The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (44 page)

Ambrose had a very complex personality, but the experts at Oakendown were satisfied that his dominant elements were earth and chance. “A human landslide,” they called him. Like Emerald, therefore, he must dislike heights, but he showed no signs of nervousness as he plodded purposefully along that narrow catwalk toward the bath house. It was a tight fit—his right elbow brushed the merlons and his left overhung the drop to the courtyard.

They were far enough from the tower now that distance had weakened the maddening scream of magic in her head. “Sire, stop! Your Grace, there is no way out at that end!”

The King halted and turned to scowl at her. He seemed to have taken no damage from the explosion, although she had seen him bathed in flame in the doorway. “You are sure?”

“Yes, sire. The turrets are dummies. There is no walkway behind the merlons.” The idea of Ambrose running up and down pitched roofs like a cat was not tenable. It hashed the mind.

“That fire is behaving oddly,” he rumbled, staring past her at the inferno. “It is not making as much noise as it should. Why has that turret not collapsed yet?”

“Because the fire is not real. It’s illusion!”

“It felt real.”

“But it isn’t.”

“So we walked into a trap? Our opponent maneuvered us into doing exactly what he wanted?”

She did not need to answer. A man strolled casually out through the wall of flames and proceeded along the top of the curtain wall towards them. He carried a sword, flicking it up and down as if to limber his wrist. Firelight glinted on his silvery cloak.

“IF THAT FIRE IS SORCEROUS,” KING AMBROSE muttered, “then the Blades’ bindings will resist it. We must play for time until they find a way through. Meanwhile, there is no need for suicidal heroics.” Backing into a crenel, he grasped Emerald’s arm and effortlessly moved her past him, then emerged between her and the assassin. She did not resist, for he was right—she would do no good being a human shield. Besides, even cats would not try wrestling on this catwalk.

Although she was trying not to look down, she knew that the courtyard was full of spectators, with more spilling out of every doorway. Horrified faces were staring up at the spectacle so brightly lit by the inferno.

“Good evening, King!” the assassin called cheerfully. He was still sauntering slowly toward them, as if he were enjoying himself too much to hurry. “Or morning in exactitude. Chilly for the time of year, I comprehend.”

“Commander Bandit warned me you were a show-off.” Ambrose was quietly backing away, keeping the distance between them constant and forcing Emerald to retreat toward the bath house.

“The wise physician trumpets his cures and buries his mistakes in silence. I bury my successes, but not without public demonstration.”

“Then you did not arrange this meeting for the purpose of negotiation?”

“Whatever to negotiate?” Silvercloak conveyed surprise, although his face was shadowed and indistinct against the fire.

“Release of your fellow conspirators, perhaps?”

He laughed. His voice was high-pitched for a man, yet Emerald had trouble imagining any woman displaying that sort of uncaring homicidal arrogance. Although he had no accent, he used an odd choice of words, which was typical of persons who had been conjured to speak a foreign tongue.

“After your inquisitors have completed with them? What purpose are they for, then? Likewise, they were unvalued to me anyway. They paid. I kill. I collect.”

Something bounced off his cloak. He ignored it. Men and boys in the courtyard were throwing things at him—books, pots, bottles, tools—with no apparent effect except a few yells of pain from below, as the debris bounced back on the crowd. Younger boys were racing back and forth to the buildings, fetching ammunition. Pliers struck a merlon and clattered down on the walkway, joining a candlestick and a hair-brush. Unfortunately Ironhall taught no courses in archery.

“You must survive to collect,” the King growled, continuing to ease back. “You really think you can get away from here alive?”

“Oh, yes! Did you ever appraise I could get in?”

“No. I’m very impressed. Shall we talk about a king’s ransom? Would you like to be my Grand Inquisitor? A peerage, plus ten times what the Skuldigger gang paid you.”

Silvercloak chuckled and shook his head. “I must contemplate my professional reputation. An honest crook stays bought. Kings rarely do.”

Ambrose stopped moving and folded his arms. He had reached roughly the middle of the curtain wall and seemingly decided to retreat no farther. “I compliment you on your ethics. You will allow my companion to leave in peace, though?”

“Alas! My condolences to the boy, but he may seek to interfere with my departure.”

“But this is no boy—”

“Excuse me,” said a voice near Emerald’s ankle. “Move the King back a pace or two, will you?”

She did not quite leap to her death in shock, but obviously the stress had driven her insane. That could not really be that familiar face down there peering up at her.

“Of course,” she mumbled, and poked a well-upholstered royal loin. “Move back three steps, sire. Right away.”

Ambrose did not stop lecturing the assassin on the moral depravity of killing innocent women, but he did resume his deliberate backing up. As soon as he had cleared the crenel, Wart scrambled up on the catwalk, rose to his feet facing Silvercloak, and drew his rapier.

The spectators’ cheers echoed off the buildings and from the distant hills. From knights to sopranos, they screamed with joy. He was recognized, and shouts of “Wart! Wart!” spread through the crowd. Perhaps sharp eyes even made out the gleam of the cat’s-eye on
Sleight
’s pommel.

They were seeing the King’s salvation. Emerald saw a friend about to die. They did not know about Chefney and Demise. Even the great Durendal had admitted he had never fenced like Silvercloak.

Of course he could not swarm up stone walls like a human ant, either. How had Wart managed this miraculous arrival?

“Bless my celebrated eyebrows!” the assassin said. “What have we here? Last week you were a carrot boy. Yesterday you collected animal excretion. And today you’re a swordsman. What are you really?”

“I’m a swordsman,” Wart said. “But you aren’t.”

“Back,” Ambrose grunted. “Must give him room.” He renewed his retreat, driving Emerald behind him.

Wart said quietly, “No. Stay there for now, please.”

“I manage in humble fashion.” Silvercloak swished his rapier up and down a few times. He was left-handed after all, although Emerald thought he had been carrying the sword in his right hand earlier. Perhaps he was ambidextrous. He resumed his slow approach.

“No.” Wart did some swishing of his own. He stepped forward two paces and halted. “You killed Chefney and Demise. They were friends of mine, so I dedicate your death to their memory.” He raised his sword in a brief salute and went back to guard. “That made us all think of you as a swordsman, but we were wrong. You’re not. You are only a sorcerer.”

“Only? I never saw a sorcerer kneel in the dung of a stable yard.”

“Nor yet a Blade. It was a regrettable expedient.” Pompous talk was not Wart’s style, so what was he up to? Was he playing Ambrose’s game, dragging it out until the Blades could come? Even if the duel was a foregone conclusion, he could reasonably hope to delay Silvercloak a few seconds. That might be long enough to save his King if the Guard was on its way. The illusory fire in the tower was faltering, shooting green and even purple flames at times. It had stopped making any sound at all.

Silvercloak halted his approach when he was close enough to launch an attack. The barrage of missiles had stopped.

Wart had his left side to the merlons and his sword arm clear. That should be the better position on this parapet, but the advantage canceled out because Silvercloak was left-handed. Being left-handed was itself an advantage, Emerald knew. Right-handed swordsmen found few chances to practice against southpaws, while southpaws could always find right-handers.

“I worked it out on the ride here,” Wart said. “It’s pretty obvious now. The door in Quirk Row was the first clue, of course. And at Holmgarth I had a score of men in that yard looking for you. I had described you exactly. I gave them the signal that you were there, and some of them were watching the gate. Yet you rode right past them.”

For the first time Emerald thought the assassin hesitated, as if re-appraising his opponent. “I have a very unremarkable face.”

“Very. And the dog tonight—that was the clincher. You fence as a southpaw—usually. Tell you what,
messer
Argènteo,” Wart said brightly, “why don’t you drop that cloak of yours and we’ll make an honest fight of this?”

The assassin’s laugh sounded a trifle forced. “I think not. If you have gotten that far, young man, then you are smarter than you look, but you also know that your case is hopeless. Why die so young?”

“I won’t die. I will avenge my friends. Come on, then, killer! Two hundred thousand ducats await if you can get past me: Stalwart of the Blades. I say you can’t.”

Silvercloak did not move.

This time it was Wart who laughed. He raised his voice in a shout to the audience below—and certainly no one in the Guard could play to a gallery better than he could, with his minstrel background. “Brothers! There’s a horse down in the Quarry. It’s in some sort of trance and there may be warding spells on it, but that’s how this Blade-killer intends to escape. If you hurry—”

Silvercloak leaped and lunged, a fast appel. Wart parried without riposting. He parried the next stroke, too, not moving his feet. And the next. The swords flickered and clinked with no apparent result. Then stillness. The contestants stood frozen in place, the tips of their rapiers just touching, eyes locked.

No blood had been shed, but the spectators whooped and cheered. The experts clearly thought Wart had shown the better form. The juniors were almost hysterical with excitement.

“That the best you can do,
messer
? That wasn’t how you treated Sir Demise and Sir Chefney! The fire behind you is turning a most sickly color. I think the Blades will be here soon.”

When the killer made no answer, Wart raised his voice again, never taking his eyes off Silvercloak.

“Your Majesty! If I may presume, sire. There is a cord tied around the merlon behind me. It holds up a rope ladder, which this man expects to be his escape route. If you would be so gracious as to—”

Silvercloak lunged again, his rapier a blur of firelight. Steel rattled against steel.

Someone—it must have been Wart, although it did not sound like him—screamed piercingly. It was certainly Wart who pitched headlong through the crenel and went hurtling down to the jagged rocks of the Quarry, far below.

AS A SKILLED TUMBLER, HE TWISTED AROUND IN the air. He landed on his feet with hardly more jolt than from jumping off a stool. By luck or magic, he had found a tiny patch of turf between two vicious rocky teeth.

He had guessed right.

Someone had to die after that fall. Although it was not he, the mental shock was considerable. He needed a minute to catch his breath, and several minutes before his heart stopped woodpeckering his ribs. It was easy enough for a rank amateur to spin fancy theories about the way Silvercloak’s sorcery worked when all the experts in the kingdom were stumped. Gambling his life on such wild notions had been rank insanity. But it had been necessary, and it was going to change a lot of things.

The horse was still there, a few rocks over, saddled and frozen in place, waiting for a rider who now would never come. Master of Rituals might know how to de-spell it. Meanwhile, the night was still cold and the light from the blazing tower was dwindling fast. Stalwart slid
Sleight
through his belt and began picking his way over to the rope ladder. He had some scores to settle: Rufus, Grand Master, Nicely….

As he stepped on the first rung, the fire over-head went out. Good chance and bad chance always evened out in the end, they said. Had that blaze in the tower started a few minutes later than it had, he would have been past the ladder, fighting his way toward the bath house end of the wall. As it was, the first thing he had seen in the sudden glare had been the horse. Guessing why it was there, he had looked for a ladder and found one. As he neared the top, he had heard the King’s voice.

And now, again, he heard voices. Torches flared against the sky, silhouetting heads peering over the edge. He did not want people trying to climb down while he was climbing up.

“If you’re looking for my body,” he yelled, “I’m bringing it as fast as I can.”

“How about this one, then?” Dreadnought asked, thrusting another jerkin at him. “I’ve known ants with fatter waists.”

“Lazy creatures, ants. Sit around getting fat.” It was not easy for Stalwart to try on livery while Leader himself was toweling his hair for him. They were in the bath house. Fitzroy was kneeling at his feet, cleaning his boots; Fairtrue was polishing
Sleight
. A dozen of the most senior members of the Guard were falling all over themselves in a mad rush to make the hero presentable. They had chosen Hawkney and Charente as the nearest to Stalwart’s size, and stripped them.

The King was waiting.

“What—
ouch!
—does Silvercloak really look like?” Stalwart asked as someone combed his hair.

“A bag of broken bones,” Bandit said. “He dropped dead at Fat Man’s feet when you disappeared. Before that—plump, swarthy, fortyish. Mustache. Nothing like you described.”

“Of course not.”

“I think that’ll have to do until he grows up,” Dreadnought said. “Here, Brother Wart, I’ll loan you this.” He pinned his diamond star on Stalwart’s jerkin and then saluted. “Ready to go on duty, guardsman?”

It was a dream. It had to be. The King never held court in Ironhall! Yet there he was at the far end of the hall, sitting on the throne in splendor, under the glittering sky of swords. Tables and stools had been removed. A dozen blue-liveried guardsmen flanked him on either side. Everyone else was standing along the walls—knights, masters, more Blades, candidates, servants; and they were all screaming their lungs out as the hero marched in at the head of his honor guard.

Any minute now he was going to wake up.

But he might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

Ambrose was even smiling, although he notoriously resented anyone else being cheered in his presence. He lacked the crown and robes he wore on state occasions, but he did have a few fancy jeweled orders spread about his person. He was imposing enough. He would do.

And now he was rising!
Kings never stood to honor anyone except ambassadors. This could
not
be real. Twenty paces…fifteen…ten…

“Guard, halt!” Bandit barked.

Stalwart stopped and drew
Sleight
.

“
What are you doing
?” roared the King. The hall cringed into mousey silence.

“Er…Sire, he is not bound.” Even Bandit sounded disconcerted. “Tonight, after—”

“Bound? Bound? Why does he need binding?”

“Um, loyalty, sire…?”

“
Loyalty
?” Ambrose bellowed, even louder. “The man throws himself off a cliff for me and you question his
loyalty
? We allow Lord Roland to come armed into our presence and now we extend that same distinction to Sir Stalwart. Give the man back his sword!”

Still dreaming then, Stalwart made formal approach to the throne: three bows, kiss royal fingers….

“Good!” said the King, sitting down again. “Now, Sir Stalwart, stand here at our side and tell us exactly what you did and how you knew to do it.” His little amber eyes regarded Stalwart suspiciously.

The hall hushed, every ear craning to hear.

“It was his cloak, sire. I mean, the dog made it obvious. It had its throat ripped out. And the door in Quirk Row. I pushed it and instead of thumping him it thumped me, only harder. And he looked much like me. To me, I mean. He looked different to everyone…never threatening to anyone, because he was always familiar. He fenced southpaw. And better—I mean his silver cloak
reflected
everything, but stronger.” Stalwart was not doing a good job of this explanation. “He was a hopeless fencer. I could have killed him on the first riposte—but that’s what Chefney and Demise tried. I’d have died. I had to make
him
attack
me
…Your Grace?”

“And then kill you?”

“Er…yes. And he wouldn’t, because he knew what would happen. So I let him drive me off the edge. He didn’t mean to, I mean….”

The hall buzzed.

The King frowned. “But he could kill people when he wanted to! Not all his victims died from trying to kill him, surely. So how could you know that his cloak would work for you?”

“I, er…I did sort of gamble on that, Your Majesty. I assumed he could switch the magic off somehow but he wouldn’t dare do that when he was fencing with an expert.”

“Mm?” said the King, as if he needed to think. “Stand back a moment, Sir Stalwart. When you arrived we were questioning…Sister Emerald?”

The dream grew stranger, for there was Em curtseying in a fantastic ball gown of green silk, all ruffles and pleats, with a long train. The effect was not improved by her magnificent multicolored shiner.

“We were about to inquire, Sister, who was responsible for that eye?”

“It was a misunderstanding, sire.”

“
Answer!
”

Emerald jumped, sending ripples along her train. “Candidate Servian, Your Grace.”

“Who?” the King said incredulously. He scowled around to locate Grand Master. “Where is this boy?”

Grand Master shuffled forward, looking flustered. “Candidate Servian!” he shouted shrilly at the hall. “A promising fencer with sabers, Your Grace, although I have been keeping an eye on…Servian?”

No response.

“He is sometimes inclined to…
Servian!
”

Silence.

“Candidate Servian is indisposed, sire.” Sir Fury advanced a pace and saluted. He had a split lip and a bruise on his cheek.

“Indisposed?” growled the King. “Show me your hands.”

With obvious reluctance, Fury displayed two hands swollen and battered as if he had punched his way through the curtain wall. If Candidate Servian had done that damage by beating on them with his face, Stalwart decided, then Candidate Servian must be very indisposed indeed. Which was long overdue. A hint of a cheer rippled through the sopranos and was hastily hushed.

“You indisposed him?”

“A lesson in manners, sire.” Fury tried to return the royal glare defiantly, but that was never easy.

His Majesty growled. “On what grounds, guardsman, do you take it upon yourself—”

“Because I asked him to!” Emerald said.

Fury looked surprised and then extremely pleased, in quick succession.

Emerald avoided his eye and blushed. Which was strange, because Stalwart had never thought of her as being shy.

The King said, “Umph!” suspiciously. He waved Fury away. “We shall take this matter under advisement. Meanwhile, we instructed you earlier, Sister, to consider what reward we might bestow on you for your outstanding service. Have you decided?”

“I beg leave to defer to Your Majesty’s renowned generosity. Well, there is one small matter. Last night some of the candidates assisted me. If Your Grace would spare a moment to acknowledge—”

Not willingly. Normally the King ignored candidates lower than the seniors ready to be bound. Only Ironhall’s finished product interested him, not the raw material. He shrugged his consent with a poor grace and scowled as the sixteen wide-eyed residents of
Rabbit
shuffled forward and lined up in awed silence to be presented.

“Candidate Tremayne,” Emerald said. Tremayne advanced a pace and bowed awkwardly.

“Candidate Conradin…” And so on. “And lastly, sire, Candidate Intrepid.”

Intrepid stepped forward. “That means, ‘with-out fear!’” he explained.

“Obviously,” the King retorted.

The brief break had allowed him to reach a decision or two, though. “Stalwart?”

“Sire?” Wart came forward.

“We are also curious to know just how you came to be at the bottom of that ladder.” Ambrose already had a fair idea, clearly. His piggy little eyes glinted wickedly. “Begin when our Lord Chancellor assigned you another of those special duties you have been performing so admirably these last few months.”

Oh, royal favor was heady stuff!

And when the tale was told—

“Strange!” said His Majesty. “You mean that when you arrived at Ironhall Grand Master failed to recognize you?”

Payback time. Looking across to the far side of the throne, Stalwart admired Sir Saxon’s appalled expression and the way his face was turning green, like a tree in springtime. He also sensed that the spectators were holding their breath, that everyone was waiting to hear his answer, not least of all the King. Grand Master’s fate was in his hands. He wished Snake were there to advise him. He wondered what the entire Loyal and Ancient Order would say if its youngest, most junior member, trashed its Grand Master. That didn’t feel like a wise move. He glanced at Emerald. Very slightly, she shook her head, which confirmed what he was thinking.

Sigh!

“Oh, no, sire. He merely declined to confirm my story. That was his duty, since he had never been officially advised of my position. I should not have expected him to do anything else.”

All Ironhall released its breath.

“And Inquisitor Nicely?” asked the King, still watching the witness intently.

Saving Grand Master’s hide was bad enough. No Blade should be expected to side with an inquisitor! “I confess that his denial surprised me.”

“Master Nicely?” the King rumbled.

Nicely came forward and bowed, but his glassy eyes failed to register any satisfying dread. “I was merely following the Commander’s instructions, sire. He informed us of Your Grace’s wish that Sir Stalwart remain incognito.”

Ambrose grunted and peered inquiringly at Stalwart again.

Fortunately, Wart had heard Snake tell many tales of the King’s little tricks. He was offering revenge, yes—Stalwart could exterminate Nicely if he wanted—but he was also testing his new favorite’s judgment and how far he could be trusted. No one could ever succeed at court without large quantities of tact.

To have an inquisitor by the throat and not squeeze? Was there no justice?
Sigh!

“I recall hearing Leader tell him that, sire,” Stalwart said. “I accept his explanation.”

The King nodded, pursing his blubbery lips. “But Sir Fitzroy, Sir Rufus, Sir Panther, and Sir Dragon—those men over there in bandages and slings? They threw you out to be eaten by monsters.”

Having forgiven an inquisitor, Wart could do no less for brother Blades. “With respect, not so, sire. They could hardly accept my story after Grand Master and the inquisitor failed to support it. I was the one who decided to leave. I am sorry I hurt them.”

The sopranos started a snigger, then the hall erupted in laughter and applause. Even the King smiled approval.

“I hope you will restrain that temper in future, Sir Stalwart. Our Guard is presently shorthanded and cannot afford such casualties every time you take offense.”

“I will try my best, sire.”

“Grand Master? If we accept his promise to behave, will you write his exploits into the
Litany
?”

“Indeed, I will, Your Grace! It will give me the utmost pleasure.”

Stalwart hadn’t thought of that. He gaped as the hall cheered him yet again. Few Blades ever made that honor roll, and even fewer of them lived to know it.

Then the King rose, and the hall fell silent. “Remove that star.”

“Sire?” Puzzled, Stalwart unpinned Dread-nought’s badge, wondering if the King could possibly know one from the other. They all looked the same to him. Then he saw Bandit and Dreadnought frantically gesturing at him….

Hastily Stalwart dropped to his knees.

“We give you this one instead.” Ambrose took the eight-pointed order from his cloak. He raised his voice to stir jingling echoes from the sky of swords overhead. “Know all ye here present, that we, Ambrose, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, do hereby raise our trusty and well-beloved Stalwart, member of the Order of the White Star, to the rank of companion in the said—” Renewed cheering drowned out the rest.

The King chuckled. The only person in Ironhall not making a noise was Stalwart him-self. He was speechless.
Companion
in the White Star? Like Roland? He was going to be hobnobbing with the Chancellor, royal dukes….