The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (40 page)

WHEN EMERALD AWOKE, SHE NEEDED A FEW moments to realize that she was back in Queen Estrith’s bed in the turret room and that first light was showing gray beyond the windows. Her breath smoked, and yet the rest of her was cozy. On her first night in Ironhall the bedroom in the Queen’s Tower had been squalid lodging—cob-webbed, deep in dust, and its bed not aired for a hundred years. Since then Grand Master had opened the suite and sent the servants in to clean, light fires, and make it worthy of the mysterious Princess Vasar. Knights and masters had been trooping through in small hordes ever since to admire this rediscovered treasure. The Brat had found herself safer lodgings in the royal suite and slept in the King’s bed instead.

Last night she had been cut off from that refuge by a hunting pack of sopranos, so she had returned to Queen Estrith’s hospitality. Which was a reminder that she had things to do before the carnivores awoke. Although she had found no illegal sorcery, she had a duty to keep looking.

She slithered out from the warm quilts, washed her face hastily in the bucket she had brought with her, and dressed warmly. Then she went out on the battlements to give her wash water to the moor.

Only the kitchen drudges would be awake yet. She was safe—there was light enough for her to see but not enough to make her conspicuous against the sky, no wind, and not enough frost to make the stones slippery.

She still hated heights. As a start, she made herself walk all the way around First House—past the Observatory with its stench of magic, past Grand Master’s turret, and the Seniors’ Tower. That one had no access to the parapet, but four names and years had been scratched in the stonework: “Despenser 95,” “Eagle 119,” “Aragon 282,” and “Stalwart 365.” In three centuries only four boys had found a way up. Or dared it, perhaps.

So she came back to the Queen’s Tower and the task she had been putting off. The curtain wall began here, curving gently across to the bath house, with its bizarre battlements and turrets. The turrets showed no windows and had no access to the upper floor. She knew that because the infirmary, laundry, and linen rooms were directly below them and she had explored those thoroughly. Grand Master and Sir Lothaire insisted that the turrets were only dummies, but a conscientious White Sister always looked for herself.

Frightened her nerve would fail completely if she dallied longer, she set her teeth and walked out along the top of the curtain wall. The semi-darkness helped a little, but she must hurry before the light grew any brighter. It would need only one boy glancing out a window in West House and the sopranos would have a much better idea of where the Brat disappeared to at night.

The curtain wall parapet was
much
scarier than the walkway around First House. Instead of a sloping roof on her left, she had only a long drop to the paved quadrangle. On her right the fake merlons gave her a slight sense of security, but the drop on that side was much farther, down into the hollow they called the Quarry. Perhaps the low cliff she had seen from the coach had always been there and the builders had set their pretend castle along the brink for effect. Or perhaps they had quarried right up to the base of the wall. If she fell into the court-yard, she might just possibly escape with broken bones. Anyone falling through a crenel into that rocky pit would have no hope at all.

She stared straight ahead, trailing one hand along each merlon as long as possible, reaching out for the next as she crossed the gap. Her heart wasn’t really in her mouth—it just felt that way. If she stopped she would freeze to the spot.

She lived. Knees shaky, head a little giddy, she came to the bath house. There was nowhere else to go. The battlements there were even more fraudulent than those on First House, with the fake merlons set directly against the gutters. There was no walkway behind them and none around the towers, either. She was close enough to the nearest turret to know that it contained no sorcery. Wart might be able to scramble over the roof to the others, but she was not Wart.

Relieved, she turned around and stalked back along the catwalk. Now she could honestly report that she had inspected every corner of Ironhall she had been able to reach.

The residents were divided on the subject of the current Brat, who had achieved some-thing no other Brat had ever come close to. For four days now he had evaded the juniors’ rat pack. He had been hassled a few times, but never seriously—never dunked in horse troughs, battered in fistfights, shaved bald, painted green, or made to turn somersaults until he was too giddy to stand. The majority view was the lad deserved credit for quick wits. The contrary opinion—which was held by all the sopranos and many others, including some of the old knights—was that those experiences were salutary and character building and the Brat was a sneaky coward for not submitting to tradition.

This Brat had unique advantages, of course. She carried tokens from both Grand Master and Master of Rituals, so when cornered she could always claim to be on business. More important, she also possessed a magic key. She did not enjoy carrying it around, because it made her feel as if she were in the middle of a tornado, but it would open any of the numerous locked doors in the school. This made vanishing fairly easy.

She did not escape completely. Crossing the courtyard at sunup, heading for the kitchens, Emerald heard the pitter-patter of overlarge feet behind her. A voice cried, “Brat!”

She turned to face five sopranos. As long as none of the older, meaner boys was present, she did not mind indulging them sometimes, especially in public places like this. Even Grand Master’s sacred token might lose its power if it were brandished too often.

“Brat, where are you going?”

She knelt and bowed her head. “I was going in search of breakfast, O Most Mighty and Glorious Candidate Chad.”

“Very well, then. You have our
pernishon
to proceed.”

“Thank you for this kindness, Most Mighty and Glorious Candidate Chad.”

She rose, took two steps….

“Brat, where are you going?”

Turn, kneel again. “I was going in search of breakfast, O Fearsome and Terrible Candidate Constant.”

“That’s
Most Fearsomest
! Ten somersaults for getting my name wrong.”

She was quite sure she had not, but she performed the penance anyway. She promised her-self that one day there would be retribution for all those bruises along her backbone.

After she had satisfied the Sinister, Uncanny Candidate Lestrange and the Fearful, Dangerous, Ferocious Candidate Travers, it was the turn of her former guide, Intrepid, who was showing pink stubble on the bald half of his scalp. She noted uneasily that some older boys had joined the group and one of them was Servian, sneering nastily over heads.

“I was going in search of breakfast, O Dauntless, Audacious, Presumptuous Candidate Intrepid.”

“Then you must go on your hands and knees!” Intrepid said triumphantly. This suggestion was greeted with whoops of approval.

The long expanse of paving between her and Main House was gritty and cold, but it was too late to claim to be on business now. She set off. Her tormentors shouted a few insults at her, but they soon grew bored, as they always did when the Brat failed to fight back.

One said, “Come on! I’m starving!”

A deeper voice cried, “Stop!”

Emerald settled back on her heels hopefully. The newcomer was Prime Candidate Marlon.

“If you set the Brat a penance, Intrepid, then you must stay and make sure he performs it correctly. That goes for all of you who agreed with the punishment.”

Groans.

Intrepid shrugged. “Awright! Brat, you can walk.”

By the time Emerald was upright, the rat pack was heading for breakfast at full speed—all except Servian, who, tying a shoelace, lingering within earshot.

“Thank you, Prime,” Emerald said.

Marlon smiled. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” she asked warily.

“The story going around is that you’re an illegitimate son of the King and that’s why Grand Master is shielding you.”

“Is he shielding me?”

“Somebody is and it must be him.”

“Well, I am definitely not any relation to His Majesty.”

“Son of a noble, though?”

She did not think she was anybody’s son. “That’s not the reason.”

“Well, take care,” Marlon said softly. “There are some who resent your success. If they can nab you at a good time and place, they may try some catch-up.”

They both looked at Servian’s retreating back.

Having established that Grand Master had no need of her services that morning, Emerald made herself useful helping Master of Archives decipher some ancient records. Her eyes were better than his and she wrote a fair hand. He was so impressed that he predicted she would be Master of Archives one day, after serving her ten years or so in the Guard. That prophecy seemed no more believable than her royal birth.

Around noon a revolting stench of magic suddenly became evident in the record office. Emerald dropped her quill and gabbled an apology as she fled out the door. Tracking down anything so repulsive was an easy task, although a highly unpleasant one. She went outside and saw a four-horse wagon standing below the steps into Main House. Something horrible had arrived in Ironhall.

The inevitable fencing lessons were under way all over the yard, although the equally inevitable handful of juniors had run over to gawk at the team. Grand Master himself was conferring with the carter, an unmistakable squat, roly-poly man. Emerald forced herself to walk closer and soon detected his inquisitors’ binding spell under the other magic. Fish-eyed Master Nicely had come in person.

Would he know her? If he was here on the King’s business, then it would not matter whether he did or not. But why, if he were, did the crates in his wagon contain something so loathsome and deadly? A traitor, even an inquisitor traitor, might give himself away when he discovered a White Sister inspecting his behavior.

She went to stand at Grand Master’s side, shivering in the odious magic aura. She knew that spell. Once at Oakendown she had been shown a sample of that sorcery, or one very similar. Then it had been on a tooth as big as a man’s thumb—a tooth that had been dug out of the jaw of one of the monsters that had ripped their way into Greymere Palace on the Night of Dogs.

Grand Master was in a foaming temper. He clutched a letter in both hands, kneading it as if about to rip it in half. Emerald could not make out the seal on it, but she would have bet her grandmother, if she still had one, that she would recognize it when she did.

“…don’t believe me,” Nicely said, “then why not open the noble lord’s letter and see for yourself?”

“I resent your insolence and insubordinate attitude.” Grand Master, after all, was a Blade and must share all Blades’ feelings about the Dark Chamber. He swung his scowl at Emerald like a saber. “Brat, go and tell Master of Horse that we need four men to move furniture.” Then he noticed the gaping juniors and unleashed a roar that scattered them like chaff in the wind.

The Brat ran to the stable. She had abandoned her original shoes some days ago in favor of a smaller pair, looted from the wardrobe stores. No one had mentioned that her feet had shrunk. She returned in a few minutes with two stablemen and two of the younger kitchen hands. By then Grand Master was fuming in silence on the steps and Nicely had the tailgate down.

“This one and these two, if you would be so kind,” he said prissily. “Will you lead the way, please, Sir Saxon?”

He still had not spared Emerald a glance, so she stuck to Grand Master’s shadow as he crossed the entrance hall and headed up the great staircase to the royal suite.

“His real name is Nicely,” she said quietly. “Senior Inquisitor Nicely. He has murderous sorcery in those boxes.”

Her only answer was a scowl. By the time he unlocked the imposing main doors, though, Grand Master had made one of his lightning mood changes. He welcomed the inquisitor with a smarmy smile.

“This is the presence chamber, although His Grace rarely uses it as such.” He gestured vaguely at the chair of state, the writing desk, and other furnishings. “That door leads to the robing room and bedchamber.”

“And those have barred windows, I understand.” Master Nicely prowled around, nodding his polished-ball head approvingly at the balcony and the large windows. “Yes, this will have to be the place. Ah, put it down there on the rug, men…gently, now!”

The four puffing porters were struggling under the first of the inquisitor’s crates. It was large enough to hold two dead bodies, and the men’s expressions suggested it was also heavy enough. Emerald’s suspicions of what it held were enough to make spiders run up her back. And the other two boxes were almost as big.

“Brat! Go and put this in my study.” Grand Master thrust the Chancellor’s letter at her.

She said, “Yes, Grand Master,” and departed. She had a clear impression that he did not want Inquisitor Nicely to recognize her. She suspected he already had.

Grand Master could certainly have tucked the paper in his jerkin pocket. Emerald could therefore jump to the conclusion—if she chose—that what he really wanted was for her to read the letter.

She so chose.

The seal was not the Chancellor’s, as she had expected, but the writing was. The message was very terse.

Honored Grand Master:

You are charged in the King’s name that you give all necessary aid to the bearer of this missive, who travels as Master Cabinetmaker Nicely. He brings new furnishings for the royal suite, which need be installed in haste, as Princess Vasar of Lukirk follows betimes
.

I have the honor to be, etc.
,
Durendal, Knight