Swordpoint (23 page)

He heard roaring in his ears, and a voice he agreed with shrieking, 'Stop it! Please stop it, that's enough!'

But they weren't ready to stop until the swordsman had ceased rolling and dodging and lay perfectly still. Then the Watch picked up their prize and carried him over the north Bridge. The prison where he would eventually rest lay on the south side of the river. They'd bring him there by boat, in the daylight.

Nimble Willie waited silent in the shadows of a bridge parapet for the knot of men to pass him. Except for their staves, nothing to attract attention. But he guessed before chance showed him the face of the man they carried.

'Oh, Master St Vier,' he murmured to himself in the shadows; 'this is a terrible thing.'

And Katherine Blount returned to the one who had sent her. She managed to make a clear report; then she asked for brandy, and was given a large decanter without question.

Chapter XXIV

Lord Michael Godwin lay back on the embroidered cushions of his couch, loosened his shirt collar and tried to encourage himself to be hungry. He thought about early winter mornings after hunting, and about interminable music recitals before dinner. But the expanse of dishes set before him grew no more alluring. He wondered how the small, agile men around him managed. They were cheerfully digging into piles of dyed eggs with unfeigned vigour, cracking the shells in interesting patterns and rolling the eggs in spices; deflowering piles of fruit, cut and arranged like blossoms; spearing little deep-fried objects with the ends of carved picks. He took a grape, for form's sake; it had come from a hothouse, and must be worth its weight in eggshells.

Across the table his compatriot caught his eye and smiled. In the few weeks Michael had been in Chartil, Devin had lost no opportunity to point out to him his deficiencies in local custom. Devin was the second son of a second son; an aristocrat by courtesy, whose lineage came nowhere near Michael's. In the city of his birth Devin felt it sharply; in Chartil he was exalted to the rank of ambassador, and his hospitality was legendary. His saving grace was a sense of humour, which took the sting out of his self-defensive manoeuvres. Michael liked Devin; and he thought Devin had decided to like him, in spite of his background.

Above the racket of conversation, the ambassador said to him in their own tongue, 'Packet came in today. Lots of gossip from town.'

A servant was trying to refill one of Michael's three wine glasses. Michael gave up and let her. Her thigh rubbed against his shoulder. Automatically he turned his chin to nuzzle her waist, but his eye fell on the bangles around her ankles, and his head jerked back. She was a bonded slave. Devin's sardonic eyes

glinted at him, reading his thoughts: of course no free woman here, not even a servant, would seek to entice him; that lot fell to those whose bodies and their issue were pledged to an owner. For women, it was a step up from prostitution. He wondered if he had been selected by his host to breed, or to be flattered. Either idea repelled him.

'She likes you,' said the ambassador.

Michael hid the colour of his face in his widest-brimmed wine cup.

'It's no worse', Devin persisted, 'than one who takes your money and wishes you in hell. She'll get paid at the end of her term. More gracious this way.'

'Nevertheless..." Lord Michael took refuge in an aristocrat's shrug. 'What's the gossip?'

'Seems Lord Horn's been killed.'

Michael forgot that he was holding a wine cup when his hand opened. He caught it on its way down before it hit the table, but not before its contents had liberally bestowed themselves on their surroundings. The slave mopped at it all with a napkin.

'Friend of yours?' Devin was enjoying himself mightily.

'Hardly. I just didn't think he was ready for death.'

'Probably wasn't. They're saying a swordsman did it.'

'Oh? Any idea which one?'

'Swordsman?' A Chartil noble on his left caught the word, and continued in his own tongue, 'That's one of your labourers, isn't it, who dishonours his sword in the service of other men?'

Devin translated the comment for Michael, and chided the speaker, 'Now, Eoni, if that were so, it would be dishonour to be a soldier.'

'Fffi.' Eoni made the usual Chartil comment of disdain. 'You know very well what I mean. For the killing of noble enemies, only two things will serve: either the challenge direct, or, saving your courtesy and that of the table, the certain use of poison. None of this pussy-footing around with surrogates. And I've served my time as a soldier and I'm proud of it, so don't think to gall me that way, you small-minded, round-faced foreign excuse for a gentleman!'

'"Insult, the last refuge of blighted affection.... "' Devin quoted sweetly.

Barred by language from the conversation, Michael rolled a grape between his fingers and thought about Horn. Murdered, and he knew by whom. His life is about to become complicated. ... Yes, what was left of it. The clear eyes of the swordsman looked out from his memory, blue as spring hyacinths. ... self-serving little murderer, using his skill with a sword to destroy better men than he'd ever be___

'Excuse me.' Michael nodded to his host, and set off in the direction of the urinals. But he didn't stop there; his will took him out onto the street, walking swiftly through the sun-baked alleys of the town. He passed enclosed gardens whose feather-topped trees showed over the walls.

It wasn't that he had any love for Horn. He would have killed Horn himself, if he could. But St Vier couldn't have any quarrel with Horn; no one forced a swordsman to take a job he didn't want. No one had forced him to kill Vincent Applethorpe___

Michael stopped for a moment, involuntarily pressing his hand to his mouth. He still dreamed about it, when he wasn't dreaming of wool.

That was what the duchess had wanted - not a swordsman, not a courtier, but someone to look into the direct shipping of wool from her estates to Chartil. She was eliminating the middle-man by having the raw wool dyed and woven here into the popular shawls, then shipped back to sell out of her own warehouses___

At first he'd thought this tradesman's assignment an elaborate and degrading joke. But on the ship, studying the records and notes she had given him, he came to see how much politics was bound up in business, and how much of his skill the task would require, especially in a place where no one knew him. There were laws, and import taxes to consider.... It was the stuff of the Council meetings he always made sure to avoid, the hidden agenda of the grain reports from his father's land, which he glanced over grudgingly each month, whose revenues supported his life in the city.

The wool business had caught Michael up, intrigued him, even made him feel a certain power; but it had not made him forget Applethorpe. He would bear the death to the end of his days. And St Vier, whose skill had lured his Master into the endless night; St Vier who at the end had seemed to share with his Master a spirit and understanding that Michael could not approach.... St Vier had walked away and gone to wield his power elsewhere.

Michael looked down. A little man in a dirty headcloth was jabbering at him, asking him something. He shook his head helplessly: I don't know. Doggedly, the man repeated the question. Michael caught the words for 'lord', and 'buy*. He shook his head again; but the man blocked his path, not letting him move on. Michael pulled back a fold of his robe, showing the sword he wore to threaten him. The little man grinned excitedly, nodding with great vigour and enthusiasm. He reached inside his own robe and pulled out a little vial; one, two, three of them, all different shapes, thrusting them under Michael's nose, gesticulating with his other hand:

'Four bits! Four times four -' or maybe it was four and four -'bits for one! All three, even less!'

Michael had spent time in the market. Still not sure what the product was, but amused despite himself, he employed the bulk of his vocabulary: 'Too much.'

The man expressed shock. The man expressed dismay. Perhaps the lord did not fully understand the exceptional quality of his stock. He pointed to the vials, pantomimed drinking one, and clutched his throat, emitting realistic choking noises, reeling backwards as though looking for a resting place. He sat down hard on the ground, rolling up his eyes, then grinning happily at Michael.

They were poisons. Poisons for his enemy.

'Five!' the man said. 'All three, five each!'

A death no one could stand against, swift and sure. It would not be impossible to arrange it for St Vier. Michael Godwin had friends in the city, and money.

Michael shuddered in the sunlight, remembering the swordsman's animal grace. It was a foul death to offer such a man; a worse death than he had given Applethorpe or Horn. However the Chartils might romanticise expedience, it remained a death without honour, unheralded and unchallenged. The challenge .. you either know it or you don't.

Michael touched the sword he wore. He knew it; and for him it did not lie in feats of arms. He was a nobleman, and nobles did not seek revenge against swordsmen on commission. If anything, he should be plotting against Horn; but the nobleman had gone beyond Michael's revenge. He had no reason to want to avenge Horn, and for Applethorpe no vengeance would ever be enough. It was natural for him to want to hurt the man who had been the instrument of his first adult grief; natural, but not right. He was glad he had not even held one of the vials in his hand.

Michael's face told the little man that the bargaining was over. He drifted back around the corner, and Michael turned back toward Devin and the feast.

It was true, as the duchess had told him, that the Chartils respected a man who could use a sword. The friends he made who practised with him were intrigued by some of his straight-point technique, and amused at his lack of experience; but one of them said seriously to him, 'At least you are a man. Your countryman the feastmaster is a good sort, but___'

When he came back in the hall the eating was still going on, and there was a fourth winecup at everyone's place. He found he was ready for it, and even managed some enthusiasm over almond tarts.

Devin looked at him as he sat down. The ambassador's face was grave, but his eyes glinted with dry mirth: 'Get lost?' he said.

'Only temporarily.' Michael bit into a cake.

Chapter XXV

The Old Fort guarded the mouth of the channel to the old city, on the east bank. It was still used as a watch tower, but now its honeycomb passages housed important state prisoners. St Vier had been brought there early this morning, and Lord Ferris had come as soon as the news reached him.

Half an hour in the Fort found Ferris trying hard not to lose his temper. Finally, he sat in the chair he had first been offered, spreading his cloak out not to wrinkle it. It was as comfortable a room as could be made of the heavy stone cells of the old fort. It was the deputy's sitting room, where visitors waited to be escorted to the prisoner of their choice. But it seemed that, in the case of Richard St Vier, they were reticent with the privilege.

When Lord Ferris sat, the deputy sat too, across the table from the nobleman. The deputy was a steady man, but having to match wills with a Council Lord made him uncomfortable and turned his virtues to stubbornness. Doggedly he repeated his information: 'You will forgive me, my lord, but the orders I have come from the Crescent himself. St Vier is to be kept closely guarded, and no one is to see him without Lord Halliday's own express permission."

'I understand,' Lord Ferris said for perhaps the third time, trying to make it sound freshly compassionate. 'But you must realise that, as a member of the Inner Council, I comprise a portion of the Justiciary. All of us will be questioning St Vier as soon as my lord duke of Karleigh arrives in the city.'

'In the court you will, yes, my lord. But I have no instructions as to private interviews beforehand.'

'Oh, come.' Ferris essayed a smile, wilfully misreading him. 'Surely the serpent is deranged, and I cannot be harmed now.'

'Surely, my lord,' the deputy agreed, with the formal tolerance reserved for aggravating superiors. 'But he might be. We are guarding Master St Vier for his own protection as well as others'. In affairs of this sort, it is not always the swordsman who is the guilty party.'

'What?' Ferris exclaimed. 'Has he said anything?'

'Not one word, my lord. The gentleman - that is, the young man is most quiet and well behaved. He has not asked to see anyone.'

'Interesting,' said Ferris, in his role of chancellor, 'and possibly indicative of something. But there, I mustn't ask questions of you before the actual Inquiry.' He stood up briskly, shaking out the heavy folds of his cloak. 'I expect you have also been required to inform Lord Halliday of any who come asking to see St Vier?' The man nodded. 'Well, you needn't bother in my case,' Ferris said heartily; 'I'll go and call on him now myself, inform him of my breach of etiquette, and see if I can't procure that necessary bit of paper for you.'

'Very good, my lord,' the deputy said - or one of those non-committal phrases implying measured credulity and the desire to be left in peace by the mighty.

Ferris hurried out of the chill of the fort and into his waiting carriage, where he put his feet on a hot brick that could have been hotter. He did not drive to Lord Hailiday's. He went home. He had no intention of letting Halliday know that he was interested in seeing St Vier. But he very much wanted to see the swordsman before he could tell Basil Halliday about the plan to have him killed.

There was no certainty that St Vier would tell about him, of course. It would not absolve the swordsman of Horn's murder. And, of course, there was not even the certainty that St Vier had ever known the identity of his one-eyed contact. Nothing was certain; but Ferris wanted to control all the odds that he could. He had the best, the surest plan, if only he could implement it: to offer St Vier his protection in the matter of Horn's death, if St Vier would agree to carry through on the Halliday challenge as soon as he was freed. Taking the charge as patron of Horn's disgusting murder would not be good for Ferris, but he could think of some story to explain it, to subtly blacken St Vier's character and add yet another taint to Horn's; and it was convenient that St Vier kill Halliday. The debt would bind the swordsman to Ferris for life, and when he had been elected to the Crescent Ferris would have much use for him.

As soon as Karleigh came up from his estates to sit on the Justiciary, they would try the swordsman. St Vier would see Ferris on the panel of justiciars, and could recognise him. Ferris didn't dare risk what the swordsman might try to do then to save his life. It was remotely possible that St Vier might think of the double blackmail on his own, but Ferris must find a way to let him know that he would cooperate in it.

But he could not get in to see him now without creating suspicion. He needed a proxy. Katherine had failed him once, when he sent her to Riverside. Now she must serve him again -for the last time, if all went well. Surely they would not deny St Vier's own wife permission to see him? It might work - nobody knew what sort of arcane pairings there were in Riverside, and she was a fetching piece.

A servant took Ferris's cloak; another was sent to bring him something hot to drink, and another to summon Katherine Blount.

The hot drink came, but Katherine did not. The footman said, 'I sent one of the maids up to her room, my lord. It seems it is empty.'

'Empty... ? Of what? Of her person, or... ?'

'Of her, ah, belongings, my lord. The girl appears to have fled. She was paid two weeks ago for the month. But she seems to be missing since night before last.'

'Fled!' Ferris tapped his fingers on the cup rapidly, thinking. 'Send Master Johns to me, I shall require some letters sent.'

He had not meant to keep her much longer: she was the link that tied him to St Vier, should the matter be investigated. Perhaps he had been too hard on her, and she had simply run away, in which case he didn't care what happened to her. But if she had gone, say, to Halliday-----

His letters dictated and secretary dismissed, Ferris realised, ruefully, that he must turn to Diane. The duchess's connections were better than his; she might even be able to get him access to St Vier. He would not tell her everything; that would be a great mistake. And a mistake to think that he could simply bend Diane to his will; that had once been tried, and quickly discarded. But

he might be persuasive, if she were in the right mood for it.. .even now it was not good to lie to her, but she could be charmed. Once again Ferris called for his carriage to be sent round, and ordered the familiar route to the Duchess Tremontaine's.

He stood in the duchess's front hall, trying to hand his gloves to the footman, but the footman wouldn't take them.

'My lady is not in, my lord.'

From upstairs Ferris heard her laughter, and a snatch of song.

'Grayson,' he said slowly, 'do you know me?'

'Of course he knows you,' a new voice drawled from the shadows. 'You're a very recognisable figure.'

A young man of no more than 20 years was lounging against the side of the staircase, surveying Ferris with an expression that contrived to be both bored and amused at once. He was very beautifully dressed in deep red, and wore a collar of rubies. He held a book in one hand.

'If the duchess told Grayson to tell you she is not in,' the young man continued, 'it actually means that she doesn't want to see you. Is there a message?' he asked helpfully. 'Perhaps I could take it.'

He was tall, and fine-boned, theatrically languid in his motions. He turned and drifted partway up the stairs, stopping to look down at the Dragon Chancellor, the hand with the book resting on the rail. Ferris stared up at him, still saying nothing. Was this his replacement? Some young nobody - oh, very young - someone's son fresh from the country? A consolation after her loss of Michael Godwin, an insult to Ferris, a replacement___ It was not possible that she was throwing him over. She had no cause. Her refusal to see him was some new game, or a trick of this smug young man's who might, after all, be some distant relation of Diane's....

'Is there any message, my lord?' Grayson asked, professionally deaf to the antics around him.

'Yes. Tell my lady I will call again.'

'Who knows,' the mocking voice drifted after Ferris as he left, his stride so swift that his cloak billowed out, brushing the man who held the door open for him, 'she may be in.'

And as the door closed behind him Ferris heard the duchess's laughter echoing in the marble hall.

Answers to the letters he had sent were waiting for him when he got home. No one had seen any sign of Katherine; or at least, no one was admitting to it. Perhaps she had gone back to Riverside where, in truth, she belonged.

He stood with his hands on his desk, leaning his weight on his arms. In another minute he would straighten, raise his head and find another order to give. Before Diane, it had been like this, too often: a sense of his own power blocked; of not being taken seriously; of not being able to choose for himself the strongest course. He was Dragon Chancellor bow. People knew him, admired him, looked to him for guidance, for advancement. Basil Halliday confided in him, and would help him if he could.... Ferris started, hearing his own sharp laugh. Go to Halliday with his problems, like all the rest of them - tangle himself in that net of compassionate charm, and exchange Diane's dominion for Halliday's... that was not the way to the power he sought, cold and uncompromising, the terms his own and his alone. Most people were like Horn: they could be manipulated, rendered agreeable or untroublesome in their actions. Blocks like Halliday could be duped and got rid of. Ferris sighed, shaking his head. If only they all could be ignored. But of course that was unrealistic.

Ferris thought of the day that stretched ahead of him, and decided to emulate the duchess. Turning his back on his study, he ascended to his bedroom where he wrapped himself in a heavy robe, had a large fire made up, settled next to it with a book and a bowl of nuts, and gave instructions that, to anyone who called, he was not in.

For Richard St Vier, imprisoned, that day passed very slowly. He had a headache, and there was no one to talk to, and nothing very interesting to think about. Shrugging the day off as a loss, he made himself as comfortable as he could, and retired early to bed with the sun. The next morning brought news of his trial.

The pleasant young nobleman had already explained to Richard all that he needed to know about his coming questioning. The pleasant young nobleman, whose name was Christopher Nevilleson, had been sent expressly from Basil Halliday to do so the day he arrived in the Fort. Richard disliked the young man intensely. He knew there was no good reason for it, but he did. Lord Christopher had had the shackles struck from Richard's wrists and legs, and had expressed official dismay, tinged with personal horror, at the condition the Watch had left him in. But the bruises would heal in time, if there was time left to him. He was horribly stiff, but nothing was cracked or broken.

Halliday's aide was serious and fresh-faced. In him the Hill drawl sounded like a speech defect he had never grown out of. He told Richard that he would be questioned first in private by a collection of important lords, to determine how culpable he was in the killing of Lord Horn. They had to know whether he was working for any patron so they could then decide whether to try him in a Court of Honour or turn him over to the civil authorities as a murderer.

'There are so few laws that really cover the use of swordsmen,' he explained. 'If you have anything in writing it would be very useful.'

Richard stared at him out of one swollen eye. 'I don't work on contract,' he said frostily. 'They should know that by now.'

'I.. .yes,' Lord Christopher said. He told Richard that he would be required to answer questions under oath, and that depositions had already been sworn against him by witnesses. Richard asked, 'Will I see any of these people at the trial?'

Lord Christopher answered, 'No, that isn't necessary. They've already signed statements witnessed by two nobles.' He kept saying, 'You do understand, don't you?' Richard said that he did. Finally, the pleasant young nobleman went away.

Early this morning they had sent someone in to shave and barber him, because the Duke of Karleigh had driven in last night and now the Justiciary was complete. Richard had submitted to the combing fingers and the scissors, but when it came to the sharp-edged razor he asked if he might use it himself, and offered to go unshaven otherwise. In the end they let him shave himself, and stood solemnly around watching to make sure he didn't cut his throat.

It would be interesting to find out what the trial was like. In the past, when he had been hired to kill a lord the noble who hired him had always stood up in the Court of Honour for himself, so that St Vier need not appear at all. Part of his care in choosing his patrons had involved their ability to do so. The Court of Honour was a secret thing, presided over by the Inner Council. Swordsmen who had been called to it were never very clear in their descriptions after: either they had been confused, or they wanted to impress by being mysterious, or both. Richard suspected that the truth was seldom told in the Court of Honour: a noble's ability to manipulate it and his peers seemed to be the key to success there. That was why St Vier took only patrons who seemed to have that knack over men who offered him contracts where his 'innocence' would be cast in writing - that, and his own desire for privacy.

He wished now that he had been a little more pleasant with Lord Christopher, and asked a few more questions. But it didn't matter: soon he would find all about the court for himself. He could think about that; could think about the future but not the past. He'd already gone over everything he'd done wrong; once was enough for that sort of thing, to satisfy his mind; any more was useless and unpleasant. If he lived, he could find out who in Riverside had sworn against him. The reason for Catherine's nervousness was clear now. But she wouldn't have done it on her own - somehow, they had made her afraid. He couldn't help her now.

Doggedly he stretched and paced in the small stone room. Whatever happened, there was no point in letting himself get stiffer. His bruised body protested, but he was used to ignoring it. The room was not terrible; there was light, and a bed bolted to the wall. His injuries and the inactivity made him feel tired; but the temptation of the hard bed was resistible.