment ago Grand Master had been feeling sorry for himself because he had lost half a night’s sleep. How much worse this morning’s awakening must have been for Ranter, being shaken awake by the Deputy Commander! He would have known instantly that his stay in Ironhall was at an end, his adolescence over. Ringwood could still hope that he would not be needed, but both of them had reasonably looked forward to another year of security and instruction, time to mature personally and physically, to perfect the deadly skills they would need as Blades. They were entitled to all that, and Grand Master had failed them.

  He realized that Tancred’s comment had really been a question about Candidate Bellman, who was none of his business. Bellman was another worry, but this mess had nothing to do with him.

  “Goodwin didn’t waken?” Grand Master asked.

  “Still snoring when I left.”

  After a moment, Lord Roland’s anger erupted again. “Tell me, Deputy, was Leader not consulted about this warrant? Did he not remind His Majesty that Ironhall presently has no candidates ready for binding?”

  Tancred squirmed and avoided his eye. “I’m sure he did, because I was sent to fetch your most recent report on the seniors. What you wrote about Ranter was—”

  “I know what I wrote about Ranter! I am not in my dotage yet, thank you.” I have promoted Candidate Ranter to senior. He is physically mature and shows promise with the heavier weapons. His horsemanship is above average. Nothing about his use of the rapier or his social skills, which were nonexistent. Nothing about brains, ditto. “Has His Majesty never heard of damning with faint praise? Did Leader not point out that when I wrote those words there were a dozen boys ahead of Ranter in the senior class and he was a full year from completing his training? Did he not explain that there is a lot more to a Blade than superlative swordsmanship?” Tactical thinking? Political savvy? Working with other people? “Surely Leader knows that what I said about Ranter implied that he is destined to be a face in the ranks, a carrier-out of orders from above, not the leader of a private guard expected to make decisions and win the loyalty of subordinates?”

  “I was not present when Leader advised His Majesty,” Tancred said stiffly. “My opinion was not asked.”

  “Or volunteered, I gather!” Grand Master snapped.

  A good Commander must sometimes talk back to the King. There had been instances in the Blades’ long history when the Guard had literally kidnapped the monarch to move him to safety. When Grand Master had been Commander Durendal, he had argued fiercely with King Ambrose a few times. Sir Vicious had stood up to Athelgar when he had to. Perhaps that was why the King had chosen a yes-man to succeed him. No, that was too hard on Florian. He would learn in time, but other people might have to pay for his lessons.

  Ranter had been a borderline admission. Grand Master had made a mistake accepting him. Chance had turned minor error into major disaster.

  Knuckles rapped on the door again, unnecessarily hard.

  “Enter!” Grand Master turned and forced a smile to greet two scared faces. “Good chance, gentlemen. I think you can guess the subject of this unexpected meeting.”

  The traditional wording was: His Majesty has need of a Blade; are you willing to serve? and only one answer was acceptable.

  Ranter’s homely, stubborn face was reddened by the summer sun, which had bleached his normally sandy hair to tow. At nineteen he was hefty by Blade standards, but his strength and agility were combined with the social skills of a mollusc. Popularity was often a reliable guide to a boy’s potential. The finest Blades Ironhall produced—men like Beaumont, say, or Kestrel, or Ivor—were almost invariably worshiped by the youngsters following them. Ranter’s acid tongue and clumsy, even brutal sense of humor had brought him very few friends.

  Ringwood was the exact opposite: personable, often witty, dark and lean, with intense, whittled good looks. As Second he was responsible for discipline and had made a good start in the last few days, in spite of his youth. Lacking Ranter’s beef, he favored a rapier, and was developing remarkable speed with it. Given the extra year he deserved, he might become one of the finest fencers in the Order, which effectively meant in the whole of Eurania. And yet, closing the door, he tangled his sword in it. Grand Master knew he could never justify binding a mere child under the present circumstances.

  And he would not trap Ranter without warning him what lay in store.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” he said, going to his favorite chair by the empty fireplace, “this may take longer than usual.”

  Unlike other masters and the moldering old knights in Ironhall, Lord Roland was independently wealthy, and he had refurbished his study with quality and comfort, with style and fine art. After all, this was where he had expected to spend the rest of his life. When he gathered the seniors there on winter nights for strategy lessons—when there were seniors to gather—the second-best chair, in blue leather, was traditionally reserved for Prime. Now Ranter made a beeline for it, perhaps with the thought that this would be his only chance to sit in it. He should properly have left it for the Deputy Commander.

  Grand Master did not rebuke him. There were much worse worms in the salad than mere bad manners. “Sir Tancred and ten other members of the Guard arrived here a few hours ago, escorting a distinguished guest. Will you list the visitors, please, Deputy?”

  “His Grace the Grand Duke Rubin of Krupina, Baron—”

  “Krup what? Where’s that?” Ranter demanded.

  “It’s not my job to know,” Tancred replied smoothly—a nice riposte implying that it might soon be Ranter’s. “He is accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Baron von Fader. His Nibs prefers to be addressed as ‘Your Royal Highness,’ but the King refers to him as ‘His Grace,’ so that’s what he is around Court. He is a distant relative of the Pirate’s Son.”

  “Nothing wrong with ‘Your Grace,’” Ranter said. “We say that to the Pirate’s Son.”

  “Prime!” Grand Master barked. “The Guard may refer to our sovereign lord in that disrespectful fashion. You are not so privileged.” And never would be.

  Ranter glowered. “Beg pardon, Grand Master.”

  “And if you had paid attention in protocol classes, you would know that you always begin with ‘Your Majesty.’ Only after that is ‘Sire’ or ‘Your Grace’ permissible.”

  “Yes, Grand Master.”

  “Carry on, Deputy.”

  Tancred leaned back on his inferior chair and crossed his ankles. “Wherever Krupina may be, or however His Nibs is addressed, he has been overthrown by his uncle, Lord Volpe, and has been scouring the courts of Eurania to find backing for an attempt to win back his throne. Or at least rescue his wife and child. So far without success, apparently.”

  Ringwood and Ranter exchanged dismayed glances. In Ironhall, appointment to the Guard was regarded as first prize, because a guardsman dwelt in royal palaces and was dubbed knight and released after ten years or so. A private Blade remained
bound until he or his ward died, so being bound to anyone except the King ran a distant second. No catalogue of desirable wards could ever include a dispossessed, penniless noble from some unheard-of foreign fleapit dukedom.

  Grand Master gave them a moment and then said, “I fear there is even worse news than that, Prime. Deputy, will you please summarize the events of two nights ago?”

  Tancred’s expression turned flinty. “Sad events. The usurper, Volpe, is both a skilled spiritualist himself and commands many others. He has been sending evil enchantments against the Grand Duke. I am Returning two swords on this visit, Prime. The night before last, His Grace was attacked right in Nocare Palace. Five men died, three Yeomen and two Blades. Sir Richey and Sir Bernard.”

  Dismay turned to horror. Richey they knew as a member of the Guard, but Bernard was one of theirs. Just two weeks ago he had been fencing with them, walking the halls, eating at the seniors’ table.

  While listening for the second time to an account of the disaster, Grand Master planned his response to the King’s absurd demand. Ranter would never have been Grand Master’s choice for Prime, who should be a role model for all the other boys. Only seniority had landed him in this predicament. Grand Master could not like him, but he felt pity for him. His youthful face was ashen as he listened to the account of the walking dead and the murders in Nocare. He would refuse binding, of course. He would be insane to accept this assignment.

  By the rules, the question must then be put to Second, which was why Second had to be present. If he also refused, the process must continue until a candidate accepted, but Grand Master had no intention of binding a boy as young as Ringwood. He had to sacrifice Ranter, but after that he would tell this incompetent Grand Duke that there were no qualified candidates available and send the man back to Nocare with Tancred. Grand Master must submit his resignation at the same time, of course, and Athelgar could decide then what to do with him. It would not be the first time Lord Roland had seen the inside of a dungeon in the Bastion, and his would not be the first distinguished career to end in disgrace.

  Tancred had almost finished. “Yesterday morning the five corpses were found heaped together in the darkest corner of the hall, where they had taken refuge from the dawn’s light. Two Blades and three Yeomen. The Baron said we were fortunate that Quamast has no cellar. Getting shadowmen out of cellars is almost impossible, he says. Questions?”

  Ranter’s face was a death’s-head. “You say this was not the first attack?”

  “The fourth or fifth since the Grand Duke fled Krupina, apparently. Not all by the same means.”

  “And he didn’t warn anyone?”

  Tancred nodded grimly. “Yes, he did. He warned the King that there might be more attacks. The King warned Leader. Leader warned me. I warned Sir Hazard and Sir Valiant when I assigned them. Somewhere in that chain the warnings became diluted, Prime.”

  “Diluted?” Ranter snarled. “What the piss does that mean?”

  The Deputy Commander bristled. “It means there will be an inquiry and everyone is kicking dirt over whatever they dropped. In the end no one will get blamed. It was no one’s fault! First, these shadowmen only appear on extremely dark nights and we rarely get those in summer. Secondly, this is a very long way from Krupina, and whatever foul enchantment is being used must originate there. Thirdly, they’re not dangerous in bright light. I’m sure the Grand Duke played down the threat because he came seeking refuge. Perhaps someone didn’t listen properly or explain properly. Spirits, Ranter! You think I’m happy to have two men die like that? I’m sick as a dog. It’s a damnably imperfect world.”

  Silence.

  Ranter shot a terrified look at Grand Master. Here it came, the terrible decision. Yesterday he had been strutting around Ironhall as Prime, lording it over the juniors. Now his world had crumbled to dust.

  “Prime,” Durendal said, “our Order is rarely involved in military matters. This case is exceptional because His Majesty and Grand Duke Rubin are distant cousins. The King is distressed that a member of his family should be in such danger. He offered him help and protection.” More likely meddlesome Queen Tasha had talked him into it, for Athelgar was rarely moved by generosity.

  “I know you have not been introduced to foreign politics.” Master of Protocol inflicted those lectures on the seniors in Twelfthmonth. “So you will not have heard of this Lord Volpe, who heads the Vamky Brotherhood. I have. He not only commands fearsome enchanters, he himself is reputed to be one of the greatest warriors in Eurania. In all fairness, I will say this. I have been Grand Master for eleven years. Even before that, the Blades have been my life, directly or indirectly, since I was fourteen. I admit that I have never heard of a man offered a harder posting than this one, but our King has commanded and we must all do our duty.

  “There is nothing personal in this, you understand. I cannot pick and choose. Nor can His Majesty. It is for this very reason that the Charter insists every candidate will leave Ironhall in the order he was admitted. Only the fickle elementals of chance have chosen you for this burden instead of someone else.”

  Grand Master sighed and rose to his feet. Ringwood sprang up at once, followed an instant later by Ranter. Tancred stayed where he was, watching glumly.

  “Prime, His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you willing to serve?”

  Ranter licked his lips. “What choice do I have?” His voice was a croak.

  “You were told the rules when you came here,” Grand Master said coldly. “For four years you have eaten the King’s bread. He has given you shelter and the world’s finest instruction in swordsmanship, not to mention asylum from any legal action that was outstanding against you. Now he expects you to fulfill your side of the bargain.” He offers you an impossible assignment.

  “Or the moor?”

  That was the official alternative for quitters. In practice expulsion was not the death sentence it seemed, as Ranter must know. Some victualer’s wagon would find him on the road and give him a ride into Blackwater or Narby, but he would evermore be a man without a lord, an Ironhall reject, and everyone knew what sort of boy was admitted to the school in the first place. There would be no dancing at court balls in Ranter’s future. The best he could hope for was life as a stablehand, but horse owners were wary of thieves, so sailor, mine worker, or farm laborer was more likely.

  Ranter glanced at the equally pale Ringwood standing rigid beside him.

  “How many? Just me, or both of us?” Solitary Blades often went mad trying to guard their wards twenty-four hours a day.

  Grand Master said, “I will not answer that question until you have answered mine. Shall I put it again, or do I take your silence to be refusal?” This was torture and he hated it, but he must play by the rules the first time.

  Strategy, Rule One: The most probable outcome of any plan is total breakdown.

  Ringwood said quietly, “If Grand Master asks me, too, Prime, whether you’ve accepted or not…I just want you to know that I will accept.”

  That little speech should have been cause for Ranter to hug him and weep tears of gratitude down his neck. Instead he curled his lip in scorn. “Of course you say so! If I refuse he’s certain to ask you. If I accept he may or may not want you as well, but then you’ll at least be one of a pair, won’t you?”

  Ringwood shrugged. “I suppose so. Wasn’t what I meant, though.”

  “Prime, His Majesty has need of a Blade. Are you willing to serve?”

  Ranter swallowed hard. “I will serve,” he whispered.

  Tancred jumped up to thump him on the shoulder. “Bravo!”

  Astonished, Grand Master almost shouted, Weren’t you listening, you young fool? I was telling you this mission is suicide! Instead he said, “Well done! Very well done! That is one of the bravest things I have ever heard of. I did not expect you to accept.” He offered a hand.

  Ranter ignored it. “I’m just stupid!”

  Even if he was, no cell door would slam on Grand Master now.
In spite of his best efforts, he had the Blade the King had ordered, so the problem was solved.

  Except that Ringwood had volunteered. All eyes turned to him. Nobody in the room would tattle back to the King if Grand Master refused his offer, but ever since his own terrible experience as a private Blade, he had always insisted that three was the absolute minimum number for a private guard. Even two was infinitely better than one alone.

  He owed Ranter a partner.

  Ringwood was waiting for the question with eyes shining, like a dog straining at a leash.

  He was not old enough to make such a decision.

  “Second…this is difficult. Because we are so short of seniors just now, His Majesty left it up to me whether I would assign one or two Blades to the Grand Duke. I do appreciate your courageous offer, but it isn’t necessary. If you wish to withdraw it, you can remain here as—”

  “That’s not fair!” Ranter howled. “Why should he get that choice when I didn’t?”

  “Be silent! He tried to help you and you insulted him. He gets the option because I have the option to give in this case. I did not in yours.” Grand Master turned back to Ringwood and saw dismay. “Candidate, this is an exceptionally difficult and dangerous assignment.”

  “Shadowmen?” The boy flushed. “I’m not afraid of shadows! If Bernard and the others had been told about lights, they wouldn’t have died!”

  True, but what in the world was going through his young head? Lord Roland glanced at Tancred, who shrugged, and then at the unfortunate Ranter, scowling as he waited to hear his fate.