The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (41 page)

THAT DAY THE TRAFFIC IN HOLMGARTH WAS unusually heavy. The sun shone bright but gave no warmth; silver frost lingered in the shadows, and Stalwart’s breath steamed as much as his barrow. All morning he trudged, paused to scoop, and then trudged on. Around and around and around. At intervals he wheeled his load over to the farm wagon. Up the ramp, tip, and run down again. All the time he must keep searching faces, studying everyone who came into the yard.

The Royal Guard rode in around noon. Suddenly the posting yard was full of blue uniforms, cat’s-eye swords, and familiar laughter. Not all the Guard was there, of course, just an advance party of a dozen, about as many as the staff could handle at one time. Sir Herrick wore the officer’s sash. There were senior guardsmen with him—men who had been escorting His Majesty to Ironhall for years, who had given Stalwart scores of fencing lessons there: Brock, Flint, and Fairtrue, one of the heroes of the Night of Dogs…. There was Raven, who had been Prime when Stalwart was the Brat, and youngsters who had been his friends until their binding only months ago: Fury, Charente, Hector….

Stalwart panicked. He turned his barrow and ran for the stalls as fast as he could zigzag between horses and people and vehicles. He was doing this for his King, and there was no shame in it, and one day soon he would be on duty in the palace with those men, dressed as they were, strutting around. Then, perhaps, this would be an amusing memory. They could all laugh at how they had failed to see the Chancellor’s spy serving his King with a shovel, right under their turned-up noses. But, oh!—what if they
didn’t
fail to see him? What if he were recognized now? He had foreseen the problem, of course, but the true horror of it had not dawned on him until this moment, and he could not face it. Sweat streamed down his ribs.

He hid in an empty stall, cowering in a corner behind his barrow, until his heart stopped racing, his breath stopped sobbing, his stomach almost stopped churning. But the problem did not stop. Duty did not stop.
Coward! Poltroon
! He was running away, shirking. Silvercloak might be out there right now, this very minute, a wolf hiding among the guard dogs.

He must go back. Shivering and sick with apprehension, Sir Stalwart pushed his stinking barrow out into the yard again and returned to work. He had fought with naked blades against the King’s enemies and it had taken less effort than that.

Most of the blue liveries had vanished into the inn. Herrick was chatting with fat Sherwin outside the office. Stalwart pushed his barrow right past them, almost under the Sheriff’s beetling belly, and neither man flicked him a glance. After that he felt better. He watched faces, being careful not to make eye contact with Blades. He did not see Silvercloak, and he was almost surprised when Herrick shouted to mount and the Guard sprang into saddles. They trotted away, leading a couple of spare mounts.

Wart could breathe again.

“Nicely done, Pimple.” Sherwin grinned through his beard to show he meant no harm.

“You did notice!”

“I did. He didn’t. There’s more on the way, o’ course.”

From one trip to the next, the Guard never repeated its procedures exactly. That day the King did not appear, although he was obviously in the neighborhood somewhere. No doubt the spare mounts were for him, for he must always have the freshest, in case of emergency. Later Bandit led in a second party, and Dominic a third. They changed horses and departed, never noticing their brother Blade dueling dunghills with his trusty shovel. Wart began to feel much better. If he could fool the entire Guard, then the joke would be on them.

He hoped his name would not get twisted into something like “Stall-worker.”

The rest of the Guard bypassed Holmgarth and went on to the next posting house. To have taken every usable horse would have shut down the highway for other traffic, and they had come close enough. They had taken all the King’s stock and all the best of the others.

As the sun touched the rooftops, Stalwart realized that Ambrose must be almost at Starkmoor by now. The immediate crisis was over, but the real game might be about to begin. If Silvercloak intended to ply his foul trade at Ironhall, he must follow close on the King’s heels. He must come tonight or tomorrow at the latest.

The yard was chaotic. Coachmen and gentlemen travelers alike were screaming at the inferior quality of the stock being offered, arguing ten times as long as usual, driving the grooms to distraction, demanding to see five times as many choices, inspecting hooves, teeth, hocks in endless detail. They all had long leagues to go and the sun was setting. The inn was full. Tempers blazed. The yard boys were being worked twice as hard as usual, with far less space to do it in. One certain way to earn a beating was to foul a gentleman’s cloak in passing.

Stalwart made a necessary trip to the wagon, ran his empty barrow back down the ramp, had a near miss with a horse—

“
Look out, you clumsy churl
!”

He spun around in dismay, knowing the voice. Two more Blades were just dismounting, having ridden in while his back was turned.

It was Dragon, with Rufus beside him. Both in uniform. There were a hundred reasons why these two might be straggling behind the rest of the guard, and none of them mattered. Rufus had been next ahead of Stalwart in Ironhall, and Dragon next ahead of him. They had been bound the day Stalwart should have been bound. They were long-term friends. They knew him.

For an age they stared at him in disbelief, ignoring the grooms and horses and travelers milling close around. And he could do nothing but stare back, feeling his dung-spattered face burning brighter and brighter red. He needed to melt.

“Death and dirt!” Rufus said. “The lost sheep!”

“Lost rat, you mean. Looks like he sunk to about the right level.”

“That’s what happens to cowards who run away. Isn’t it,
boy
?”

They had been friends, all three of them—once. But those days were gone. Blades could not be friends with a yard boy. They could not even admit to having been so wrong about him. He had run away rather than be Prime. Coward. Disgrace to Ironhall.

“Answer me, boy!” Rufus barked. His black beard bristled.

“You don’t…” Don’t what? Don’t understand? Stalwart
couldn’t
explain. He wasn’t allowed to, by King’s orders, and who would believe him any-way? “Yes, Sir Rufus,” he croaked. “I am paying the price of my own weakness.”

“You’d have done better to starve on the moor.” Rufus was a decent enough man, easy-going or even lazy and a solid but unimaginative fencer. It would never occur to him to ask
why
his former friend had changed so suddenly and done something so shameful.

“You smeared my cloak, boy,” Dragon growled. “That should cost some skin off your back.
Kneel when I speak to you
!”

Dragon was as large as Blades ever were. He enjoyed throwing that weight around. As a soprano, he had always been hard on the Brat, including Wart in his time. But even an Ironhall Brat had more dignity than a coward who had sunk to being a yard boy. Stalwart threw away every last shred of self-respect and fell on his knees.

“Please, my lord, forgive my clumsiness. I swear I did not notice….”

Behind Dragon, the man bending to inspect a horse’s feet wore a silver-gray cloak that seemed oddly familiar. He glanced up and his eyes met Stalwart’s. Recognition was mutual and instantaneous—killer and carrot boy met again.

“Have him beaten if you want,” Rufus said, “but have the hostler do it. We don’t have time. And this trash isn’t worth it.”

“No, let’s tell Sherwin to throw him out. I don’t want to see this maggot crawling around here every time we have to come through Holmgarth.”

“But then you’d have to admit to him that this dunghill was once one of ours, brother.”

Neither Stalwart nor Silvercloak had been listening to that conversation. They recovered their respective wits at the same instant. The assassin sprang into the saddle and kicked in his spurs. Wart hauled the whistle out from the neck of his smock and blew as hard as he could.

Then it seemed as if every horse in the yard tried to go straight up in the sky, and several of the closer ones broke loose from their handlers. They bucked or reared. Dogs barked. Men screamed and cursed and backed into other men and horses. Hooves lashed out. Chaos.

“That one!” Wart howled. He grabbed his shovel—it was empty, unfortunately—but by then he’d lost sight of his quarry in the mad-house. “The gray cloak! Stop him!”

Rufus and Dragon were having troubles of their own avoiding flashing hooves, and they wouldn’t have dirtied their hands trying to catch Stalwart anyway. He avoided them. Unfortunately, a horse swung into Dragon from behind and pitched him bodily into Stalwart’s abandoned barrow. Rufus, trying to escape, slipped in some-thing and sat down squelchily.

By the time Stalwart reached the gate, he knew he was too late. Sherwin was there, with six or seven grooms bearing quarterstaffs. They all looked glum or furious, or both.

“He’s gone?” Stalwart asked.

“A whole fiery bunch have gone!” the Sheriff roared. “None of them paid. Four or five run-aways with them. And we have injuries.”

Norton made a speech: “Didn’t see the man you wanted.”

“You sure?” Stalwart shouted. Could the killer be still hiding in the yard?

Norton nodded.

“Your boss going to pay for the injuries?” the Sheriff demanded, menacing as a thundercloud. “Men and horses both?”

“Yes, I’ll sign the chit. How many of you saw the men who rode out of here?”

Several had, and they all insisted that no one answering to Silvercloak’s description had left the yard.

“Then we’ve got him! Sheriff, hunt him down!”

Stalwart stood by the gate with a band of hefties while the yard was emptied. Dragon and Rufus may have seen him there, but they rode past without looking, too mad to speak. No new customers were admitted and the inn door was closed.

By the time the hunt finished, the first stars were watching from the wintry sky. Stalwart had long since given up hope. He had failed. Despite his bragging to Lord Roland, when Silvercloak came to Holmgarth, Stalwart had let him escape. Oh, he could find excuses. If he hadn’t been on his knees the assassin would never have noticed him. If the yard had not been crowded far beyond its usual capacity…He could find excuses, but he could never use them. He had failed. No argument.

Failed!

He was shivering in his rags when Sherwin returned with his men. “Killed a few rats, is all,” he said.

“Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks to all of you. It was my fault, none of yours. From now on, though, you can shovel your own stinking dung.”

They chuckled.

“Three cheers for the Pimple!” someone said, and they cheered.

They meant well, so he had to laugh with them, and that hurt worse than anything. Then the posse dispersed to attend to its other duties.

“Sheriff, do you suppose your brother could find some soap and hot water for me? I’ll sleep in the hay, but I must head back to Grandon in the morning.”

“Grandon?” the fat man said thoughtfully. “Grandon? You saw your killer, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but now he’s been frightened away he…”

He is still the cleverest man I have ever met
.

A man like that would have guessed right away that Stalwart had been posted in Holmgarth to watch for him heading toward Ironhall. With his plot exposed, he must now back off and try again another day, yes? That was what Stalwart had assumed, but suppose Silvercloak guessed that he would guess that way—that they all would? Suppose he just went on as if nothing had happened? Did the unexpected.

Stalwart studied the sly gleam in the Sheriff’s eye.

“Or perhaps not.”

Sherwin chuckled. “Worth a try?”

“Yes! Quickly! Hot water and soap and the freshest horse you have left. Send a note to Durendal in the morning, will you? Tell him what happened and say I’ve gone to warn Sir Bandit.”

But he could not hope to reach Ironhall before the killer did.

AS THE SUN TOUCHED THE WESTERN TORS, THE Guard was sighted on the Blackwater road. A scurry of activity swept through Ironhall, especially through the kitchens, because young swordsmen who had spent all day in the saddle were usually capable of eating their horses. The seniors bolted to their quarters to clean up. Emerald felt a great surge of relief that her ordeal was almost over. She took the news to Grand Master, and found him in his study, poring over account books.

“About time!” he responded sourly. “Wait out there until I need you. The Brat has ritual duties to perform. He summons the seniors who are to be bound, and tomorrow night he will present the candidates with their swords during the binding itself.”

“I have no objection to herding seniors for you,” she said cheerfully, “but the entire Guard will not get me inside the Forge, not tomorrow nor ever.”

Evidently he had not thought of that problem, for he pouted. “When we have no Brat, the most junior soprano takes over. Intrepid? Wasn’t that the name he took? Well, we can inform him later.”

“You wish me to continue my masquerade?” She had inspected Queen Estrith’s long-abandoned gowns. Their style was so old-fashioned as to seem exotic, but they would be a reasonable fit. Parading into the hall on the King’s arm was an amusing fantasy.

Grand Master attempted a smile, which never suited him. “Until I have spoken with His Grace, certainly. I assume he is aware of your presence here.”

“And what of the inquisitor’s presence? He is still working his foul deeds in the royal suite.” She could catch whiffs of black magic even here, in First House.

“Another topic I shall discuss with His Majesty. Go.”

She mockingly bobbed him a curtsey, which threw him off balance. “Be so kind, sir, as to inform Commander Bandit as soon as possible that I wish to see him.” She turned her back on his outraged glare.

She settled on the bench in the corridor and prepared for a dull wait. The two doors opposite, she now knew, were of no interest, leading to pantries in which were stored dishes used only on the rare occasions when the entire Order assembled in Ironhall.

Commander Bandit came up the stairs and along the passage to her. He was dusty and muddy, but gave her his customary friendly smile. Having glanced around to make sure they were unobserved, he kissed her hand.

“I would not have known, Sister.”

“That’s not very complimentary, Commander.”

He laughed. “I can’t win, can I? If I say you are far too beautiful even to be mistaken for a boy, you would still take offense. That’s also true, of course. Take your pick of insults.”

“Who else knows?”

“No Blades but me. The King hasn’t mentioned it. Who knows here?”

“Just Grand Master and Master of Rituals.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “You are incredible, Sister! Not even a black eye! I hope the Blades will be less easily fooled—it’s our job to be suspicious, you know. The password for tonight is, ‘The stars are watching.’ The rejoinder is, ‘But they keep their secrets.’ If you are challenged, that should keep you out of the dungeons.”

“There aren’t any dungeons!”

“There are stocks out in the courtyard. There are shackles just inside the Royal Door. And there are cellars with big, big locks.”

“I’ll remember the password!”

“And you give the school a clean bill of magical health?”

“I did until Nicely arrived!” she said angrily. “You do know that he’s put some disgusting sorcery in the royal suite?”

“Yes. I just hope it stays there.” Frowning, Bandit reached for the door handle.

“Did the Princess come?” she asked quickly.

He paused on the threshold and scrunched down his bushy brows in perplexity. “Princess Dierda? No. The King’s marriage has been postponed until next spring.”

“I mean Princess Vasar of Lukirk.”

“Who?” Then he smiled. “She’s already here.”

Traditionally the King went to Grand Master by way of the Royal Door and they decided who was to be bound. The study was soundproof, so Emerald did not hear what was said.

Master Nicely came rolling along the corridor, escorted by Sir Raven and another Blade whose name she did not know. Raven remained outside and the other two went in. Briefly she heard the King booming away.

She expected Raven to join her on the bench, but he had been in the saddle all day and remained standing in front of the door. He did not glance twice at the Brat, although he had danced a gavotte with Sister Emerald less than two weeks ago.

Time passed.

Grand Master poked his head out, causing Raven to sidestep quickly. “Brat, inform Prime Candidate Marlon that I want to see him and the next five most-senior candidates in the flea room right away. Got that?”

“Total of six, sir. Yes, sir.”

She collected a following even before leaving First House. It increased rapidly as she crossed the yard—lessons were over for the day but feeding time must wait upon the King’s pleasure, no matter how loud the rumble of young bellies. Voices called out to her, demanding, “How many?” but she did not answer and no threats followed. This was tradition. The stars were indeed watching, as the password said, taking up their stations in the sea-dark sky. The night was already cold.

When she arrived at
Lion
, it seemed that half the school was at her back. She rapped. Mountjoy threw the door open, pulled her inside, and slammed it. Ten worried young men had been sitting around on beds. They stood as if frozen in the act of leaping to their feet.

“How many?” Marlon demanded.

“Including your honored self, Prime—six.”

Marlon nodded. Four other faces broke into grins of worried relief. Five fell. Grand Master always sent for those who were to be bound plus the one who would become Prime, which in this case was Standish.

Emerald followed them as they marched off along the corridor, past the whispers and curious eyes, downstairs, across the yard to First House. Only she knew that one man was missing. The current Prime leading this parade ought to be Wart. Under the charter, he should be the next man bound. The King was not playing by the rules.

Yes, Wart had been enrolled in the Guard, but he could not go armed into the King’s presence. He would never be a proper Blade until he had been bound. She wondered where he was and what he could be doing that was more important than guarding his ward, right here in Ironhall this night.