The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (34 page)

Done by my hand at Holmgarth Posthouse,
this 22nd day of Tenthmoon, in the year of
Ranulf, 368
.

With humble salutations
…

Stalwart dipped his quill in the inkwell and sighed. He had barely begun his job and the eastbound stage left in an hour. He was writing his first report. He would rather duel to the death any day.

Pursuant to Your Excellency’s instructions, I made haste to Holmgarth. I arrived late last night. I gave your warrant to Sir Tancred. The noble knight offered most gracious aid
.

The old man was frail now, but his mind was still sharp. He had already retired, for the hour had been late, and he had looked with deep suspicion on the exhausted juvenile vagabond who came staggering into his bedchamber, dripping mud and flaunting a cat’s-eye sword. The moment he finished reading the Chancellor’s letter, though, he had ordered food and drink for his visitor. He had summoned his two sons and directed them to do anything the stranger said, without argument or delay. The elder, Elred, was courteous and silver-haired, keeper of the inn adjoining the stable. Sherwin was a rougher character; he ran the livery business and was also the county sheriff. Stalwart would be dealing more with him.

After a solid night’s sleep, he was just starting work, so what more could he possibly put in his report?

I can easily observe horsemen arriving in the stables. But the stagecoach and private carriages usually stop at the post inn to disembark passengers before entering the yard
.

Perhaps he should not whine about his problems, but he was proud of the solution he had discovered for this one, and it would show Lord Roland that he had achieved something already.

I asked the innkeeper to hire workmen to tear down and rebuild his porch. This construction blocks the front entrance to the inn. Now all traffic will come first into the yard and stop at the rear door. I most humbly request that your lordship will approve the expense
.

A simple two-day carpentry job might have to be dragged out for weeks. If they made Stalwart pay for it out of his Guard wages, he would be poverty-stricken for the next hundred years.

Another clatter of hooves brought his head up as a two-horse gig clattered and squeaked past his window. The passenger was an elderly, plump woman, but he kept watching until he had a clear view of her driver—Silvercloak would not sneak past
him
disguised as a servant!

Two horsemen rode in, three departed. Another carriage…The post yard was still shadowed but starting to bustle as the sun came over the walls. Men and boys were walking horses, feeding them, currying them, mucking out stables, wheeling barrows, saddling, harnessing. Their breath showed white in the morning chill, and fresh dung on the paving stones steamed. There had been ice on the water troughs at dawn. A farrier’s hammer clinked.

Standing at an important crossroads, Holmgarth was one of the busiest posthouses in all Chivial, employing scores of people. Every day hundreds of horsemen hired remounts there and a dozen coaches changed teams. The King boarded horses there for his couriers and the Blades. As if to demonstrate, a horn blew in the distance and men started running. Moments later a royal courier thundered in past Stalwart’s window. By then a horse had been led out and was being saddled up for him. In moments he went galloping out through the archway again.
Show-off
!

Could Silvercloak disguise himself as a courier—or even a
Blade
?

The yard was large enough to hold two stagecoaches and their eight-horse teams. It was shaped like a letter
E
, its east side the back of the inn, and three long alleys leading off to the west, flanked by rows of stalls. There was only one gate and the walls were high, because valuable horses must be well guarded.

In tomorrow’s report, I shall describe to your lordship my arrangements for catching the

Sir Stalwart pondered a good way to spell “malefactor” and wrote “felon” instead. He had no idea yet what those arrangements were going to be. The iron-barred window of the cashier’s office was right by the yard entrance, designed to give a clear view of anyone trying to sneak a horse out without paying. The cashier on duty was Mistress Gleda, Sherwin’s wife—a plump, ferocious-looking woman with a visible mustache and a deep distrust of this upstart boy who had taken over half her worktable. Fortunately she was kept busy handling money and tokens brought to the window. Keeping track of all the horses going in and out must be a huge job.

If she was asked, Stalwart was her nephew, visiting dear Aunt Gleda.

This seat gave him a clear view of anyone arriving. So far so good. He would certainly see Silvercloak if he came, but putting a collar on him was going to be a lot harder. To sound an alarm—ring a bell, say—would alert the quarry as much as the posse. Then the quarry would either escape again or cause a bloodbath.

Roland had dropped a hint—

As your lordship graciously advised, these stables are built of solid masonry. Any stall could serve as a cell
.

But if Silvercloak was so smart, how could he be lured inside and locked in—alone, with no hostage to threaten? The answers would have to wait for tomorrow’s report. Lord Roland would understand that there had been no time to write more in this one. Now to sign it and then seal it. Blades used the inscription on their swords as their seals. Stalwart’s was—in mirrorwriting, of course.

The door at his back creaked open, and the office was suddenly full of Sherwin. The Sheriff’s well-worn leathers bulged over the largest barrel belly Stalwart had ever met, even larger than the King’s. He had the biggest hands, too, and a jet-black beard fit to stuff a pillow. At his back came a rangy man, younger and clean-shaven.

“This here’s Norton,” the big man growled. “Nephew. Can’t find me, talk to him. He’ll be your sergeant, like.
This
is Sir Stalwart, Norton.” He made that last remark seem surprising.

Stalwart rose and offered a hand to the new-comer, whose horny grip did not crush as it might have done. “Please don’t use that title, not ever. My friends call me Wart.”

“‘Pimple’ would be better,” said Sherwin, looming over him like a thunderstorm. He had very dark, very glittery eyes. His face—the part visible above the undergrowth—was deeply pitted with old acne scars.

“Looks like you know more about pimples than I do. Glad to have your help, Master Norton.”

Norton just nodded, but he had not disapproved of the pimple riposte. Sherwin’s wife sniffed in an amused sort of way, and Sherwin showed no offense. Perhaps he had just been testing a little.

“We picked out seventeen men for you,” he said, “all good lads in a roughhouse.”

“Not outsiders?” Stalwart sat down to show that he was in charge.

“You already said you didn’t want outsiders. They all work here. Some all the time, some sometimes. I’m not stupid, sonny.”

“Will they keep the secret?”

“I don’t
hire
stupids, either. You want all of us on duty every day, all day? King’ll pay for that?”

Oh, why, why, why had Stalwart not asked Lord Roland how much money he could spend?

“We’ll work something out.”

“Work it out with Gleda there. You won’t cheat her.”

Stalwart held fast to his temper as the fat man sneered down at him over his jungle of beard and mountain of lard.

“I don’t cheat anyone.”

“And if this killer you want is so dangerous, how much danger money will you pay them?”

“How much do you usually pay them? You’re the sheriff, so I’m told. We’ll cover costs the way you usually do.”

Mistress Gleda uttered a disagreeable snort behind Stalwart’s back.

“You want me call the lads in so’s you can tell ’em what this outlaw looks like?” her husband demanded. “How’re you goin’ to tip us off when you see him? What d’we do then?”

These were exactly the questions baffling Stalwart, but he was not about to admit this to his troops. “I’ll explain all that later. I must finish this letter first. Then I want to take another walk around.”

If he was still stymied at noon, he would have to ask for help.

“Why’d Lord Roland send a boy to catch a dangerous killer?”

Stalwart gave the fat man what he hoped was a cold stare. “Because it takes one to know one, I suppose.”

“
You
, Pimple?”

“Me. But I only kill traitors, so you should be safe, shouldn’t you?”

Before Sherwin could counter, another coach rumbled past the window and headed for the inn door. But the inn door was some way off, and now there were men and boys and horses everywhere, blocking the view. With a yelp of panic, Stalwart jumped for the door, ran outside, and dodged through the crowd. When he got close enough to see the heraldry on the carriage, he almost fell over a wheelbarrow of horse dung being pushed by a skinny, chilled-looking boy.

An octogram and a waterfall? Those were the arms the King had granted to Emerald after the Nythia adventure—a very rare honor for a woman.

He didn’t trip. He just stood and stared with his mouth open as the porter opened the coach door, lowered the steps, and stepped back to let the occupants emerge.

Stalwart had never met Emerald’s mother, but he did recognize the woman descending. She was not Emerald’s mother.

She was not Silvercloak, either.

Silvercloak would have been less surprising.

And the youth in shabby, ill-fitting clothes shuffling along behind her? Yes, Stalwart knew that face also, although the close-cropped hair-style was new. Fortunately both newcomers disappeared into the inn without noticing him standing there like a lummox.

How many unexpected tricks did Lord Roland have up his sleeve?

This one was almost unthinkable. She was crazy! Why had she ever let him talk her into
that
?

He wandered back into the cashier’s office and flopped down on his stool. Norton and Sherwin had left, fortunately, and Mistress Gleda was dealing with a procession of grooms and customers. Stalwart’s report, which he had stupidly left lying there, had been moved and therefore read.

More horsemen trotted into the yard and he craned his neck to watch them go by. He had not, as he had thought earlier, solved even the first of his problems. This window would not let him see everyone who arrived, because the coaches unloaded too far away and the crowd would often block his view. So he was right back at the beginning again.

Except he now owed someone for the cost of the inn’s new porch.

He must close his report to Lord Roland. He added one more paragraph.

I respectfully advise your lordship that your gracious lady wife passed through Holmgarth this morning with a companion known to me. I judged it fitting that I not address them
.

I have the honor to be, etc., your lordship’s
most humble and obedient servant,
Stalwart, companion
.

EMERALD’S PREVIOUS VISIT TO IRONHALL HAD been made in rain and pitch darkness. She had missed nothing in the way of scenery, for Starkmoor was well named. Under a leaden winter sky the rocky crests of the tors were streaked with snow; thorn and scrub tinted their slopes drab brown; and the tarns in the hollows shone a frigid, rippled gray. The only color any-where was the sinister, lurid green of bogs. Even cattle were rare, and she had seen no houses for hours. As the coach limped and lurched along the track, with wind whistling through every tiny gap, she huddled her blanket more tightly around her.

Lady Kate noticed the move and pulled a face. “There is snow in the air. I have been expecting it ever since we stopped at Holmgarth. This cold is very unseasonable!”

Why was she complaining? She was muffled all over in a reddish-brown fur robe with matching hat and muffs, so that only her face and boots were visible. She looked as warm as a roasting chestnut, while Emerald felt half naked. Cold drafts played on parts of her that were usually covered: ears, neck, legs.

“I hope Wilf is all right.” She had volunteered her mother’s coach for the journey because her companion’s would certainly be recognized by its heraldry. The old man out there on the box had never been this far from Peachyard in his life before, and he might not have thought to bring warm clothes.

“We’re almost there.”

Ironhall loomed closer now, grim and black. From this angle it seemed to stand atop a low cliff. It sported a few towers and fake battlements, but it was less like a castle than she had expected. The hard knot of nerves inside her twisted.

“This is absolutely your last chance to back out, Sister.” Lord Roland’s wife was petite and seemed almost fragile, her golden hair and corn-flower-blue eyes as bright as glaze on fine porcelain. Nor did she look old enough to be the mother of two children, one of them a son as tall as herself. Appearances were deceptive, though. Lady Kate was most certainly not fragile. A former White Sister, she thoroughly disapproved of the devious scheme her husband had devised. For three days she had been trying to talk Emerald out of it.

“I will not sacrifice all that hair for nothing, my lady.”

Lady Kate pouted her rosebud lips. “You may lose more than that. Blood and teeth, perhaps. A great deal of dignity, certainly.” Receiving no answer, she asked suspiciously, “Mother Superior did approve this charade, did she not?”

Three nights ago, after the meeting in Ranulf Square, Lord Roland had offered Emerald a ride back to the palace in his carriage—greatly shocking and offending Mother Spinel by not including her in the invitation. But the hasty private discussion that had followed, as the carriage rattled through the rainy streets, had been his chance to explain his Ironhall plan. Emerald had agreed to play her part. Mother Superior…?

“I’m sure your husband said so.”

Kate’s eyebrows rose as a warning that Emerald was not the only White Sister who could detect falsehood. “Ha! I’ll bet he forgot to tell her until after we’d left Grandon and it was too late for her to object. This is an outrage.”

Her efforts to dissuade Emerald were self-defeating, for the dominant elements in Emerald’s personality were earth and time, a combination that produced extreme stubbornness. Often in the last three days she had almost lost her nerve; left alone, she would probably have backed out by now. Kate’s opposition had helped stiffen her resolve.

“I cannot imagine how even my glib-tongued husband ever persuaded you to make such a fool of yourself, Sister.”

“He did find me a challenge, I think. Until he offered me a chance to avenge a man I greatly admired.”

“Who?” Kate demanded sharply. “Not more deaths in the Order, I hope!”

Sir Chefney’s death was still a state secret, not to be discussed. Fortunately the conversation was interrupted by shouting outside.

“Meat wagon!”

“Make way for the meat wagon!”

“Raw meat coming!”

A dozen or so boys on horses pounded past the coach and took up station ahead of it as a ragged guard of honor, laughing and shouting in a mix of treble and baritone. A carriage arriving at Ironhall could be bringing only one cargo.

These were young, feral males—unpredictable and potentially violent. Emerald had met no boys during her years at Oakendown, and her subsequent life at court could be no preparation for Ironhall. She must expect some unpleasant experiences.

Kate said, “Ha! Some of your new friends. Wanting you to come out and play, no doubt.”

Again Emerald was saved from having to answer. As the trail bent close to the compound wall, a surge of elementary power made them both wince.

“Spirits!” Kate cried. “You cannot endure that!”

“It is only the Forge, very local.” Already the effect was fading.

“I still think you are completely insane. You met Sir Saxon, you said?”

“Grand Master? Once, my lady.”

“What did you think of him?”

“I was not much impressed. To be fair, he was in a difficult position that night. Stalwart was there, baiting him mercilessly. He was armed with his commission from the Court of Conjury and eager to pay off four years’ resentment.”

“That Stalwart wanted to do so says a lot about the man. Durendal never mentions Saxon at all, and I am sure that is because he dislikes speaking ill of people. A mean little politico. Water and chance, I thought.”

That was a question, one White Sister to another.

“I thought so too, my lady.”

“An awkward mixture. Makes him moody and capricious.”

And untrustworthy. “You know him well?”

“No. He came to court briefly a couple of years ago. I don’t expect he will remember me.”

Nonsense! More than just an important man’s wife, Kate was memorable in her own right. Her dominant virtual element was love, and everyone at court approved of her or even adored her, from King Ambrose down to the lowliest flunky. In the rat-eat-rat world of a palace, that was highly unusual. Nevertheless, her manifest element was fire, and there were tales of people who had crossed her and discovered that the kitten had claws.

More hooves thundered past the carriage window and a man’s voice bellowed at the self-appointed honor guard, uttering dire threats of extra hours of stable duties. Screaming with laughter, the boys cantered off and vanished like a cloud of gnats.

“Follow me, master coachman!” the horseman shouted.

The trail divided, the left branch curving around the compound to an arched gateway. In the paved quadrangle within, several dozen boys and men were paired off, jumping back and forth and clattering swords. Voices were calling out comments and instructions. The guide led Wilf and the team around the perimeter, to an archaic building with towers and battlements. There he reined in and dismounted. He wore a sword, but was probably no older than Emerald.

He shouted angrily at some of the younger fencers who had broken off their lessons and come running to inspect the new arrival. “Back to work! All of you! If he’s admitted you’ve got lots of time to pick on him. If he isn’t, then he’s none of your business. Go, or I report you all to Second!”

They retreated, but not far. Clutching foils and fencing masks, they waited to inspect the visitors. Stray snowflakes swirled in the air.

The boy with the sword called to someone named Lindore to look after the horses. Then he dropped the steps, opened the door, and handed Kate down. “Good chance, mistress.” He had recognized that the arms on the coach included no crown or coronet and therefore did not belong to a noble. “Prime Candidate Marlon at your service.”

About to make a dignified, ladylike descent after Kate, Emerald recalled her new role and jumped instead. Her overlarge shoes almost betrayed her; she stumbled and recovered. The watching boys hooted and jeered. An applicant who fell flat on his face on the doorstep would not go far in Ironhall.

Marlon smiled doubtfully at her and said, “Good chance,” again in a kindly tone. Then he offered his arm to Kate. In an all-male world, a lady was
much
more interesting than yet another boy. “If you would be so kind as to let me guide you, mistress, I’ll find Grand Master for you. What name should I tell him?” He was trying out the courtly manners he had been taught.

“Mistress Dragonwife,” Kate said sweetly.

“Dragonwife?”

“Exactly.”

His eyes gleamed with amusement. “I am sure he will be eager to meet you, Mistress Dragon-wife.”

Emerald slouched along behind, trying to look surly and dangerous, but feeling a freak. This was not her first experience of wearing male clothing, a ruse the White Sisters found expedient on long journeys. They usually did it in groups, though, and Emerald was very much on her own. She was hoping to masquerade as a teenage boy for several days in a jungle of teenage boys. Neither Oakendown nor royal palaces were adequate preparation for that. What did boys talk about among themselves? What sort of table manners did they have? What did they wear in bed and where did they change? And so on.

Although Kate thoroughly disapproved of Emerald’s mission, it was typical of her that she had been unstinting in her help—help with hair, with clothes, and with rehearsing the fictitious life story an imposter must have ready at all times. Emerald’s breasts were tightly bound inside a coarse linen shirt and stiff leather doublet. Her jerkin and britches were shabby and several sizes too large for her, like hand-me-downs. She had been impressed with her first sight of herself in a mirror, but now fright and the critical stares of the audience made her feel desperately unconvincing.

“Spirits!” said a childish voice from the gallery. “What’s he got in those pants?”

“Blubber!”

“Ham? Two hams?”

Emerald was
not
fat! Although her dominant earth element did make her large boned, her mother kept telling her she was too skinny. But she was female and fully grown. Ironhall would not accept boys older than fifteen and preferred them younger, so few newcomers would be her height yet. Those that were would be built like fishing rods. She was not. She needed a bonier face, more chin, and the hips of an eel.

“Hasn’t got a hope,” said another.

“Grand Master can’t be that desperate.”

“Have to keep that one away from the swill.”

“Run him up Black Tor and back every morning….”

“Aw, the sopranos will soon sweat it off him….”

Emerald’s feet froze to the ground, a giant hand of terror crushed her insides to rock, and a voice that sounded very much like Mother Superior’s screamed silently in her ear:
Stop! This is madness! You are crazy
! She stood there, watching Kate’s back disappearing through the doorway. The urge to turn and race back to the carriage made her quiver like a violin string. What was she dreaming of? Why was she doing this? Not for fat, blowhard King Ambrose, certainly. No, for Sir Chefney—for his gracious bow, his smile of welcome when she turned up at the Snakepit. She had sent him to Quirk Row to die.
That
was why she was doing this! Revenge, justice!

She stuck out her tongue defiantly at the jeering gutter trash, raised her chin, and marched after Lady Kate and young Marlon into Ironhall.