Dave Duncan - Paragon Lost

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The three “Tales of the King’s Blades” formed a set, although possibly not a true series because they were
not sequential. The present book is independent of them and complete in itself. It recounts some curious
events that occurred about a dozen years later, during the reign of King Athelgar.
Thousands of swords hang overhead in the great hall, each one a memorial to the Blade who bore it. For his
own hand and style it was crafted, into his heart it was plunged in the ritual that bound him, and its touch on
his shoulder ultimately released him when the King dubbed him knight. After his death it was brought back
to Ironhall, to hang forever with its sisters in the place where it was made. Swords of all types and styles hang
there, as fashions have changed through the centuries, but each hilt bears a shining yellow gem as its
pommel—with one exception. On one sword alone the cat’s-eye stone has been replaced with a plain white
pebble.
I
At Gossips’ Corner
• 1 •
“Isabelle!” Mistress Snider screeched. “Are you deaf?”
Isabelle was not deaf, but she would have had good cause to be, working in this kitchen. On one side of
her Nel was chopping up salt pork with a hatchet, on the other Ed pounded dried fish with a mallet—it took
hours of pounding and soaking to make it even close to edible. At her back, Lackwit was powdering salt just
as loudly. Lids danced and clattered on boiling pots, the pump handle squeaked, drudges were rattling sea
coal into the great brick ovens and raking out ashes. The door, left open to admit cool air and flies, led to the
stable yard where the farrier was shoeing a horse. Deaf? Not at all.
“And what’re you doing with all that cinnamon?” The old harpy waxed louder and shriller. Mistress Snider
was tall and stooped, tapering from grotesquely wide hips up to a small, mean face shriveled around a beak
nose.
“I am making a dipping sauce as you told me to!” Isabelle
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shouted back. “Cameline sauce, with ginger and raisins and nuts, with cinnamon and pepper, but how you
expect me to do it with no cloves, no cardamon—”
“Not so much cinnamon! You think we’re made of money here? Stale bread and vinegar, that’s what makes
a sauce, girl. Use up some of those herbs before they rot completely. A man wants you! A gentleman is
asking for your husband.” The old horror canted her head to peer at Isabelle with one glittery eye, oozing
dislike. “And be quick back. I need that sauce done right. And soon!”
With difficulty, Isabelle held back some truths as unpalatable as Mistress Snider’s food. The woman
skimped ridiculously, but all Chivians tried to get by with inferior ingredients smothered in peppery sauces. In
Isilond, one began with a good piece of meat and used only enough seasoning to bring out its natural flavor.
She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Yes, mistress.”
“He’s waiting in the King’s Room. You hurry back. Don’t expect me to pay you when you’re not working.”
No, Isabelle would be paying her for the privilege of speaking with a potential client. She set off on the
perilous trek to the door, watching out for scavenging dogs and people hurrying with hot pans, for her balance
was not as certain as it used to be. Fortunately, the baby never made her nauseated, although she lived in
that horrible kitchen from before dawn until after nightfall. She had nightmares of giving birth there. But a
gentleman looking for Beau might mean a client and real wages, instead of the pittance he earned in the yard
by day and serving beer at night.
Leaving the reek of boiling cabbage, she went into the big taproom with its smoky fog of yeast, people, and
cheap candles. Gossips’ Corner was, first and last, a tavern, where beer flowed like water—“and for good
reason,” Beau said. Lo
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cated in the heart of Grandon, not far from Greymere Palace, Gossips’ Corner was a universally recognized
address for people to rendezvous or leave messages or even dine, although Isabelle could never understand
why anyone who had any choice should choose to do that. It offered rooms by the night or the week or the
hour—she and Beau lived there, in a garret five floors up. It provided music and singing and gambling. Those
who sought to buy a horse, hire a servant, pick pockets, or contract odd jobs could usually be
accommodated.
The City Watch, bought off by Master Snider, turned blind eyes to shadier services: girl or boy companions
in the rooms, sinister conjurations not offered by honest elementaries, recovery of recently stolen goods,
collection of debts, or other forms of assault. Today the taproom was as noisy as the kitchen, with a dozen
carpenters competing in hammering. Riots were commonplace in Gossips’ Corner, but last week’s had been
unusually vigorous, climaxing in a party of public-spirited Baelish sailors attempting to burn the place down.
The King’s Room was a cubicle for private conversation. Furnished with a timber table and two benches, it
was just as cramped and pungent as the taproom outside, but the pebbly glass in its diamond-pane windows
let in a fair light. The solitary occupant rose as she entered, an unexpected courtesy. A gentleman, certainly.
His hose, doublet, and skirted jerkin were of fine stuff and beautifully tailored—not quite in the latest mode
sported by court dandies, but quite acceptable on an older man—and his knee-length cloak was a
magnificent gold brocade, trimmed with a collar of soft brown fur that tapered all the way down the edges. Yet
he was clean-shaven, in defiance of current fashion, and the silver hair visible below his halo bonnet seemed
clumsily cut. He bore his years well, standing straight and tall.
4 Dave Duncan
He bowed. “Lady Beaumont? Good chance to you, my lady.”
Isabelle shut the door. “I am Mistress Cookson, may it please your lordship.” People who claimed a rank
above their station could land in the stocks. Was he one of the King’s spies?
He pursed his lips in disapproval. “Then pray be seated, mistress. I do believe we have business to
discuss. And if you are to be Mistress Cookson, then I shall remain Master Harvest for the nonce. May I offer
you some wine, or order some other refreshment?”
He would have paid dearly for the bottle of Snider’s best that stood on the table with four goblets. Isabelle
declined the wine, but she did sit down, determined to get her money’s worth. The Sniders would dock half
her day’s pay for allowing her a few minutes to meet with this man under their roof, despite having charged
him for the use of the room.
The man not-named-Harvest returned to his bench and studied her with coal-dark eyes that age had not
dulled. “I need speak with your husband, my lady. The matter is urgent.”
“It is about lessons?” He was too old to fence, but he might have grandsons.
A smile flickered and was gone. From his pocket came a paper that she recognized instantly as one of
Beau’s handbills. She had helped him design it and was still furious that Master Snider’s printer had ruined it
by setting Available At Gossips’ Corner in the largest type. The visitor spread it on the table and her
suspicion flamed higher.
“That is outdated, my lord. We have a newer version. I can fetch one.” She began to rise.
“Pray do not trouble. I have seen that, also. The only difference is that Sir Beaumont’s name was changed
to ‘Ned Cookson.’ Will you tell me why?”
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Long-smoldering anger made her blurt out the truth. “He was ordered not to claim to be a gentleman, my
lord.”
“Ordered by whom?”
“By Blades from the palace! The Royal Guard! They harass him! They threaten to report him to the Watch
for wearing a sword when he is not of rank. They frighten his pupils away. Is that why you are here, master?
To cause us more trouble?”
Master Harvest shook his head vigorously. “Mistress, I am shocked by this. I thought I had put a stop to it.”
“They are not so bad now as they were last year,” she conceded. “But by any name he is still the same
expert fencer, my lord. His time is almost all spoken for just now, but I am sure he would be honored to wait
upon your lordship at your convenience.”
The visitor sighed and laid his hands on the table. He stared at them, not at her. “Mistress, I truly believe it
is in Beau’s interest that I speak with him as soon as possible.”
“He is currently instructing at a noble house not very far away from here. I could send a boy and have him
call on you at your residence.”
Another sigh. “Lady Beaumont, pardon my doubts. Your husband is far from the first man to try teaching
Ironhall fencing outside the school itself. In four centuries, very few have succeeded in earning a living at it. It
is the best system, of course, but it needs great dedication. At Ironhall we pound the boys’ heads with
mallets of honor and service and tradition, day in and day out, all through their adolescence. Anything less
than that and it won’t work.”
“He teaches many styles, my lord. Long sword, bastard sword, short sword, sword and buckler,
backsword, rapier—”
“—rapier and cloak, rapier and target, two rapiers, rapier and dagger—” the man said, quoting from the
handbill.
6 Dave Duncan
They finished the list in unison: “—sword and buckler, sword and sword-breaker.”
He laughed. “I am sure he teaches them all very well. The juniors used to fight over him. Unfortunately,
fencing is out of style now. Old King Ambrose was a devotee of the noble art, but King Athelgar does not care
for it and kings set fashions. Henchmen with staves are in; fencing is out. And now you tell me that the Royal
Guard is driving away his clients! Lady Beaumont, has he any pupils at all?”
“If you will not tell me your business, I must be about mine.”
“I wish to offer your husband a job. I will pay well.”
That was more like it! “Pray forgive my suspicions, my lord. Beaumont has served the Duke of Permouth,
and His Grace gave him a very good reference. The Earl of Mayewort also—” She distrusted the intelligence
behind those penetrating dark eyes.
“Last year. For about a month in each case, just long enough for the King to find out about it and apply
pressure.”
“Who are you?” she shouted, heaving herself up. “Why are you spying on us? What harm is he doing,
trying to earn an honest living?”
“None, mistress. But the King bears Beau a grudge. He had him fired from those positions and probably
others, is that not so?”
“No,” Beau said. “I quit because they expected me to eat in the kitchen.”
Isabelle wondered how long he had been standing behind her. The visitor should have noticed—must have
done! He looked up now, dark eyes studying the newcomer.
“Where do you eat these days, then?”
“I have given up eating. It is a disgusting habit.” Beau closed the door almost as silently as he had opened
it. He
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sat, pulling Isabelle down beside him, then reached across for the wine bottle. He poured, filling three
goblets.
His boots had brought a powerful odor of stable into the room. He was a compact man, and his filthy,
shabby leather jerkin and breeches made him seem small compared to the padded and pleated visitor—those
were emphatically not the clothes he normally wore when meeting potential clients. He was bareheaded,
which no gentleman ever was, but the wind that could never ruffle his ash-blond curls had flushed his fair
cheeks. Or his color might be from anger, for certainly his pale eyes were steely as he regarded the stranger.
“I recognized Destrier.” Beau set a glass in front of Isabelle. “He’s too old now for such a long ride. He has
an ingrown lash in his right eye that should be seen to.” In a world where every man prized himself on his
horsemanship, that was first point to Beau.
The visitor could be just as inscrutable. “He doesn’t live on Starkmoor any more and I’ll tell my son to have
the eye looked at.”
Starkmoor was the site of Ironhall, the Blades’ headquarters and school, and now Isabelle recalled this
stranger’s curious remark, “I thought I had put a stop to it.” Only three men could hope to stop the King’s
Blades doing anything they pleased, and since he was neither the King nor Commander Vicious, he must be
Grand Master, the legendary Durendal, Earl Roland, of whom Beau normally spoke with awe and reverence,
quite unlike his current biting mockery. Roland had been the finest fencer of his generation and King
Ambrose’s Lord Chancellor for another. She had just offered him fencing lessons.
“Are you truly forbidden to use your Blade name?” he asked.
Beau shrugged. “Title. It was always only honorary and a
8 Dave Duncan
stable hand claiming knightly rank is unseemly. ‘Beaumont Cookson’ lacks euphony, don’t you agree?”
“Some say that you brought much of your trouble on yourself.”
“Who does not cry for just deserts, when all he really wants is pity?”
Grand Master showed his teeth. “You had orders to leave town. That’s what the harassment is about. Why
don’t you do as you’re told—go away and start over somewhere else?”
“I enjoy listening to the gossip here.”
“Why didn’t you enter the King’s Cup this year?”
“You came for lessons? A man of your years will find fencing strenuous.”
They were fencing with words—feinting, parrying, riposting, and never quite saying what they meant. His
lordship tapped the handbill spread on the table.
“This says that you won the King’s Cup two years ago against competitors from four kingdoms. Last year,
of course, you were elsewhere. Why did you not compete this spring?”
“I might have lost. Who wants lessons from the third or fourth best swordsman in the world?”
“Then you need not have mentioned it.”
Isobel sniffed at her wine glass and set it down hastily. She should go back to work. Nosy Mistress Snider
would know that Beau was here and selling fencing lessons did not need both of them. But she wanted to
know what spite the Blades were plotting against Beau this time.
Lord Roland tasted his wine. Without comment, he set the glass down and folded his arms as if he had
reached a decision. “You are not the first Blade to end up working as a stable hand, but you will never
convince me that you enjoy it. I came here to offer you a job.”
“I happen to be married.”
9 Paragon Lost
“I did not mean an Ironhall post. This would be a favor to me personally, not His Majesty.”
“An assassination, is it?”
Roland glared. “No. I have a serious problem and I believe you may be able to solve it for me.”
Beau rose, ignoring the wine he had not touched. His mocking smile did not waver. “I do appreciate your
concern, my lord, but my work is piling up even while we speak.”
Isabelle kicked his messy boot under the table. They needed the money! Men! Why would a man do
anything rather than accept help when it was offered?
“Sit down,” Grand Master said. “This is very confidential.”
“Then it would be safer not to tell anyone.” Beau shaped a slight bow. “I must rush and prepare bran mash
for my charges, and my wife likewise, for hers. It has been fun reminiscing about old—”
“I have lost a Blade. He has been stolen.”
After a moment Beau said, “That is a totally ridiculous statement!” and sat down again.
• 2 •
“Do try the wine, Lady Beaumont,” Grand Master said. “It is not what its label says it is, but quite
drinkable.”
“I must attend to my duties, my lord. And if the matter is as confidential as you—”
“Please stay! I am very happy to meet you at last, and just wish the times were happier. Mine is a very
curious problem. It has me baffled, and that snaky grin on your husband was always a sign that he was out of
his mental depth. Perhaps you will be able to shed some light on the path for both of us.”
10 Dave Duncan
Lord Roland had won a point and was enjoying it. He knew how to charm. She returned his smile,
acknowledging that few people could fence words with Beau and win.
Beau, quite unabashed, moved Isabelle’s glass a little closer to her and took a sip from his own. “Forgery?”
“Of course.”
“But why?”
“That is the question. As you probably know, Lady Beaumont, Ironhall boys always leave in the same order
in which they were admitted. There are good reasons for this, but it can cause difficulty, especially now, when
we train fewer boys than we used to. I send regular reports to the Commander of the Royal Guard, advising
him how many we have ready for binding. Sir Vicious, in turn, advises His Majesty. Two or three times a year,
the King comes to Iron-hall and harvests the next batch. He cannot delegate that duty; it must be his hand on
the sword that binds them.”
Isabelle suppressed a shiver, thinking of the deadly white scar over Beau’s heart.
“Of course the King may also assign Blades to other persons.” Lord Roland regarded her darkly. “You will
not remember the Thencaster Plot, but one of its more distressing results was that some Blades were put in
impossible conflicts of loyalty. Many went insane when their wards turned traitor. Others died fighting against
their king. Ever since then, His Majesty has been reluctant to gift Blades to others. The Royal Guard absorbs
almost our entire output nowadays; that is why we admit so few. But the King has not completely given up
assigning private Blades.”
Like Beau. She nodded.
“Consequently,” Grand Master continued, “I had no reason to be suspicious a few days ago when a man
rode into Ironhall with a warrant from the King. He gave his name as Sir Osric Oswaldson. I was mildly
surprised that I had never
11 Paragon Lost
heard of him, nor had Master of Protocol, but he dropped hints of a secret mission and the King wishing
him to have a Blade guardian.”
“Is that usual, my lord?”
Lord Roland smiled. “No, but possible. It happened to me, about half a century ago.”
And Beau, who was positively leering. He hated mysteries he had not created himself.
“I was unhappy that the warrant required me to bind only one Blade, because His Majesty knows my
concerns about that and has never ignored them before. But kings do as they please.”
“Osric,” Beau said. “Baelish name. Was he a Bael?”
“He could be. His hair was more sandy than red, but it did have a reddish tinge and he was the right age to
be one of Athelgar’s childhood friends. He volunteered no personal information and brought no attendants who
might have gossiped in the kitchens. The King sent most of his cronies home after the Thencaster Affair, but
he could well have chosen one for some confidential mission. It all made sense.”
When his audience did not comment, Lord Roland continued. “I gave him my usual lecture on the care and
upkeep of Blades. In all good faith I summoned Prime and introduced him to his ward-to-be. Swithin?
Remember him?”
Beau nodded. “Gangly lad, with a shock of black hair? Always looked surprised, as if his eyebrows had
been stuck on too high.”
“He has a nasty surprise coming to him now, if he hasn’t had it already. He was late developing, but he
turned out very well, excellent man, wonderful on a horse. I like to keep one of the best to be Prime so that
no one thinks he’s a reject. The following night he was bound.”
Beau drummed fingers on the table. “I suppose . . . the
12 Dave Duncan
oath is part of the binding. There’s no question that the conjuration would work if the ward used a false
name?”
“If it hadn’t, Swithin would have died. And if it was possible to bind by proxy, the King would not come to
Ironhall. No, it’s whose hand holds the sword that counts.”
“Osric knew how to wield a sword?”
“No,” Grand Master said. “I doubt if he’d ever touched one before, but he got the point in Swithin’s heart,
which is all that matters. Before dawn they rode off over the moor together, Aragon succeeded as Prime, and
Ironhall carried on as it always does.”
“But?” Isabelle prompted in the silence.
Grand Master scowled. “A few hours later a couple of guardsmen came by. Sir Valiant and Sir
Hazard—you remember them, Beau? They were on their way to Nythia to inspect renovations at a royal
hunting lodge, so of course they dropped in at Ironhall. Hazard mentioned that the King had gone off to
Avonglade for a week’s hunting and would be back on the ninth. That’s today.”
“Loose lips!” Beau said scornfully. “Does dear King Athelgar not keep his movements secret?”
Roland shrugged. “He tries to. He keeps everything secret. He’s said to keep secrets from himself. But if
he had gone for a week, then he must have left on the first or second...”
Beau emptied his goblet and pulled a face. “So you retrieved Osric’s warrant from the archives and took
another look.”
Grand Master produced a paper and passed it across. Isabelle leaned against Beau’s shoulder to study it.
It was a common octavo sheet, printed in heavy black type, with a few gaps where additions had been
inserted in a hasty scrawl.
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We, Athelgar, King of Chivial and Nostrimia, Prince of Nythia, Lord of the Three Seas, Fount of Justice,
&c. to our trusty Durendal, Earl Roland of Waterby, Companion of the White Star, &c., Grand Master of
our Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades: Greeting! We do request and require that you cause
the most senior one Candidates to be bound as Companions in the aforesaid Order by its Secret and
Ancient Rituals to serve our Royal Intents by defending our well-beloved Osric Oswald-son, Bart
against all Perils and Persons Whatsoever for as long as he shall live.
Done by our hand at our Palace of Greymere this 3rd Day of Eighthmoon
in this 13th year of our Reign. Athelgar
As a warrant for a man’s life it was singularly unimpressive, not unlike Beau’s handbill. He took that up
also, as if to compare them.
“You said His Majesty was not in Grandon on the third,” Isabelle said. “He made a mistake on the date?”
“Kings are very careful over dates, Lady Beaumont,” Grand Master said. A former chancellor would know
that. “A wrong date on a royal signature could have grave consequences.”
“Then he postdated the warrant.”
Beau’s smile was more catlike than ever. “What possible reason can a king ever have for postdating
anything, love?”
She had no answer to that.
“So you suspected a forgery,” Beau said. “Is it conjured? You had a White Sister sniff it?”
“No need,” Roland growled. “The writing is a purely secular forgery. The seal may be a conjurement. I can’t
tell the seal from the real thing—it’s only the royal signet, of course,
14 Dave Duncan
not even the privy seal, but that is standard. The hand is not the King’s. A good copy, good enough to fool
me at first sight, but when I compared it with others, I could see the discrepancies.”
The old man spoke calmly, but he must be seething. A long lifetime of public service would end in ridicule.
The King might impose a cover-up, but that would not save Grand Master from the royal wrath.
Beau smiled. Neither man spoke.
“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said. “How can the imposter hope to get away with this? A Blade is not a
silver dish to be fenced or hocked. A Blade has a tongue. He talks.”
“If a man can be hanged for stealing a sheep,” Lord Roland inquired acidly, “will the penalty for stealing one
of the King’s Blades be less?”
She should have seen that.
“So the loot will not testify against the looter,” Beau said. “I’m not sure if a Blade’s binding prevents him
from pounding his ward to mush in a non-fatal sort of way. Were I Swithin, I should be inclined to try.”
A private Blade was bound until death. Only the Guard could be dubbed knights and released.
“A Blade is not invisible,” Beau continued. “Dress a Blade in rags and he does not lose his...”
“Arrogance,” Isabelle murmured helpfully.
His knee nudged hers under the table. “Distinctive poise. And our friend Osric can never go anywhere
without taking his ill-gotten guardian along. He can never risk visiting Grandon, certainly.”
“He’s gone abroad, then,” she said. “Back to Baelmark.”
Roland shrugged. “Or anywhere in Eurania.”
“And you cannot even hazard a guess who he was?” Beau asked.
“I had never seen him before.”
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“So why bring your gaffe to me?”
They were playing word games again, feinting at meanings. Of course they must know each other very
well, so they could jump the gaps, but there was also danger looming. Kidnapping a Blade was certainly
crime enough to involve the Dark Chamber. Since no lie could deceive inquisitors, conversations must be
deniable.
“What can Beau do about it?” Isabelle demanded. “What can anyone do? Swithin will die before he will
desert his ward. If you catch Osric and lock him up, you’ll have to lock up Swithin, too. If you chop off his
head, Swithin will go insane, won’t he?”
“This could be more serious than that,” Beau muttered.
“Much more!” Roland said.
“What can Beau do, though?” Isabelle repeated.
The two men stared at each other as if they were now communicating without any words at all. They still
did not answer her question.
Lord Roland rose. “Swithin has been kidnapped! Tricked into dedicating his existence to safeguarding a
thief! His entire life has been stolen from him. I want that boy found and compensated. Somehow. I cannot
imagine how. And in secret. I think you are the man to do it for me, Beaumont. I will provide expenses.” The
wash-leather bag he tossed down landed with a metallic thud that shook the heavy table.
Beau jumped up. “I will not take your—”
“You will need a good sword.” Lord Roland was not only taller, he was louder. “Fortunately, I have one I can
lend you.” He reached down and produced a sword in a battered, well-used scabbard—it must have been
lying on the bench beside him all the time. He laid it on the table, as if raising the stakes in a wager.
Beau stared, shocked into silence; the wind-burn flush on his face fading to pallor.
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Even Isabelle knew that hilt, with the silver cage around the leather-bound grip, but the pommel was wrong.
The cat’s-eye cabochon that had once gleamed there had been replaced with a simple white stone, like a
pebble off a beach. She leaned across the table to draw the blade just far enough to expose the name
inscribed on the ricasso: Just Desert.
Beau licked his lips, then said hoarsely, “I will not take your gold, my lord!”
Isabelle was seized by a potent urge to kick him or shake him. They needed that gold! Desperately! It
would buy them passage back to Isilond, or provide a start of a decent life here in Chivial. She had a baby
coming. Beau was being wilful again, crazy-proud again, ruining everything again, just as he had when he
defied the King. She forced down her anger, clenching her fists. Loyalty! Trust him!
Grand Master said, “Sir Beaumont—”
“No!” His voice was soft, his smile hard. “I do not need your charity.”
“You need someone’s!”
“No! I refuse. I was expelled from the Blades in disgrace. They miss no chance to show their contempt for
what I did. I won’t wipe their noses for them. Take your gold, and your warrant, too.” He thrust purse and
paper back at the frowning Roland. “Good chance to you, my lord. You can find your own way out.”
Lord Roland bowed stiffly and stalked away, cloak swirling.
But the sword still lay on the table.
• 3 •
Isabelle opened her mouth to start asking questions and Beau kissed it. He might still not be the best
swordsman in
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the world, because in the two years since he won the King’s Cup he had been deprived of the intense daily
practice that experts needed to keep up their skills. She never doubted that he was the world’s best kisser.
He was far stronger than he looked, and she could do nothing but cooperate. Her swelling breasts spread
against his hard chest and her belly could just still fit in the concave curve of his. When the world spun at a
crazy angle and her knees buckled, he lowered her carefully to sit on the bench. She was giddy and
breathless. He was flushed.
Only then did he take up the sword.
“Why didn’t you accept his gold?” she asked bitterly.
“Because I will have nothing to do with treason.”
“Treason?” She thought of the horrible things they did to traitors.
“Tampering with the King’s Blades could certainly be construed as treason.” His eyes flickered a steely
warning, and she remembered the cryptic hints that there might be more to the crime than Roland and he had
said. “Sooner or later the inquisitors will bay.” He peered along the blade.
The first time he proposed to her, he had warned her that a Blade’s ward must always come first, promising
she would always be second. He had lied, although unwittingly. Just Desert had been second. He had
always spoken of his sword as female, she. She was a schiavona sword, two-edged, tapered, basket
hilt—not a large, clumsy weapon, but neat, like him. Also deadly, like him. The only time Isabelle had ever
seen tears in his eyes was when they took her away. And now she was back. Roland had known the one
coin that would buy her husband for whatever his real purpose was.
“It’s yours, isn’t it?” She was still breathless.
“Oh, no.” He smiled thinly. “His Majesty ordered mine destroyed, remember? But Master Armorer keeps
records of
18 Dave Duncan
every sword he makes, so Roland could have ordered a replica. He would pay for it himself, too.”
She could see the nicks on the edge, many of which tallied men’s lives. This was the original Just Desert,
the one he had slaughtered with on the ghastly Skyrrian quest. The King had been defied. Roland had not
destroyed the sword as commanded, but if the Dark Chamber asked, Isabelle could say, “I hardly know one
sword from another. My husband told me it was a replica.”
She hugged herself and the child she carried. “What was he after? You believe this absurd story of a stolen
Blade? You think there’s any way you can find him, this Swithin? Wherever he is? Why did you turn down
Roland’s money? Where could you even start? How could you possibly find Osric, when that won’t even be
his real name?”
“I know his real name. So does Grand Master.”
“What!?” Isabelle cried. “Don’t give me shocks like that! It’s bad for the baby.”
“I said I know who ‘Osric’ is,” Beau repeated, “and so does Lord Roland. The problem will be catching him
in time. The warrant was dated the third. Assume Osric rode posthaste from Grandon to Ironhall—”
“How do you know he was ever in Grandon?”
Beau grinned approvingly. “He was, but what I mean is that the date had to seem reasonable to Grand
Master. The warrant is addressed to him, but it’s a royal command to the bearer, too—if the King gives you a
commission like that, you do not drop it in a drawer and forget about it! You move. You act! So Osric
probably arrived at Ironhall late on the fourth or on the fifth. The binding ritual begins with a daylong fast, so
the actual binding could not have been done before midnight on the fifth or sixth. He and Swithin left early on
the sixth or seventh; Valiant and Hazard arrived later, probably around noon. Today’s the ninth, so old
Durendal
19 Paragon Lost
did very well to get here in just two days. Well for his age, I mean. But where are Osric and Swithin?”
She was lost in this labyrinth. “What are you going to do?”
Beau’s laugh showed all his teeth. “I’m not going to do anything. You are.”
“Me? You are out of your mind.”
“No, love.” He slid Just Desert back in her scabbard. “You are going to put on your best bonnet and head
over to the palace. I wonder if the King is back from Avonglade yet?”
II
The Ironhall Road
• 1 •
“Terrible thing, old age,” Andy said. He heaved himself into the roan’s saddle like a miller loading meal
sacks. “I’ll see you on the right way. Hate for you to get lost.”
“Sir, honor may require satisfaction for that remark.” Aided by a groom’s hand-up, Durendal swung himself
into the gray’s saddle with (in his opinion) considerably more grace. His son was an ungainly horseman,
although a proficient one.
The sky was bright, awaiting its lord the sun like a court gathered to greet a monarch. Hooves stamped in
the stable yard mire; breath smoked. The children still slept, but Maud and many of the servants had come
out to exchange last farewells, and whinnies from the stalls sounded like old Destrier bidding good chance to
his lifelong friend. The two riders headed for the gate.
Neither spoke until they emerged from the trees at the top of the rise, where they could look back at the
big house shel
21 Paragon Lost
tering in its hollow, amid its own woods and fields and orchards. For Durendal Ivywalls was full of
bittersweet memories of Kate, of his days of power, of happiness with grandchildren she had never seen.
The road snaked back into the trees again.
“I’m glad you found the right sword today, Father. Yesterday, when you put on the wrong one and then lost
it, you worried me.”
Andy’s nosiness worried Durendal, although it should not surprise him—as a child Andy had pried into
everything. As a young man he had gained renown as an explorer.
The Blades’ Grand Master was skating on paper-thin ice in the Swithin affair. That nasty little atrocity was
not just about the theft of his reputation or a boy’s freedom; it had the potential to shake the Kingdom of
Chivial to its foundations or even plunge half Eurania into war. For himself, Durendal did not care—he was old
enough to do his duty as he saw it without counting the cost—but he was determined to keep his family out
of harm’s way. Earthquakes splattered innocent bystanders with falling masonry, and no one would be safe if
accusations of treason started flying. Against the inquisitors’ ability to detect falsehood, ignorance was the
only defense. So how to answer his son’s query?
Down on the flats, Andy urged his roan into a trot and Durendal kept pace. Joking aside, he was well aware
of age creeping up on him. Still stiff from his ride in from Ironhall, he now faced another two days’ return, even
if the weather held. He would happily stay longer at Ivywalls, but the briefer his absence from Ironhall the less
chance it would come to the attention of those with the power to demand an accounting of what he had been
up to.
“You made a mistake, Son. Harvest is my sword and always has been.”
Andy shot his father a thoughtful glance. He was a heavy
22 Dave Duncan
set man, who had always been more rugged than handsome, whose blocky face had never quite lost the
ruddy tropic weathering gained in his sailor days. He was stolid and deliberate but never predictable. He had
made his own fortune trading to far lands, coming home late in life to settle down and start a family. He had
taken over Ivywalls, enlarged it, and turned it into a model estate admired by landowners from all over Chivial.
He was an authority on crop rotation, fruit trees, and horse breeding. No man likes to see his son reach
middle age, but Durendal was enormously proud of Andy.
“Well, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Durendal laughed. “They’re the envy of every hawk in the county.” He dared not discuss the Swithin affair,
but Beau-mont’s sad tale was stale news. While it was not exactly public knowledge, the vultures of the court
had picked its bones bare long ago. He could talk about that safely. “I’d as soon not have this known, but I
was doing a friend a small favor yesterday.”
A problem as deadly as the Swithin abduction was a strange favor to drop on anyone’s head, but Beau and
that fiery little black-eyed wife of his had virtually nothing left to lose. Beau was the only man in Chivial who
might find a solution.
Roland counted years. “You must remember Montpurse?”
His son said, “Vaguely. Your predecessor as chancellor.”
“Finest man I ever knew. Brilliant swordsman, magnificent statesman. My friend and mentor. My idol.”
“And a traitor?”
“No. A patriot. I sent him to the headsman, yes, but that’s another story. See, there’s a Blade, an
ex-Blade, who reminds me very much of Montpurse. Has the same baby-blond hair. Moves like a sunbeam.
Utterly deadly with steel, incredible. When we admitted him, he demanded the name
23 Paragon Lost
of Beaumont; it wasn’t on the approved list, but I allowed it. Of course the whole school instantly began
calling him Beau.”
Andy grinned. “Did he know what it meant?”
“Oh yes! Beau never gets blindsided.” Except yesterday, when he set eyes on Just Desert again. That
moment alone had been worth the ride in from Starkmoor.
“Father, a captain soon learns not to play favorites among his crew. I can’t imagine you ever do at Ironhall.”
The horses were cantering now, big hooves pounding the rutted trail. A faint veil of smoke over the fields
showed where stubble was being burned. Chivial was prospering, and at peace. In all areas except the
extreme north, the harvest of 402 had been the best in a generation. King Athelgar would receive much of the
credit, for no rational reason. The Thergian war that had threatened for the last two years appeared to have
been averted.
The Swithin nonsense must not be allowed to upset all this!
“I hope I don’t play favorites, son. But Beaumont was like Montpurse—so spectacularly the best that the
problem never arose. He made no enemies. He never needed disciplining.” In his last few months in the
school, the juniors had taken to calling him “the Paragon.”
He had been the bright star who rides the heavens in splendor, then falls to earth and shines no more.
• 2 •
E arly one fine morning the first fencing classes were
starting to leap and shout in the quad. The beansprout
riding class had just gone out the gate like a cavalry
charge. So
24 Dave Duncan
dewy was the spring sunshine that even Starkmoor’s barren crags and perfidious bogs could seem gentle,
and the wisps of dawn mist that lingered around Ironhall’s battlements and towers gave it very nearly the air of
antiquity and invincibility its architects had striven to portray. As a castle, it was a monstrous fake, of course;
as a prison for delinquent youths, it would have failed utterly without the deadly moors encircling it. As a
school for swordsmen, it was unsurpassed in the known world. A hawk was quartering the sky; doves cooed
on the rooftops, taunting the stable cats far below. Durendal was just tightening Destrier’s girth straps when
he heard childish voices yelling, “My lord!” and saw some sopranos, boys of the youngest class, racing
toward him.
It was almost five years since he had tired of growing wrinkles, turned Ivywalls over to Andy, and retired to
Iron-hall to do something useful. His grief for Kate had faded into numbness, an outrage like a missing limb,
never forgotten or forgiven, but no longer bleeding. Parsewood had repeatedly offered him any position he
wanted—Master of Rapiers, Master of Sabers, Master of Anything. He had insisted on remaining Master of
None, a title the candidates found very funny, but he coached their fencing, lectured them on politics, and
generally lent a hand.
That was in winter. The rest of the year he had done some of the traveling that Kate had always wanted to
try. At that very moment he was on his way to meet Snake and two other close friends for a trek through
southern Eurania. Had he been just two minutes faster out the gate, he would have been gone for half a year.
When the white-faced messengers reached him, Durendal listened calmly to their gabble, then said,
“Thank you. Cedric, unsaddle my horse, please. Give him some oats as consolation.” He set off to view the
body.
Parsewood had been a competent, if uninspired, Grand
25 Paragon Lost
Master for almost ten years. Not old, though... he’d been three years Durendal’s junior, so they had not
become close friends until childhood was long past. Parsewood had served under Snake during the Monster
War; he had held the Order together through the nightmare of the Thencaster Affair, when Blades were
required to slaughter Blades. And now...
Now the quadrangle had fallen silent. Durendal detoured past a knot of seniors and told them to keep
classes going, there would be an announcement shortly. He resumed his trek to First House.
The Order must elect Parsewood’s successor, so Lord Roland’s traveling days were over. There was no
arrogance in that assessment—the outcome was inevitable. Although he wanted the job much less than he
wanted paralytic dementia, he knew he could not escape it. If Malinda still reigned, she would veto his
election, but Malinda had abdicated and sailed away. Less than two years since the Then-caster Plot almost
tore it apart, Chivial was still divided, with half the country cursing the Blades for propping up a “foreigner”
king, and the other half hailing them as national saviors. For the eminent Lord Roland, so closely associated
with the days of Good King Ambrose, to refuse this service would be a blatant insult.
By the time he had climbed the stair to Grand Master’s chamber, half a dozen knights were gathered
around the bed muttering. When he walked in they turned to him with obvious relief.
“It must have happened in his sleep,” Master of Rituals said. “He looks peaceful, doesn’t he?”
“He’s earned some peace,” Durendal said. “The King must be informed. And then... Um, who takes over
until the election?”
“You do, my lord.” They spoke in chorus, heads nodding
26 Dave Duncan
like drinking chickens. He wondered if they had planned that.
He sighed. “For now, if you want. We’ll have a general meeting shortly.” He knew what it would decide.
“Protocol, will you send word to His Majesty, please? Archives, I assume you have records of the proper
procedures?”
Of course. Archives had records of everything that had happened there in four centuries.
By the time the reluctant heir escaped and hurried across to King Everard House to change from riding
clothes into something more suitable to the dignity of Grand Master Presumptive, the great bell was tolling,
summoning everyone to the hall. Even while he was mentally preparing what he would say to the assembly,
he noted the hawk still serenely circling. Men came and went; the world endured.
At the steps a slim young man wearing a senior’s sword moved to intercept and the abstracted Durendal
almost walked into him. They dodged with mutual apologies. Florian had been Prime for almost a month now,
doing much better than the masters had expected.
“My lord!” he said. “This...”
Durendal looked down with annoyance at This, standing at Prime’s side. He was too young to be even a
soprano, dressed in jerkin and breeches too grand to be school issue. Not today! The bell was tolling. No one
had authority to admit a new candidate and current enrollment was over the preferred limit already.
Then he thought, Montpurse’s hair was not curly. The color was the same, though, and the boy’s eyes were
similar, ice in sunlight. They showed concern, but no real worry.
“He’ll have to come back another day. Who brought him?”
“Well... no one, my lord. I mean, the beansprouts found him on the road. He rode in doubled with Calvert.”
27 Paragon Lost
Applicants were supposed to be sponsored by a parent or guardian, but foundlings on the doorstep were
not unknown. This one unprepossessed—a child not yet into his adolescent growth spurt, weedy and
city-pale. But a lot of them started like that and he deserved a fair hearing, because his whole future life was
at stake. The bell was tolling.
“What’s your name?”
“Ned... my lord.”He was impressed at meeting a lord, but again not excessively so.
摘要：

V1-rippedfromofficialbook-kudThethree“TalesoftheKing’sBlades”formedaset,althoughpossiblynotatrueseriesbecausetheywerenotsequential.Thepresentbookisindependentofthemandcompleteinitself.Itrecountssomecuriouseventsthatoccurredaboutadozenyearslater,duringthereignofKingAthelgar.Thousandsofswordshangoverh...

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