The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (36 page)

IN SPITE OF HIS IGNORANCE AND BRUTAL intentions, there was something likable about Dauntless-Audacious-Presumptuous Intrepid. He had panache, and five years of Ironhall might well turn the snotty little horror into a fine young man. At the moment he was a blatant liar. He lied when he claimed to be thirteen. He lied when he told how he had killed people and reached Ironhall a step ahead of a posse wanting to hang him. When he said that the Brat was supposed to sleep in the sopranos’ dorm but would be utterly crazy to try, he was telling the truth. But he lied again when he retrieved his blanket from a spidery nook under a cellar stair and told Emerald that this was a safe place to sleep. Obviously he would lead the rat pack there in search of her that very night—he couldn’t wait to start getting his own back for everything he had suffered in the past eleven days. Wise Brats, she concluded, found their own hidey-holes and kept their blankets hidden elsewhere by day.

Intrepid lied about the hazing he had endured, exaggerating it to frighten her. He did admit that he might have brought the worst upon himself by losing his redhead’s temper and trying to fight back. He had not yet seen that controlling that temper might be the most important thing he could ever learn and Ironhall had already begun to teach him.

She enjoyed his bubbling happiness. He had been brought to the school as a reject, a failure, but now he had run the gauntlet of Bratdom and would be one of the boys. As Grand Master had said, a little pride could work wonders.

After he had run her all up and down and through the labyrinth of First House—flea room, library, Grand Master’s study, record office, guardroom, Observatory, and a dozen other places she might never find again—they went out into the courtyard. Snow was still falling. Treacherous footing had driven the fencers indoors. The only people in sight were boys saddling horses near the gate.

“Them’s the stables,” Intrepid chirped, pointing that way. “Servant barns, West House, King Everard House. That’s the bath house and rose garden. That’s the gym. We’ll go that way and do Main House last. Come on.” He ran. Emerald did not bother asking what the rose garden was. She could guess.

The school had grown haphazardly over the centuries, in a mishmash of styles. The oldest parts, on the east side, were First House and the one Intrepid had called the bath house, both of which sported corner towers. They, and the curtain wall connecting them, were topped with battlements, so any invading army advancing from that direction would be stopped in its tracks.

Main House was an imposing stone-built edifice, built after fake fortifications had gone out of fashion. The gym was more recent still, and brick. The dormitories to the north and west could have been modern timber-and-plaster tenements stolen off any street in Grandon. The stables and servants’ quarters had an ageless rustic look.

Forge and gym were freestanding. The rest of the buildings formed a chain around them, those not actually in contact being linked by stone walls. Other than the stage scenery on the east, none of those were high enough to stop agile youths.

Intrepid did not bother taking her to the bath house. He ran straight to the gym, which was a madhouse of noisy sword practice, much too small for the number of people leaping about in it. He hung around for a few minutes, hoping to be noticed, but everyone was too busy.

“King Everard House!” he said, and took off at a sprint again. He had overlooked the Forge, which was hidden behind the gym. Emerald could hear faint clinking of armorers’ hammers. Even more, she could sense its surging elemental power and so was glad to avoid it.

She also wanted to avoid running, and chance smiled on her again before they reached the next building—Intrepid slipped on the snow and sprawled flat. She tried to help him up, but he was too furious to accept aid.

“Let’s walk,” she said. “A broken wrist wouldn’t be a very good way to celebrate your admission.”

He snarled at her and marched away, trying to hide a limp.

As they reached King Everard House, a young man trotted out. He stopped and grinned and held out a hand to shake. “Well done! I’m Loring. Who’re you?”

Intrepid puffed out his chest. “I’m Candidate
Intrepid
! That means ‘without fear.’”

“Fine choice! A great name to live up to. About two weeks?”

“Eleven days.”

“Average.” He flashed Emerald a stunning smile. “You’ll hear of Brats having to stick it out for months, but that’s rare. And someone else may turn up tomorrow. Good chance to you!” He strolled off, whistling.

Emerald
definitely
approved of Loring.

“A fuzzy,” Intrepid said. “Not much of a swordsman.”

“Oh?” she said. Who cared? With that profile he was going to break a thousand hearts when he came to court.

They passed by the lecture rooms in King Everard House. Upstairs was where knights and masters slept, and off-limits. Emerald detected no sorcery, other than a faint, pervasive hint of the binding spell everywhere. West House contained the candidates’ dormitories, all suitably named, from “Rabbit” and “Mouse” for the sopranos up to “Lion” for the exalted seniors. They all passed her inspection for magic, if not for housekeeping.

The stables, likewise, were free of sorcery. By the time she and her guide emerged from them, the light was starting to fail and the snow had turned to slush. She learned that her shoes leaked. Three boys came running out of the dusk, pink and sweaty, fresh from the gym, seeing a new Brat as future sport.

First they slapped Intrepid on the back, wrung his hand, and introduced themselves as if they had never met him before—Wilde, Castelaine, and Servian. They praised his choice of name. A couple of hours ago they would have insulted and bullied him. Then they turned to study Emerald. They were all tall enough to make Intrepid look like a child, and Servian was full man-size.

“Oh, yucky!” said one.

“They get worse and worse.”

“We’ll really have to work hard on this one.” Servian was heavyset for a future Blade, and obviously the ringleader. If it came to pummeling, he would flatten her, for the sisters at Oakendown did not teach pugilism. “Brat, I am the Most Magnificent and Glorious and Heroic Candidate Servian. You kneel when I deign to notice you.”

“I am extremely sorry, Candidate Servian, but I carry Grand Master’s token and must hurry. Some other time.”

Servian’s dark eyes narrowed and yet gleamed brighter. “We really cannot tolerate this insolence. Since you’re new, I’ll let you off with six somersaults for calling me by the wrong name and six for not kneeling.”

“It’s not playtime now. Come, Intrepid.”

Intrepid was staring at her openmouthed, uncertain whether to be impressed by her courage or delighted by the prospects. Fortunately she was not the adolescent boy they all thought she was; she was a grown woman of very nearly seventeen, highly trained in her craft, and a veteran of hair-raising adventures with Wart. Her confidence threw them off balance long enough for her to slip past them and walk away. She was shaking—from rage or relief or fright or possibly all of those.

The boys followed—Intrepid almost at her side, but not quite, the other three close behind, kicking slush at her bare legs with every step.

“He gave you orders, Intrepid!” Servian said. “Candidate Intrepid takes orders from the Brat!”

Intrepid squealed in horror. “Do not! I’m doing what Grand Master said!”

“Candidate Intrepid takes orders from the Brat!”

Wilde and Castelaine joined in the chorus.

“Candidate Intrepid takes orders from the Brat!”

“Candidate Intrepid takes orders from the Brat!”

More boys came running.

“Candidate Intrepid takes—”

“
I do not
!” Intrepid screamed, dancing in agony, splashing slush.

“Then you’ll have to fight him!” Servian crowed.

Emerald strode on, fists clenched, ears burning.

Intrepid looked up—way up—at the Brat beside him. His face was crumpled in misery. “He don’t give me orders! Grand Master said I hadda show him around.”

“Candidate Insipid takes orders from the Brat!”

“That’s
Intrepid
!”

“Insipid! Insipid! Insipid!”

“Invalid! Invalid! Invalid!” yelled one of the others.

Intrepid howled. “Awright, awright, awright! I’ll fight him tonight!”

“Fight tonight!” yelled Servian.

Emerald continued to stride ahead, half soaked now. A dozen chanting tormentors marched behind her, pelting her with soggy snowballs. They were passing the servants’ quarters, which were off-limits, heading for Main House, but it seemed a fearfully long way away. She felt a desperate need to run but dared not trust her shoes on the slippery paving.

“Faster!” Servian roared, thumping her in the middle of her back hard enough to make her stumble. “You’re serving Grand Master! Faster!”

Thump
! again, but she was ready for it and kept her balance. Forget the risk of falling, he was hurting more! Dared she run with so many witnesses behind her? “Women don’t run the way men do,” Lady Kate had warned her.

Inspiration exploded inside Emerald’s head. (“Faster for Grand Master!”
Thump
!) Lord Roland had asked, “He moved nimbly, I assume, like a swordsman?”

(“Faster for Grand Master!”
Thump
!)

She barely noticed the pain. She recalled her answer: “There
was
something odd about the way he moved.”

“Faster for Grand Master!”

Thump
!

They were all shouting it now: “Faster for Grand Master!”

Thump
! Servian’s punches were growing steadily harder, all on the same place between her shoulder blades.

And still her mind was far away, remembering the encounter in Quirk Row. Was it possible? Could the deadly Silvercloak be playing the same deception she was? Could the killer actually be a woman? That could explain “his” skill at disguise—she committed her crimes in disguise, and the rest of time everyone looked for the wrong sort of person. It meant Lord Roland was looking for the wrong sort of person right now! So were Wart and Sir Bandit. They must all be warned—

“Faster for Grand Master!”
Thump
!

Emerald spun and swung a haymaker blow at her tormentor. “Shut up, you great lout! I’m trying to think.”

Her wild swipe missed, of course—Servian was a hundred times faster than she was. She would never, ever, lay a hand on Servian. But in evading her he stepped on another boy’s toe and lost his footing. His legs shot out from under him and he sat down hard, perhaps harder than he ever had.

Splat
!

Shower of slush.

The audience howled with joy. Servian came up screaming, intent on massacring the Brat who had so humiliated him. Others grabbed him. It took four of them to force him along as they marched off into the dusk, happily chanting.

“Two fights tonight! Two fights tonight! Two fights…”

IT WAS SUNSET BEFORE BUSINESS SLACKENED IN the posthouse yard. Travelers stopped arriving. Weary grooms were settling the last horses in their stalls.

Stalwart had spent all day chasing around in search of a viewpoint from which he could see everyone arriving without being seen himself. He had not found one. If he stayed at the gate, he could not see the coach passengers; at the inn door he might miss solitary horsemen. He was
almost
certain that Silvercloak had not passed through there that day, but could have done nothing to stop him if he had. Baffled, he trudged into the cashier’s office and sank wearily onto his stool. Gleda had been sent home to make supper. Sherwin himself was counting the day’s take, clinking coins into bags.

“Still no prisoners, Pimple?”

Stalwart shook his head. “I need some advice.”

The sheriff looked up mockingly. “Spirits! You mean you’re actually asking for help?”

Stalwart swallowed his pride, like a brick. “Yes, sir.”

“Well! About time.” The fat man leaned back against the wall. “What do you need to know?”

“Lots of things. Like how to apprehend an armed and extremely dangerous swordsman after I spot him.” A sheriff ought to know that much. “I don’t want men killed. I’m trying to think of some way of luring him into a horse stall and then—”

Sherwin said a word never heard around court, except sometimes from the King himself. “How good are you with that sword of yours?”

“I’m a Blade.”

“How good a Blade?”

“Better than most,” Wart said defiantly.

“Are you so?” The Sheriff scratched his great beard. “Why don’t I get my trusty quarterstaff and we’ll go outside and try a round or two?”

A man his size would move like a pudding, and Stalwart was lightning on wheels. But a rapier was not the best weapon against a quarterstaff, and he lacked the muscle to swing a broadsword. Ironhall warned against quarterstaffs. They were peasants’ weapons, not romantic, not impressive. But out-of-doors or wherever there was space, an agile man with a six-foot ash pole was a dangerous opponent, even for a Blade.

“I think it’d be a standoff. I’d stay out of your reach, but you’d be out of mine.” Flesh wound versus cracked head.

“And if I had Norton to help? Him and another ten, say?”

Stalwart laughed, feeling one of his clouds lift. “Your men are trained in quarterstaff?”

The dark eyes glinted sardonically. “Every one, sonny. And no one notices a pole or two stacked around a stable yard. You point out your killer to us and he’ll have a broken shoulder before he knows what’s happening. And a broken leg if he tries to run.”

“Well, that helps! Helps lots! Thank you. But that’s another problem. When I see him, how
do
I sound the alarm? How do I bring your men running without alerting him too? If he grabs a hostage—”

Sherwin tossed something. It was a clumsy throw, perhaps deliberately, but Stalwart’s hand flashed out and snatched it from the air—a roughly carved piece of wood, about the length of a finger.

“A whistle?” He put it to his lips and blew, but nothing happened.

A noise in the yard caught his attention, but it was not late arrivals riding, just barking dogs upsetting a couple of horses, which were giving their grooms trouble. He turned back to Sherwin and saw teeth grinning in the black jungle.

“You did that, Pimple! Yes, it looks like a whistle. I made that when I was a lot younger than you are. Every boy whittles a whistle or two when he’s naught better to do. Well, most of mine worked right, but that one…I must have gotten a piece of magic wood, or something, because that’s a magic whistle. You can’t hear it. I can’t hear it. But dogs and horses can! You blow that in a yard full o’ horses, boy, and they’ll all at least twitch their ears. The closest ones’ll jump. All the stable dogs’ll start barking.”

The second cloud had gone. “And the killer won’t know what’s happening! Thank you, Sheriff!” Suddenly Stalwart’s quest looked possible again. “Thank you
very
much!”

“I want that whistle back, mind! Any more problems?”

“No, I don’t think so. You give your men their orders, please? Introduce me as the witness who knows what he looks like, that’s all, and I’ll describe him.”

The fat man regarded him curiously for a moment, chinking coins in his hand. “He knows you, too?”

“Yes, but he won’t be looking for me the way I’ll be looking for him.”

Again the dark eyes measured. “Where’re you going to be? How’re you going to make sure you see this villain of yours before he sees you?”

Stalwart swallowed more pride—all of it, every last bit. “You just hired a new yard boy, Master Sherwin.”

“Go on, son,” the fat man said softly.

Wart explained the conclusion he had so reluctantly reached. “I could be a groom. I know horses. Horses like me. But if a boy keeps walking a horse around all the time, people may notice. No one sees the boys with the barrows or wonders what they’re doing.”

“You’re a
Blade
, you say? You bring warrants from the Lord
Chancellor
? And you’re going to shovel
dung
in my stable yard?”

Stalwart nodded miserably. “I shoveled plenty at Ironhall.”

“And here I thought you were a gentleman!”

“I have friends to avenge, Sheriff. This is the only way I can be sure of getting near him to mark him for you and your men. And he may not be too dangerous by then. When I blow this magic whistle of yours, I want you to arrest the man who’s just had a shovelful of the stuff slammed right in his face!”

“
Flames and death!
” Sherwin uttered a bellow of laughter that should have startled every horse in the county. “Good for you! I see the Chancellor did know what he was about. Me and the boys’ll be happy to help you, Sir Stalwart.” He leaned across the table, extending a hand as big as a cat. “Sorry if I gave offense, sir. Like to judge a man by his melting point. I didn’t find yours.”

“You came close, Sheriff.”

Not really. Stalwart’s stint as the Brat in Ironhall had lasted six whole, horrible weeks. Nothing thickened a man’s skin like that did.