The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (31 page)

“What if the kid doesn’t force the door?”

“I’ll bring a pry bar. Two whistles for that, Chef. Any more questions? No? Then go and get your swords wet!”

Laughing, the men began pouring out of the room, almost jamming up in the corridor.

Snake himself paused in the doorway to look back. “Mother, would you be so kind as to alert Master Nicely—soon but not too soon?”

The old lady seemed to draw herself up even taller. “I certainly will do no such thing. You think we Sisters are kitchen scullions to be sent on errands?”

“Ah, well I did try to keep him informed.” Snake vanished. Emerald heard him laughing as the outer door slammed.

“Don’t they need a search warrant?”

Mother Spinel coughed disapprovingly. “Not if they can catch them red-handed, and your evidence is good enough for that. Besides, if Sir Snake can just nab Skuldigger, he can count on a royal pardon, no matter what he does. The enchantment you detected—could it have been a language spell?”

“Um, yes! Yes, it could.” It could have been several other things, too.

“Interesting.” The old lady frowned without explaining why that should be interesting or why she had made such a guess. “And you came straight here, to the Snakepit?”

Emerald braced herself for an ear-roasting tirade on the Importance of Going Through Proper Channels. “Well…yes, my lady. I, er…Yes.”

“Very quick thinking! I commend you. Too many young people today just never seem to use their brains. They have
no
initiative! Where did you leave your coach?”

“Oh! I told the man to wait in Ranulf Square.”

Mother Spinel rearranged some wrinkles into what was apparently a smile. “I have to go through to the front office and alert the inquisitors. I don’t like Master Nicely any better than Snake does, but he should be told. And also the healers, whom Sir Snake tends to forget until it is too late. I expect you want to see the end of this affair? Why don’t we ride over to Quirk Row together and help pick up the pieces?”

“That is most kind of you, my lady.” This was turning out to be very interesting afternoon.

SIR DAGGER
? SPURRED BY FURY, STALWART bounded up two flights of stairs without drawing breath. He was unlucky with names. When he was admitted to Ironhall four years ago, he had chosen to call himself “Stalwart” and promptly been labeled “Wart.” That had not bothered him too much, it being so like his original name of Wat, but “stalwart” did not only mean “brave,” it also meant “big and strong” and here he was, four years later, just turned seventeen and still a
runt
! Understandably, the Guard had no use for a Sir Stalwart who looked like a puny kid. Now Snake had picked up Ambrose’s infantile joke about the King’s Daggers, so Stalwart was “
Sir Dagger
” all the time. Big bellylaugh!

He charged into the hot little cubicle that was his personal piece of the world just now. His precious lute stood in a corner and a rickety wicker hamper held all the rest of his worldly goods. He pulled off his baldric and his sword,
Sleight
. He laid her carefully under the bed, then began tearing off his clothes, willfully spraying buttons that he would have to find and sew on again tonight.
What use was a swordsman without a sword
?

Spirits, he was a
good
swordsman! He’d been the best in Ironhall when he was sworn in to the Guard—better than Panther or Orvil or Rufus or Dragon, who had all been senior to him and had been bound that day. It was not because of his swordsmanship that the King had refused to bind him. It was because of his stupid
looks
! He was a better swordsman than most of the Old Blades, even—he could beat Snake with his eyes shut (well, almost). The only men who could outscore him consistently were Chefney and Demise, and they’d both won the King’s Cup in their day. Now they were coaching him for next year’s tournament, swearing that he was going to come out of nowhere and beat even Deputy Commander Dreadnought, who’d won it for the past two years. One thing Stalwart would not complain about was the fencing instruction he was getting. They worked him to bare bones, day in and day out, but they were making a crack Blade out of him. Chefney said he was already one of the top dozen swordsmen in the
whole world
.

Yet Snake wouldn’t let him use his sword in the real fights!

He’d
killed
men, and still they gave him jobs where he couldn’t wear his sword.

He threw open the hamper and pulled out a greasy smock, a stinky, tattered thing that left his arms bare and covered the rest of him to the knees.
This
was what he wore these days to serve his King. He’d worn it when the Old Blades raided Brandford Priory, and he’d worn it for three awful days at the Darland Brethren place, working as a kitchen scullion to gather evidence—and bloodcurdling horrible evidence, too. He’d begun his Blade career disguised as a wagon driver, in the Quagmarsh affair, so how could he start complaining now?

It was important work and he’d helped destroy a lot of the King’s enemies in the last three months, but he still felt jealous of Orvil and the rest strutting around the palace in their fancy livery. A man needed friends of his own age. All of his were either in the Royal Guard or still back in Ironhall.

He jammed a shapeless cloth hat on his head and slid his feet into wooden shoes. They were surprisingly comfortable and ideal for working in filthy streets and courtyards, but a man couldn’t fence in them. He scowled at himself in the mirror. Something wrong? Yes, he was too clean. He ran his fingers along the top of the door and collected a century of dust to smear on his face. He gave his upper lip a double dose and peered closer. There was some faint blond fuzz there, but the dirt didn’t really make it any more visible. And now all the world would smell of mouse. Sigh!

Lastly, he took up the feather-stuffed sack he kept in the corner and slung it over his shoulder. It weighed nothing, but back in his days as a minstrel’s helper he had learned some miming, so he knew how to make it look heavy. Indistinguishable from hundreds of boys who earned a skimpy living running errands around Grandon, he clattered off down the stairs in his wooden shoes.

Sir Stalwart, member of the Order of the White Star, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, guardsman in the Royal Guard on temporary assignment to the Old Blades, Commissioner of His Majesty’s Court of Conjury…reporting for duty, SIR
!

As Emerald accompanied Mother Spinel through the bewildering interior maze of the Snakepit, she suddenly detected a strong odor of rotting fish. A moment later their way was blocked by a roly-poly man in unusually gaudy clothes—purple hose, silver boots, gold-striped velvet cloak, and a green-and-scarlet jerkin all puffed and piped and slashed. His smile did not go up to his eyes. His bow barely reached down to his shoulders.

“Sister Emerald! I am delighted to make your acquaintance at last, having heard so much about your exploits.”

Having never met the man before, Emerald found herself at a loss for words, an unfamiliar sensation. Although he was not wearing the usual black robes and biretta, she knew he was an inquisitor by the stench of the Dark Chamber’s conjuration. And there was no mistaking the unwinking fishy stare.

“Senior Inquisitor Nicely,” Mother Spinel explained drily, “seeks to impress you with his all-seeing wisdom, but in fact his minions keep watch on the door of the Snakepit. I expect your arms are emblazoned on your coach?”

“My lady,” Nicely protested, “you will corrupt the fair damsel with your cynicism.” He was not merely hatless but also totally hairless, so that his head resembled a polished wooden ball. His eyes had been painted on as an afterthought.

“There are worse ways of being corrupted,” Sister Spinal retorted. “I am surprised that you are not taking part in the raid.”

“
Raid
?” That was the first time Emerald had seen an inquisitor startled.

“Sir Snake and his merry men are presently storming the illegal elementary at twenty-five Quirk Row.”

“I was not informed that there were premises under surveillance at that address.”

“Perhaps,” Mother Spinel said, with one of her gruesome little smiles, “you should keep closer watch on the enemy and less on your friends.”

“Perhaps,” Nicely said coldly. He spun around and waddled off the way he had come.

“What is it about inquisitors?” Emerald muttered as they followed.

“They like to make us feel guilty.”

“But I have nothing to feel guilty about!”

“To an inquisitor,” Mother Spinel said blandly, “that would seem highly suspicious.”

The old lady was very effective at getting her way. When they arrived at the musty but grandiose offices of the Court of Conjury, she said, “Why don’t you summon your carriage, child, while I roust up a bevy of healers?” and Emerald promptly found herself out on the steps.

There were coaches parked all around Ranulf Square and it took her a moment or two to recognize her mother’s on the far side. That was not Wilf’s fault, since she had not told him exactly where to wait for her, but now he was deep in gossip with two other coachmen. Street cleaning being a service unknown to the civic fathers of Grandon, and ladies’ shoes not being made for walking in mire, Emerald was still frantically waving when Mother Spinel came out to join her on the doorstep.

“Tsk!” the old lady said. She put her head back inside and shouted, “You! Boy!” When an alarmed apprentice appeared, she had Emerald identify her carriage and sent the lad off at a run. Emerald wondered wistfully what would have happened if she had tried that.

But it was fun to see the expression on Wilf’s face when he saw the imposing Mother he was to transport, and even more when Emerald ordered him to take them back to 25 Quirk Row.

ONE OF IRONHALL’S BASIC LESSONS, POUNDED into every candidate, was
Know your ground
. Wherever a Blade found himself, he owed it to his ward to be familiar with every bush, puddle, and tree—or street, square, and alley, as the case might be. That, the masters said grimly, was often half the battle. Stalwart had spent many hours walking the streets of Grandon. He knew the archway Emerald had mentioned, leading from Quirk Way to the fetid, gloomy courtyard where the locals pumped their water. He even had a vague recollection of the green door she had pinpointed. As Snake had said, there would be a kitchen exit at the rear of the house.

The map had showed four ways into the yard. He went past the Pepper Street entrance, where Sir Julius and Sir Rodden stood, chatting as if they had just met by chance. Julius flashed him a wink. He turned into Nethergate and went along seven houses until he came to Sir Terror and Sir Torquil in a ferocious argument about some fictitious gambling debt. The entrance beside them would do well, because he would cross the full width of the court to reach his destination. If there happened to be guards watching from a rear window—possible, but not probable—they would note the “errand boy’s” approach and not be taken by surprise.

Stalwart trudged through the tunnel and across the cobbles, tilted over as if the sack on his shoulder weighed as much as he did. Buildings four or five stories beetled all around, shutting out the light. The air stank of garbage and urine. Two women gossiping beside the pump ignored him, as did some grubby toddlers stalking pigeons, but excitement was drying his throat and twisting knots in his belly. Chefney and Demise stood in the Quirk Row archway ahead of him; neither seemed to look his way, but a casual gesture from Chefney confirmed that the door Stalwart needed was the one next to the corner. It was comforting to know that two of the world’s best swordsmen were close at hand to back him up.

The easiest way to open a locked door, of course, was to arm a husky blacksmith or woodcutter with a sledgehammer and say, “Now!” and then, “Thank you!” For obscure legal reasons, the Crown’s lawyers preferred that the door be opened voluntarily. They liked the occupants themselves to admit the King’s men, even if the first one in did happen to look like an errand boy.

It had worked at Brandford. A servant girl had opened the door and Stalwart had pushed past her with a shout of “Open in the King’s name!” The Old Blades had poured in at his back and most of the enchanters in residence had been arrested while they were still asleep in bed.

If he failed, there were other methods. The inquisitors had a sorcery that would open any door, but the Old Blades did not ask favors of the Dark Chamber unless they absolutely had to. Give those fishy-eyed scorpions an inch and they’d hang you, Snake said. The King had put the Old Blades, not the inquisitors, in charge of the Monster War. Master Nicely and his team were welcome to tidy up later—interrogate prisoners and handle the paperwork.

The door was set back in a shallow alcove. It was made of massive timbers, with a small grille set in it at eye level, and it opened inward, which was good. Still aware that he might be observed, reminding himself that the sack was full of rocks, Stalwart rapped hard with his shoe. He leaned his burden against the wall, to help support it, but in a position where it could be seen through the peephole.

He was just going to kick again when a face peered through the grille…a man’s face…quite young, oddly familiar….

“Carrots!” Stalwart yelled. “Brought your carrots.”

“You got the wrong house.” Even the voice sounded familiar.

“Twenty-five Quirk Row? Bag o’ carrots,” Stalwart insisted, speaking as if he were straining to hold up the bag. “Someone here paid five groats for these carrots.”

“Well, if they’re paid for…” A bolt clattered. The door squeaked.

This was the tricky bit. All it needed was one wooden shoe in the door. That mythical blacksmith or woodcutter could have just straight-armed the man out of the way, door and all. Stalwart sorely lacked weight, but what counted was not so much weight itself as how you used it. Most people would throw themselves at the middle of a door, which was useless. The trick was to hit the edge, as far from the hinges as possible. He did have surprise on his side.

He leapt. “
Open in the King’s
—”

The door slammed shut, flipping him bodily out into the courtyard. He sprawled flat on his back and his head hit the cobbles with a star-spangled crack.

The blacksmith had been on the wrong side….

A whistle shrilled. Boots splattered in the filth as Chefney and Demise came charging past. Demise jumped right over him. “Open in the King’s name!”

Clang! Clink! Clang
! The sound of swords clashing jerked Stalwart out of his daze. He was in a sword fight, flat on his back with boots dancing all around him. He scrambled to his feet. Someone screamed. Someone fell. Someone dodged around him and ran. He grabbed Chefney’s fallen sword and reeled a few steps after the fugitive. Old Blades came streaming in from all directions. Everything started to spin. Voices…shouting…

Stalwart’s knees melted under him and then there were three bodies on the ground.

Hooves clumped, harness jingled, axles squeaked….

“Almost there!” Emerald tried not to sound excited, which she was. Respectable White Sisters must certainly not bounce up and down, either. “I can’t detect any sorcery yet, can you, Mother?”

Her companion sniffed disapprovingly. “I detect old meat and fresh sewage. Cats and garlic. But no sorcery.”

The coach rattled slowly along as pedestrians grudgingly cleared out of the horses’ way. A surprising number of well-dressed young gentlemen had come slumming today, in among the usual shabby residents—Sir Jarvis standing in a shaded doorway, Sir Bram apparently haggling with a pedlar over a string of beads, Sir Raptor and Sir Grady strolling alongside Emerald’s carriage. None of them would be visible from number 25.

The coach passed an arch, and Emerald caught a glimpse of a covered walkway and a courtyard beyond. The high note of a whistle stabbed at her ears. Sir Snake appeared from nowhere with Sir Savary and Sir Vermandois beside him, all throwing themselves at the now-familiar green door, beating on it and yelling, “Open in the King’s name!”

“Oh, excuse me!” Caught up in the excitement, Emerald grabbed her hat, threw open the carriage door, and jumped out.

Holding up her skirts, ignoring what she might do to her shoes, she ran back to the archway and was almost bowled over by a man who darted out, dodged by her, and vanished into the startled crowd. She caught a whiff of unfamiliar magic, then he was gone.

Snake and four or five others were noisily forcing the green door, while two more Blades went swarming up the front of the building like cats, already past the overhang of the second story. She raced along the alley, footsteps echoing, into the courtyard where two women and a gang of small children were having screaming hysterics.

The backdoor stood open, emitting sounds of shouting. Two men lay facedown. Sir Torquil was helping Wart to his feet. He was filthy, dazed, unsteady on his feet.

“Take him, Sister!” Torquil said, and she grabbed Wart before he fell. “He’s banged his head.” Torquil ran into the house after the others.

“…’m a’wright,” Wart mumbled.

“You’re hurt.” She tucked her shoulder under his arm to steady him.

He blinked tears. “Chefney’s dead. And Demise.”

She glanced down at the two corpses and quickly looked away again. There was very little blood. She had seen dead men before, but this was different; she had liked Chefney—he had regretted the need to be devious, unlike Snake, who enjoyed deception. Demise she had barely known.

It was her fault. She should have minded her own business. She had sent these men here to die. “Let’s go inside.”

“Couldn’t help it,” Wart muttered. He walked unsteadily, leaning on her; his face was crumpled with grief. “Unarmed! If I’d had
Sleight
with me I could have helped them.” He swallowed hard, as if to banish the quaver in his voice. “Em, Chef and Demise were the best we had!”

“How many traitors were there?”

“Just one.” His eyes widened. “
Em, there was only one man
!”

“That’s impossible,” she said, and realized that that was exactly what he was trying to tell her.

“There isn’t a swordsman in the world who could best these two together!…’s impossible…. I
saw
it!”

The horror in his face frightened her.

The man running…“He had magic on him,” she said. “I didn’t see his face, but I’d know the magic again.”

The Old Blades had caught the hated Doctor Skuldigger and his horrible wife, Carmine, the renegade White Sister, who was almost as valuable a catch. They and another dozen men and women were sitting on the floor in a front room in glum silence, their hands on their heads. Sir Bram and Sir Grady stood over them holding swords as if they dearly wanted an excuse to use them. Sounds of boots upstairs suggested that the Blades were still completing their search of the house.

Emerald sat Wart down on a stool to recover. She went off, tracking an odor of sorcery into what was normally a kitchen, where an eight-pointed star had been outlined on the flagstones in red paint. No surprise—an octogram must always be on the ground floor. Earth spirits would ignore the summons if it were upstairs, and air elementals would not go underground.

There she found Sir Snake and Mother Spinel, together with Raptor, Felix, and Julius, who were thumbing through papers on a dresser. The ceiling was so low that Mother Spinel had to stoop, so she was not being Sister Spinal at the moment. She favored Emerald with one of her grim little smiles.

“There you are. A second opinion for the commissioners, if you please, Sister. What was the last enchantment performed in here?”

Emerald closed her eyes for a moment to consider the residual taint of enchantment. Air, fire…just what she had sensed in the coach, and there had not been time to perform another conjuration since. “It could have been a memory enhancement, but in that case I’d expect more earth elementals. A language spell does seem most likely, my lady.”

“Are you just saying that because I suggested it earlier?”

“No, Mother. But I am not absolutely certain, because this is a very recent octogram, not well seasoned.”

Spinel pouted. “Any fool can see that the paint is new.” She turned triumphantly to Snake. “A language enchantment has been performed here very recently, within the hour. You see?”

“I don’t doubt you, my lady.” He had lost his usual cheerful aplomb. He continued to thumb listlessly through a bundle of papers. “So now he can speak perfect Chivian? It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

The old lady shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Well, you lost him. I’m sure the prisoners have a fair idea of where he’s gone and what he looks like. Master Nicely will get the information out of them in short order. You collared Skuldigger! That’s what matters.”

“What matters is that I lost my two best men! Two very close friends.”

The old lady flinched. “I did not know that. I’m sorry.”

“No.” Snake swung around to peer at Emerald. “What matters is that we almost had Silvercloak and we lost him. And we never even got a decent look at him! Did you?”

Who was Silvercloak? “A man ran past me, coming out of the alley…. He was sheathing his sword as he ran, so he had his head turned away from me. I caught a whiff of sorcery on him, but not strong. I did not get a good look at him.”

“I did!” Wart said. He was leaning against the doorjamb, clearly still groggy, although now his pallor suggested fury more than dizziness.

“What did he look like?” Snake demanded.

Wart shrugged. “Very ordinary. Young. Fairish. He seemed familiar, somehow. But I’ll know him again when I see him. Who was he?”

Snake threw the papers back on the dresser. “No one knows his real name or where he comes from. He’s been called Argènteo or Silbernmantel—Silvercloak.”

“A sword for hire,” pronounced Master Nicely, mincing in. “The most dangerous assas-sin in all Eurania, the man who killed the last King of Gevily and the Duke of Doemund. And numerous others. He is deadly, greatly feared, a master of disguise. We at the Office of General Inquiry issued a warning that he was heading for Chivial. In spite of that, you lost him, Sir Snake. His Majesty will not be pleased.” Master Nicely was, though.

Snake shot him a look that should have melted all the fat off his bones. “You can have the pleasure of squeezing his plans out of the prisoners. We got Skuldigger.”

“A poor second best. You missed the big fish.”

“I’d have got him!” Wart shouted. “If I’d had my sword.”

“You?” the inquisitor sneered. “When he can take on Chefney and Demise and kill both of them, you think you would have had a chance, boy?”

“He’s right, Wart,” Snake said. “Not having your sword with you today was probably the luckiest thing that ever happened to you.”