The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (33 page)

“
Insufficient evidence
?” Snake howled. “That is the most—”

“Wait! Continue, Grand Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Excellency. Two of them had agreed to turn King’s evidence and we believed they would be reliable informants, since we still have their families in custody…for their own safety, of course. The other men were being most carefully tracked.”

“You are telling me that you had this nest of traitors under surveillance? You had not informed me of this, nor Sir Snake, apparently. Is His Majesty aware of these double agents of yours?”

After the slightest of hesitations…“I did inform him, yes. Verbally. Perhaps hastily, as he was occupied at the time in—”

“I have warned you before, Grand Inquisitor,” Lord Roland said sharply, “that your reports are to be made in writing and passed through me. Anything you tell His Grace in conversation you are to write down promptly and submit to me. We shall pursue this matter further tomorrow. If you have been subverting criminals with promises of royal pardons, I shall expect to see your authority to do so. Meanwhile, what have you learned from the prisoners taken today?”

“Little so far. The persons apprehended…” Inquisitors’ memories were magically enhanced, and the gaunt old man rattled off a score of names without hesitation. Emerald recognized only those of Skuldigger and his wife. “Of course it took us some time to locate His Majesty and obtain the royal seal on the necessary warrant. And the Question is a lengthy conjuration.” He glanced around the circle, peering down at everyone as if curious to know who shuddered or grimaced at this mention of the most horrible of sorceries.

“So far we have used it only on the prisoner Skuldigger. He had just begun talking when I left to come here. It will be many days before he can
stop
talking, of course.”

“And what was he saying?” the Chancellor asked with distaste.

“Much as we surmised, Excellency. The traitor sorcerers, having decided that their efforts to kill the King by magic were meeting with little success, banded together to hire the notorious assassin Silvercloak. He arrived in Grandon in an Isilondian ship this morning. He was taken to the hideaway on Quirk Row and made fluent in Chivian; that was the sorcery the girl detected. He probably answered the boy’s knock on the door just to practice his new skill.”

“And what of his plans?”

“Skuldigger knows nothing of them. Silver-cloak works alone and keeps his methods secret.”

“But he works for money,” the Chancellor said. “Now we have captured those who hired him, he cannot hope to collect whatever fee he was promised. Surely he will simply give up and go home, back to wherever he came from?”

Again Emerald had the odd impression that Lord Roland was asking questions to which he already knew the answer. So who was he trying to impress?

Again she wondered what she was doing here—and Wart also. They did not belong in an emergency meeting of senior ministers.

Then she wondered if those two questions were somehow related.

Inquisitor Nicely replied. “Only two things are generally known about Silvercloak. One is his reputation. He has never failed. None of his chosen victims has ever survived, and he will not want to make an exception in this case. That would be bad for business. The other open secret is that his agents are the notorious House of Mendaccia in Porta Riacha, the most secretive of bankers. Skuldigger and his fellow conspirators deposited an immense sum of money—two hundred thousand Hyrian ducats—with the Mendaccia. It will be paid to Silvercloak if His Majesty dies by Long Night.”

Emerald calculated, and no doubt everyone else did so also. This was a thirteen-moon year, so there were still almost ten weeks left in it for the killer to earn his blood money.

Lord Roland nodded as if satisfied with the way the script was being followed. “Leader, we must assume that His Grace is in grave peril.”

“His Grace is spitting fire!” Bandit said glumly.

“You are taking all possible precautions?”

“All
reasonable
precautions, my lord.”

There were persistent rumors that when the monsters started coming in the windows of the royal bedroom on the Night of Dogs, Roland, who had then been Commander Durendal, had locked his sovereign lord in the toilet. But Roland was exceptional; if Bandit tried that he would be beheaded. Emerald knew how disinclined Ambrose was to take precautions or put up with restrictions on his movements. Kings did not hide, he insisted. The Blades grumbled that he had more courage than brains and made their work much harder than it should be, but they loved him for it.

“Are there any additional measures we could take to increase the King’s safety?”

“Certainly,” said Master Nicely. “The Royal Guard may be adequate protection under normal circumstances, but it is obviously not capable of dealing with the world’s most deadly assassin. Today Silvercloak showed he could dispose of two of the highest-ranked Blades with no difficulty whatsoever.”

Lord Roland frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“Dogs. As I have previously informed Your Excellency, we can provide a pack of trained and magically enhanced hounds guaranteed to stop any swordsman. Much more effective guardians.”

The Blades and Old Blades all growled angrily. Nicely smirked.

“And the answer remains the same,” said the Chancellor sharply. “His Majesty refuses to consider the idea. He will not have monsters eating his Blades, he says.”

“Or his inquisitors?” said Felix. “Hard to keep a dog away from carrion.”

“Snake, if you cannot keep your man quiet, send him home!”

Coming from the great Durendal, that rebuke was enough to turn Felix’s face bone white. The Chancellor went back to business.

“Leader, I hope you are taking especial care that His Grace’s plans are never announced in advance?”

“Standard procedure, my lord. Our best defense against assassins is always to prevent them from knowing where His Majesty will be or when he—”

“
Ironhall
?”

This time the interruption came from Wart. Perhaps he had not meant to speak aloud, because he blushed when everyone turned to stare at him.

“You have a comment, guardsman?” The Chancellor’s voice was a stiletto dipped in honey, but even he could not intimidate Wart when he had a bright idea to suggest.

“Ironhall, my lord. Fat M—His Grace has been going down to Ironhall to harvest seniors every two months ever since the Night of Dogs, and he’s overdue. It’s almost three months since I was, er, not bound.” His eyes gleamed. Ironhall rules said that candidates must be bound in order of seniority, so the next man up should still be Wart—assuming the King chose to play by the rules, which kings did not always do.

“An interesting point, brother. It is indeed likely that the King will choose to go to Ironhall in the near future. Right, Leader?”

Frowning, Bandit nodded. “Grand Master reports a good crop ready, and spirits know I can use the men!”

“But if his visit is so predictable—no offense intended, Brother Stalwart—then we must take extra care that his enemies do not take advantage of it.”

“My lord!” Sir Dreadnought protested. “
Ironhall
? Surely the King is safer there than anywhere?”

“Mm? What do you think, Master Nicely? You’ve studied Silvercloak’s methods.”

The tubby inquisitor pursed his fat lips. “How many people live there?” No inquisitors, of course. Probably no inquisitor had ever set foot in the school.

“It varies. Do you know the present tally, Sir Bandit?”

“One hundred and ten boys just now, my lord. Fifteen masters and about a score of other knights—several of them in their dotage—and roughly as many servants. But everyone there knows everyone else. A stranger would stand out like a full-grown lion. And it’s all alone on Starkmoor, leagues from anywhere; an assassin could not hope to escape afterward.”

“And the Guard goes there when the King does,” Dreadnought added.

“True.” The Chancellor turned. “You want to continue this argument, Sir Stalwart?”

Wart blushed even redder. “I apologize, my lord. I spoke without thinking.”

Emerald knew that Wart knew there had already been a plot—another plot altogether—to kill King Ambrose on his next visit to Ironhall. He had uncovered it by accident and thwarted it, but only the two of them and Lord Roland were aware of it. Perhaps the King had been told, but almost certainly no one else, even the most important people in this room. Apparently Lord Roland did not consider the information relevant.

“If no one has any other suggestions,” he said, “we can adjourn. I remind you again how secret these proceedings are; I charge you all to be especially vigilant in the face of this terrible threat to His Majesty. If you have any suspicions at all, pray do not hesitate to inform me or Commander Bandit.”

Emerald glanced around the room and saw her surprise reflected everywhere. Why had this secret meeting been called? It seemed to have achieved nothing. Lord Roland was a very clever man, not the sort to waste people’s time to no purpose.

What was he up to?

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON STALWART WENT to the Snakepit fencing room for his usual workout, but it wasn’t the same without Chefney or Demise. No one else could give him a fair match. Only Dreadnought and some of the other crackerjacks in the Royal Guard were in his class now, and they were off-limits for him. He had just put away his foil in disgust when Snake appeared in the doorway and beckoned him out.

His hat and cloak were damp; he smelled of wet horse. “I want your warrant, Wart,” he said brusquely.

Stalwart almost said,
What
? like a dummy, but remembered in time that Blades did not question orders. “Yes, brother.”

He scampered up the stairs. His commission in the Court of Conjury was an imposing piece of paper bearing the royal seal. It gave him enormous authority. Why was he losing it now? Was he being discharged from the Old Blades at last?

The attics were silent and deserted—but there was a faint odor of wet horse up there, too. The door to his cubicle was ajar. He had left it closed. Warily, wishing he had a sword with him, he stood back and kicked it wide. A man in nondescript, drab-colored clothes was sitting on his bed. Astonished, Stalwart opened his mouth—

Lord Chancellor Roland said, “Sh! Come in. Leave it open a little so I can keep an eye on the stairs. Sit down.”

Bewildered, Stalwart perched on the clothes hamper, hoping it would not collapse under him. The great man was smiling, which was a good sign.

“At a recent meeting I mustn’t mention, you made a suggestion I won’t describe.”

“And was shown my folly in speaking out of turn, my lord.”

“No.” Lord Chancellors could even grin, apparently. “I apologize for snubbing you. Your idea was brilliant. I didn’t expect anyone to see that opportunity. I stamped on you because I didn’t want it taken seriously.”

Again Stalwart swallowed a
What
!? “Thank you, my lord.” Then he realized the implications. “You think there were
traitors
—”

“No.” Durendal turned serious. “But the danger to His Majesty is so extreme that I do not intend to take
anyone
into my full confidence. Even honest people can be overheard or speak without thinking. I have a job for you if you think you can handle it.”

Stalwart could feel a smile creeping over his face, despite his best efforts to remain solemn. “Identify the killer, my lord?” He was going into the Guard at last!

“No.” The Chancellor frowned. “You expect me to set you at the King’s elbow to shout if the assassin approaches? You haven’t thought it through, Stalwart. Put yourself in Silvercloak’s place. He has only nine weeks or so to fulfill his contract. He may have some accomplices we don’t know about, but in the end he will act alone, because he always does. Now do you see what you missed?”

“Er…” It was very flattering to be asked to give an opinion, and very humiliating to feel so stupid. Lord Roland had the reputation of being as fast with his wits as he was with a sword.

“Where does he begin?” the Chancellor prompted.

“Ah!”
Got it
! “He scouts the ground, of course! He’ll watch what the King does, where he goes, how he rides out in public, how he leaves the palace. And if he sees
me
with him all the time—”

“Then he kills you first. Or he finds a way around you. You know his face, but he knows yours, too. Not many errand boys issue commands in the King’s name.”

“So what do I do instead, my lord?” The hamper under him seemed to sense his excitement, for it creaked alarmingly.

“I want to put you in the front line. No one—absolutely no one, not even Leader or the King—knows about this. You are to turn in your present commission to Snake, but Commander Bandit has agreed to assign you to Chancery for a special duty. Will you take my word for that? We haven’t had time to do the paperwork and there probably isn’t a proper procedure anyway.”

“I am honored to be under your command, Your Excellency.” Confidential aide to the great Durendal? This was trust indeed. What man could possibly refuse such an adventure?

“Glad to have you.” Roland flipped a leather purse at him. “Expenses.”

Stalwart caught it; it was heavy and clinked. He felt the belly thrill of excitement that came at the beginning of a new quest. “For?”

“Hasten over to Sycamore Market and dress yourself as a stableman.”

“A gentleman’s hand or just a churl?”

The Chancellor chuckled. “How about a well-paid, well-tipped, assistant hostler who sells his employer’s oats out the back door and short-changes the customers? Throw in an extra shirt. You may be gone some time.”

At least Stalwart would not be shivering in rags, but he still wasn’t going to be a Blade. His disappointment must have shown, because his visitor snapped, “You
do
want to see Chef and Demise avenged, don’t you?”

“
Yes
, my lord!”

“I’m offering you first shot at the killer. I want you to catch Silvercloak for me. Do that, my lad—” Lord Roland smiled “—and you’ll be a hero to the Blades for the rest of your born days. Now, do you want the job?”

“
Yes, my lord
!”

“Then head out as soon as you’ve collected your gear. You can make a few leagues before dark.”

“Can I wear my sword?”

“On the journey, yes. Now listen. The King will be going to Ironhall very soon, as you guessed. And despite what Leader and Grand Inquisitor and the King and everyone except you and me think, my guess is that Silvercloak will follow—or even be there waiting.”

He paused, waiting for comment. Testing.

“He may go by stagecoach, or he may ride,” Stalwart said cautiously. “It’s too far for a single horse, so if he rides, he will need fresh mounts on the way. And if he goes by coach…
Yes
! Either way he’ll have to visit posting houses.”

The Chancellor was smiling and nodding. “But which posting houses?”

“He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t know the roads. He may go by coach as far as he can, which means…The nearest the stage would take him is…Holmgarth? And if he’s riding, he’ll need a remount after that long stretch from Flaskbury…. Yes! Holmgarth, my lord?”

“Very well done! You worked it out faster than I did. It’s not quite certain. He may see the danger and take a roundabout route. Because, Brother Stalwart—and remember this always—
Silvercloak is the smartest person you have ever met
! Repeat that to yourself once every hour, twice when you go to bed, and three times when you get up in the morning.
Never
underestimate him! Your life will depend on it. If he does slip up and go by way of Holmgarth—”

“I’ll be there?”

Durendal nodded. “You’ll be there.”

The hamper creaked as Stalwart scrambled to his feet, too excited to stay seated. “When I see him I challenge?”

“No. You’re too precious and he’s too deadly.”

“But—”
Wait for the rest of your orders, stupid
.

“But you won’t have the Old Blades to back you up this time. No Royal Guard, no Household Yeomen. I could give you any of those, Stalwart, but if I try hiding a dozen armed men behind hay bales in the stables, the whole town will know. Sure as death, Silvercloak will get word of it somehow. I don’t want to scare him away! If he takes fright we’ll lose him, and he’ll strike at some other time and place.”

Stalwart nodded doubtfully. He thought the Chancellor was carrying respect for his enemy to absurd lengths.

“We are laying a trap for the smartest man, remember?”

“Yes, my lord. And the deadliest swordsman. So what do I do if I see him?”
Hit him with a shovel
?

The Chancellor shrugged. “That’s up to you. A long time ago the King taught me that when you send a man to do a job, you tell him what you want done and let him work out how to do it. If I try to direct you at this distance I’ll get it all wrong. You’ll be the man on the spot—you decide what to do.”

“I appreciate the trust you place in me, my lord.” Unless there was more to come, Stalwart was hopelessly out of his depth.

The great man chuckled and produced a sealed packet. “Take this letter to Sir Tancred in Holmgarth. He’s a knight in our order but an old man now—he was Leader back in the reign of Ambrose III. After his stint in the Guard he ran the Holmgarth posting house for many years. His sons and grandsons run it now. He was also the county sheriff until his health began to fail this summer. I’m letting his son try out for the job, so he ought to be eager to show his mettle by helping you.”

Sheriffs could call out militia. Stalwart would not be alone.

“Without mentioning Silvercloak by name, I’ve told Tancred about Chefney and Demise and the danger to the King. I’ve ordered him to give you any help you want. Work out a plan—and let me know what it is. I want a detailed report from you every day by the eastbound stage, understand? Even if you have nothing new to report.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Are you familiar with that posting house?”

“I’ve been through there a couple of times.”

“Very solidly built.” Lord Roland smiled. “You’ll see what I mean. And stablemen are a tough lot. Organize your reception for Silvercloak so that the moment you see him—
snap
! Just don’t let him see you first, or you’ll be one more name in the
Litany of Heroes
. And I don’t want a dozen dead stableboys, either.”

“No, my lord.”

“Any questions?”

There must be a million questions. “He may have magic tricks?”

“I’m certain he does.”

“I have authority to kill him if necessary?”

“Certainly.” Then Lord Roland sighed. “But if you do, for spirits’ sake be sure you’ve got the right man! You can’t say ‘sorry’ if you haven’t.” He waited for the next question.

Stalwart could not think of a single one, which was frightening. He was probably too stupid to see the difficulties until they were on top of him.

Lord Roland said softly, “This may be the toughest assignment I’ve ever given anyone. Your record is so impressive that you’ve earned the right to be lead horse on this one, but if you want me to put an older man in charge to take the heat off you, I’ll do that. I won’t think any less of you for asking. Knowing your own limitations is not cowardice. And sending a boy to do a man’s job isn’t smart. Is that what I’m doing?”

Stalwart squared his shoulders, wishing they were just a little broader. “No, my lord. I can handle this. If the killer comes through Holmgarth, I’ll get him for you.”