Читать книгу Honour Among Thieves - David Chandler - Страница 19

“Is this true, Croy?” the king demanded. “Did you—in fact—make a gift of a priceless and irreplaceable, aye, a magical sword … to what is clearly a piece of gutter trash from the most base dungpit in Ness?”

Croy was still on his knees. It was not appropriate to drop prostrate before the king, but he considered it. “It is true,” he said.

The king frowned. “I was under the impression that you already had an Ancient Blade. Yes, I see it there on your belt—Ghostcutter, I believe. Hmm. The last time I saw Acidtongue, it was in the possession of Sir Bikker. Wasn’t it?”

“Sir Bikker is dead, Majesty,” Croy said. He had to swallow thickly before he could go on. “I slew him in a duel of honor. With his dying breath he gave Acidtongue to me, and bade me find another to wield it. That is the way of our order, that we each choose our successors. And I chose this man—Malden—as the next to wield Acidtongue.”

“There weren’t any better candidates available? I have a nephew, for instance, who is absolutely useless at organizing his farms, but who loves nothing better than to whack away at the quintain all day with a wooden sword. He reminds me of you quite a bit, Croy. His head’s just as full of fancies and notions of honor and chivalry.” The king sighed. “Absolutely bloody useless. You can’t give Acidtongue to him?”

Croy couldn’t just say no. One did not gainsay the king. Yet he certainly could not say yes, either. He knew the nephew in question. Like every knight in the kingdom, he was distantly related to the king himself, and the nephew was his second cousin, once or twice removed. He couldn’t remember which. The boy had always struck him as a simpleton. Then there was the fact that Croy had already given the sword to Malden. Once an Ancient Blade passed to its next wielder, it could not be taken back. The only way that could happen was if Croy decided Malden had broken his vows as an Ancient Blade. Then Croy would be required to kill Malden to secure the blade. The king might demand he do just that (and Croy would be required to comply), but even there was a problem. There had been no time for Croy to train Malden as an Ancient Blade—and thus Malden had never taken the sacred vows. He couldn’t very well be said to have broken them since he had never even heard them spoken, much less repeated them.

There had to be a way to convince the king that Croy had made the right choice. “Your majesty, Malden may be lowborn, but his heart is strong. He is a natural wonder at footwork and quickness. I believed that with a few years of proper training and a strict physical regimen, he could be made into a swordsman.”

Malden’s chains rattled. Croy looked over and saw the thief pointing at his own face. He mouthed the word, “Me?” as if he couldn’t believe it. Yet surely, when Croy had given him the sword, Malden must have understood that this was to be his destiny. Surely …

The king rose from his chair and strode briskly across the room. Going to the door, he waved one hand into the hallway. In a moment Sir Hew came in, carrying Acidtongue in its special glass-lined scabbard.

“You heard something of this?” the king asked.

“Yes, your majesty. I heard all. And I’ll swear all of it is true. I’ve never known Croy to lie, not even to save his own skin. Much less that of a street rat like this Malden. The boy is a weakling, but he’s quick on his feet as a tomcat. As for his heart, Croy would be the best judge.”

The king pulled wearily at his beard. “Fine, fine, give the boy his sword. Unchain him. Then the three of you go stand against that wall. If I’m to be beset by three Ancient Blades at once, at least they can make themselves useful.”

It was done quickly. When they were against the wall, Croy and Hew grasped forearms with great fondness. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. “You wear the king’s crown on your chest,” Croy said, looking down at Hew’s tabard. “I am so glad to see you, old friend—yet not a little surprised!”

Hew shrugged. “After we were disbanded I tried being a knight errant for a while, just like you. Running about the countryside slaying goblins and brigands, burning sorcerers at the stake, you know. All the usual thing. I found, however, that I couldn’t take being my own master. So I came back here last year and begged for my old job back. His Majesty took pity on me and let me captain his watch. Now the worst thing I face most days is a starveling who’s snatched a loaf of bread, but I have honor, true honor.”

“I am so glad to hear it,” Croy said. A tear had formed in the corner of his eye.

“Me too,” Malden said. Croy hadn’t even realized he was standing there.

Sir Hew turned to look at the thief with disdain. “You’re not one of us yet, boy. Not just because you hold a sword. Don’t forget that.”

Malden laughed. “I’m just glad to not be hanged. But take a lesson from this, sir knight, and mark it well—not every street rat is what he seems to be.”

Hew bridled and looked as if he was about to say something sharp in return, but his imprecation was cut short when the king cleared his throat. Remembering their instructions the three men lined up against the wall, Malden trying to ape the posture of the two knights.

“One last order of business,” the king said, “and then we can move on. Who’s she?”

The king had turned and pointed at Cythera.

“Your majesty,” Cythera said, and made a proper curtsey. “I am Cythera, daughter of Coruth. With Croy and Malden I brought Balint to you so that—”

The king waved on hand in dismissal. “You should have stopped at ‘daughter of Coruth’. So you’re a witch?”

“Not exactly.”

The king gripped the bridge of his nose. “Can you do anything … witch-like?”

Cythera blushed. Then she put her hands in front of her, a few inches apart. Bright sparks burst between them.

The king nodded eagerly. “Good, good—keep doing that! It’s almost impressive. Now, you four—your job in the next few minutes is to stand there, looking menacing. That is all. I don’t want you to speak. I don’t want you to move at all. Just look dangerous. Can you do that?”

“Certainly, Majesty,” Croy said, “but for what purpose?”

“I have a guest I need to entertain.” It was the only explanation the king would give. He hurried to the door again and nodded to someone outside. “Send her in, now. I haven’t got all day.” Then he hurried back inside and took a seat in one of the room’s chairs.

A herald in bright green livery strode into the room and made an elaborate flourishing bow. “Your majesty,” he announced, “I must present the lady Mörgain, princess of the eastern steppes!”

The woman who came through the door wore very little other than a cloak of wolf fur. She stood taller than anyone in the room and broader through the shoulders than anyone but Croy or Hew. Her face was painted to look as if the flesh had been stripped from her skull, and her hair was hacked short and stuck out in wild bunches. If she was the daughter of Mörg the Wise then that made her the brother of Mörget, whom Croy had once called brother. Mörget was dead now, a fact that made him secretly breathe easier—he had no desire to test his prowess in a fight against Mörget. But by the look of her Mörgain would be nearly as deadly.

In her hand she held an iron axe, and she brought it round in a powerful swing that struck the herald in the small of the back. The small man went flying and crashed against the side of the hearth.

“No man calls me princess,” Mörgain said.