The storm had been building over Starkmoor for hours. It broke just before sunset, sweeping down in fury on the Blackwater valley, flaunting flames of lightning and drum rolls of thunder. It hurled apples from trees and flattened corn, as if to warn that summer was over at last. Long before it hit, though, Osbert had rounded up the horses from the meadow. By the time the rain and hail began thundering on the slates, he had them all combed and curried and comfortably bedded down in their stalls.
Obviously no travelers would be coming by on a night like this, but he could not just run for the house and take the rest of the evening off. Not yet. Thunder made horses restless. So he found a comfortable seat on a bale of straw in the covered saddling area outside the tack shed. From there he could see into most of the stalls that lined either side of the yard, and hear the remarks being whinnied back and forth. If there was any panic, he could move to stop it before it grew serious. He was contentedly munching an apple and marveling at the white haze of hail rebounding from every hard surface, when he heard an answering whinny from the lane.
In through the gate came three horses. Two of them bore bedraggled riders; the third was a well-laden sumpter. He scrambled to his feet and watched angrily as they splashed along the yard toward him.
Osbert Longberry ran the Blackwater post house as his father and grandfather had run it before him. He loved horses so dearly that he could imagine no better life. He made sure his charges ate well, even when he and his family did not. When a sickly or weary horse was brought in—one that any sensible hostler would trade out again as fast as possible—he would often keep it for weeks, until he had wormed it, pampered it, and nursed it back to health. A post-horse might be traded from house to house across the length and breadth of Chivial, but if one that had spent time at Blackwater ever came back, Osbert always remembered it.
The village lay only an hour’s ride from the King’s great school of Ironhall. Every few days some Blade or royal courier would go by on Crown business. They liked to have a fresh mount for the climb up Starkmoor, which was a steep trek. Coming back down was equally hard on a horse, so they would change mounts again on the way home. Osbert approved of the Blades; Ironhall taught them almost as much about horses as about swords, and they treated their mounts with almost as much respect. They spurned the common posting animals. The King boarded a string of royal horses with Osbert Longberry and came by every few months with his Royal Guard escort. His Majesty never failed to hail Osbert by name and wish him good chance.
These new arrivals were quality stock—he could tell that just by watching their approach, although the storm was naturally making them skittish. In Osbert’s opinion, any responsible rider would have taken shelter under trees or in the lee of a building until the worst of the weather had blown over—certainly until the hail ended. He would perhaps forgive a royal courier for treating a horse so, because his business might be urgent, with every hour counting. He could see that these two were mere boys, but old enough to know better.
As soon as they were safely in under cover, the visitors dismounted. One of them jumped down nimbly and removed his hat to shake off the water, revealing a very clumsily cropped head of blond stubble. The other moved more circumspectly, but he was no older or taller. He had a chubbier face and dark hair down to his shoulders. Neither of them could be a day more than fourteen. Osbert looked them over suspiciously—it was not unknown for horse thieves to visit a post house and try to exchange their loot for honest animals. These two were too well dressed for that, he decided. The blond one’s fur-trimmed cloak stuck out at the back, proof that he was wearing a sword. The other appeared to be unarmed, although his clothes were equally fine. They must be just rich young gentlemen, who had never been taught proper respect for horseflesh.
“Terrible weather you keep around here,” the blond kid said cheekily, wiping his face and thrusting reins at Osbert. “I need your three best right away. There’ll be a silver groat for you if you’re quick!”
Osbert scowled. “Can’t send honest animals out in this weather, lad.”
The blond boy had already set off toward the stalls to see what mounts were available. He stopped and spun around, frowning.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“It won’t kill you to be an hour late for dinner. Might kill a horse to catch a chill.”
The rich brat smirked. “Please? Pretty please?”
Mockery infuriated Osbert. “No! Go and choose a horse if you like, but I won’t let it out of here until the storm passes.”
The two boys exchanged cryptic glances, but the dark-haired boy said nothing. The blond boy shrugged and turned.
“Not that way. Those are the King’s horses.” Osbert pointed to the other side of the yard. “Choose from there.”
The kid drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t very much. He tried to look stern and succeeded only in seeming sulky. “We are on the King’s business. We ride to Ironhall.”
Spoiled brat! Osbert knew his type. All his life his father’s money had let him have anything he wanted, so now he just fancied some fencing lessons, did he? Well, if he thought money would get him into Ironhall, he was sadly mistaken. They didn’t take rich trash there, because rich trash wouldn’t last a week under the discipline.
“Another hour won’t hurt much, sonny. It takes five years to make a Blade.”
The kid’s face flamed scarlet. He reached under his cloak for his sword. Osbert yelped in fright and leaped backward, colliding with the sumpter.
“Wart!” shouted the other boy. “Don’t!”
“Don’t what?” The would-be swordsman scowled.
“He’s not armed.”
The blond boy’s scowl turned to exasperation, as if all the world was crazy except him. “I can see that! You think I’d draw on…on him?” He turned to Osbert. “Know what this is?”
He was showing the hilt of his sword, and it bore a yellow jewel. Osbert had seen hundreds like it. Only Blades sported cat’s-eye swords. The kid wasn’t hoping to enroll in Ironhall…. Osbert gaped at him in disbelief.
“You can’t be!”
The boy’s eyes narrowed in fury. “Yes, I am! And whether I am of the Royal Guard or a private Blade, by law I can take any horse in your stable. Right?”
“Yes, Sir Blade.”
“Any horse!”
“Yes, Your Honor!”
“I could take all of them!”
“Yes, yes! Beg pardon. I didn’t…Sorry.”
The boy turned his back angrily and strode off to inspect the King’s horses.
The other boy was smiling apologetically. “He’s sensitive about his looks. He’s older than he seems, obviously.” Since he was unarmed, he must be the Blade’s ward, but he was far too young to be a minister of the Crown or an ambassador. Most likely he was some obscure member of the royal family, to have been honored with such a bodyguard.
“Yes, my lord. Sorry about the misunderstanding. I did hear that the King was taking them younger than usual, because of the Monster War.” But, even so…
“He’s a very good swordsman,” said the boy, “and he truly is on urgent business for the King.”
“Yes, my lord.” Osbert hurried off after the baby-faced Blade to help him select his horses.
By the time they were saddled and the baggage had been transferred to the new sumpter, the storm had faded to a heavy rain, so the argument had been unnecessary. Surprisingly, the Blade did give Osbert the silver groat he had promised, and he did sign for the horses: Stalwart, companion. Some of his brethren would not have been so forgiving.
As he rode out of the gate, he turned to the companion riding beside him. “Just so you know, I do not use my sword on unarmed yokels. I’d only do that if they attacked me first.”
“I’m sorry. You startled me. And you scared him half to death!”
Stalwart chuckled. “He thought you were a boy!”
“Am I supposed to feel flattered?” she asked.
The hostler had not been the first to mistake Emerald for a boy that day, although Stalwart had refrained from mentioning the fact sooner. It was a natural mistake when she was dressed like a man, for she was as tall as he was (or he was as short as she was, depending on how one looked at the problem). She had fooled even him for a moment when they had met before dawn in the palace stables. Only then had he realized that she obviously could not ride a horse in a White Sister’s flowing draperies, not to mention the absurd steeple hat. When he asked where she had found such garments in the middle of the night, she had become strangely vague. Who could guess what deceptions the White Sisters might get up to that no man ever heard about? Perhaps they made a habit of masquerading as men. He would ask Snake when he got back.
It had been Snake who had suggested Emerald come along. He must have learned at Valglorious that she could ride like a trooper, but Snake always knew everything. Stalwart had not cared much for the idea. After all, his new mission was merely to find out whatever it was Lord Digby had discovered earlier, the secret that had caused him to be murdered. Digby had not needed a White Sister to help him. If an old man like Digby could do it, Stalwart could. But the King had thought it was a good idea, and that had settled it.
She was doing remarkably well, although Stalwart knew better than to say so—she would bite his face off. She had not uttered one word of complaint, and she looked no more tired than he felt. Of course he was leading the packhorse, so he had to have an eye in the back of his head all the time; that made his job a little harder, but not much.
It had been a very long day. The King’s little supper party had not finished until well after midnight. They had set out at first light and ridden all the way from Grandon without a break, pausing only to change horses. That was how Snake traveled. Never give your enemies time to find out you’re coming, he said. Besides, this mission was urgent. If the traitor sorcerers had learned how to kill people at a distance, then the King might drop dead at any minute. It was up to Sir Stalwart to track down the evil in time, a huge responsibility!
As they left Blackwater and walked the horses up the winding hill trail, Emerald said, “You never said we were bound for Ironhall. I thought we were going to Prail, to catch the ferry.”
“We are. Ironhall is only a little way off the Prail road.”
“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “You just want to go back and gloat?”
“Of course not!” He mustn’t, but he had been thinking wistfully about the idea all afternoon. He kept imagining himself strolling into the hall when everyone was at dinner, wandering up to the high table to sit with the knights and masters, since he was a real Blade now. He would have Sleight, his cat’s-eye rapier, slung at his thigh and the White Star jewel glittering on his jerkin. Very few Blades had ever earned that honor, and he had done it in less than two weeks. He kept thinking of Grand Master’s face when he saw it…. He would have to tell them about Quagmarsh. He might mention in passing how he had taken on two swordsmen at once and killed both of them. That was not a Blade record, but not something that happened every day, either. And if the conversation should happen to touch on that party last night with him and the King playing duets on their lutes…then he might let slip the complimentary remarks the great Durendal had made, Lord Roland, the greatest Blade of—
“Then why are we going there?” Emerald snapped.
“What? Where?”
“Ironhall!”
“Oh, for Badger.”
“A horse?”
“A man. Good friend, next behind me in seniority, so he must be Prime now.”
The sun had set. A streak of red sky showed through the rain, squeezed between the lowering clouds above and the bleak moor below. The school would be eating dinner, so he was too late to make the dramatic entrance, even had it been permissible. It wasn’t. He must remain a coward a little longer, the secret swordsman, the boy who looked too young to be dangerous. However humiliating that was, his mission was too important to risk. But he was growing now. At last! In another few months he’d have a mustache….
“Why?” Emerald persisted.
“Why what?”
“Badger.”
“Oh, Badger.” Badger had a beard like a farrier’s rasp. “He knows where we’re going. He’s been there. I remember him mentioning it. We’ll take him along as a guide.”
“Will Grand Master let him go?”
“Of course,” Stalwart said confidently. If Grand Master refused, Stalwart could overrule him. He would enjoy doing that. He did not like Grand Master. Nobody did. Even the old knights, the retired Blades who hung around Ironhall, disapproved of him. He was surly and unpredictable, known behind his back as Small Master. For Stalwart to pull out his commission with the King’s seal and start giving Grand Master orders would help make up for some of the miseries old sour face had inflicted on him over the last four years.
“Why didn’t you mention him sooner?”
“Didn’t I?” In fact the Badger brainwave had hit him about noon. He hadn’t mentioned it then because it was such a good idea that he should have thought of it much sooner.
“Suppose this Badger doesn’t want to come?”
“I shall appeal to his loyalty.” That was something else Snake had taught him—you never ordered a man into mortal danger. You asked him. In Snake’s case you shamed him, outwitted him, or flattered him until he found himself volunteering, but you never ordered. Badger might refuse, because he was a moody, self-contained loner who had made few friends at Ironhall. He was older than Stalwart and would not enjoy taking his orders. On the other hand, he was going to be offered a chance to do a real service for his king, plus a chance to see the world again after being shut up on Starkmoor for four years. He would be a fool to refuse.
They had reached the top of the first slope, and the trail ran level ahead into the gloom. The rain was easing off.
“Giddyap!” Stalwart said, digging in his heels. They would reach Ironhall about curfew, and Prail around midnight. Perfect timing! Snake would approve of his progress so far.