I. At Gossips’ Corner

• 1 •

“Isabelle!” Mistress Snider screeched. “Are you deaf?”

Isabelle was not deaf, but she would have had good cause to be, working in this kitchen. On one side of her Nel was chopping up salt pork with a hatchet, on the other Ed pounded dried fish with a mallet—it took hours of pounding and soaking to make it even close to edible. At her back, Lackwit was powdering salt just as loudly. Lids danced and clattered on boiling pots, the pump handle squeaked, drudges were rattling sea coal into the great brick ovens and raking out ashes. The door, left open to admit cool air and flies, led to the stable yard where the farrier was shoeing a horse. Deaf? Not at all.

“And what’re you doing with all that cinnamon?” The old harpy waxed louder and shriller. Mistress Snider was tall and stooped, tapering from grotesquely wide hips up to a small, mean face shriveled around a beak nose.

“I am making a dipping sauce as you told me to!” Isabelle shouted back. “Cameline sauce, with ginger and raisins and nuts, with cinnamon and pepper, but how you expect me to do it with no cloves, no cardamon—”

“Not so much cinnamon! You think we’re made of money here? Stale bread and vinegar, that’s what makes a sauce, girl. Use up some of those herbs before they rot completely. A man wants you! A gentleman is asking for your husband.” The old horror canted her head to peer at Isabelle with one glittery eye, oozing dislike. “And be quick back. I need that sauce done right. And soon!”

With difficulty, Isabelle held back some truths as unpalatable as Mistress Snider’s food. The woman skimped ridiculously, but all Chivians tried to get by with inferior ingredients smothered in peppery sauces. In Isilond, one began with a good piece of meat and used only enough seasoning to bring out its natural flavor. She wiped her hands on her apron.

“Yes, mistress.”

“He’s waiting in the King’s Room. You hurry back. Don’t expect me to pay you when you’re not working.”

No, Isabelle would be paying her for the privilege of speaking with a potential client. She set off on the perilous trek to the door, watching out for scavenging dogs and people hurrying with hot pans, for her balance was not as certain as it used to be. Fortunately, the baby never made her nauseated, although she lived in that horrible kitchen from before dawn until after nightfall. She had nightmares of giving birth there. But a gentleman looking for Beau might mean a client and real wages, instead of the pittance he earned in the yard by day and serving beer at night.

Leaving the reek of boiling cabbage, she went into the big taproom with its smoky fog of yeast, people, and cheap candles. Gossips’ Corner was, first and last, a tavern, where beer flowed like water—“and for good reason,” Beau said. Located in the heart of Grandon, not far from Greymere Palace, Gossips’ Corner was a universally recognized address for people to rendezvous or leave messages or even dine, although Isabelle could never understand why anyone who had any choice should choose to do that. It offered rooms by the night or the week or the hour—she and Beau lived there, in a garret five floors up. It provided music and singing and gambling. Those who sought to buy a horse, hire a servant, pick pockets, or contract odd jobs could usually be accommodated.

The City Watch, bought off by Master Snider, turned blind eyes to shadier services: girl or boy companions in the rooms, sinister conjurations not offered by honest elementaries, recovery of recently stolen goods, collection of debts, or other forms of assault. Today the taproom was as noisy as the kitchen, with a dozen carpenters competing in hammering. Riots were commonplace in Gossips’ Corner, but last week’s had been unusually vigorous, climaxing in a party of public-spirited Baelish sailors attempting to burn the place down.

The King’s Room was a cubicle for private conversation. Furnished with a timber table and two benches, it was just as cramped and pungent as the taproom outside, but the pebbly glass in its diamond-pane windows let in a fair light. The solitary occupant rose as she entered, an unexpected courtesy. A gentleman, certainly. His hose, doublet, and skirted jerkin were of fine stuff and beautifully tailored—not quite in the latest mode sported by court dandies, but quite acceptable on an older man—and his knee-length cloak was a magnificent gold brocade, trimmed with a collar of soft brown fur that tapered all the way down the edges. Yet he was clean-shaven, in defiance of current fashion, and the silver hair visible below his halo bonnet seemed clumsily cut. He bore his years well, standing straight and tall.

He bowed. “Lady Beaumont? Good chance to you, my lady.”

Isabelle shut the door. “I am Mistress Cookson, may it please your lordship.” People who claimed a rank above their station could land in the stocks. Was he one of the King’s spies?

He pursed his lips in disapproval. “Then pray be seated, mistress. I do believe we have business to discuss. And if you are to be Mistress Cookson, then I shall remain Master Harvest for the nonce. May I offer you some wine, or order some other refreshment?”

He would have paid dearly for the bottle of Snider’s best that stood on the table with four goblets. Isabelle declined the wine, but she did sit down, determined to get her money’s worth. The Sniders would dock half her day’s pay for allowing her a few minutes to meet with this man under their roof, despite having charged him for the use of the room.

The man not-named-Harvest returned to his bench and studied her with coal-dark eyes that age had not dulled. “I need speak with your husband, my lady. The matter is urgent.”

“It is about lessons?” He was too old to fence, but he might have grandsons.

A smile flickered and was gone. From his pocket came a paper that she recognized instantly as one of Beau’s handbills. She had helped him design it and was still furious that Master Snider’s printer had ruined it by setting Available At Gossips’ Corner in the largest type. The visitor spread it on the table and her suspicion flamed higher.

“That is outdated, my lord. We have a newer version. I can fetch one.” She began to rise.

“Pray do not trouble. I have seen that, also. The only difference is that Sir Beaumont’s name was changed to ‘Ned Cookson.’ Will you tell me why?”

Long-smoldering anger made her blurt out the truth. “He was ordered not to claim to be a gentleman, my lord.”

“Ordered by whom?”

“By Blades from the palace! The Royal Guard! They harass him! They threaten to report him to the Watch for wearing a sword when he is not of rank. They frighten his pupils away. Is that why you are here, master? To cause us more trouble?”

Master Harvest shook his head vigorously. “Mistress, I am shocked by this. I thought I had put a stop to it.”

“They are not so bad now as they were last year,” she conceded. “But by any name he is still the same expert fencer, my lord. His time is almost all spoken for just now, but I am sure he would be honored to wait upon your lordship at your convenience.”

The visitor sighed and laid his hands on the table. He stared at them, not at her. “Mistress, I truly believe it is in Beau’s interest that I speak with him as soon as possible.”

“He is currently instructing at a noble house not very far away from here. I could send a boy and have him call on you at your residence.”

Another sigh. “Lady Beaumont, pardon my doubts. Your husband is far from the first man to try teaching Ironhall fencing outside the school itself. In four centuries, very few have succeeded in earning a living at it. It is the best system, of course, but it needs great dedication. At Ironhall we pound the boys’ heads with mallets of honor and service and tradition, day in and day out, all through their adolescence. Anything less than that and it won’t work.”

“He teaches many styles, my lord. Long sword, bastard sword, short sword, sword and buckler, backsword, rapier—”

“—rapier and cloak, rapier and target, two rapiers, rapier and dagger—” the man said, quoting from the handbill.

They finished the list in unison: “—sword and buckler, sword and sword-breaker.”

He laughed. “I am sure he teaches them all very well. The juniors used to fight over him. Unfortunately, fencing is out of style now. Old King Ambrose was a devotee of the noble art, but King Athelgar does not care for it and kings set fashions. Henchmen with staves are in; fencing is out. And now you tell me that the Royal Guard is driving away his clients! Lady Beaumont, has he any pupils at all?”

“If you will not tell me your business, I must be about mine.”

“I wish to offer your husband a job. I will pay well.”

That was more like it! “Pray forgive my suspicions, my lord. Beaumont has served the Duke of Permouth, and His Grace gave him a very good reference. The Earl of Mayewort also—” She distrusted the intelligence behind those penetrating dark eyes.

“Last year. For about a month in each case, just long enough for the King to find out about it and apply pressure.”

“Who are you?” she shouted, heaving herself up. “Why are you spying on us? What harm is he doing, trying to earn an honest living?”

“None, mistress. But the King bears Beau a grudge. He had him fired from those positions and probably others, is that not so?”

“No,” Beau said. “I quit because they expected me to eat in the kitchen.”

Isabelle wondered how long he had been standing behind her. The visitor should have noticed—must have done! He looked up now, dark eyes studying the newcomer.

“Where do you eat these days, then?”

“I have given up eating. It is a disgusting habit.” Beau closed the door almost as silently as he had opened it. He sat, pulling Isabelle down beside him, then reached across for the wine bottle. He poured, filling three goblets.

His boots had brought a powerful odor of stable into the room. He was a compact man, and his filthy, shabby leather jerkin and breeches made him seem small compared to the padded and pleated visitor—those were emphatically not the clothes he normally wore when meeting potential clients. He was bareheaded, which no gentleman ever was, but the wind that could never ruffle his ash-blond curls had flushed his fair cheeks. Or his color might be from anger, for certainly his pale eyes were steely as he regarded the stranger.

“I recognized Destrier.” Beau set a glass in front of Isabelle. “He’s too old now for such a long ride. He has an ingrown lash in his right eye that should be seen to.” In a world where every man prized himself on his horsemanship, that was first point to Beau.

The visitor could be just as inscrutable. “He doesn’t live on Starkmoor any more and I’ll tell my son to have the eye looked at.”

Starkmoor was the site of Ironhall, the Blades’ headquarters and school, and now Isabelle recalled this stranger’s curious remark, “I thought I had put a stop to it.” Only three men could hope to stop the King’s Blades doing anything they pleased, and since he was neither the King nor Commander Vicious, he must be Grand Master, the legendary Durendal, Earl Roland, of whom Beau normally spoke with awe and reverence, quite unlike his current biting mockery. Roland had been the finest fencer of his generation and King Ambrose’s Lord Chancellor for another. She had just offered him fencing lessons.

“Are you truly forbidden to use your Blade name?” he asked.

Beau shrugged. “Title. It was always only honorary and a stable hand claiming knightly rank is unseemly. ‘Beaumont Cookson’ lacks euphony, don’t you agree?”

“Some say that you brought much of your trouble on yourself.”

“Who does not cry for just deserts, when all he really wants is pity?”

Grand Master showed his teeth. “You had orders to leave town. That’s what the harassment is about. Why don’t you do as you’re told—go away and start over somewhere else?”

“I enjoy listening to the gossip here.”

“Why didn’t you enter the King’s Cup this year?”

“You came for lessons? A man of your years will find fencing strenuous.”

They were fencing with words—feinting, parrying, riposting, and never quite saying what they meant. His lordship tapped the handbill spread on the table.

“This says that you won the King’s Cup two years ago against competitors from four kingdoms. Last year, of course, you were elsewhere. Why did you not compete this spring?”

“I might have lost. Who wants lessons from the third or fourth best swordsman in the world?”

“Then you need not have mentioned it.”

Isobel sniffed at her wine glass and set it down hastily. She should go back to work. Nosy Mistress Snider would know that Beau was here and selling fencing lessons did not need both of them. But she wanted to know what spite the Blades were plotting against Beau this time.

Lord Roland tasted his wine. Without comment, he set the glass down and folded his arms as if he had reached a decision. “You are not the first Blade to end up working as a stable hand, but you will never convince me that you enjoy it. I came here to offer you a job.”

“I happen to be married.”

“I did not mean an Ironhall post. This would be a favor to me personally, not His Majesty.”

“An assassination, is it?”

Roland glared. “No. I have a serious problem and I believe you may be able to solve it for me.”

Beau rose, ignoring the wine he had not touched. His mocking smile did not waver. “I do appreciate your concern, my lord, but my work is piling up even while we speak.”

Isabelle kicked his messy boot under the table. They needed the money! Men! Why would a man do anything rather than accept help when it was offered?

“Sit down,” Grand Master said. “This is very confidential.”

“Then it would be safer not to tell anyone.” Beau shaped a slight bow. “I must rush and prepare bran mash for my charges, and my wife likewise, for hers. It has been fun reminiscing about old—”

“I have lost a Blade. He has been stolen.”

After a moment Beau said, “That is a totally ridiculous statement!” and sat down again.

• 2 •

“Do try the wine, Lady Beaumont,” Grand Master said. “It is not what its label says it is, but quite drinkable.”

“I must attend to my duties, my lord. And if the matter is as confidential as you—”

“Please stay! I am very happy to meet you at last, and just wish the times were happier. Mine is a very curious problem. It has me baffled, and that snaky grin on your husband was always a sign that he was out of his mental depth. Perhaps you will be able to shed some light on the path for both of us.”

Lord Roland had won a point and was enjoying it. He knew how to charm. She returned his smile, acknowledging that few people could fence words with Beau and win.

Beau, quite unabashed, moved Isabelle’s glass a little closer to her and took a sip from his own. “Forgery?”

“Of course.”

“But why?”

“That is the question. As you probably know, Lady Beaumont, Ironhall boys always leave in the same order in which they were admitted. There are good reasons for this, but it can cause difficulty, especially now, when we train fewer boys than we used to. I send regular reports to the Commander of the Royal Guard, advising him how many we have ready for binding. Sir Vicious, in turn, advises His Majesty. Two or three times a year, the King comes to Iron-hall and harvests the next batch. He cannot delegate that duty; it must be his hand on the sword that binds them.”

Isabelle suppressed a shiver, thinking of the deadly white scar over Beau’s heart.

“Of course the King may also assign Blades to other persons.” Lord Roland regarded her darkly. “You will not remember the Thencaster Plot, but one of its more distressing results was that some Blades were put in impossible conflicts of loyalty. Many went insane when their wards turned traitor. Others died fighting against their king. Ever since then, His Majesty has been reluctant to gift Blades to others. The Royal Guard absorbs almost our entire output nowadays; that is why we admit so few. But the King has not completely given up assigning private Blades.”

Like Beau. She nodded.

“Consequently,” Grand Master continued, “I had no reason to be suspicious a few days ago when a man rode into Ironhall with a warrant from the King. He gave his name as Sir Osric Oswaldson. I was mildly surprised that I had never heard of him, nor had Master of Protocol, but he dropped hints of a secret mission and the King wishing him to have a Blade guardian.”

“Is that usual, my lord?”

Lord Roland smiled. “No, but possible. It happened to me, about half a century ago.”

And Beau, who was positively leering. He hated mysteries he had not created himself.

“I was unhappy that the warrant required me to bind only one Blade, because His Majesty knows my concerns about that and has never ignored them before. But kings do as they please.”

“Osric,” Beau said. “Baelish name. Was he a Bael?”

“He could be. His hair was more sandy than red, but it did have a reddish tinge and he was the right age to be one of Athelgar’s childhood friends. He volunteered no personal information and brought no attendants who might have gossiped in the kitchens. The King sent most of his cronies home after the Thencaster Affair, but he could well have chosen one for some confidential mission. It all made sense.”

When his audience did not comment, Lord Roland continued. “I gave him my usual lecture on the care and upkeep of Blades. In all good faith I summoned Prime and introduced him to his ward-to-be. Swithin? Remember him?”

Beau nodded. “Gangly lad, with a shock of black hair? Always looked surprised, as if his eyebrows had been stuck on too high.”

“He has a nasty surprise coming to him now, if he hasn’t had it already. He was late developing, but he turned out very well, excellent man, wonderful on a horse. I like to keep one of the best to be Prime so that no one thinks he’s a reject. The following night he was bound.”

Beau drummed fingers on the table. “I suppose ... the oath is part of the binding. There’s no question that the conjuration would work if the ward used a false name?”

“If it hadn’t, Swithin would have died. And if it was possible to bind by proxy, the King would not come to Ironhall. No, it’s whose hand holds the sword that counts.”

“Osric knew how to wield a sword?”

“No,” Grand Master said. “I doubt if he’d ever touched one before, but he got the point in Swithin’s heart, which is all that matters. Before dawn they rode off over the moor together, Aragon succeeded as Prime, and Ironhall carried on as it always does.”

“But?” Isabelle prompted in the silence.

Grand Master scowled. “A few hours later a couple of guardsmen came by. Sir Valiant and Sir Hazard—you remember them, Beau? They were on their way to Nythia to inspect renovations at a royal hunting lodge, so of course they dropped in at Ironhall. Hazard mentioned that the King had gone off to Avonglade for a week’s hunting and would be back on the ninth. That’s today.”

“Loose lips!” Beau said scornfully. “Does dear King Athelgar not keep his movements secret?”

Roland shrugged. “He tries to. He keeps everything secret. He’s said to keep secrets from himself. But if he had gone for a week, then he must have left on the first or second ...”

Beau emptied his goblet and pulled a face. “So you retrieved Osric’s warrant from the archives and took another look.”

Grand Master produced a paper and passed it across. Isabelle leaned against Beau’s shoulder to study it. It was a common octavo sheet, printed in heavy black type, with a few gaps where additions had been inserted in a hasty scrawl.

We, Athelgar, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, Lord of the Three Seas, Fount of Justice, &c. to our trusty Durendal, Earl Roland of Waterby, Companion of the White Star, &c., Grand Master of our Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades: Greeting! We do request and require that you cause the most senior one Candidates to be bound as Companions in the aforesaid Order by its Secret and Ancient Rituals to serve our Royal Intents by defending our well-beloved Osric Oswald-son, Bart against all Perils and Persons Whatsoever for as long as he shall live.

Done by our hand at our Palace of Greymere this 3rd Day of Eighthmoon in this 13th year of our Reign. Athelgar

As a warrant for a man’s life it was singularly unimpressive, not unlike Beau’s handbill. He took that up also, as if to compare them.

“You said His Majesty was not in Grandon on the third,” Isabelle said. “He made a mistake on the date?”

“Kings are very careful over dates, Lady Beaumont,” Grand Master said. A former chancellor would know that. “A wrong date on a royal signature could have grave consequences.”

“Then he postdated the warrant.”

Beau’s smile was more catlike than ever. “What possible reason can a king ever have for postdating anything, love?”

She had no answer to that.

“So you suspected a forgery,” Beau said. “Is it conjured? You had a White Sister sniff it?”

“No need,” Roland growled. “The writing is a purely secular forgery. The seal may be a conjurement. I can’t tell the seal from the real thing—it’s only the royal signet, of course, not even the privy seal, but that is standard. The hand is not the King’s. A good copy, good enough to fool me at first sight, but when I compared it with others, I could see the discrepancies.”

The old man spoke calmly, but he must be seething. A long lifetime of public service would end in ridicule. The King might impose a cover-up, but that would not save Grand Master from the royal wrath.

Beau smiled. Neither man spoke.

“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said. “How can the imposter hope to get away with this? A Blade is not a silver dish to be fenced or hocked. A Blade has a tongue. He talks.”

“If a man can be hanged for stealing a sheep,” Lord Roland inquired acidly, “will the penalty for stealing one of the King’s Blades be less?”

She should have seen that.

“So the loot will not testify against the looter,” Beau said. “I’m not sure if a Blade’s binding prevents him from pounding his ward to mush in a non-fatal sort of way. Were I Swithin, I should be inclined to try.”

A private Blade was bound until death. Only the Guard could be dubbed knights and released.

“A Blade is not invisible,” Beau continued. “Dress a Blade in rags and he does not lose his ...”

“Arrogance,” Isabelle murmured helpfully.

His knee nudged hers under the table. “Distinctive poise. And our friend Osric can never go anywhere without taking his ill-gotten guardian along. He can never risk visiting Grandon, certainly.”

“He’s gone abroad, then,” she said. “Back to Baelmark.”

Roland shrugged. “Or anywhere in Eurania.”

“And you cannot even hazard a guess who he was?” Beau asked.

“I had never seen him before.”

“So why bring your gaffe to me?”

They were playing word games again, feinting at meanings. Of course they must know each other very well, so they could jump the gaps, but there was also danger looming. Kidnapping a Blade was certainly crime enough to involve the Dark Chamber. Since no lie could deceive inquisitors, conversations must be deniable.

“What can Beau do about it?” Isabelle demanded. “What can anyone do? Swithin will die before he will desert his ward. If you catch Osric and lock him up, you’ll have to lock up Swithin, too. If you chop off his head, Swithin will go insane, won’t he?”

“This could be more serious than that,” Beau muttered.

“Much more!” Roland said.

“What can Beau do, though?” Isabelle repeated.

The two men stared at each other as if they were now communicating without any words at all. They still did not answer her question.

Lord Roland rose. “Swithin has been kidnapped! Tricked into dedicating his existence to safeguarding a thief! His entire life has been stolen from him. I want that boy found and compensated. Somehow. I cannot imagine how. And in secret. I think you are the man to do it for me, Beaumont. I will provide expenses.” The wash-leather bag he tossed down landed with a metallic thud that shook the heavy table.

Beau jumped up. “I will not take your—”

“You will need a good sword.” Lord Roland was not only taller, he was louder. “Fortunately, I have one I can lend you.” He reached down and produced a sword in a battered, well-used scabbard—it must have been lying on the bench beside him all the time. He laid it on the table, as if raising the stakes in a wager.

Beau stared, shocked into silence; the wind-burn flush on his face fading to pallor.

Even Isabelle knew that hilt, with the silver cage around the leather-bound grip, but the pommel was wrong. The cat’s-eye cabochon that had once gleamed there had been replaced with a simple white stone, like a pebble off a beach. She leaned across the table to draw the blade just far enough to expose the name inscribed on the ricasso: Just Desert.

Beau licked his lips, then said hoarsely, “I will not take your gold, my lord!”

Isabelle was seized by a potent urge to kick him or shake him. They needed that gold! Desperately! It would buy them passage back to Isilond, or provide a start of a decent life here in Chivial. She had a baby coming. Beau was being wilful again, crazy-proud again, ruining everything again, just as he had when he defied the King. She forced down her anger, clenching her fists. Loyalty! Trust him!

Grand Master said, “Sir Beaumont—”

“No!” His voice was soft, his smile hard. “I do not need your charity.”

“You need someone’s!”

“No! I refuse. I was expelled from the Blades in disgrace. They miss no chance to show their contempt for what I did. I won’t wipe their noses for them. Take your gold, and your warrant, too.” He thrust purse and paper back at the frowning Roland. “Good chance to you, my lord. You can find your own way out.”

Lord Roland bowed stiffly and stalked away, cloak swirling.

But the sword still lay on the table.

• 3 •

Isabelle opened her mouth to start asking questions and Beau kissed it. He might still not be the best swordsman in the world, because in the two years since he won the King’s Cup he had been deprived of the intense daily practice that experts needed to keep up their skills. She never doubted that he was the world’s best kisser.

He was far stronger than he looked, and she could do nothing but cooperate. Her swelling breasts spread against his hard chest and her belly could just still fit in the concave curve of his. When the world spun at a crazy angle and her knees buckled, he lowered her carefully to sit on the bench. She was giddy and breathless. He was flushed.

Only then did he take up the sword.

“Why didn’t you accept his gold?” she asked bitterly.

“Because I will have nothing to do with treason.”

“Treason?” She thought of the horrible things they did to traitors.

“Tampering with the King’s Blades could certainly be construed as treason.” His eyes flickered a steely warning, and she remembered the cryptic hints that there might be more to the crime than Roland and he had said. “Sooner or later the inquisitors will bay.” He peered along the blade.

The first time he proposed to her, he had warned her that a Blade’s ward must always come first, promising she would always be second. He had lied, although unwittingly. Just Desert had been second. He had always spoken of his sword as female, she. She was a schiavona sword, two-edged, tapered, basket hilt—not a large, clumsy weapon, but neat, like him. Also deadly, like him. The only time Isabelle had ever seen tears in his eyes was when they took her away. And now she was back. Roland had known the one coin that would buy her husband for whatever his real purpose was.

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” She was still breathless.

“Oh, no.” He smiled thinly. “His Majesty ordered mine destroyed, remember? But Master Armorer keeps records of every sword he makes, so Roland could have ordered a replica. He would pay for it himself, too.”

She could see the nicks on the edge, many of which tallied men’s lives. This was the original Just Desert, the one he had slaughtered with on the ghastly Skyrrian quest. The King had been defied. Roland had not destroyed the sword as commanded, but if the Dark Chamber asked, Isabelle could say, “I hardly know one sword from another. My husband told me it was a replica.”

She hugged herself and the child she carried. “What was he after? You believe this absurd story of a stolen Blade? You think there’s any way you can find him, this Swithin? Wherever he is? Why did you turn down Roland’s money? Where could you even start? How could you possibly find Osric, when that won’t even be his real name?”

“I know his real name. So does Grand Master.”

“What!?” Isabelle cried. “Don’t give me shocks like that! It’s bad for the baby.”

“I said I know who ‘Osric’ is,” Beau repeated, “and so does Lord Roland. The problem will be catching him in time. The warrant was dated the third. Assume Osric rode posthaste from Grandon to Ironhall—”

“How do you know he was ever in Grandon?”

Beau grinned approvingly. “He was, but what I mean is that the date had to seem reasonable to Grand Master. The warrant is addressed to him, but it’s a royal command to the bearer, too—if the King gives you a commission like that, you do not drop it in a drawer and forget about it! You move. You act! So Osric probably arrived at Ironhall late on the fourth or on the fifth. The binding ritual begins with a daylong fast, so the actual binding could not have been done before midnight on the fifth or sixth. He and Swithin left early on the sixth or seventh; Valiant and Hazard arrived later, probably around noon. Today’s the ninth, so old Durendal did very well to get here in just two days. Well for his age, I mean. But where are Osric and Swithin?”

She was lost in this labyrinth. “What are you going to do?”

Beau’s laugh showed all his teeth. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”

“Me? You are out of your mind.”

“No, love.” He slid Just Desert back in her scabbard. “You are going to put on your best bonnet and head over to the palace. I wonder if the King is back from Avonglade yet?”