Ellen Kushner - The Privilege of the Sword

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT TOOK ME QUITE A FEW YEARS TO WRITE THIS BOOK,with starts and stops along the

way. Many people encouraged me, and all deserve thanks. I hope I will not leave anyone out, but lest I

hope in vain:Thank you, all. You know who you are—even if I don’t.

Careful readers Holly Black, Gavin Grant, Kelly Link, Delia Sherman and Sarah Smith (the

Massachusetts All-Stars) gave me the benefit of their whip-smart brains and nuance-sensitive souls this

past year. Justine Larbalestier roused Katherine from her sleep in the file drawer and listened to me read

for hours as I shuffled through dog-eared manuscript pages until I fell in love again. Eve Sweetser is one

of Tremontaine’s very oldest friends, and proved true once more with keen insights and wise suggestions.

Paula Kate Marmor made me a promise and kept it. TheRouges’ Ball was Skye Brainard’s idea. eluki

bes shahar drew pictures. Debbie Notkin championed the Ugly Girl. Christopher Schelling made me do it

before the smoke was cleared and Julie Fallowfield undoubtedly wants to know what took us so long?

Mimi Panitch is an invaluable Serpent Chancellor and always says the right thing. Patrick J. O’Connor is

generous with both love and erudition. Other wise and patient readers included Beth Bernobich,

Cassandra Claire, Theodora Goss, Deborah Manning, Helen Pilinovsky, Terri Windling and of course

my editor, Anne Groell.

Many people on LiveJournal generously shared their knowledge of trees and ducks and pregnancy.

Joshua Kronengold and Lisa Padol did the fact-checking for an imaginary country; any slips or omissions

are mine, not theirs—they did try to warn me. Nancy Hanger is one copy editor in a million. Office

Archaeologist Davey Snyder dug me out large blocks of uninterrupted time.

Gavin Grant and Kelly Link gave me a country retreat to write in when I needed it most, and so did

Leigh and Eleanor Hoagland.

Finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to British writer Mary Gentle, who introduced me to Dean

Wayland, who introduced me to the true world of the sword. If not for him, I would not really understand

how sharp a sword is and how dangerous; how hard it is to get one to hang properly on your hip, and

how easy it is to stand perfectly still while a man with no central vision takes a swing at you with one.

This book and the author owe much of their present delightful existence to Delia Sherman, the perfect

editor, lover and friend.

ALSO BYELLENKUSHNER

Swordspoint

Thomas the Rhymer

The Fall of the Kings(with Delia Sherman)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ellen Kushner is a novelist, performer, and public radio personality. Her work includes the weekly

national public radio seriesPRI’s Sound & Spirit with Ellen Kushner , the recordingThe Golden

Dreydl: a Klezmer ‘Nutcracker’ for Chanukah (Rykodisc CD) and a live performance piece,Esther:

the Feast of Masks . Her novelsSwordspoint and (with Delia Sherman)The Fall of the Kings share a

setting and quite a few characters withThe Privilege of the Sword . She is a member of Terri Windling’s

Endicott Studio for Mythic Arts and co-founder of the Interstitial Arts Foundation. She lives in New

York City and travels a lot, giving shows and readings, lecturing, and teaching. You can keep up with her

whereabouts and learn more about Riverside and its denizens atwww.EllenKushner.com.

CODA

HAVING DEFEATED HER SWORDMASTER IN A SERIOUSbout that morning, and being in the

process of acquiring a new dress that afternoon, the young Duchess Tremontaine was in excellent spirits.

She stood in a sunny room overlooking the gardens of Tremontaine House encouraging her chief

secretary, a balding young man named Arthur Ghent, to read her correspondence to her. The duchess’s

personal aide was ensconced in the window seat going over her farm books, eating oranges and lobbing

bits of orange peel at her when he thought no one was looking, as she simultaneously tried to avoid them

and to hold still for the modiste who was fitting the gown, while her maid begged her not to stand there

making a half-naked spectacle of herself in front of everyone.

“I’m perfectly covered up, Betty,” the duchess said, trying not to tug at the bodice, which pinched. “I’ve

got yards of sarcenet over quite a lot of petticoat and corset, and a very modest fichu—ouch!”

“A thousand pardons, my lady,” the modiste said, “but your grace’s waist has gotten smaller since our

last fitting, and it must be taken in.”

“It pinches,” Katherine fretted. “And the sleeves—they’re so tight, I can hardly move my arms. Can’t

you open up this seam here?”

“It is not the mode, madam.”

“Well,make it the mode, why don’t you? Attach some ribbons right across here—”

“Very seductive,” the duchess’s personal aide piped up from the window seat.

“Oh, honestly, Marcus. It’s just my arm.”

The modiste consulted with her assistant. “If my lady will permit us to remove the upper half of the

garment, we will see what can be done.”

The duchess sighed. “Close your eyes, Arthur. Betty, hand me my jacket. There, is everyone happy?

Now, please! Lydia is coming to take chocolate soon, and then Lord Armand and the Godwins are

joining us for dinner before we go to the concert—oh, hush, Marcus, it’s very lofty and elevated music,

nottweedle tweedle, Lydia says so—and then Mother’s arriving tomorrow, but who knows when she’ll

really get here—oh, Betty, make sure they haven’t forgotten the flowers for her room—and I promised

Arthur I would get this business done before then, so now really is the only time. Go on, Arthur.”

Arthur Ghent picked up a stack of colorful butterfly papers. “These are next month’s invitations—but as

time is short today, they can wait ’til last. Let’s start with business.” He unfolded a plain note from

another pile. “The Duke of Hartsholt says you can have his daughter’s mare at the price agreed, but only

if you confirm it today.”

“Tell him yes, then.”

“You’ll fall off,” said Marcus dourly. “You’ll fall and break your neck.”

“I certainly won’t. I grew up riding all over the countryside. This is nothing. But—it does seem a lot for a

single horse. Can we honestly afford it?”

Marcus pretended to consult his calculations. “Hmm. Can we afford it? Only if you give up brandy.”

“I don’t drink brandy.”

“Well, then. Get a horse. Get ten if you like—they don’t eat much, do they?”

“Ahem,” said Arthur Ghent, shuffling papers. “This should interest you. The Trevelyn divorce. Speaking

of things you can afford. The lady has produced a written statement of cause for petition, and the lawyers

have found an obscure law protecting it from any public scrutiny until the matter has been privately

settled—that ought to give the family pause.”

“Excellent. What about Perry’s pension?”

Arthur extracted another letter. “Lord Lucius sends a note of thanks. He and Lady—Miss, ah, Grey are

resident in Teverington. He writes that he is walking greater distances, and hopes soon to be rid of his

cane.”

“Oh, good! Put it on the stack for me to read later. What about my play?”

“Now as to that…” Arthur Ghent glanced at the door to the room. But the play, if he expected it to

materialize, was not there.

“My lady?” The modiste and her assistant eased the duchess back into the top half of her new gown.

Ribbons crisscrossed the seam below her upper arm. The duchess flexed her arm, trying a full extend and

a riposte, while the modiste stifled a protest that gowns were not made to fight in and she truly hoped the

duchess would not so tax her creation—

“This is such lovely fabric,” the duchess said. “It moves very nicely, now. Do you think you could do me

a pair of summer trousers in it, as well?”

“Oh. My. God.” Artemisia Fitz-Levi stood in the doorway, a fat leather-bound tome in the crook of her

arm. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets as always, but there was a smudge of dust on her forehead, and her

apron, worn to protect a striped silk gown, was dusty, too. Nonetheless, Arthur Ghent straightened his

jacket and ran his hand over what was left of his hair and bowed to her. “Katherine.” She stared at the

gown. “That is—that is beyond—Oh, Katherine, every girl in town is going to want those sleeves!”

The modiste permitted herself a smile of relief. In matters of fashion, Lady Artemisia was seldom

mistaken.

“Do you think so?” Katherine said shyly. “I don’t want to look silly.”

“You won’t.” Her friend kissed her cheek.

“I’m doing papers with Arthur, and we’re almost done.” Artemisia stood back against the wall, the

image of a useful person staying out of the way. “Go on, Arthur.” The secretary handed the duchess two

finished letters to approve, which she read standing. “Nothing from my uncle?”

“Nothing new. As far as we know, he and Master St Vier reached the sea and sailed as planned. The

next letter may not reach us for some time.”

“If he writes at all.”

“He’ll write,” Marcus said. “When he runs out of money. Or books.”

“Well, then. Is that it?”

“That’s it for now, except for next month’s invitations—”

“Invitations?” Artemisia butted in. “For next month? But my dear, no one will be in the city next month!

No one who matters. Everyone goes to the country. Here, you’d better give me those.” She held out her

hand to Arthur Ghent, who delivered the invitations to her with a deep bow. “I’ll just see if there’s

anything worthwhile, though I’m sure there’s not.” She shoved them in her apron pocket. “You won’t

want to stay here either, Duchess. Now, I’ve already gotten a list of your country houses, and I’ve noted

the five most suitable for you to choose from. I can fetch my notes if you’d like.”

“Not just yet.” Katherine was still a prisoner of laces and pins. “Have you gotHistory of the Council,

Book Four there? I think we can get a bit more in while they finish my fitting.”

Artemisia waved the book in the air, and a wad of paper fell out. “Oops! More invitations—”

But Katherine had seen the plain and heavy sheets. “It is not! It’s my play, you wretch—it’s the first act,

isn’t it? She’s sent it!”

Artemisia and the secretary exchanged glances; hers was roguish, his helpless. “I was saving it,”

Artemisia said primly, “until we got to the end of the chapter on jurisdiction reform.”

“Are you mad? My first commission? Read it. Now!”

“Yes, Your Grace.” With a rustle of skirts, Artemisia seated herself in a sunny spot by the window,

aware of all eyes upon her. She carefully unfolded the heavy sheets, thick with writing in a clear black

hand, and began:

“‘The Swordswoman’s Triumph. By a Lady of Quality.’”

chapterI

NO ONE SENDS FOR A NIECE THEY’VE NEVER SEENbefore just to annoy her family and ruin

her life. That, at least, is what I thought. This was before I had ever been to the city. I had never been in a

duel, or held a sword myself. I had never kissed anyone, or had anyone try to kill me, or worn a velvet

cloak. I had certainly never met my uncle the Mad Duke. Once I met him, much was explained.

ON THE DAY WE RECEIVED MY UNCLE’S LETTER,I was in the pantry counting our stock of

silverware. Laden with lists, I joined my mother in the sunny parlor over the gardens where she was

hemming kerchiefs. We did these things ourselves these days. Outside, I could hear the crows cawing in

the hills, and the sheep bleating over them. I wasn’t looking at her; my eyes were on the papers before

me, and I was worrying about the spoons, which needed polishing, but we might have to sell them, so

why bother now?

“Three hundred and thirteen spoons,” I said, consulting the lists. “We’re short three spoons from last

time, Mother.”

She did not reply. I looked up. My mother was staring out the window and gnawing on one end of her

silky hair. I wish I had hair like that; mine curls, in all the wrong ways. “Do you think,” she said at last,

“that we should have that tree taken down?”

“We’re doing silver inventory,” I said sternly, “and we’re short.”

“Are you sure you have the right list? When did we count them last?”

“Gregory’s Coming-of-Age party, I think. My hands smelt of polish all through dinner. And he never

even thanked me for it, the pig.”

“Oh, Katherine.”

My mother has a way of saying my name as though it were an entire speech. This one includedWhen

will you andHow silly andI couldn’t do without you all at once. But I wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

While it must be done and there is no sense shirking, counting silver is not my favorite chore, although it

ranks above fine needlework and making jam.

“I bet no one likes Greg there in the city, either, unless he’s learned to be nicer to people.”

There was a sudden jerky movement as she set her sewing down. I waited to be chastised. The silence

became frightening. I looked to see that her hands were clutching the work down in her lap, regardless of

what that was doing to the linen. She was holding her head very high, which was a mistake, because the

moment I looked I knew from the set of her mouth and the wideness of her eyes that she was trying not

to cry. Softly I put down my papers and knelt at her side, nestling in her skirts where I felt safe. “I’m

sorry, Mama,” I said, stroking the fabric. “I didn’t mean it.”

My mother twisted her finger in a lock of my hair. “Katie…” She breathed a long sigh. “I’ve had a letter

from my brother.”

My breath caught. “Oh, no! Is it the lawsuit? Are we ruined?”

“Quite the contrary.” But she didn’t smile. The line that had appeared between her brows last year only

got deeper. “No, it’s an invitation. To Tremontaine House.”

My uncle the Mad Duke had never invited us to visit him. It wouldn’t be decent. Everyone knew how he

lived. But that wasn’t the point. The point was that almost since I was born, he had been out to ruin us. It

was utterly ridiculous: when he had just inherited vast riches from their grandmother, the Duchess

Tremontaine, along with the title, he started dickering over the bit of land my mother had gotten from their

parents for her dowry—or rather, his lawyers did. The points were all so obscure that only the lawyers

seemed to understand them, and no one my father hired could ever get the better of them. We didn’t lose

the land; we just kept having to sink more and more money into lawyers, while the land my uncle was

contesting went into a trust that made it unavailable to us, along with its revenues, which made it even

harder to pay the lawyers….

I was quite small, but I remember how awful it always was when the letters came, heavy with their

alarming seals. There would be an hour or two of perfect, dreadful stillness, and then everything would

explode. My father would shout all sorts of things at my mother about her mad family, and why couldn’t

she control them all, he might as well have married the goosegirl for all the good she did him! And she

would cry it wasn’t her fault her brother was mad, and why didn’t he ask her parents what was wrong

with the contract instead of badgering her, and hadn’t she done her duty by him? I heard quite a lot of

this because when the shouting started she would clutch me to her, and when it was over she and I would

often sneak off to the pantry and steal a pot of jam and eat it under the stairs. At the dinner table my

father would quarrel with my older brothers about the cost of Greg’s horses or Seb’s tutors, or what they

should plant in the south reach, or what to do about tenants poaching rabbits. I was glad I was too young

for him to pay much attention to; only sometimes he would take my face in his big hands and look at me

hard, as if he were trying to find out which side of the family I favored. “You’re a sensible girl,” he’d say

hopefully. “You’re a help to your mother, aren’t you?” Well, I tried to be.

Father died suddenly when I was eleven. Things got much quieter then. And just as suddenly, the

lawsuits stopped as well. It was as if the Mad Duke Tremontaine had forgotten all about us.

Then, about a year ago, just when we had begun to stop counting every copper, the letters started

coming again, with their heavy seals. It seemed the lawsuit was back.

My brother Sebastian begged to be allowed to go to the city to study law at University, but Seb was

needed at home; he was much too clever about land and farming and things. Instead Gregory, who was

Lord Talbert now, went to the city to find us new lawyers, and take his place on the Council of Lords. It

was expensive having him there, and we were once again without the revenue from my mother’s portion.

If we didn’t sell the spoons, we were going to have to sell some of my father’s land, and everyone knows

once you start chipping away at your estate, you’re pretty much done for.

And now here was the Mad Duke, actually inviting us to the city to be his guests at Tremontaine House.

My mother looked troubled, but I knew such an invitation could mean only one thing: an end to the

horrible lawsuits, the awful letters. Surely all was forgiven and forgotten. We would go to town and take

our place amongst the nobility there at last, with parties and dancing and music and jewels and clothes—I

threw my arms around my mother’s waist, and hugged her warmly. “Oh, Mama! I knew no one could

stay angry with you forever. I am so happy for you!”

But she pulled away from me. “Don’t be. The entire thing is ridiculous. It’s out of the question.”

“But—don’t you wish to see your brother again? If I hadn’t seen Greg or Seb for twenty years, I’d at

least be curious.”

“I know what Davey’s like.” She twisted the handkerchief in her hand. “He hasn’t changed a bit. He

fought with our parents all the time…” She stroked my hair. “You don’t know how lucky you are, Kitty,

to have such a kind and loving family. I know Papa was sometimes harsh, but he did care for all of us.

And you and I have always been the best of friends, haven’t we?”

I nodded.

“Davey and I were like that. Friends. Good friends, together against the world. We made up games, and

protected each other. But people grow up, don’t they? You can’t stay a child forever. When my parents

chose a husband for me, we were—he was—well, Davey just didn’t understand that things must

change.”

“He hated Papa, didn’t he?”

“He was only a boy; what did he know? Charles was a neighbor, not some stranger. My parents trusted

him and knew he’d take good care of me. Of course I shed a few tears; I was a young girl, afraid to

leave my home for the first time. My brother, though—well, he simply could not understand that, in the

end, one has a duty to one’s family. He never did, and he never will.”

She was going to ruin that cloth, but I didn’t want to stop her flow of words. A lot had happened in our

family that no one had ever explained to me.

“And now it’s the same thing all over again!” she cried, ripping the hem without seeing it. “Just when we

thought things were about to get better, he went and made them worse, much worse, to please himself

and hurt the rest of us. Just the same as now.”

She started stabbing at the kerchief with her needle. “How?” I breathed, hoping to still her hands, hoping

to keep the words coming. “How is it the same?”

“The duchess,” my mother said, her lips tight. She wasn’t even seeing me, I could tell; her eyes were on

an invisible past when everything had gone wrong before I was born. “Our grandmother, the noble

Duchess Tremontaine. Who didn’t even come to my wedding; she still wasn’t speaking to our mother.

But she invited my brother to the city, to stay with her at Tremontaine House. It was his big chance—our

big chance—to reconcile with her, to make something of himself. And what did he do? He ran away.”

“Where?”

“To University.” She bit a thread in half. “Right there in the city, right under the duchess’s very nose.

Mother was beside herself. Gregory had just been born, and I had to leave him here all alone with your

father and the servants to go and tend to her. You know what she was like.” I nodded; Grandmother

Campion had been terrifying. “Next we heard, he’d run away from University as well, gone to live in

some city slum. We were sure he was dead. But he wasn’t dead. He was bringing more shame on us by

carrying on with a notorious swordsman. It all came out when the duchess found him. I suppose he

amused her, because a few years later she died, naming him her heir! Mother wrote him a long letter, and

sent him some things, but he never replied.”

“Go and see him,” I urged her poetically. “Who knows but that he may yet relent, and remember the

days of his youth, when you were the best of friends?”

“Katherine Samantha.” She looked away from the past, and directly at me. “You have not been listening

to what I’ve been telling you. It’s you he wishes to see.”

“Me! But—but—Why?”

She shook her head. “Oh, it’s too ridiculous even to contemplate.”

“Mother.” I took both her hands in mine. “You cannot say that and expect me to go on counting silver as

if nothing had happened. It is impossible. What does he want to see me about?”

“He says he wants to make a swordsman of you.”

I laughed—well, I snorted, actually. If I’d had anything in my mouth, it would have flown across the

room. That sort of laugh.

“Just so,” she said. “You go live with him and study the sword, and in return he’ll not only drop the

lawsuits, he’ll pay off all our debts, and—well, he’s prepared to be very generous.”

I began to see, or thought I did. “He wants me to come to the city. To Tremontaine House,” I breathed.

“To make our fortune.”

She said, “Of course, the thing is impossible.”

“But Mother,” I said, “what about my duty to my family?”

chapterII

YOU HAVE NO USE FOR GIRLS.YOU TOLD ME SO YOURSELF.”

In a fine room in the Mad Duke Tremontaine’s house, a fat and messy young woman sprawled on a

velvet chaise longue, one hand buried in a bowl of summer strawberries. Across the room, the Mad

Duke examined the back of his chimneypiece for cracks. “Utter incompetents,” he grumbled. “They

wouldn’t know wood-bore from a tick on their dog’s ass.”

She stuck to the subject. “Neither would girls.”

“Ido have no use for girls. Not that way; not with ones I’m related to, anyway.” He popped out of the

fireplace to leer briefly, but getting no response went back and continued, “You should be grateful. Or,

as the only respectable female of my acquaintance, you are the one I would have to impose upon to

escort my niece to dances and things when she gets here.”

The homely woman, whose name was Flavia, but whom everyone thought of as That Ugly Girl of the

Duke’s, put a large berry in her mouth, wiped her fingers on the velvet of the chaise and talked around it.

“Any titled lady whose husband owes you money would be delighted to take your niece in hand, if only

to show you how it’s done properly and try to instill some gratitude in you.” She licked juice off her lips.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you: why do you talk so much, when half of what you say is utter

crap?”

“To keep you on your toes,” he answered promptly. “How would you like it if everything I said suddenly

started making sense? It would only confuse you.”

Unfolding his long body from the guts of the fireplace, the duke thrust his ruffled cuffs under his fat

friend’s nose for inspection. “Would you say these are dirty?”

“Dirtyis not the word I would use.” She stared at the lace. “That implies that somewhere under the

carbon there exists white linen in its original state. But I think an alchemical transformation has been

effected here.”

“At last!” He lunged for the bellpull. “I shall have to document it.” His fingers left black smudges on the

embroidered fabric. “You will be amazed to learn that I, too, have read Fayerweather. You have, as

usual, completely bollixed his concept of Original State: it has nothing to do with alchemy.”

“Did I quote Fayerweather?”

“No. You eviscerated him, and threw his carcass to the geese.”

The duke’s summons was answered by a stocky boy. Everything about him was middling: his height,

weight, color and curl of hair, skin, ears, even his deportment, caught as it was in the middle between a

boy’s awkwardness and a young man’s strength. His arms were a little long, but that was all.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” the duke asked fondly.

The Ugly Girl threw a strawberry at the boy, which he failed to catch; nor did he run after it to pick it up

when it rolled into a corner. “Dear one,” she said to the duke, “you could surround yourself with much

prettier company than those present.”

“I do,” he replied. “But they have a tendency to think too highly of themselves. So I get rid of them.

Over and over and over and over,” he sighed. “Marcus,” he told the boy, “get me a clean shirt.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The duke pulled the one he was wearing over his head. “And have this one examined—the cuffs—for

alchemical transformation.”

“Yes, my—” The boy’s face bent and broke into a laugh. “Do you mean it?”

The duke tilted his head to one side. “Hmm. Do I? I’m not sure. It washer idea.Do I mean it?”

The Ugly Girl rolled onto her back, gazing nearsightedly at the elaborate blur of the sculpted ceiling

above her. “You never mean anything.”

When the boy had left the room, she said approvingly, “He’s got brains. It’s funny how you can always

tell.”

“Like calling to like.” It was as close to a compliment as the duke ever came; she wisely ignored it.

“Well, as you pointed out, I hardly chose him for his beauty.”

“I’m surprised you chose him at all. He lacks the aura of great wickedness, or great innocence. You like

extremes.”

“I do.” The duke helped himself to the strawberries; they were his, after all. He ate them one at a time, in

the manner of one who is not used to plenty.

Making sure that her fingers were well licked and dried, the Ugly Girl went to take a book from the pile

on the mantelpiece. She sat by the window reading her treatise on mathematics, ignoring the duke as he

received and donned his new shirt, received and interviewed an informant (who was not offered

strawberries), received and made fun of a small but very ugly lamp meant as a bribe and finally went

back to his fireplace excavations.

Ellen Kushner - The Privilege of the Sword

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