The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (19 page)

Grand Master grew redder and shriller, while the audience watched in amazement. “This is rubbish! You have betrayed the trust I placed in you when I appointed you Prime.”

“You appointed me Prime? By puking Stalwart, you mean?”

“Insolence! Go to your room and stay there until I give you leave!”

Oh, flames! “You are a bucket head,” Badger said sadly. “If you must be so petty, why do it in public?” He turned to go.

“And leave your sword!” Grand Master squealed.

Badger went, leaving his sword. He resisted the temptation to leave it in Grand Master. He even resisted the temptation to do to him what he had done to Servian.

Later, sprawled on his cot, he was seriously tempted to go back down to the hall and correct that mistake. By doing so, he would throw away four years’ grinding hard work. He would ruin all his plans. But he would not die after all.

“We’re almost there!” Wart said cheerfully.

Emerald thought,
And about time
!

Ironhall was a vague something to her left. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind still blew, and the night was far too dark for any sane person to be riding over rocky country like Starkmoor. Of course sanity was an illusive concept when applied to a not-quite-seventeen-year-old-male; and when that man had just become
Sir
Stalwart, member of the White Star, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, official hero, an expert swordsman who had recently won his first mortal duel and been sent on a vital state mission with almost unrestricted authority, sanity was about the last thing to expect. She was cold and battered and one big blister from ankles to hips. But if Master Smarty Warty had thought he could outride her, he now knew better. She had not screamed for mercy once and was not about to start now.

“I smell magic!”

“Right!” he said, sounding either surprised or admiring. “We’re passing the Forge.”

That was where the boys were bound, she knew, and it spoke to her as the Blades themselves did. No White Sister could ever describe her reaction to a specific sorcery exactly, and “
hot metal
” was as close as she could come to classifying this one. It was something between an odor and a feeling. She could not see the building itself in the darkness, but an octogram that had been in use for several centuries would have a very wide aura.

A few moments later Wart said, “See that light? Grand Master’s study. That’s where we’re going.”

Several windows were showing faint glimmers of candlelight, but if he was pointing, she could not see his hand. The packhorse whinnied wearily, smelling stables ahead.

Her life had been
so
peaceful until Sir Snake had interfered in it! Just two weeks ago, she had been a deaconess in the White Sisters’ tree city of Oakendown, nearing the end of her training. The nightmare had begun when she was unexpectedly summoned before Mother Superior and sworn in as a full Sister on the spot. Four years’ quiet study had been followed by days of mad confusion and mortal peril. She had been rescued in the end by Wart, this peach-faced stripling who had turned out to have so many unexpected skills. She would have been more grateful if he had not helped put her into the danger in the first place.

Yesterday had seemed like the start of a fine new life at court. She had ridden in from Valglorious with Mother Superior in that lady’s magnificent coach. Mother Superior had turned out to be a much nicer person than her reputation suggested. She had insisted on going around by Newhurst so that Emerald could visit her mother and break the marvelous news that the family home at Peachyard was to be returned to them. Poverty had turned overnight back to wealth—and that good fortune they owed in large part to Wart.

Was that why she was setting off on another mad adventure with him? She was certainly not doing so just to please the King. In the evening she had supped with the King. Wart had been there, as had Commander Bandit; Mother Superior; Lord Chancellor Roland and his delightful wife, Lady Kate; also the devious Sir Snake. Between the conversation and music, they had planned Wart’s mission to investigate the suspected sorcerers’ lair in Nythia. Emerald had agreed to accompany him, and she was not certain how that had happened.

Snake—he gave snakes a bad name—had pointed out that Wart would need help from the White Sisters to detect magic. Mother Superior had promised to write to the prioress in Lomouth. She could not send a Sister with him, she had said, because he would be traveling on horseback and almost no White Sister knew how to ride. But the old lady knew very well that Emerald could, because they had discussed such things that morning on the coach ride. And the look she had given Emerald had been a clear invitation to volunteer; whereas that morning she had sounded very much against any more such shenanigans. Wart had said nothing, ignoring Emerald completely, although they had gone riding together at Valglorious. So she had spoken up, admitting that she had grown up with horses at Peachyard. At once the King had asked her to accompany Wart.

And she had agreed.
Not
just because Wart had pulled a face at the idea of having to share his mission with her—she hoped she was not so childish. (Although that might have been a
small
part of it…) And
not
just to please the King. She had found Ambrose IV much too big and too loud. He had kept repeating the same joke about Wart and her being the King’s Daggers, which everyone had to laugh at. He fancied himself a musician, and the funniest part of the evening had been watching the other guests trying to keep straight faces while he and Wart played duets on their lutes. As a former minstrel, Wart had been tying his fingers in knots in his efforts to follow the King’s scrambled keys and timing.

All in all, it had been an exhausting evening. When the party finally broke up, Emerald headed back to the Sisters’ quarters with Mother Superior.

“You wanted me to go with Stalwart, my lady,” Emerald said. “May I ask why?”

Mother Superior sighed. “Because I am worried about that boy. He did so amazingly well at Quagmarsh! I am afraid it has made him dangerously overconfident. He will get himself killed. He needs someone sensible to look after him.” She regarded Emerald with a pair of old but extremely shrewd gray eyes. “And why did you agree to go?”

“For that exact same reason!”

They had both laughed.

After fourteen hours in the saddle, the joke was no longer funny.

Wart dismounted and for once remembered his manners enough to hold Emerald’s horse while she did. Faint rays glimmered through a small barred window. Below it was a hitching rail. A latch clattered, hinges creaked, and she followed Wart’s silhouette inside.

“This’s called the Royal Door,” he said. “There’s always a light in here….” He took the lantern down off its hook and turned up the wick. The golden glow brightened to reveal a large circular chamber, completely empty except for a narrow stone staircase spiraling up the wall.

“For the King?”

“And other visitors. Ah!” He had found a bell rope. He hauled on it, but the masonry absorbed any sound he may have produced. “Can you come back out and hold the light for me? If he assigns a Blade to someone—an ambassador or a duke, f’r instance—then this is the way they come.”

He fussed over the packhorse’s load while Emerald held the light for him. She was shivering. Judging by his angry growls, his fingers were too cold to work properly, but eventually he managed to detach one long bundle.

“What about the horses?”

“Small Master will send someone, of course. Come on.”

He led the way back inside. Although he must be as tired and sore as she was, he ran up the steps two at a time, eager for the coming interview. She knew he detested Grand Master, who had held despotic authority over him for four years. Was he hoping to get some of his own back? The bell had been heard somewhere, because a door halfway up the stair stood ajar, waiting for them. Pushing it wide, Wart strode forward into the brightness of candles and a crackling fire.

“Stalwart!” Grand Master was not as old as Emerald had expected. His face was bleak and bony, and what flesh there was on it had settled into grooves and lines, but there was no gray in the narrow fringe of beard. He gaped in amazement at his visitor.

“Good chance to you, Grand Master! Glad we didn’t drag you out of bed. My companion, Luke of Peachyard….”

Luke
? Emerald bristled. Before the Sisterhood renamed her Emerald, she had been Lucy Pillow, but that hated name was supposed to be dead and forgotten. The great Sir Stalwart would scream in fury if she referred to him as Wat Hedgebury! He had not warned her that he expected her to masquerade as a boy. Mother Superior had advised male clothing for comfort on horseback, although she had admitted it would also deflect unwanted questions. Real ladies were expected to travel by coach; other women never had reason to go anywhere. The Sisters had their own priorities.

Grand Master barely spared a glance for “Luke,” who must be a child or servant, because he was not wearing a sword. “Good chance to you, Stalwart. This is a pleasant surprise.” That was not a lie, just sarcasm. His initial amazement had given way to anger and disapproval. Emerald suspected his face often expressed disapproval; he had that sort of a mouth.

Wart tossed his sodden cloak over a stool. “A surprise to me also. If you would have the horses cared for, please? Do not mention my name.”

Grand Master went to the other door and paused with his hand on the latch. “And yourselves? Food? Beds? Are you and the boy staying?”

The
boy
removed her cloak also and headed for the fire to thaw out her hands.

“Can’t,” Wart said cheerfully. “I must be on my way directly. If you would kindly have replacements saddled up? And one extra mount.”

The older man glared at him, but when no explanation followed, he opened the door and stuck his head out to give instructions. Wart joined Emerald at the fire, shivering and rubbing his hands. He did not even look at her, but his eyes were gleaming; he was enjoying himself enormously. She saw him check the hang of his jerkin, making sure the edge concealed the diamond star pinned on his doublet. He went to the table and began untying the long package he had brought.

The room dearly needed a woman’s touch. Stone walls and plank floors made it grim; there were cobwebs in the window niches. Its aging furniture was ugly and mismatched, none of it comfortable—a settle by the fireplace, a very ancient leather chair facing it, three stools around a table. Grand Master himself had the same shabby, neglected appearance.

He finished giving orders, closed the door, and went to join Wart at the table. “You bring sad tidings. I should send for Master of Archives.”

“No! My presence here tonight must be known only to yourself and one other.” The covering of oiled cloth fell open, revealing three swords. Swords coming back to Ironhall meant dead Blades, but Wart now ignored them, donning his most innocent expression, which made him look about twelve and invariably signaled trouble ahead. “To save time, would you be so kind as to summon Candidate Badger?”

Grand Master dropped any pretense of enjoying the evening. “No.”

Wart smiled at this show of resistance. “I must insist, Grand Master.”

“Not until I know why you want him.”

“I need to borrow him for a few days.”

“What! Why?”

The smile grew wider. “I am sorry I cannot answer that.”

“The charter decrees that all candidates reside within the school until completion of their training.”

Confrontation.

Emerald waited to see what Wart would do next. His White Star would probably be enough authority by itself, but she knew that he also carried his commission from the Court of Conjury. That bore the royal seal and identified the bearer as “our trusty and well-beloved Stalwart, companion in our Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades….” It commanded “our servants, officers, vassals, and loyal subjects without exception” to aid him in “all his dread purposes and ventures.” With that backing, Wart could practically order Grand Master to jump down a well.

But Grand Master had just noticed the sword dangling at Wart’s thigh with its hilt toward him. It bore a cat’s-eye stone on the pommel—quite a large one, because it was a rapier, whose point of balance had to be well back toward the user’s hand. He had explained all that to Emerald at least twice. He was very proud of his sword, was Wart. He called it
Sleight
.

“Where did you get that?”

Amazingly, Wart’s smile could grow even wider, and did. “From Leader.” That was the Blades’ own name for Commander Bandit. “And he got it from Master Armorer. Didn’t they tell you about this, Grand Master?”

The older man’s face was red enough to set his beard on fire. He seemed to keep his teeth clenched while he said, “I do not recall your being bound.”

“No? Well, that was because Fat Man postponed my binding. Master of Archives has the edict somewhere in the records.”

More confrontation.

Obviously Wart was just dying to pull out his commission and smash Grand Master to bits with it. Grand Master, in turn, was wondering how much authority Wart really had. He chose not to take the risk of asking.

“I must know what business you think you have with Prime.”

Wart tried to stick out his jaw, but it was not a very convincing jaw yet. “I will explain when he gets here.”

Grand Master sighed. “I do not wish to trouble him, you see. Some boys…candidates…have trouble as they approach their binding. Badger is one of them, I fear, poor lad. He has not been a success as Prime. He has become very jumpy and short-tempered.”

“Badger? Never! The man’s a rock.”

Grand Master shook his head sadly. “You would be quite shocked by the change in him.”

Wart said softly, “I will judge him for myself.”

Confrontation again. Again it was the older man who yielded.

“I will be present while you speak with him.”

Wart shrugged. “I am on the King’s business, and I bind you to secrecy by your oath of allegiance.”

That was a slight retreat, probably designed to trap the other man into demanding to see his credentials, but Grand Master refused to take the bait.

“And I do not agree that he may accompany you when you leave.”

Wart just smiled. Grand Master swung around and went back to the door. Wart closed his eyes for a moment and sighed as if his joy was almost too much to bear. He did not look at Emerald; he might have forgotten she was there.

Having given the orders, Grand Master returned to the table with a thin smile nailed on his face. “Well, well, brother! You must have been having some interesting experiences since you left us so unexpectedly.”

If he had been a girl being admitted to Oakendown and in need of a new name, Emerald would have suggested “Minnow”—small, slithery, and skittish. His abrupt reversals told her that he was a water person. Although all the manifest elements—air, fire, earth, and water—were present in everyone, one was always dominant. White Sisters were trained to identify elementals, and only a water person could run through so many moods so quickly. The virtual elements were harder to assess, but she was detecting a strong component of chance, which always seemed to her like a faint rattling of dice being rolled. Water-chance people should never be put in positions of responsibility, but their combination of luck and malleability often won them appointments for which they were totally unsuited.