FIRE WAS AN EVER-PRESENT DANGER. NO candidates, even seniors, were allowed to have light in their rooms after lights-out, and this rule was strictly applied.
Slavish observance of rules was not what landed one in Ironhall. Out came flint and steel and tinder. Sparks flew, and in moments a dozen candle flames brightened the dorm. Behind the door, Servian had fallen silent. Either a Blade patrol had chanced along, or he was hoping the Brat would jump back into the frying pan again.
Emerald struggled to adjust to both the absurdity of the situation and the sickening throb in her face. The pack converged on her. Some, like Intrepid, were mere boys. Others were taller than she—notably Tremayne, the stumblebum swordsman who shaved. Some of them seemed amazingly unaware of how cold the room was.
“Who did your eye?” Chad inquired.
“Servian. Now listen, all of you. Listen deep! I am not the Brat you think. Get dressed, all of you. I need your help. There’s—”
“There’s no help here!” Jacques shouted, raising a laugh.
“Quiet!” she barked. “You get dressed. And you, Conradin. You’re indecent. You want to know why Grand Master has been shielding me?”
“He’s not here now!”
“Catch-up time!”
“I’m not a boy. I’m a woman.” She gave the stunned silence no chance to erupt in hilarity and disbelief. “Not only that, I am a White Sister. My name is Emerald, and I was sent here by Durendal himself, Lord Roland, because there is sorcery….”
There was sorcery! Again she detected the reek of earth and death. The rat had followed her, or there were more of them around. It was behind her, in the corridor. It hurried by and was gone, but the brief contact made her hesitate and broke her tenuous control over the mob. Voices erupted in raucous and predictable demands that she prove her claim. She had no intention of doing so in the way they suggested.
She shouted them down. She could shout louder than they could because they did not want Blades or anyone else coming to investigate a riot. “Listen and I’ll prove it. Constant! Why were you put here, in Ironhall? What did you do?”
He scowled. “Stole a horse.”
“That’s true. Conradin! Why were you put here?”
“My mom died. No one wanted me.”
“You’re lying. I’m a White Sister and I can tell when people lie to me. Tremayne?”
“Stepfather,” Tremayne growled in a voice very far from soprano. “He hit my mom and I larruped him with a spade.”
“Good for you! That’s true. Chad?”
True, false, false, true…The trivial party trick caught their attention and won their belief. Even before she had asked all of them, the sorcery was back. “There!” she shouted. “Under that bed! There’s a rat!”
Chaos. She was certain that beds would burst into flames as boys with candles went after the rat. The tumult ended with one dead rat and two boys sucking rat bites. They were all convinced now.
“Get dressed! There’s sorcery around. Sorcerers are attacking the King, and I have to report to Commander Bandit.”
“But Grand Master said—” Jacques began.
“I’ll handle Grand Master. And don’t worry about the Blades—I know the password. But that idiot Servian is out there, and I need your protection. I need an escort. Hurry! I must report to Sir Bandit. The King will thank you, I promise you.”
Her eye was so swollen that she could barely see out of it, but she could ignore the pain now. By the time she had turned her back to hide her magic key and then managed to unlock the door—for a few horrible moments she thought it was not going to work—her army was ready. She led it out into the corridor.
Servian and his henchmen had disappeared, but another dozen sopranos and beansprouts had emerged to find out what all the noise was about. With much yelling of explanations, the tide rolled along the hallway, gathering strength. Someone began beating the fire gong. Beardless and fuzzies came running down the stair in varying shades of undress.
At the outer door—now that they were not needed—were Blades: Sir Raven, Sir Dorret, and another man she did not know. They stared in disbelief at the approaching riot. Dorret wore the sash.
“The stars are watching!” she told him.
He peered at her face. “What happened to your— what did you say?”
“The password, you idiot. You want the rejoinder, too? ‘But they keep their secrets.’ I am Sister Emerald and I must see Commander Bandit immediately.”
“You can’t go out there, lad, er, miss, I mean Sister. Fire and death! What is going on?”
“Sorcery. Ironhall is under attack. And I must go out there. Have the inquisitor’s dogs climbed over the gate? If they have, you must deal with them for me. Open that door, guardsman!”
“This Brat shows promise,” said an anonymous voice from the mob.
If Master Nicely’s dogs had escaped whatever control he was using on them, a messenger trying to cross the courtyard might never arrive. The Blades could not just open the door and let Emerald go alone. With the King’s safety invoked, their bindings overruled any lesser duty to guard dormitories, so they all went with her. So did her army, some of them barefoot and half naked. They raced over the frozen paving under the icy stars, and no monsters came ravening out of the dark.
Fists hammered on the doors of First House. A spy hole was opened, password demanded, and given. Deputy Commander Dreadnought himself admitted the visitors and was almost bowled over by the shivering tide that poured in after them.
Fortunately Fury was there in the confusion. He shied like a horse when Emerald came into the light.
“Who did that to your eye?”
“Tell you later. Bandit, quickly!”
“This way.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her free of the mob. Satisfied that a dead rat was being waved under Dreadnought’s nose while at least a dozen voices shouted explanations at him, Emerald ran upstairs with Fury.
There had to be more cloak-and-dagger word passing before they were admitted to the queen’s quarters. Then Fury went straight across to the inner door and tapped softly.
The exquisite little salon seemed a very odd place to find half a dozen swordsmen. The reek of their binding spell would have made Emerald’s head spin had it not been spinning so hard already. There was other, more sinister sorcery present as well.
The Blades’ attitude annoyed her. They clustered around her, glowering suspiciously and fingering sword hilts. She knew only one of them by name, and obviously none of them recognized her. She was not your average White Sister, floating like a swan through the court, simpering at gentlemen’s flattery.
“Why, Sir Fairtrue!” she trilled, offering fingers to be kissed. “How delightful to meet you here! Won’t you present your friends?”
Her fun was spoiled right away by Bandit, who came striding out from the dressing room with Fury at his heels.
“Rats,” she said. “Enchanted rats. They’re in West House and they’re here, too. Not pure conjurations, because the sopranos killed one, so real rats bespelled somehow. I think they may be spies. They’re hunting for the King.”
Bandit pulled a face. “I was hoping we’d got our man. Someone triggered our trap in the royal suite. I’m told it sounded like quite a fight. We haven’t investigated yet.”
“Proceed on the assumption that Silvercloak won.” Suddenly she felt very tired. The assassin seemed to be bypassing Ambrose’s defenses with terrifying ease.
“Certainly. So he’s using rats to find His Majesty?”
“They’ve found him. They’re here, very close—several of them, I think. And they may do more than just spy. Rats can climb walls or carry small objects. I’m afraid they could be used to ferry magic around.”
Eight Blades exchanged grim glances. Swords were not the best weapon against rats. Slingshots or terriers were what they needed now.
“You think Silvercloak could send a…a poisoned rat against the King without even coming into Ironhall himself?”
“I don’t know. Assume the worst.”
The Commander squared his shoulders. “I’m going to wake Fat Man. Sir Fairtrue, inform Sir Dreadnought. I want Master Nicely and Master of Rituals here immediately. Sister, I’ll need you to sniff out…inspect the turret room. Come with me, please.”
He headed back to the dressing room.
“Just a moment.” Bandit hurried up the cramped little stair. Sounds of royal snoring overhead suddenly ended.
Emerald waited. The magical stench of rat was stronger in the tower, away from the Blades. She fancied she could even smell real rat, a whiff of sewers, and hear furtive rustling in the shadows. A massive book lay open beside the candelabra and the chair where Bandit had been keeping vigil outside the King’s door. To take her mind off the rats, she wandered across and snooped. It was a treatise on common law. Everyone to his own taste.
He came down again. “Give him a minute.”
She nodded. How did one fight magical rats? Oakendown had never mentioned such things, but Silvercloak seemed to have a million personal tricks up his sleeve. The Sisters could detect sorcery, but rarely was there any defense against it.
“I have had more bad news,” Bandit said grimly. “You want to hear it or wait until we know for sure?”
“Can this night get any worse?”
“A lot worse.”
“Tell me.”
“Wart. Seems he came to the Royal Door. He was unable to convince my men that he was genuine. They tried to chain him up. He ran off into the moor.”
The night could certainly get colder. Wart! She shivered convulsively. “But Nicely’s dogs…What do you mean, ‘unable to convince your men’? He had his cat’s-eye sword with him? They know him!”
“Perhaps he wasn’t genuine. He was one disarmed prisoner against four Blades, one knight, and an inquisitor, but he wounded two Blades slightly, broke both Sir Dragon’s collarbones so he’ll need a healing, and then escaped. Doesn’t that sound like sorcery?”
“It sounds like Wart.”
“Perhaps it does,” Bandit admitted with a wan smile. “I’m not sure where he’s been these last few days, but he certainly wasn’t supposed to come here. I’ll investigate properly in the morning. It may have been another Silvercloak trick.”
“I hope so!” she said furiously. “It had better be!” Wart, Wart, driven out on the moor to be hunted down by monsters?
“Follow, please.” Bandit went back up the ladder to the bedchamber.
Queen Estrith, if she had designed the room, had been very fond of frilly lace and silver ribbons. The window drapes, bed curtains, and upholstery all featured faded pink rosebuds. This decor did not suit the awesome presence of King Ambrose, who was sitting on the edge of the bed glaring, still not fully awake and clearly in a mood to chop off heads at random. He wore a woolen nightcap pulled down over his ears and a white linen nightgown that would have made a substantial tent. To prepare for his visitor he had swathed himself in a voluminous velvet cloak of royal blue and stuffed his feet in boat-sized slippers.
“Sister Emerald!” he growled.
Emerald bowed.
“What happened to your eye?”
“Naught of moment, sire. They’re here,” she told Bandit. “There’s sorcery in this room, sire. Black magic. It’s carried by rats.”
Even Ambrose’s harshest critics—he did not lack critics—never accused him of cowardice. The cunning, piggy eyes narrowed a little. Extra chins bulged out behind his fringe of beard. The fat lips pouted. But he did not flinch at this dread news.
“It would seem, Sister Emerald, that we are once again placed in your debt in dramatic circumstances. Pray take thought to what reward we may bestow on you and do not skimp in your request. We shall discuss this later.”
He seemed to have no doubt that there would be a later. “Well, Commander? The Lord Chancellor’s strategy has successfully drawn the wolf to the fold. What do you propose now?”
Bandit’s voice was much harsher than usual. “Sire, I am going to strip this room down to bare walls and put a dozen swords around you until the emergency is passed. By your leave—” He spun around and ran down the stair, shouting.
“Let us begin!” the King said, heaving himself upright. “I cannot stand this impsy-wimpsy furniture. Open that door, Sister. I intend to enjoy this.”
Emerald hastened to obey, and then had to back out to make way for a rosewood commode wrapped in the King’s great arms. He went to the battlements and let go. Sounds of demolition came a long moment later. As an antique that piece had been worth a fortune. Fortunately he had dropped it on the moor side, not into the courtyard where it might have brained someone.
“Good riddance!” the big man huffed. “Want to try a chair or two, Sister? I think I’ll enjoy the loveseat next. Hideous thing! Should be good for—”
The turret room exploded. Caught on the threshold, Ambrose recoiled from the blast of heat, throwing up his arms to shield his face. Flames and smoke poured out the windows and door, and up into the sky. Emerald was out of the direct line of fire, but the accompanying wave of sorcery was stunning. She screamed and stepped back. She might well have fallen to her death had the King’s meaty paw not grabbed her wrist.
He tried to go around the tower toward the Observatory, but flames blasting from the window blocked the walkway.
“I think we shall proceed in this direction,” he growled, doing so and towing her behind him. He marched out onto the curtain wall.
She looked back in dismay. The whole tower had become an inferno, sending flames leaping high into the night. Golden light illuminated all of Ironhall and a billowing cloud overhead; even the snowy tors in the distance glowed amber. The Queen’s Tower must collapse very shortly and the rest of First House would follow. Without the King’s childish decision to trash furniture, both he and Emerald would be mere cinders by now.
Was that true? There was more to that sorcery than just an incendiary spell.
Ambrose had a very complex personality, but the experts at Oakendown were satisfied that his dominant elements were earth and chance. “A human landslide,” they called him. Like Emerald, therefore, he must dislike heights, but he showed no signs of nervousness as he plodded purposefully along that narrow catwalk toward the bath house. It was a tight fit—his right elbow brushed the merlons and his left overhung the drop to the courtyard.
They were far enough from the tower now that distance had weakened the maddening scream of magic in her head. “Sire, stop! Your Grace, there is no way out at that end!”
The King halted and turned to scowl at her. He seemed to have taken no damage from the explosion, although she had seen him bathed in flame in the doorway. “You are sure?”
“Yes, sire. The turrets are dummies. There is no walkway behind the merlons.” The idea of Ambrose running up and down pitched roofs like a cat was not tenable. It hashed the mind.
“That fire is behaving oddly,” he rumbled, staring past her at the inferno. “It is not making as much noise as it should. Why has that turret not collapsed yet?”
“Because the fire is not real. It’s illusion!”
“It felt real.”
“But it isn’t.”
“So we walked into a trap? Our opponent maneuvered us into doing exactly what he wanted?”
She did not need to answer. A man strolled casually out through the wall of flames and proceeded along the top of the curtain wall towards them. He carried a sword, flicking it up and down as if to limber his wrist. Firelight glinted on his silvery cloak.