The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (42 page)

STARS SHONE GOLD ON INDIGO AS STALWART rode out of Holmgarth, following the Great West Road. Although the livery stable was out of fresh mounts, Sherwin had done him proud by loaning him a horse of his own, a chestnut mare named Yikes.

“Call her that ’cos she’s a tad skittish,” he explained. “A Blade can handle her. She’s got stamina like you never saw.
An’ I wan’ her back!
”

“You shall have her back, Sheriff,” Stalwart promised. “You hold the best security I can give.” He meant his lute, which he loved almost as much as
Sleight
. “And I shall tell the Chancellor how helpful you have been.”

So he shot out of the yard, letting his nervy horse run off her excess energy for the first league or so. He had a long way to go and no moon before dawn. But with a good mount, a dark lantern, his rapier at his side, gold in his pouch, all he needed was fair chance. Those and a lot of endurance would bring him to Ironhall before daybreak.

Failure was still a sour taste in his mouth. He had come so close! He could not even understand what he had done wrong. Silvercloak had ridden out in the stampede, obviously, but why had Norton and the other hands not seen him go? He had not been disguised when Stalwart saw him—at least he had been wearing the same face as he had in Quirk Row, which was the face the men had been told to look out for. Could even a magical disguise be changed so swiftly?

It was something to think about in the night.

The posting house at Beaslow was dark and closed. Knowing she had done her fair share, Yikes nickered hopefully. She could scent other horses and sweet hay. Normally a Blade would bang on the doors and shutters until he got service, but there was small chance of finding a better mount in Beaslow after the Guard had passed through. Moreover, Stalwart lacked a binding scar. Several times since he joined the Old Blades he had been challenged to justify his cat’s-eye sword. Always he had got by with some bluster, sometimes flaunting a flashy document or his White Star. Tonight he had neither of those with him. A hostler hauled out of bed at this hour might well insist on the letter of the law.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” he said. “We have a long way to go yet.” He rode on by, into the dark and cold. But Yikes could not carry him all the way to Ironhall.

“BROTHERS, CANDIDATES,” GRAND MASTER declaimed. “Before our customary reading from the
Litany
, I have His Grace’s permission to make an important announcement.”

He had been relegated to a stool, like the other masters. The King occupied the throne, overflowing it, making it look much smaller than usual. Ironhall swarmed with Blades. Some were eating at the seniors’ table; others stood guard along the walls. There were even Blades in the kitchen, tasting the royal food and escorting it every step of the way to the table. Master Nicely was nowhere in sight, still tending his own vile business elsewhere.

Emerald stood in the doorway, studying the gathering. A wise Brat ate early and left early, and it was almost time for her to disappear. Hazing was officially frowned on before bindings, because the Brat ought to be left in his right mind for the ritual, but she did not trust the likes of Servian and his henchmen to observe such rules.

“It is not only His Majesty who honors us tonight but also many companions in our Order—as you may have noticed.” Grand Master’s attempts at humor rarely won smiles, let alone laughter. “They are welcome, but they are dangerous. If they were not dangerous, Ironhall would not have done its duty by them. In normal times we tolerate a certain amount of illegal activity in the hallways after lights-out. Recently it has been less productive than usual, I understand.” That small witicism did raise some sniggers. “However, there must be none of that during our guests’ stay. None whatsoever! If you go a-roaming tonight, you will be risking a lot more than a few days’ stable duty. Every corridor and stair will be patrolled. The Blades see much better in the dark than you do, but they are authorized to run you through first and question you after….”

Even at the far end of the hall, Emerald could tell that the King was displeased. There had been none of the usual boisterous royal laughter.

“Brat?”

She jumped halfway to the ceiling. She would have sworn any oath that no man in boots could have approached her undetected over the paving stones. She spun around angrily, and found herself nose-to-nose with Sir Fury, who was certainly not the largest of the Blades but might well be the cutest.

He said, “Sorry! Wonderful reflexes! You can be proud of those, boy. Glad you’re not armed!”

Ironhall humor, no doubt. Emerald just blushed scarlet, and he fortunately misunderstood. “Leader wants to see you, lad. Come.”

She had danced only one gavotte with Raven. But with young Sir Fury she had danced a multitude of gavottes—also minuets, courantes, and quadrilles—on several evenings. Sir Fury had expressed serious interest in Sister Emerald. And here he had failed to recognize her! He would never forgive her when the truth came out.

She walked beside him in silence, knowing that some people recognized voices more readily than faces. As they passed the great stair, she glanced up and saw four Blades guarding the door to the royal suite. Others were patrolling the hallways.

Halfway along the corridor to First House, she realized that Fury was stealing glances at her.

“Do you by any chance have a sister, Brat?”

“No, sir.”

“Fury’s my name. Cousins, then? There’s a girl at court who looks very like you.”

“I’m sorry for her.”

Fury sighed. “Don’t be. She’s gorgeous!”

Emerald felt her face warming up again. “Then are you certain she looks like me, Sir Fury?”

“There’s a strong resemblance. I’m desperately in love with her, and I think she likes me but can’t bring herself to say so. She’s very shy, you see.”

Emerald probably turned purple about then, but apparently he did not notice. Shy?
She?

The guardroom was full of Blades—snacking, dicing, talking, or sharpening swords. Some were doing several of those things at the same time. A few were changing their clothes. They took no notice as the Brat was escorted through and ushered into Leader’s room, the lowermost chamber of the Queen’s Tower. It was circular, of course, sparsely furnished but well cluttered with masculine junk—swords, fencing masks, boots, rope, axes, horse tack, lanterns, and document chests. Commanders came to Ironhall and were gone again in a couple of days, following their king. For centuries, none of them had found time to tidy up.

Bandit had been reading papers under a candelabra. When the door had been safely closed, he stood up and offered her a stool. He looked tired and beset, but he managed his usual smile. “Why are you grinning?”

“Because the last time I parted from Sir Fury, he was extremely eager to kiss me.”

The Commander cleared his throat loudly and sat down. “Understandable, but let’s not make this any more complicated than we have to. I assume you’re not crazy enough to sleep in the sopranos’ dorm. Where can I find you tonight if I need you?”

“
Falcon
’s empty just now. I have a key.”
Falcon
was an overflow dorm for seniors.

Bandit nodded. “Tell the guards downstairs if you sense anything untoward. Did you hear Grand Master’s announcement?”

“Some. I assume it was about Nicely’s pets?”

“He was told not to mention them specifically, but we want as few candidates eaten as possible.”

“They’re the same as the monsters on the Night of Dogs?”

Bandit grimaced. “They’re copies. Nicely claims these are more controllable, but I don’t put much stock in that. He’s going to loose two of them to roam the moor and leave the largest inside the royal suite. That suite is easily recognized, you see—it has the only balcony in the school, it has the royal coat of arms in the windows and over the door at the top of the big stair. Lord Chancellor Roland is most anxious for Silvercloak to drop in and be torn limb from limb.”

“By a dog? He killed Demise and Chefney.”

“Sister, we worked in
teams
on those brutes! The only man who managed to kill one single-handed was Durendal, and his was one of the smallest. Worry more over how we get out of here if Nicely can’t put the horrors back to sleep and nail them up in their crates. Spirits! That thing in the suite is the size of a pony.”

“So the King sleeps in the Queen’s Tower?”

“State secret.” Bandit’s smile said she had guessed correctly.

“And Princess Vasar of Lukirk is the dog?”

“It’s a code for all three dogs.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “I wish I never let Durendal talk me into this! You know, Sister, if you include the seniors and the knights, we must have close to a hundred able swordsmen in Ironhall tonight, not to mention three monsters. And there’s only one man out there in the dark! So why do I feel besieged?”

He was an honest man doing his best, and she felt angry at Lord Roland for adding to his burdens. Yet the situation was not really Roland’s doing. At least he had seen the danger and taken precautions.

“Could you have stopped the King coming to Ironhall?”

“Probably. But he would soon have found himself a new Leader.”

“Does he know I’m the Brat?”

Bandit shrugged. “Not from me. From Roland maybe. The King knows only what the King admits to knowing, Sister. He’s in a monumentally foul temper, but that may just be from finding Nicely here and having to sleep in a strange bed—and the very idea that there could be royal quarters like the Queen’s Tower existing unknown in Ironhall all this time did
not
improve his mood! White Sisters and inquisitors are not things he associates with Ironhall. He doesn’t want to be bothered with those here. He looks on his Ironhall excursions as recreation. He hates to think his Blades are not capable of protecting him.”

“I can’t be Brat at the binding.”

“No, we’ll let you off that. Ambrose is very sensitive to scandal, too. A woman in Ironhall sets his teeth on edge.”

“Does Master Nicely know I’m here?”

“Not from me,” Bandit said sharply. He might enjoy deceiving the inquisitor or perhaps did not trust him—Blades trusted no one except one another.

“I’ll stay the Brat for now,” she agreed. “But then you owe me a favor.”

“Name it.”

“You did tell one man who the Brat really is, didn’t you?”

Bandit nodded sheepishly. “Had to warn him when I sent him to fetch you. Didn’t want him letting any cats out of bags.”

“Give me your solemn promise that you will not tell him you told me you’d told him!”

“Er…I promise.”

Oh, did young Fury have something coming to him!

NOT A DOG BARKED IN BLACKWATER. THE hamlet lay like a corpse under the stars, with only a rare bat squeak to show life. Yikes was footsore and far too weary to attempt the climb onto Starkmoor.

Stalwart thundered on the hostler’s door with the hilt of his sword. “Longberry!” he yelled. “Osbert Longberry! In the King’s name!”

Osbert must sleep soundly. He was not in Sherwin’s class for thinking—not the fleetest steed in the meadow, Snake said—but he was painstaking and honest.

“Know you,” said a growl from an upper window. “You’re Sir Stalwart.”

“You have wonderful eyesight!”

“Knew your voice. Gave me a silver groat, you did.”

“I did. I’ll give you a gold crown tonight.”

Osbert cackled but stayed at the window. “In a hurry to catch up with the King, likely? Called me by name, he did. ‘Good chance to you, Master Longberry,’ he says. Always remembers me, His Majesty does, spirits bless ’im.”

So much for Bandit’s efforts at security!

“And I ride on his service. But tell me, did another man come this way tonight, after the King and the Blades?”

“Well, old Will up the valley, and farmer—”

“A stranger?”

“Oh, a stranger…darkish fellow, hooked nose? All alone. Very jumpy sort, peering every-where?”

“That sounds like him,” Stalwart said. “How about a horse?” Or dawn would find him frozen to death on this doorstep.

“Nothing left. Need their sleep, horses do. Came a long way.”

“
Two
gold crowns?” Bribery might not work on Osbert; he loved horses much more than money.

“Well there’s Lumpkin,” he said reluctantly.

“What’s wrong with Lumpkin?”

“Nothing. Big strong gelding. Just some folks think he’s got a hard trot.”

“Lumpkin will do fine. He’ll keep me awake.
Now, please, Master Longberry
!”

So Yikes found her dry stall, with oats and a good rubdown to come—Osbert would not skimp. He solemnly swore he would keep the mare just for Stalwart, not trade her away. He saddled up Lumpkin, who was indeed a tower of muscle. And a very hard ride.

Stalwart paid the two crowns and set off up the moor trail, feeling as if he were being bounced on a picket fence.

The night was cryptically still, a huge icy silence broken only by the steady clop of his horse’s hooves. Stars filled the sky to bursting. It was long after midnight before he saw the black bulk of Ironhall rise against them.

His lantern’s feeble glow writhed over the trail ahead. So far as he was aware—which was not very far—the Guard never patrolled outside the walls. He hoped his light would be noticed, because to sneak up on the Royal Guard was an excellent way of becoming very dead. Not that he was far off dead now. Cold and a sense of failure had sunk deep into his bones. All the long hours of clop…clop…clop…Not to mention the pounding from Lumpkin—

Panic
! The gelding tossed up his head and screamed a whinny, then jittered sideways, catching his rider by surprise. It was the first spark of personality he’d shown.

“Easy, fellow, easy!
Lumpkin
! Nothing to be scared of.” Stalwart wrestled him under control, although he remained skittish. “What spooked you, lad?” Then an owl soared in silence over-head and he laughed. “Never seen an owl before?”

He had decided to bypass the gate. The Royal Door would be less public. It would certainly be guarded, but the mere fact that he knew enough to go to it should allay some suspicion.

He veered off onto the almost invisible path that led around the back of Main House. Candlelight glowed in the King’s windows, with the royal heraldry in them as blazon stains of red and blue. Candidates were never allowed inside the royal suite, but there was a balcony outside the presence chamber. Anywhere a squirrel could go, the younger Stalwart had gone. He had peered in those windows—had even taken a peek in the window of the next room, clinging to the bars with his feet dangling. What a crazy kid he had been!

The lights meant that there were Blades in there, standing watch outside the King’s bed-room. In fact they would be sprawled on the floor, playing dice. No matter. Either Bandit or Dreadnought would be in charge. Stalwart could flip a few pebbles up at the door and introduce himself. But then he might break one of the King’s windows or waken the big man himself, and His Grace could be very ungraceful when he wanted to be. Better stick to the original plan.

The tower, when he reached it, was dark. He had expected to see light in the windows beside the Royal Door. Surprisingly, there was a glow of candles visible up in Grand Master’s study, so either the old sourpuss had not yet gone to bed or the Guard had taken it over.

He groaned as he slid from the saddle. Never had he been more pleased to end a journey. He tied the reins to the rail and patted the gelding’s neck. “Well done, big fellow. I’ll beg some oats for—”

Again Lumpkin whinnied in alarm, jerking at his tether, stamping feet. “Whoa, there!” Stalwart laughed. “Easy! You’re too big to be an owl’s supper.”

Leaving the lantern to comfort the animal, he hobbled over to the door. There
were
chinks of light showing above and below it, so the windows had been draped. He hammered on the planks and then hopefully tried a tug on the latch string, and felt movement. A gentle push at the door made it creak open a finger width. This seemed suspicious, if not downright hair-raising. Normally this postern was left unlocked for the use of secret visitors, but tonight it should be barred, surely?

“Friend!” he said. “Stalwart of the Royal Guard. I bring an urgent report for Commander Bandit or Sir Dreadnought.”

No reply.

Thinking,
Here goes
! he put a foot against the door and pushed. It was stiffer than he expected. He pushed harder and suddenly it flew wide. He stumbled off balance.

He had been so long in the dark that even candles could dazzle him for a moment. A moment was long enough. Hands jerked him forward. He was tripped and slammed facedown on the floor. The door thundered shut behind him, a bolt thudded home.

A sword point pricked his back, right above his heart.

“One twitch and you’re dead,” Dragon said. An unseen hand slid
Sleight
from her scabbard and took her away.

“I recall a candidate called Stalwart,” a deep voice remarked. “Didn’t know he’d been bound.”

“He wasn’t.” That was Panther. “He was next behind us three.”

Rufus: “Should have been Prime—”

“—but he ran away,” Dragon finished.

“
Wha-a-at
?” scoffed the unidentified man. “You’re telling me
Prime
ran away? Nonsense! I’d have heard about that.”

“He never was Prime.” Panther was a decent guy, with more brains than either Dragon or Rufus. “He disappeared before we were bound. He was always lippy, so we thought he must’ve sassed Grand Master once too often, but the old man swore he hadn’t puked him. He just puked himself.”

“Di’n’t wanna tell anyone this,” Dragon muttered. “But we saw him today, Rufe an’ me. He was shoveling horse stuffing in the posting yard at Holmgarth. Dressed in rags, stinking, an’ filthy an’—”

“Isn’t it about time,” yelled a voice from the floor, “that somebody asked me for my side of the story? I came here with a very urgent message for Leader, and you are treating me like…like…” Like Silvercloak would be treated. “You may not believe this,
brothers
, but I’m as much a member of the Royal Guard as any one of you.” They had better believe it, or he was in trouble!

“That’s a genuine cat’s-eye sword,” said the deep voice. “Lovely rapier. Name of
Sleight
. That familiar?”

Two men grunted, meaning no.

Panther said, “Does sound like what Wart might name a sword. And he’d no use for sabers.”

“Well, let him sit up. Remember what Leader said. He may not be who he looks like. At the least sign of trouble, strike.”

Moving very gingerly, Stalwart rolled over and sat up. He crossed his legs. He could see two swords pointed at him and guessed that there were two more at his back. The deep voice belonged to Sir Fitzroy, one of the senior guardsmen. He would undoubtedly have been knighted and released by now had it not been for the Monster War. He wore the sash, of course. No one would trust any of those other baboons with responsibility.

Like the Seniors’ Tower, this one was a hollow drum, with a spiral staircase winding up the wall, complete with marble bannister. Rusty iron shackles in the walls suggested that horses had once been kept there, or it had been used as a punishment cell. It was off-limits to candidates, but anytime Stalwart had peeked in, it had been empty. It had been empty when he came through with Emerald. Tonight some stools and candles had been added, plus a rug so the watchers could roll dice, the Blades’ invariable antidote for boredom.

“You look like I remember,” Fitzroy said. “Explain.”

“Watch him, brother,” Rufus growled. “He’s nimbler than a cricket.”

“I know. I remember the last time I tried him on rapiers.”

Stalwart ignored that. “The day these three and Orvil were accepted for binding, Leader took me aside and offered me a special enlistment into the Guard before I was bound.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“The King—
Fat Man
!—approved it. They needed someone to track down some sorcerers, to help Snake. Which I did. Which I have continued to do. And today I was on a special posting for Durendal. I’d have hoped that old friends might have given me the benefit of a little doubt.” He glared up at Rufus. If he had the grace to blush, which he probably did not, his massive black beard hid it.

“It’s illegal to wear a sword like that without a binding scar,” Fitzroy said. “Show it.”

“I told you, my binding was postponed! And if you think Silvercloak could disguise himself to look this much like me, wouldn’t he be able to fake a little sword scar?”

“If he thought of it.”

“Silver who?” Dragon said.

Fitzroy looked even less trustful now. “That’s the man we’re watching for, but not many people were told his name.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Stalwart said. “Fetch Leader! Or Dreadnought. Or Grand Master! Or Master of Archives! Any of them will vouch for me. Or the King. I’ve played lute duets with him, burn you!” He should guard his tongue—why not tell them about his White Star and end the conversation completely?

Fitzroy said, “You three knew Stalwart. Is this him?”

Rufus and Dragon made uncertain noises.

Panther said, “Yes. And I never did believe he’d run away. I thought Grand Master was lying.”

“We’ll take him upstairs. Search him.”

“Up!” Rufus said, nudging the prisoner with a toe. “Should tie his hands?”

Fitzroy hesitated. Then—“No. I won’t risk binding a brother Blade.”

Nevertheless, they made Stalwart remove his cloak. They searched him and took away his scabbard and baldric.

Were he not so tired and discouraged, he would have been spitting fire. As it was, he fumed. “I can understand your having doubts about me, Sir Fitzroy, but these dogs will kneel when they apologize to me. Or I will make them kneel.” Dueling was a serious offense in the Guard, but it happened.

Fitzroy, granted, was looking unhappy. “You know we must do our duty. Up you go. Panther, Dragon, stay here. You will not open that door if the King himself orders it, understand?”

The stair was narrow. Fitzroy went first, the prisoner second, and Rufus followed with drawn sword.

It occurred about then to Stalwart that the only other time he had come up these stairs, some two months ago, he had been less than tactful in his encounter with Grand Master. He had done his best to humiliate the old black-guard. He had succeeded very well. Chance, as they said, was a great leveler….

Fitzroy knocked and pushed open the door. Grand Master and Master Inquisitor Nicely were lounging on either side of the dying fire. A chess set on the table revealed how they had spent their evening. The candles had burned down to stumps; the air reeked of tallow, wood smoke, and wine.

“Pardon the intrusion, Grand Master,” Fitzroy said. “Sir Rufus, cover that other door. Gentlemen, this person claims to be a companion in the Order, although he admits he has no binding scar. He was carrying this rapier, which certainly looks authentic.” He laid
Sleight
on the table. “He says you can vouch for him.”

“He does, does he?” Grand Master leaned back in his chair. “He was a candidate here, certainly…Stalwart, I think. That right, boy? ‘Stalwart’ was what you called yourself?”

The glint of spite in his eyes sent Stalwart’s temper flaming skyward.

“
Sir
Stalwart! You know I was admitted with-out binding!”

“That is forbidden under the charter.”

“The King ordered it! You know that! You know I came back here later, bringing a royal warrant, wearing royal honors!”

Grand Master reached for the decanter. “More wine, Master Nicely?”

“He’s lying?” Fitzroy demanded.

“It certainly is not a very
believable
story, is it? Improbable, I mean. I suppose an unorthodox enlistment would be possible if His Majesty issued a special edict, but I have never seen such a document. I don’t know how the boy got hold of this sword, either.” He took up
Sleight
to peer at her hilt and inscription. “It looks genuine enough.” Nothing he had said was an actual lie.

“Wait!” Stalwart howled before anyone else could speak. He was almost mad enough to throw himself at the detestable old phony’s throat. “Master Inquisitor Nicely! You know me and who I am! You know what I’ve been doing these last three months!”

The inquisitor’s unreal eyes stared at him without expression. “Sir Fitzroy, I have never seen that boy in my life before.”

Fitzroy’s hand grabbed the scruff of Stalwart’s neck. “Thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to have disturbed—”