The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (37 page)

THE BRAT ALWAYS ATE IN THE KITCHEN WITH the servants—so Intrepid had told Emerald in an unusual fit of accuracy. That was while he had been showing her the dining hall, with its famous sky of swords. Five thousand of them dangled overhead, point down, flickering reflections of the candles, ever softly tinkling. Each was the weapon of a former Blade.

“Sometimes the chains
break
—” In tones of horror, Intrepid had described the resulting carnage. He had not been lying, just deceived by lies others had fed him. Wart had told her about the swords weeks ago, so she was not worried about them. She was worried about the King’s safety, because she could not give Ironhall a clean bill of health. Intrepid had shown her as much of it as the Brat would ever need to know, but not enough to satisfy Lord Roland’s spy. She had questions needing answers.

She was worried about her insight into Silver-cloak’s identity. Her suspicions might be wrong, but somehow she must inform Lord Roland of them as soon as possible.

She was also worried about Servian. Servian was the worst of all possible enemies, Intrepid had told her—truthfully. Grand Master favored him because he was a good swordsman. When the previous Prime had publicly told Grand Master to dump Servian, Grand Master had expelled Prime instead. That had been Candidate Badger, of course, and Emerald knew things about Badger she was sworn never to reveal. She could certainly use him at her side right then to defend her against Servian and his cronies.

Common sense insisted she go straight to Grand Master and admit that he had been right and she could not carry off this imposture. What could it achieve? If Silvercloak really was a woman, Ironhall was absolutely the last place she would attempt to strike at the King. Alas, people as stubborn as Emerald did not always listen to common sense.

The evening meal was about to start. She lurked in the kitchen doorway, watching the entrance to the hall. The cooks were all men, mostly old. As long as she stayed out of their way, they did not seem to mind her or even notice her.

Intrepid had gone. Prime Marlon had tracked down the Brat and his guide in the hall and ordered Intrepid to run like a hare, bathe like a trout, and come back in clean clothes even faster.

“You may as well wait here,” he had told Emerald. He smiled, but not unkindly. “I suggest you don’t bother changing yet.”

“No, sir.” Wet clothes were a minor problem at the moment.

“Look at it this way, lad. In five years you’ll be a deadly swordsman, probably living at court. If some drunken nobles come along and start taunting you, will you be able to control yourself? Or will you go mad and kill them?”

Was this how they rationalized sadism? “So it’s a test?”

“Of course. If you can take it from these squirts, you can take it from anyone. If it goes too far, talk to Second.” He did not explain how far was too far.

A bell tolled in the distance. Boys appeared as if by magic, trailing mud in through the front door and across to the hall—eager youngsters running ahead, dignified seniors strolling behind. Finally the knights came parading along the corridor with Grand Master in the lead. The infamous Doctor Skuldigger had enslaved people with loyalty spells, and Lord Roland worried that Silvercloak might do the same. Emerald was close enough to detect such evil, and she could not; nor had she done so earlier among the cooks and stablemen. It seemed the assassin had planted no accomplices in the school yet.

The kitchen staff went by her, pushing big carts. Marlon appeared again, bringing a dampish Intrepid and another senior—a sandy-haired, mild-seeming youth, hard to imagine as deadly with the sword he wore or even as capable of controlling the juniors.

“My name’s Mountjoy,” he told Emerald. “I’m Second. That means I’m kennel master.” He smiled unhappily past her ear. “Unfortunately, hazing’s traditional. There’s not much I can do about it. Most of it’s up to you.” Still he did not look her in the eye. “Blades can’t be forged from brittle metal, and if you can’t stand the life here, then it’s best for everyone to find out at once, before we start wasting time on you, right?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Emerald said sweetly. “I’d hate that.”

He did not notice the bite in her voice. “Don’t worry too much. Most of it’s just talk, to frighten you. They don’t do half the things they threaten. Try to stay very humble and never lose your temper. That’s what they want to happen. Right, Intrepid?”

Intrepid nodded impatiently.

“Time to go,” Marlon said. Empty carts were coming out for more.

At the far end of the hall, Grand Master saw the latecomers appear in the doorway. Beaming, he rose and clinked a goblet for silence. “Before we begin eating…” That won a laugh, for the beansprouts were already looking for seconds.

A lectern was wheeled over to him. Everyone rose and stood in silence as he opened the great book of the
Litany of Heroes
. He read out brief accounts of the two Sir Intrepids who had saved their wards. One had survived, one had not. He closed the book and the audience sat down again in a shuffling of feet and creaking of benches.

As sounds of chewing resumed, Prime escorted the next Intrepid along the aisle, with Second and the new Brat following. They walked solemnly between tables full of leering sopranos, then less-crowded beansprouts’ tables, with Servian conspicuous by his size and menacing stare. On they went, past the beardless and the fuzzies and a single table of seniors—only eight of those, not counting Marlon and Mountjoy. Again Emerald was alert for enchantment and found none.

The knights and masters seated on the far side of the high table watched the procession, Grand Master on his throne in the middle. When they arrived he rose again, smiling jovially.

“Who comes?”

“Grand Master, masters, honored knights”—Marlon turned sideways to include the boys in his reply—“and brother candidates in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, I have the honor to present Candidate…Intrepid!” Intrepid bowed to display the “SCUM” on his scalp and his wet half mane.

“Is he worthy, Prime?”

Prime turned full around to face the hall. “Is Intrepid worthy?”

Yes, he was. The hall roared approval. Boys cheered and chanted his name. They thumped tables. So Prime and Second lifted the new boy shoulder high and carried him the length of the hall to instal him with the sopranos, where he belonged. There he was mobbed, hugged, riotously accepted as one of the gang.

Ironhall had been doing this for centuries. If Emerald were the friendless, rejected boy she was pretending to be, he would be promising himself that if Intrepid could do it, he could—that he would earn such approval, too.

So what happened next? Why were Prime and Second running as they came back to take their seats? The hall stilled, waiting. She looked inquiringly at Grand Master, who had sat down to finish his dinner.

He chewed, swallowed, smiled. “You may go, Brat.”

As she reached the seniors’ table, the first crusts came curving through the air.
Roar!
Then vegetables. Then sausages. Those young demons were accurate!
Boos!
She reeled under the onslaught. There was only one door. Perforce, she began to run through the hail of missiles. Pandemonium became riot.

She made it past the fuzzies, but a beardless stuck out a foot and she pitched headlong. Cheers. Pitchers of water were tipped over her. She scrambled up and ran again. Everyone was on his feet and hurling. She was tripped again. How could a hundred boys make so much noise? She could hardly see through a mask of gravy. Then pewter beakers started coming, and they
hurt
. She doubled over, arms covering her head. A bench slid in front of her and she fell over it, landing heavily on the flagstones.
Big cheer!
The doors had been shut, of course. She wrestled one open in a final blizzard of food and tableware; she made her escape. Behind her, the booing turned to raucous laughter.

The fine new candidate had been accepted and the unspeakable Brat driven out.

Old men waiting outside with fresh supplies shook their heads at the waste of food and the mess they must clean up. One of them handed Emerald a cloth to wipe her face. “You’re lucky we didn’t feed them bones tonight,” he mumbled.

The masters and knights left first, chatting among themselves, then the seniors, and so on down the ranks. The sopranos and beansprouts were last, but they came in a swarm like hornets. They divided into three hunting bands on a plan already agreed. One headed for the dorms, one for the bath house, and the third to search First and Main houses. That pack found the quarry limping along the corridor connecting those two buildings.

“Get him!”

“Fights tonight!”

Emerald turned and held up the brass token of inviolability. “I have to return this to Grand Master.”

The only light at that point was a lantern behind them, so she saw them as anonymous dark shapes, but their eyes and teeth gleamed in the shadows.

“We can wait!”

“You cannot escape.”

“Your doom is sealed.”

None of them was tall enough to be Servian, but she knew now that even the small fry were dangerous—born warriors, faster than sling-shots, many of them already felons or brutalized by spirits-knew what sort of ghastly home life. They hadn’t even started on her yet, but her shins were bloody, she had wrenched one knee, bruised both elbows, and her back must be all over purple. She was uniformly splattered with garbage, as if she had rolled in a midden.

She was also madder than she had ever been in her life.

She hobbled away, ignoring the mindless mob at her heels, the shuffle of its footsteps, its eager breathing. She climbed stairs and all the treads squeaked as the pack followed. She turned into a dead-end corridor and her pursuers stopped as if facing wall-to-wall snakes.

This area was off-limits except on business. Two of the three doors stayed locked, Intrepid had said, and he did not know where they led, but the third was Grand Master’s study.

Emerald marched in without knocking. The room was empty and dark, lit only by the flickers of the fire. Relieved, she leaned back against the door for a moment, struggling to calm her nerves.

Wart had brought her here through the unobtrusive door on the far side. That was how important people came unseen into Ironhall—by the so-called Royal Door in one of the corner towers. The room impressed her no more now than it had then: grim, shabby, and none too clean. One comfortable chair and an oak settle beside the fireplace, a few stools, a document chest, a table. The threadbare rug, the prints on the walls, a few ornaments…nothing matched anything else. Grand Master’s taste was as erratic as the rest of him.

She was just lighting the last candle on the mantel when the man himself stomped in from the corridor and slammed that door behind him. He glared at her presumption.

“Well, Sister? Ready to admit defeat?”

“No. My task is far from finished.”

He actually had the gall to smile! “Kindly remember in future that the Brat does not come in here without permission. I have no further need of his services this evening.” He held out a hand. “The token, please. You may go.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She sat down in his favorite chair, garbage and all.

He bristled. “You cannot have it both ways, Sister! Either you dress as a respectable woman and perform your duties openly or you stay in character. If you masquerade as the Brat, you must bear his burdens.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She stared at him curiously. “You said I can’t do it, so you will make certain I don’t. Well, the Brat is not here. If you will just take a quick look out in the tower, you will see that he is not hiding out there either, so he must have run away across the moor. A pity the snow has melted so he left no tracks. Go and tell your rat pack the bad news.”

“You do not give me orders!” he said shrilly.

“No.” Her voice was rock steady. She had all night. “Your orders came from the King, remember? I already told Master of Rituals you want to see him. I may need to summon others. Do you really want the hyena cubs sitting on your doorstep all night? They will, you know.”

Grand Master flounced around and charged out. She heard him shouting, and then an angry sound like the baying of hounds. When he returned, his face was pale with fury.

“Be warned, Sister! I will report your insolence to His Grace the moment he arrives.”

“His Grace may not be arriving.” She would humble this arrogant blusterer if it killed her. “My preliminary inspection has revealed some worrisome points. Unless I tender a favorable report the King will not come.”

“Nonsense!”

“No. One word from me and the Guard will keep the King away. You know that! And Commander Bandit may billet White Sisters on Ironhall permanently.”

Fortunately, knuckles rapped on the corridor door just then.

“Enter!”

Emerald had her back to it and did not see who had come. She heard a sigh.

“Sorry I’m late, Saxon. The wolves are really howling tonight…new Brat to taunt—seems they can’t find him—talked to Prime…says Second’s keeping an eye on things…What was it—”

Heading for the settle, Master of Rituals came around the chair and saw the missing Brat. He laughed. “By the burgomaster’s belly button! That explains it!” Misunderstanding the reason for her presence, he squatted down on his heels and removed his glasses to peer closely at Emerald’s battered shins. “This was when you fell over the bench, lad?”

He was a rumpled, vague man of about forty. That afternoon he had been lecturing bean-sprouts on the principles of enchantment. The door had been open, so she and Intrepid had paused to listen. She had been impressed by the way he held the boys’ attention on a very dull topic.

He laid a cool hand on her swollen knee and frowned. He replaced his glasses to see Grand Master, who was leering at the situation. “Nothing serious enough for a healing. I can bandage—”

“Present me,” she said angrily.