The Gilded Chain Read online

  He must have advice. The logical source was the Royal Guard, but how could he consult them? Even now, when his ward was as safe as he could ever be, Durendal could not walk out and leave him, not if that door had a hundred locks on it. During the day, he would be in constant attendance.

  He was going to go crazy.

  An hour later, when the tap came, he had guessed the answer. Even so, he had Harvest in his hand as he opened the door a crack on the chain and peeked out. There were two of them, and one of them was Hoare, who had left Ironhall only two months ago. The other was Montpurse himself.

  “You’re late,” he said brashly and let them in.

  They were both typical Blades—lean, chiseled men who studied the world intently and moved like cats—but Hoare had not yet lost his distinctive juvenile nonchalance, an insouciance that gave him a permanent air of knowing some secret joke. He was about a month into an ill-advised beard, much fairer than his hair. Montpurse was clean shaven, with hair like flax and eyes the blue of buttermilk. His babyish complexion made him seem ten years younger than his companion, but he must be in his middle twenties now. Was it an advantage to be always underestimated? Did it amuse the King to have a permanent adolescent in charge of his Guard?

  “Brother Durendal, Leader,” Hoare said, cuing Durendal to call him “brother” and Montpurse “Leader.” Hands were clasped.

  “I’d never have forgotten that name,” Montpurse said. “You must have been after my time.”

  “Yes, Leader.” Not quite, but Durendal would not say so.

  Then the mist-blue eyes lit up. “No! You were the Brat! You gave me my sword!”

  “And you came and thanked me afterward. You have no idea what that meant to me!”

  “Yes, I do,” Montpurse said firmly. “Now, you must have questions.”

  Durendal remembered his manners and bade his visitors be seated. He apologized for not having refreshments handy.

  Montpurse settled onto a chair like a falling leaf. “You can get anything you want by pulling that bell rope. Don’t bother now, though.”

  “First question, then. How do I guard a man twenty-four hours a day?”

  For a moment the Commander reflected Hoare’s secret smile. “You can’t. You’ll find that the urgency wears off in a couple of weeks. As you learn the ropes you gain confidence. You stay out of the bathroom, is how we describe it. In the Guard, of course, we take turns; and whenever your ward is in the palace we can spell you off also.” He cut off Durendal’s thanks. “No, we do it for any single. We regard it as part of our job. There are far too many of us just to guard the King, and it would be no advantage to him to have crazy Blades running around.”

  Durendal had guessed right, which was satisfying. “Do I ever sleep?”

  This time the smile was broader. “You may doze in a chair for an hour or so, but you’ll waken every time a spider sneezes. One gets used to it. Take up a hobby—study law, finance, or foreign tongues. Helps to pass the time. Even Blades age, you know. You can’t be a crack swordsman forever.”

  Durendal thanked him again. There was something exhilarating in this frank, brotherly talk with two men he had admired for so long. Hoare had been part hero, part friend, permanently ahead of him although Durendal had been the better fencer for years. All the candidates worshiped Montpurse in absentia for his legendary swordsmanship and meteoric rise in the King’s service.

  “Is there any reason I don’t know why the Marquis needs a Blade?”

  Awkward pause.

  “Not that I am aware of,” Montpurse admitted reluctantly. “The King will refuse the Countess nothing. But don’t feel slighted. Look on the sunny side—your assignment will stretch you to the limit. We guard the King, but there’s a hundred of us. Most of the time we’re bored silly.”

  That was Sir Aragon’s Rationalization to Comfort Unfortunate Colleagues.

  Hoare leered. “Tell him about women!”

  “You tell him, you lecherous young beast.”

  “I hope one of you will,” Durendal said frankly. They knew how innocent he was. They’d been there.

  “Oh, they’re overrated. They always drift off to sleep.”

  Montpurse rolled his eyes in disbelief. “You wear them out, you mean. That’s part of the legend, Durendal, one of the best parts.”

  “I’ll find you a good tutor,” Hoare said thoughtfully. “Let’s see…Blondie? Ayne? Rose? Ah, yes…married to a royal courier, so she gets lonely and won’t chatter or start dreaming of permanent arrangements…bonny, bouncy, eager…”

  “He knows a hundred like that,” his commander said scornfully. “I won’t let him play tricks on you.”

  Durendal gulped and said, “That’s kind of you.”

  “Now, how about leaving our philandering friend here to guard your gate and coming for a stroll with me?”

  Every muscle tensed in alarm. “Not tonight, if you don’t mind. I’d love to, but it just feels a little soon, if you understand?” He could see that they had expected that response and were trying not to laugh at him. But he couldn’t! No matter what they thought of him, he just couldn’t.

  “I give you my oath, Blade to brother,” Hoare said, keeping his face as solemn as it could ever be, “that I will guard your ward until you return.”

  “It’s very kind of you, but…”

  Montpurse chuckled and stood up. “The King wants you.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. The King wants to speak with you. Coming?”

  That made a difference! He was a King’s Blade. “Yes, of course. Um, I’d better shave first.”

  “You’ll only nick yourself,” Montpurse said. “Come! We don’t keep him waiting.”

  There could be no more argument. Although Durendal heard the bolts and chains closing behind him, he still felt unsettled as he headed off along the corridor with Montpurse.

  “Like ants walking all over you, isn’t it?” the Commander said. “But it does wear off, I promise you. Or you get used to it.”

  They clattered down a long flight of marble stairs. The palace had fallen silent; the corridors were dim as the candles burned low.

  “I’m a King’s Blade bound to a subject. How does divided loyalty work?”

  “Your binding is to the Marquis. He’s first, the King second. If they ever come into conflict, you will have a serious problem.”

  That seemed like a good cue for a very tricky question, and the middle of a huge, deserted hallway a good place to ask it. “Why would the King give a valuable property like a Blade to a man who has no enemies?”

  “I thought I told you that.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Are you questioning the royal prerogative?” Montpurse opened an inconspicuous door to reveal narrow fieldstone stairs leading downward.

  “I would not want to think my sovereign was a fool, Leader.”

  The Commander closed the door behind them and then caught his companion’s arm in a steely grip. “What do you mean by that?” The pale eyes were ice-blue now.

  Durendal realized that he was being held under a lamp, where his face was clearly visible. How had he managed to stumble into quicksand so soon? “If the King had doubts about a man’s loyalty—perhaps not now, but his loyalty in future—well, conspiracy would be very difficult with a Blade around, wouldn’t it? And he would make a good touchstone. If he suddenly goes insane, investigate.”

  Hard stare. “Oh, come, Brother Durendal! You don’t suspect your little marquis of treasonous ambitions?”

  “No, not at all. But His Majesty couldn’t plant Blades only on the doubtful, could he? He would have to spread some dummies around too.”

  A longer stare. Faint sounds of male laughter came drifting up from the cellar. “I do hope you won’t spread such crazy notions around, brother.”

  Spirits! That meant yes! “No, Leader. I won’t mention them again.”

  Without seeming to move a muscle, Montpurse shed about ten years and was a boy
again. “Good. Now, one thing more. If His Majesty should choose to try a little fencing with you—about three times in four, understand?”

  “No.”

  “Any less than that and he gets suspicious. Any more and he may be a little resentful. It is foolish to upset the mighty, brother.” He led the way downstairs.

  Puzzled, Durendal followed.

  10

  The cellar was rank with odors of ale and sweat, plus the eye-watering stench of whale oil from lamps hanging low overhead. There were no chairs or tables, only a row of barrels and a basket containing drinking horns. Of the thirty men standing around laughing and chattering, at least twenty-five were Blades in the blue-and-silver livery of the Guard. The rest were almost certainly Blades of other loyalties or just out of uniform—all but one, the largest man present, who was the center of attention. Judging by the relaxed din, Blades off duty had no problem drinking their fill and this was their private haunt.

  The King completed a story that sent his listeners into peals of mirth. What a king! After only two years on the throne, already he had reformed the tax system, ended the Isilond War, and gone a long way to master the great landowners who had so defied his father. Yet here he was, one of the greatest monarchs in all Eurania, roistering with his Blades as if he were one of them, making them laugh and—much more important—bellowing with laughter himself when they responded. This was the man Durendal had been created to serve, not that wretched Marquis of Nothing now snoring away upstairs.

  Ambrose swung around to stare over heads at the newcomers. Although his face was flushed at the moment and sequined with sweat, the gold eyes were clear and steady. Durendal offered a three-quarter bow that he judged appropriate to a first personal audience set in an informal atmosphere.

  “I have heard some impressive tales, Sir Durendal,” the King boomed.

  “Your Majesty is most gracious.”

  “Only when I want to be!” He glanced at his companions to trigger another laugh. Then he frowned. “What happened to Harvest?”

  The room stilled instantly. It also seemed to grow much colder, in spite of the stuffiness.

  “I am not qualified to judge, sire.” That was not good enough. The King knew that. “But, if you are asking for my opinion, I believe he was not ready. He lacked confidence in himself.”

  The royal brows frowned. “Come over here.”

  He led Durendal to a dark corner. Backs turned and the rest of the room became very noisy again. Nothing was less visible than a monarch incognito, but the King’s personality at close quarters was an experience akin to being trapped in a cave by a bear. It was a long time since Durendal had needed to look up to anyone.

  “It was unfortunate.”

  “Yes, sire.” Oh, yes, yes, yes! But a man should mourn a lost friend for the friend’s sake, not for what that death had cost him personally.

  “Who’s next? Give me your assessment of the next six.”

  That would be tattling. Officially even Grand Master did not pass such information on to the King, although no one believed that. Conflicting loyalties howled in Durendal’s mind—loyalty to Ironhall, to the men who had trained him, to his friends there. But the Order was the King’s, and a companion’s fealty was to the sovereign.

  “My liege. Candidate Byless is Prime now, excellent all-round material, but he’s only seventeen—”

  “He lied about his age?”

  Byless told tales about a sheriff after him and Grand Master rescuing him from a hangman’s noose, but no one believed them. “I expect so, sire. He needs at least another year—better two.” Three would be better yet, but who would dare say so to this impatient King? “Candidate Gotherton is very sound, probably better at thinking than he can ever be at fencing, but not at all below standard. Candidate Everman is a year older than me. He’s superb. Candidate—”

  “Tell me about Everman.” The King listened intently as Durendal raved about Everman. Then he said, “Is he as good as you?”

  Trapped! A man should fall on his sword.

  “Not yet.”

  “Will he ever be?”

  “Close, I’d say.”

  The King smiled, showing he was aware of the feelings he had provoked. “Good answers, Blade! The ancients taught us: Know thyself! I admire a man who can assess his own worth. I also appreciate honesty. It is a quality rulers treasure above all others—except loyalty, of course, and I can buy that. Grand Master agrees that Everman is exceptional, but he still ranks him well below you.”

  Durendal’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He could feel himself blushing like a child. He had never dreamed that the King followed the progress of the school so closely. “Your Majesty is very kind.”

  The King pouted. “No I’m not, I’m ruthless. I have to be. Just now I have an urgent need for a first-rate Blade. I wanted you.”

  Blood and steel! Harvest’s death had thrown Durendal away on the turd, and the King’s reaction at hearing his name today had not meant what he thought it did.

  “Byless and Gotherton—can they endure binding? Would they snuff out like Harvest?”

  Durendal held two friends’ lives in his hands and wanted to scream. He took time to think about his answer. Mouth dry, he said cautiously, “Sire, they’re good men. I think they’ll do it.”

  The King smiled. His breath reeked of ale and garlic. “Well spoken. Repeat this conversation to no one, ever. Now, I’ve heard so much about your ability with a sword…I’m not without merit myself, you know.”

  This night was going straight down and accelerating. Oh, to be back on Starkmoor! Even to be the Brat again would be better than this.

  “Your Majesty’s prowess is legendary, but I am supposed to be an expert. I hope you will not humiliate me in public, sire.”

  “Well, let’s see about that! Fair match, now—honesty, remember? No pandering to my feelings. Sir Larson! Where are the foils? Rapiers, I think. The rapier is my weapon. Even I would hesitate to try this brawny lad with a broadsword. What do you think?”

  A Blade Durendal did not know had already produced foils and masks, apparently from nowhere. “I am sure Your Majesty would massacre him with a broadsword.”

  The King guffawed. “Be a shame to end his career so soon, yes?”

  Willing hands helped Durendal out of his jerkin, doublet, and shirt as the audience cleared back to the walls. Obviously this reeking cellar had a long history of Blades, ale, and fencing. Fair match? Did the King always order what he really wanted? How could he possibly hope to make a showing against a Blade? Montpurse’s baby face was shooting more warnings.

  Aha! The new boy was being hazed, of course, and the King was in on the joke. Perhaps hazing was a tradition for all greenies, but the bright new star who could thrash all the fencing masters at Ironhall would be an irresistible target. The famous expert was going to flounder against a mere amateur and would never hear the end of it.

  No, he wasn’t! If His Majesty had ordered a fair match, then a fair match he must have. A man could never go wrong obeying his king. Surely very few monarchs would shed their dignity so willingly just to play childish games with a band of guards. But it was with this kind of understanding that a great man inspired unquestioning loyalty among his followers.

  Stripped to the waist, the contestants raised foils in salute. Durendal scuffed his feet in the sawdust to test the footing.

  “On guard!” cried Ambrose IV, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, Lord of the Three Seas, Fount of Justice, and so on, who was large and sweaty, with too much fat under his skin and a pelt of tawny hair outside it. The most famous face in the kingdom was hidden behind the chain mesh of a mask.

  Right foot forward, left arm up, the King advanced and lunged like a three-legged cow. Deciding to play along for a moment or two, Durendal parried, riposted well wide of the mark, parried again, and almost struck the King by accident on the next lunge. The man was slower than a watched pot. He was trying to use the Ironhall style an
d he didn’t know Lily from Swan. Parry at Willow, riposte to Rainbow. It was a ballet of tortoises. Enough.

  “A touch!”

  “Ha!” said His Majesty in a tone that sounded convincingly like displeasure. “It was indeed. Well, good luck is a valuable attribute in a Blade. Let us see how you fare on the next pass, Sir Durendal.”

  Durendal went to Swan again.

  “Have at you!” cried the monarch.

  Eagle, Butterfly— “Another touch…sire.”

  The King growled realistically, but he must be grinning hugely behind the mask. Montpurse made frantic gestures in the background. If the victim had not seen through this jape, he would be getting very worried about now.

  “Again, sire?”

  “Again!”

  Better spin this one out, just for good manners. Egg-beater. Stickleback. Oh flames! Cockroach. He hadn’t really meant to do that quite so soon. The King uttered another growl and swished his foil up and down a few times as if he were truly surprised and angry at the way the match was going. He was a marvelous actor. They all were. Peering through his mask, Durendal could not see one surreptitious smile in the room.

  Three-nothing so far. Three times out of four, Montpurse had said, so the next pass would show them that their pigeon had smelled the cuckoo….

  “By the spirits of fire, my liege, the lad is on form!” shouted a voice somewhere.

  The note of desperation in that voice was so amazingly realistic that it froze Durendal’s sweat. Fire and death! Had he misunderstood? Did the King really think he could fence worth a pot of spit? Surely men like Montpurse would not prostitute their honor by indulging his crazy fancies?

  This had to be a joke!

  Didn’t it?

  Suddenly his new apprehension switched to anger. If this was a prank, then it was in stinking bad taste. If it wasn’t, then he had already shown the King up as a deluded buffoon, which was probably high treason, and Montpurse as a bootlicker, which meant that all the generous aid promised to the newcomer would fail to appear.

  “Now, by death!” Snarling, the monarch charged his foe, and Durendal poked him on the belly. Four out of four.