Ironhall had never been a castle, but its wild moorland setting had inspired some long-forgotten builder to festoon parts of it with turrets, loopholes, and fake battlements. The most obvious of these follies was the tower whose attic served as the seniors' private lair. Generations of future Blades had idled in its squalor without ever having a single thought of cleaning or tidying. The furniture was in ruins and heaps of discarded clothes and miscellaneous clutter moldered in the corners. But by tradition—and everything in Ironhall ran on tradition—no one ever set foot up there except the seniors themselves—not Blades, not Grand Master, not even the King. No one had ever explained why any of those men should want to, but the invitation to Sir Spender was supposedly a great honor. It also kept Master of Protocol out.
Wasp was the first to arrive, trotting up the stairs carrying a re- spectable ladder-back chair for the guest, which he placed in front of the fireplace. He rearranged a few of the other chairs to face it and then nabbed his favorite for himself, leaning back in its molder- ing excretions of stuffing to watch the others arrive. Fox appeared and made a dive for the second-best chair; Herrick led in six or seven more; then there was a pause while Sir Spender came up one step at a time, escorted by Prime. More seniors clattered up behind them, chattering like starlings. They draped themselves on tables or rickety stools, propped themselves against the walls, or just sprawled on the boards.
"Flames and death!" the guest declaimed. "This place
is still the same disgusting midden it was when I left. Have those windows ever been cleaned?"
"Certainly not!" said Mallory, who was Second. "You can't break tradition that way in Ironhall!"
"Those look like the same ashes in the hearth."
"They're traditional ashes," said Victor, who fancied himself as a humorist. "And the cobwebs are priceless."
Spender limped over to the fireplace to hunt for his signature, for all the paneling and the steeply pitched roof and even parts of the floor were inscribed with the names of former candidates. Wasp was written near the door, very small within an overlarge initial; and he had found two other Wasp inscriptions, although Master of Archives had records of only one Blade by that name, an undistinguished member of the Royal Guard back in the days of Everard III. The other must have been even earlier and spectacularly mediocre. It would be the third Wasp who made the name memorable!
Herrick was very dark, Victor unusually blond, and Raider—who would not be coming—had hair as red as a Bael's; but with that trivial exception of coloring the seniors were as alike as brothers: all lean and agile, moving with the wary grace of jungle predators, neither too small to be dangerous nor too large to be nimble. Five years of constant effort, superb instruction, and in most cases a dash or two of conjuration had produced these fledgling Blades, awaiting only their master's call. Even their features seemed alike, with no extreme bat ears or crooked teeth. Wasp wondered if he was just noticing all this anew because Spender so obviously belonged there, an older brother come home to visit. Few Blades cared to remember any other home. Wasp was an exception there, but then he was ex- ceptional in other ways too painful to think about.
Raider hurtled up the stairs three at a time and strode over to flop down on the floor under the south window, putting his back against the wall and stretching out his long legs. He caught Wasp's eye and grinned at his surprise. Wasp rose and went to sit beside him, putting friendship ahead of comfort and provoking a minor tussle as
three men simultaneously tried to claim the chair he had abandoned. "Thought you were drilling beansprouts in sabers?"
Raider's emerald-green eyes twinkled. "I wrapped Dominic's leg
around his neck until he offered to help me out." He was lying, of course. Giving the juniors fencing practice was never the most pop- ular of assignments; but only Raider would rather listen to a talk on politics, even with the Order's latest hero doing the talking. Dominic would have agreed to the exchange very readily.
The door slammed, then Fitzroy came clumping up the stair to announce that this was everyone. Wasp looked around and counted two dozen seniors present. Traditionally there should be less than that in the whole class, but the King had assigned only one Blade in seven months. Poor Wolfbiter had been twenty-one by the time he was bound last week. Bullwhip was twenty. The rest were all eighteen or nineteen, unless some of them were lying about their ages—as Wasp was.
As Prime, Bullwhip made a little speech. He was chunky by Blade standards, a slasher not a stabber—meaning saber not rapier—sandy- colored, the sort of man who would charitably be described as "stolid." He was certainly no orator. Spender thanked him, took the chair Wasp had brought, and began to talk politics, specifically politics that led to civil war.
Master of Protocol and his assistants had the unenviable task of preparing the candidates for life at court. That included teaching them dancing, deportment, elocution, etiquette, some history, and a lot of politics. By their senior year it was almost all politics—taxes, Parliament, foreign affairs, the machinations of the great houses. Frenetically active and athletic young men would much rather be fencing or out riding on the moors than listening to any of that stuff, with the possible exception of the racy court scandals. At least Spender was a novelty and hence more interesting than the usual fare. The King of Fitain had lost control of his barons and failed to rally the burghers. Even kings needed allies. And so on. Twenty-four young faces made earnest efforts to seem attentive.
Only Raider would not be faking, Wasp decided. Glancing side- ways he saw that his friend was indeed very intent, nodding to himself as he listened. He had the strange perversion of finding politics interesting. He was probably the only man in the room who cared a snail's eyebrow about what had happened in Fitain. Everyone else just wanted to hear about the fighting and how it felt to keep on fighting and how it felt to keep on fighting when you knew you ought to be dead after having your thigh crushed and a sword run through you.
The sky was blue beyond the dirty panes.
Back in Wasp's beansprout days he had watched Lord Bannerville bind Spender. Dragon and Burl must have been there, attending their ward, but he could not remember what they had looked like.
No one had thought to open the windows and the room held too many people; it was stuffy. Attentions were wandering.
At the far side of the room, Herrick stifled a yawn.
Suddenly Wasp's jaw took on a fearful life of its own. He struggled desperately, but the yawn escaped. That one Sir Spender noticed.
Sir Spender exploded. "Smug young bastards!" he snapped. He heaved himself to his feet. "You don't give a spit about this, do you, any of you?" His already pale face had turned white as marble. "You don't think it matters! Doesn't concern you, any of you, does it?" He glared around the room, eyes flashing with fury, left hand steadying his scabbard as if he were about to draw. "You insufferably stuck-up unbearable latrine cleaners, all of you!"
Twenty-four seniors stared up at him in horror. Wasp wanted to die. How could he have done that? Yawning! What a crass, imbecilic, childish thing to do!
But Spender's rage was not just against him—it was directed at all of them. "I know what you're thinking!" He grew even louder. "You all think that the King takes the best for the Guard and it's only the failures he assigns as private Blades. Don't you? Don't you? Just nod!" he said, dropping his voice to a menacing growl. "If that's what you think, you young slobs, just nod once and I'll give you a fencing lesson with real swords. I'm a private
Blade and proud of it. Burl and Dragon were my brothers and they're dead! They didn't rank second to anyone!"
Wasp stared appealingly at Prime and so did everyone else. Say something! A week ago Wolfbiter had been Prime and Wolfbiter would have known exactly what to say. But Wolfbiter had gone, and in Bullwhip's case the sword was mightier than the tongue. He had straightened up off the wall, where he had been leaning. His mouth opened but no sound emerged.
Spender had not finished. "You all think you're going into the Guard, don't you? Nothing but the best! Well, I tell you being a private Blade is a thousand times harder than lounging around the palace with a hundred others. It's a full-time job. It's a lifetime job! None of this ten-years-and-then-dubbed-knight-and-retire nonsense. We serve till we die! Or our ward does."
Bullwhip's freckled, meaty face remained locked in an agony of embarrassment. Mallory, who was Second, seemed equally frozen, unwilling to upstage his leader—good manners but not good sense when a hero started having hysterics.
Wasp jabbed an elbow in Raider's ribs. "Say something!" he whispered.
"Hmm? All right." Raider flowed to his feet, unfolding like a flail. He was third in line, after Mallory. He also stood almost a hand taller than any other man in the school, long and lean; with that copper-red hair and green-green eyes he was never inconspicuous. Everyone looked, including Spender.
"With respect, sir, I certainly do not believe that. I doubt if anyone here does. Wolfbiter is the finest fencer Ironhall has produced since Sir Durendal and just a few days ago we all saw him being bound as a private Blade. He put all of us to shame with steel, yet the King assigned him to someone else, not the Guard."
Twenty-three throats made earnest sounds of agreement.
"In fact," Raider added, perhaps hoping to change the subject, "he assigned him to Sir Durendal and none of us can imagine why."
Spender stared at him in silence for a moment. His color
flamed swiftly from its corpselike white to brilliant red. Wasp relaxed. Everyone did. They had been taught that pallor was the danger sign. Blushing meant apology or bluff. The hero sank down on his chair again.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "Sorry, sorry, sorry!" He doubled over.
Bullwhip waved hands at the stair, meaning everyone should leave. Raider made contradictory signs—stay where you are!—and everyone stayed. No one ever argued with Raider, not because he was dangerous but because he was always right.
"Sir Spender," he said, "we are sorry to see you distressed, but you should know that we continue to admire you enormously and always will. We are proud to know you, and when we become Blades ourselves we shall be inspired by your example and what you and your two companions achieved. We think no less of you for being human."
Nobody breathed.
"The last entries in the Litany," Raider continued, "were made two years ago during the Nythian War. Sir Durendal saved the King's life outside Waterby. He defeated a team of four assassins single- handed and did not suffer a scratch. I mean no disrespect to him, Sir Spender, but he is so close to a legend that he hardly seems hu- man. You inspire me. He makes me feel horribly inadequate. Your example means much more to me than his does, and that is because I know that you are flesh and blood, as I am." Nobody else could have taken over from Prime without giving offense, but Bullwhip was beaming gratefully.
The Blade looked up and stared at Raider. Then he straightened and wiped his cheeks with a knuckle. "Thank you. That was quite a speech. It means a lot to me. I'm afraid I've forgotten which one..."
"Raider, sir."
"Thank you, Raider." Suddenly Spender was in charge of the room again, sustained by the four or five years he had on all of them. "Sorry I lost my temper." He smiled ruefully, looking around. "Blame the King. He ordered me to come here and Return the swords. I shouldn't have
let old weasel-tongue Protocol talk me into staying on. I haven't been away from my ward since the night I was bound. Commander Montpurse gave me his solemn oath that he would assign four men to keep watch over His Lordship day and night until I get back, but it isn't the same. And after what happened in Fitain, I'm extra sensitive. It's driving me crazy!" He smiled at their horrified expres- sions. "You didn't think being a Blade was easy, did you? You don't care about rebellion and civil war. Why should you? It isn't going to happen here in Chivial. And I need to be with my ward. So, if you'll excuse me now, I'll be on my way. The moon will see me back to Grandon." He was talking of an all-night ride and he looked exhausted already.
When Bullwhip tried to speak, Spender stopped him. "You have other things to attend to. I promised not to warn you, but in return for the honor you have done me, I will. The King is on his way. He should be here very shortly."
Raider spun around but not before Wasp was on his feet and looking out the window. Horsemen in blue livery were riding in the gate.
"He is!" Wasp screamed. "He's here! The King is here!"
His voice cracked on the high note. He turned around to face the glares of a dozen men who wanted to murder him on the spot.