Impossible Odds Read online

  Hazard peered at him, copied him. “Mm. Like this, you mean?”

  “Right. So then they tested my eyesight.”

  “Blood and guts!” The gleaming black mustache curled up in horror. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “Nothing wrong with the left one, and I can still see quite well with the right one. I can even read with it, after a fashion. But bits are missing. It makes my reactions too slow. The change happened so slowly I never noticed.” No one else had, either, but as he had gradually learned to compensate for the loss, so had the rest of the school. Without realizing it, all the people he fenced with regularly—fencing masters, knights, candidates—every one of them had instinctively started taking advantage of his blind spots. The guardsmen, who visited only rarely, had not known about it, so he had done better against them, which was against all normal experience.

  “But what caused it?” Hazard cried.

  “Rank stupidity. Mine. I came off a horse and banged my head. I saw double for a week or so. I’d been fooling around and I was one of those real tough kids who never complain and never need help, see? So I never told Master of Rituals and he never gave me a healing. Until two weeks ago, but that was far too late.”

  “Horrible!” Hazard seemed genuinely concerned.

  “I can see better to my left than my right,” Bellman continued. “So Grand Master suggested they try making a southpaw out of me. He’s been enormously helpful and supportive. Everyone has, but it didn’t work.” Two weeks of hell.

  “Just a silly little bang on the head?”

  “Even chance can make justice.”

  Hazard pricked up his ears and the horns of his mustache. “What does that mean?”

  Bellman cursed under his breath. The man had the instincts of a wolfhound. “Just a proverb.”

  “No, really.” Hazard peered at him suspiciously.

  “Really just a proverb. Tell me about this enchanter who can hurl curses across the whole width of Eurania.”

  “His Royal Highness prefers to be addressed as such,” Baron von Fader huffed, still breathless after climbing the stairs to Grand Master’s study.

  Grand Master bowed to him also. “I trust your brief repose was refreshing, my lord?”

  Baron von Fader was one of the fattest men he had ever seen, waddling behind a grotesquely overhanging belly. His rubicund face had sagged into pouches and sulky folds, his beard and hair were white, wispy, and longer than Chivian fashion allowed. He bore a cumbersome saber on a baldric, which he had to remove before sinking into his host’s favorite chair, bulging out of it in all directions. How had he ever managed the long ride from Grandon? How had his mounts coped?

  Grand Duke Rabin was less extreme: middle-aged and portly, but not fat, with a face unprepossessing rather than ugly—eyes well bagged, mouth sensual, goatee streaked with gray. The fingers he had offered to be kissed were smooth and uncalloused, and he was unarmed. His jerkin and hose were simple in cut but of impeccable quality, his only jewelry being a gold signet. Invited to sit, he chose one of the lesser chairs, which let him sit very upright, knees together and hands clasped, as if relaxation did not come easily to him.

  “I cannot offer you refreshment other than water, Your Grace,” Grand Master said, “because you are required to fast before the ritual.”

  “It is of no matter.” The Duke’s voice was light and tuneful. “Your King is being most generous in assigning me Blades of my own. You have found me some? Sir Tancred hinted that you were short of suitable candidates.”

  “I can spare only two, I fear, Your Grace. They have not completed the normal course of training, so they cannot match our usual superlative standards in swordsmanship. We expect a Blade to take on two ordinary opponents at the same time. I would not ask that of these men, but one-onone they will have little to fear.”

  “How about against Schattenherren?” growled the Baron. His voice had the timbre of busy millstones.

  “I was informed that a few candles are adequate defense against them,” Durendal said coldly. “Your Grace, the binding ritual is dangerous and we insist on following it exactly. The actual binding will begin at midnight and last about half an hour. Until then you are required to fast, to meditate, and to take ritual baths, as Master of Rituals will direct.”

  The Grand Duke nodded. “I understand.”

  “I shall be present, sire,” said the Baron.

  “You may witness the binding,” Grand Master said, starting to bite his words. “But you will not be admitted during the preliminaries. Your Grace has been informed regarding your own part?”

  “Sir Tancred told us,” the Baron said before his liege could open his mouth, “on the way here. I will read over the text beforehand.”

  “That will not be permitted, but you may discuss it in general terms with Master of Rituals. Have you any questions, Your Grace?”

  Rabin seemed more amused than annoyed at the way his underling was being trampled. “Sir Tancred answered most of them, my lord. Except he could not tell me about names. I understand the candidates swear an oath to me personally. My full name is Rabin Hans Ludwig Irmtrude Burhard Achim Lammert von Krupina und Vargschloss. We should write it down for them? And all my titles?”

  Lord Roland said, “Considering the strain the ritual puts on the boys, we settle for just one name and omit titles. The name is unimportant. What matters is whose hand holds the hilt of the sword.” And the hand in this case looked as if it never had held one before. That was a worry Grand Master had not anticipated. He had assumed that any minor nobleman from the wilder side of Eurania would be a warrior, like the wicked uncle. “It is essential that the sword penetrate the candidate’s heart. They like you to put it right through them, but that is not required.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what? Oh, just that they like to have two scars, front and back. It impresses girls.” Grand Master himself had four and had bragged about them shamelessly in long-ago days.

  “I will see what I can do to oblige them,” Rubin said with no sign of amusement. He kept his face and voice under firm control.

  “Master of Rituals can demonstrate the stroke. If Your Grace wishes to practice, we can string up an animal carcass in the kitchen.”

  “That is an insulting suggestion!” barked the Baron.

  “But a very sensible one when two men’s lives are at stake,” the Grand Duke said softly. “Please do that, Grand Master.”

  Stringing up Baron von Fader would be an even better idea. Roland said, “I have a brief homily on the care of Blades, which I recite to every new ward, Your Grace. Ringwood and Ranter will not be your servants. They serve King Athelgar by guarding you, even at the cost of their own lives if necessary. His Majesty expects you to provide them with food and clothes…” And so on.

  The first of the victualers’ wagons came rumbling in the gate. Bellman glanced at the shadows and was amazed to see he had been gossiping to Hazard for over an hour. He had many more good-byes to say.

  “Must go.” He scrambled to his feet.

  “Go where?” Hazard followed him up and brushed grass off himself.

  Bellman nodded at the wagon. “Catch the stage to Blackwater.”

  The Blade’s eyes narrowed. “You got a job waiting?”

  “No.” A job was the lesser of his problems. “I know some of the farmers.”

  “We’ll find you better than that. You’ll ride the King’s horses back to Grandon with us and the Guard will set you up with something worthwhile.”

  For a moment Bellman feared a cruel joke. “You really mean that?”

  Hazard laughed. “You expected a smock and wooden shoes? You’re not being puked or running away, friend. Yours is what the Yeomen call an honorable discharge. The Blades will see you land softly. Don’t worry about a thing. You prefer blondes or redheads?”

  “Virgins,” Bellman said, still adjusting to this sudden reprieve.

  “They’re extinct in Grandon. Some post in the palace? Y
ou fancy heraldry? A clerk in treasury? Conjury?”

  “There is a complication.”

  Hazard’s eyes gleamed. He twirled the points of his mustache in delight. “Let me guess. You arrived here two steps ahead of the law?”

  Bellman nodded. “Barely one step. The charter decrees an automatic pardon on binding. Otherwise Grand Master has to send word to—”

  “Forget that bit! It doesn’t happen. Ever. Forget your old name, too. You can be Ethelbert Bellman or Bellman Meadowbucket and they’ll never find you. Everyone here has a past, even Grand Master, although I never did manage to…What’s yours?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “I killed one of the King’s beasts,” Hazard said hopefully. “A nice five-point stag.”

  “Worse than that. If you want to help me you mustn’t know.”

  Hazard’s scowl said he would find out one day if it killed both of them. “Was I imagining the horrible apparition?” he asked loudly, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder at a skinny fourteen-year-old, who was clutching a pair of foils and staring at his back like a demon of vengeance.

  “That is the dreaded Candidate Mark,” Bellman said. “He believes he is entitled to a fencing lesson from a Blade of the Royal Guard and he will call down a terrible curse upon your descendants unto the seventh generation if you do not satisfy his expectations. He’s not bad.”

  “I’ll spit him, you go and get an apple to put in his mouth.” Hazard clapped Bellman’s shoulder. “You’ll ride with the Guard when we leave.”

  • 3 •

  The Forge was starting to prey on Ringwood’s nerves. He wanted to be out in the sun and fresh air—on the open road to anywhere and taking forever to arrive, as Dad had always said.

  Ranter was ranting again, still pacing. “It’s not right! We were promised five years’ training. We got less than four. They shortchanged us. Then I was threatened with death by starvation on Starkmoor. What sort of a choice is that? Grand Master himself has always told us a guard needs at least three men…”

  And on. And on.

  Ringwood, sitting glumly on the edge of a stone water trough, was tempted to tell him to put his head underwater and take three deep breaths, but then Ranter might slap him around a bit, as he often did candidates smaller than himself. That very first day four years ago, the day Dad had brought Ringwood to Ironhall, Ranter had been the Brat, big even then. Once Ringwood was accepted, of course, and Dad had gone away forever, then he had become the Brat and Ranter had been free to choose his new name. He had insisted on “Champion.” That name was not on the list, so Master of Archives had sent him back to ask Grand Master, who had approved it.

  The sopranos and beansprouts had not. Ranter, they had named him, and Ranter he had been ever since. Reminded of that now, he might decide to be Champion again for his binding, so it was better just to ignore him. All those onetime sopranos and beansprouts were gone now. Gone to the Guard, or Baelmark, or wherever. Just as he, Ringwood, was going! Who could say where he might be next week at this time?

  Dead, like Bernard?

  “Girls!” Ranter said. “Women! ’Course you’re too young to care.”

  “Am not!”

  “You wait until puberty gets up to your chin, boy. Girls is what being a Blade is all about. Women can’t resist bound Blades.” He leered. “Love ’em and leave ’em and onto the next one!”

  That seemed a strange definition of love, and he couldn’t know any more about girls than Ringwood did, which was nothing. A lifetime working for Ranter was an appalling prospect, but to back out now would look like cowardice. Worse, it would be going back on his word, and Dad had always listed that as a major breach of honor. So did Grand Master.

  In a merciful reprieve, the door at the top of the steps opened, spilling more light into the crypt. A harsh voice was shouting. Grand Master’s cut it off. Ringwood stood up. Ranter sat down.

  An elderly man came down, followed by Grand Master, who shut the door firmly behind him. The newcomer peered around at the eight hearths, the troughs, anvils, and octogram, as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. He was pudgy above the waist, with oddly skinny legs. Not glamorous or virile. Ringwood had been imagining a much younger, warrior monarch.

  Grand Master gestured angrily for Ranter to rise. “Your Grace, I am proud to present your future Blades: Prime Candidate Ranter, Candidate Ringwood.”

  Ranter bowed. Ringwood made a full court bow, which was more elaborate and definitely called for here. He sensed Ranter’s angry glare on him; he caught Grand Master’s nod of approval. “Gentlemen, meet your future ward, His Grace Grand Duke Rubin of Krupina.”

  “I am deeply honored by your offer of service,” the Grand Duke said quietly, “and humbled by your display of courage.” He offered fingers to be kissed, first to Ranter, then Ringwood.

  “The honor is entirely ours, Your Royal Highness,” Ranter said. At least he got that bit right.

  “And a pleasure, sire,” Ringwood added.

  The door opened again. Grand Master swung around angrily, but the man who came trotting down was Deputy.

  “Pray excuse the intrusion,” Tancred said. “Your Grace, the Guard has fulfilled its mission, which was to escort you safely here and see you provided with Blades. Our duty now lies back in Grandon. Will Your Grace grant us leave to depart, or do you prefer that we remain to escort you back with us?”

  The Grand Duke smiled. “I shall consult the gentlemen who have assumed responsibility for my future safety. Candidate Ranter?”

  Ranter shrugged. “Naw, we don’t need them. You’ll have to rely on the two of us from now on and Chivial’s a lot safer than Krupina or any of those foreign places.”

  That seemed a wrong decision. Why turn down a gift horse?

  The Grand Duke said, “Candidate Ringwood?”

  “I’d say if Sir Tancred could spare even a few men, Your Highness, they would be a comfort for two beginners still learning their duties. Ironhall is short of seniors, so they can help the juniors with their fencing while they wait for you.”

  The Grand Duke chuckled. “Diplomatically phrased! Sir Tancred, I am very grateful for your service to date and shall be more grateful for any escort you feel you can reasonably leave here to see us safely back again.”

  “I’m sure the absence of five or six will not jeopardize His Majesty.” Tancred saluted and departed.

  “Master of Rituals will be here shortly,” Grand Master said. “Otherwise you will not be disturbed.”

  “After the events of the last two days, a peaceful interlude is welcome.” The Grand Duke dismissed him with a nod. He went to sit on the center anvil and waited until the door had closed before he spoke.

  No, he was not what Ringwood had expected. His manners were those of a cultured nobleman—as described by Master of Protocol—and not those of a crude robber baron, which was what came to mind for a tiny state in backwoods east of Fitain. His command of Chivial was faultless, but that could be acquired by conjuration. He was soft-spoken, but too decisive to be called a fop. His voice was almost feminine in its softness, but that was a real beard on his chin. He was tense, but he had good reason to be so.

  “Be seated, gentlemen. We have much to discuss over the next few days. Perhaps we should begin by getting to know each other. I am aware that Ironhall admits only the lowborn, and I promise you that I do not hold that against a man. Or a woman, either, for my wife is not of noble birth. Courage and honor are what matter, and your willingness to be bound by this drastic ritual proves that you have both in abundance. Ranter, will you tell me a little about yourself?”

  “That’s all forgotten when we are admitted,” Ranter said. “The charter says so. New name, new person. And I’m not lowborn! My grandfather had blue blood in his veins and was knighted by King Ambrose on the Field of Wyldburn. That’s all I’ll say.”

  Idiot!

  Grand Duke Rubin stared at him in silence until he dropped his eyes.

 
“How about you, Ringwood?”

  “I’m as lowborn as they come, sire, but I’m no criminal. My father was a tinker. He went around with a donkey, mending pots for a living. I know nothing about my mother. He never discussed her, so now I wonder if he was really my father. But I know he didn’t steal me, or anything, because he was honest! Very, very honest! He always said his reputation is all of himself a man can leave behind when he goes back to the elements. Honesty and honor, he said, courage and grace. Those four are what make a man. That’s what he taught me, sire.”

  “He sounds like a father to be proud of. Mine used to say much the same. What happened to him?”

  “He died.” Ringwood felt a sudden prickling under his eyelids and blinked hard. He must not cry! That would be a baby thing to do now. Trouble was, he’d been thinking a lot about Dad today. Meditating, hoping Dad would have approved of what he was doing. “He got sicker and sicker, coughing and spitting up blood. He said I wasn’t old enough to do what he did by myself and the donkey was too old. So he brought me…brought me here.”

  Ringwood had wept when Grand Master said, “He’s good. He has great promise, but he’s too young. Can you bring him back in the spring?”

  Dad had just said, “No, sir,” and all three of them had known what he meant.

  “The weather’s turning nasty out there. You want to stay with us until it blows over?”

  “No need to drag it, your lordship.” So the tinker had given his boy a last hug and gone off with the donkey into the snow and the moors. Ringwood had never heard any more of him. He had cried then, but he would not cry now.

  “He told me, sire, that Ironhall would teach me to be a real man, so my life might be worth more than just a lot of mended pots, however good the patches.”

  “Pots matter,” the Grand Duke said. “Any job well done brings honor to the doer. So far I think Ironhall has done well by you, but we’ll see, won’t we? Now it’s my turn.”

  He thought for a moment. “You probably never heard of Krupina before today—”

  Ranter said, “No.”