The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades Read online

  “Not wise?”

  “Very foolish. His lordship did not take kindly to being called a thief to his face. He had a henchman called Thrusk, a great hairy brute, big as a bull. They called him the Marshal, but he was just the thug who did the dirty work, grinding the faces of the poor and downtreading peasants. Grimshank told Thrusk to see me off. Thrusk’s idea of a fond farewell involved a horsewhip. That left me really mad.” Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he added, “So I decided to get my lute back, and that night I broke in.”

  “You broke into a castle?”

  “Knew you wouldn’t believe me!”

  But she did. He had lied earlier and was telling the truth now. Perhaps he was testing her ability to tell the difference. “I didn’t say I didn’t. I’ll decide whether I believe you when I’ve heard the rest.”

  That pleased him. He smirked as he said, “It gets stranger. Firnesse Castle sits on the lip of a cliff—not a very high cliff, but high enough and steep enough that they don’t bother to post guards on that side. There’s no beach, just rocks. Even Baelish raiders could never land a boat there, but at low tide it’s no great feat to scramble around the base of the cliff. Climbing up by moonlight was a little trickier.” He was bragging, not understanding that it was his dominant element, air, that made him good at climbing.

  “Nobody could scale the walls. I didn’t have to. Whoever built the castle had put all the latrines on that side—overhanging the drop, upside-down chimneys. It was chilly when the sea wind blew, but the sea did all the shoveling. I was small enough to wriggle up one of the shafts.”

  “Yucch!”

  He scowled at her. “Ever been really hungry? Really, really hungry? So hungry you can hardly walk? I had. That lute was mine and I needed it to earn a living. I spent hours creeping around the Baron’s castle hunting for it, terrified I would fall over something or rouse the dogs. When I eventually did locate it, I was too late. The tide had come in and the shore was white with breakers, real killer surf. I hid in a closet until the portcullis was raised at dawn, but they caught me trying to sneak out.”

  “With the lute, of course?”

  “Of course.”

  And she had thought she was stubborn! “You were ten?”

  “Oh, no. Twelve, almost thirteen.”

  “You were lucky you weren’t hanged.”

  “I very nearly was,” Wart said glumly. “Grimshank claimed to be a lord of the high justice and kept a gallows outside his gate to prove it. King Ambrose might argue about his right to use it, but Ambrose wasn’t there. After breakfast the Baron held one of the briefest trials ever seen in Chivial and told Thrusk to take me out and string me up….”

  For a few moments the wagon rattled on. Even Saxon twisted his ears around, waiting for the rest of the story.

  “I wonder if that slime pit is still alive?” Wart muttered, and Emerald heard again that inexplicable wrong note, that faint trumpet.

  “Baron Grimshank?”

  “No, Thrusk. Grimshank was within his rights—or almost within them. The law says to hang criminals over the age of ten. But Thrusk had other ideas. He spoke up to say I was too young to be hanged. ‘Your lordship should show mercy on a penniless orphan,’ he said. ‘Why not just send the poor lad back where he came from?’ And Grimshank laughed and told him to go ahead. That—” Wart thought better of whatever word he’d been about to use. “That cur! He was jeering and chortling as he marched me off to the latrines. He was going to shove me down a shaft, he explained—with my hands tied and with the tide in and breakers all over the rocks. Headfirst, he said.”

  He looked at Emerald to see if she was going to accuse him of lying. She wasn’t. Even without her Oakendown training, she would probably have believed him. The story was all too horribly credible. Noblemen in remote areas could do pretty much as they pleased, answering to no one, and a baron who’d been insulted and made to look foolish by a friendless juvenile vagabond could easily react with the sort of brutality Wart was describing.

  “Maybe one day I’ll find Thrusk and settle a score or two.”

  “How did you escape?”

  “Just luck, no credit to me. When we got to the latrines, Sir Vincent intervened. He was a guest in the castle, so he shouldn’t have meddled. He had no authority at all, except he was a Blade. His beard was gray and there were a dozen of them to one of him, but he didn’t even draw his sword. Didn’t need to. He told them he and his servant were leaving now and I was going with them—and so was the lute. And that’s what happened. That’s what it means to be a Blade.”

  Recalling the two cocksure young men she had briefly seen in Oakendown, Emerald did not doubt that part of the tale either. “They just let him walk out?”

  “Yes. If they’d used violence on the Duke of Eastfare’s guardian there would have been a hue and cry. He’s a member of the White Star, so the King would probably have asked questions. The Lord Chancellor back then was Montpurse, another former Blade…. I wasn’t worth that sort of trouble to them. Vincent put me on the back of his horse and took me to…a safe place.”

  She caught a whiff of evasion. “What safe place?”

  “Valglorious.” Wart flashed his most cocky, boyish smile. “So virtue triumphed and I have never been back to see the Big Bad Baron! You believe my story?”

  Not that mention of Valglorious. “Some of it,” she said, “but not all.”

  He scowled and silently handed her the reins. He removed his hat, took out his knife. Every-one carried a knife to eat with, and his had seemed quite ordinary—a crude bone handle and a shabby leather sheath. When he drew it, though, she saw that it was a small dagger, with a point and two edges. He soon showed that it was as sharp as a razor, so the blade must be of much better quality than the hilt. Ignoring the bouncing of the wagon, he proceeded to cut his hair, lifting it a lock at a time and slicing it off close to the roots. Pretty soon he had trimmed his whole head to a hideous shaggy stubble.

  “How’s that?” he demanded, not looking at her.

  “Horrible. You look as if you had head lice and your master told the shepherd to shear you.”

  “Good.” He stuffed his hat back on his head. He had slightly protruding ears and now they showed.

  “Who are you trying to deceive, if not me?” she demanded.

  That question the normally chatty Wart would not answer.

  Peculiarer and peculiarer!

  10

  Three Roads

  THE COUNTRYSIDE DETERIORATED FROM BLACK-soil farmland to a stony plain good only for sheep and goats, apparently uninhabited except for shepherds and their dogs. The only buildings were a few isolated hovels. However, its apparent flatness was deceptive, and it was tufted with patches of gorse and scrub not unlike the new condition of Wart’s scalp. Emerald had already noticed that she could rarely see very far in any direction, but she was taken by surprise when a sizable stockade came into view almost as if it had sprung out of the ground.

  “Three Roads,” Wart announced. “Coaching inn. It’s called Three Roads because one road leads from here west to Tyton, one goes north to Farham and Firnesse, and a third runs south to Kysbury and Valglorious.”

  “I am amazed by the depth of your knowledge.”

  “We’ll spend the night here.”

  “We could cover a league or two more before dark.”

  “There isn’t anywhere to go. Besides, Saxon wants his oats.” Do not argue with the driver!

  He drove the wagon through the gate to a dusty, stony yard surrounded by a variety of thatched buildings—housing, sheds, stables. A mob of ragged boys a little younger than he flocked around him, all yelling for his attention. In such a hubbub Emerald could not make out a word, but Wart obviously knew the proper procedure, for he aimed a finger at one of the largest and said, “You!” The chosen one scrambled aboard, grinning proudly. The rest fell back to wait for another customer.

  “Stabling for the night,” Wart demanded. “And which road do w
e take to Valglorious when we leave?”

  “Best yer honor park over there under cover,” said the guide, pointing with one hand and wiping his nose with the other. “South road goes to Valglorious, if it please you.”

  “I expect it will whether I’m pleased or not.” Wart steered the wagon where he had been directed to park. The boy jumped down to begin unharnessing Saxon. Wart turned a complete somersault in the air before landing on his feet like a cat.

  “Oo!” said the boy. “Do that again!” More of the hungry-looking urchins came running over to watch.

  “Stand back, then.” Wart vaulted up on the wagon again and repeated the feat. Laughing, he refused a third demonstration and turned serious to address the hostler who had appeared to take the guest’s orders. “Oats and a good rub-down. Which way to Valglorious?”

  “South road,” the man said. “You could make Kysbury before dark. Cheaper board than here,” he muttered quietly.

  “The lady is weary,” Wart explained, but he made no offer to play gentleman by helping the weary lady dismount. Instead he rummaged in the wagon for his archlute. Declining offers of help from the grubby boys, he slung it over his shoulder, took up a bundle of personal possessions, and swaggered off in the direction of the hostelry office, leaving his chosen helper guarding the wagon. Emerald followed, assuring the mob of skinny minions that she could carry her own skimpy baggage. She would have hired one of them as porter if she had possessed even a copper mite to pay him.

  The door of the main building opened into a sizable timbered hall, dim after the brightness outside. Clattering noises and juicy smells drifted in from a kitchen area at the back, and Emerald guessed that the long tables and benches could probably seat at least two hundred people. Some men were already sitting there quaffing ale, and the big man standing chatting to them was almost certainly the inn-keeper. They broke off their argument to scowl at the newcomers.

  “Don’t need no flea-bitten minstrels here,” growled the big one. “And no dancing girls neither.”

  Wart bristled. He stood the archlute on the floor and said, “Hold this.”

  “What are you going to do?” Emerald asked nervously. Oakendown did not prepare a girl very well for dealing with men. The world was full of men.

  Without answering, Wart strutted forward like a bulldog stalking a bull. He put his fists on his hips and sneered up at the innkeeper, who stood a head taller and twice as wide.

  “Are you insulting my companion?”

  “You would know that better than me,” said the big man.

  The ale drinkers chuckled.

  “But you do offer hospitality to worthy travelers?”

  “Them ’at has money to pay for it.”

  “Best board for two,” Wart said. “Private room for the lady. I’ll settle for no more than four in the room, but a bed to myself. A clean blanket. A candle for each of us. Cover and picket for the wagon; oats, water, and a rub-down for my horse.”

  “Two florins and I’ll see the color of your silver now, son.”

  Not silver—the coin that appeared in Wart’s fingers was gold. He flipped it at the innkeeper, who grabbed but missed it. It rolled under the table, and the big man dived for it as if frightened his customers might beat him to it. While he was down on hands and knees, Wart slapped him on the rump and said, “Good boy!” The ale drinkers guffawed. Emerald was quite certain that Wart had made it happen.

  The innkeeper rose red faced and scowling at him with even more suspicion than before, but clearly gold excused anything. He slipped the coin in a pocket and fumbled for change.

  “Beg yer pardon, young master. ‘Scuse the misunderstanding. I can spare a private room for you also at no extra cost, if that’ll make it up to you. Same one the Duke himself prefers when he honors us. Clean linen, of course, always. Best board tonight will be barley mash, roast swan, venison pie, and peaches poached in brandy, if that will be satisfactory, master? All the ale you can drink included. Bread and cheese and small beer to break your fast in the morning if you wish. And her ladyship has only to ask if there is anything at all that my women can do for her comfort.” He bowed to her. “Honest Will Hobbs at your service, mistress!”

  There was a faint odor of magic about Honest Will Hobbs, but nothing threatening. He probably wore a mild glamour charm to sweeten his customers’ view of him.

  Wart now looked quite blasé, as if this fawning was only his due. Doubting that she could achieve the same panache, Emerald said as haughtily as she could, “Have you such a thing as a bathtub?”

  “Certainly, mistress! I’ll have it brought to your room directly, and ample hot water too—no skimping on the hot water, I promise. Softest towels you’ve ever met, my lady.”

  “At no extra charge!” Wart said. “By the way, which is the road to Valglorious?”

  Emerald’s room was cramped and stuffy in the evening heat, but far better than anything she had been granted in Tyton. She enjoyed a long soak to wash off the road dust and ease her bruises. Fresh clothing would have been a joy, but she had nothing to wear except the same drab sack and toe-biting shoes. When she had done the best she could with her appearance, she went downstairs to explore the rest of the inn.

  Three Roads was thriving. Four more wagons had arrived and been parked. Like Wart’s, each was being guarded by one of the boys. As she watched, a grandiose coach in purple and gold came rattling and jingling into the yard, drawn by four matched chestnut mares. Two liveried grooms stood on the platform at the back and two men-at-arms sat on the roof. The boys swarmed around it like midges and were yelled at by the coachman. She wondered who could afford such an outfit.

  On a loading dock outside one of the stable buildings sat Wart, astride a log, strumming his archlute. About a dozen boys were grouped cross-legged around him, singing as he directed. Some adults had drawn close to listen, keeping well back from Wart’s hat, which lay invitingly on the edge of this impromptu stage. Emerald wandered over. On solid ground he played much better than he had on the wagon, understandably, although once in a while he still stumbled in the bass. As with an ordinary lute, his left hand had to steady the instrument and also stop the strings while the fingers of his right hand plucked them, but on the archlute he had to pluck the extra bass courses with his right thumb, and this knack he had not quite mastered. He was already better than he had been that morning, though. She wondered again how he had acquired a thing so precious. He had admitted stealing one lute in his brief life.

  “Once more right through!” he said, and led his makeshift choir into the ballad again. When they reached the end, the audience clapped. “Take a bow!” Wart said, and the boys jumped up eagerly. “All donations go to the choir, gentlemen, not to me. This minstrel has earned his crust already today.” Some men tossed coins into the hat. “Thank you, my lords! May the spirits cherish you all.”

  His fingers danced over the string. “Now, how many of you know ‘Marrying My Marion’?” The show of hands disappointed him. “Suggest something, then.” In a moment he had them singing again. He had not known the melody, but he quickly picked it up.

  He was a real mystery, was young Wart, and not just because of that faint discordant spiritual element she kept detecting and failing to identify. He went out of his way to draw attention to himself with this public lute playing and by asking every man, bush, and tree the way to Valglorious. He tamed the innkeeper with gold. If he was really the sort of lowly stable hand he was pretending to be, he would never have touched gold in his life. A genuine wagoner would eat in the commons and sleep in his wagon, certainly not in a private bedchamber. Yet he had hacked off all his hair to make him-self seem more in character!

  Emerald could be sure of only two things. She was certain Wart was in league with Mother Superior, but she enjoyed his company in spite of that. Bother him! Villains were not supposed to be likable.

  He wound up the song with a fancy arpeggio, and again a few men threw coppers. “May the spirits favor you, my lords
!” He had not been exaggerating about his experience as a minstrel. He was working his audience like a seasoned performer. “This is only our first lesson, you understand, but what better solace than music to ease the cares of a long day? Madrigals and cantatas will have to wait for our second lesson, but if there is any country ballad or simple roundelay that your lordships especially favor, these honest men here will be happy to hazard it for you! Won’t you, lads?”

  A well-dressed man called for “The Baker’s Kittens.”

  “‘The Baker’s Kittens’!” Wart exclaimed. “You all know ‘The Baker’s Kittens,’ my hearties! So let’s hear it—‘The Baker’s Kittens’ for two silver florins!” He strummed a few chords, which were almost drowned out by the onlookers’ laughter and a howl from the requester that he had never agreed to such a price. It was a good choice, a counting song that anyone could learn as it went along.

  The boys had not reached the second kitten before Emerald was distracted by a thin, shrill whistling. Even as she wondered who would be so callous as to spoil a children’s singsong like that, she realized that the sound was entirely in her own head. What she was hearing was magic, and the moment she looked around she saw the woman she had encountered at the Acorn in Tyton. She was still some distance away, but the recognition was mutual.