The words I'm used to living by are "the fish are running, Niko," "pull harder, Niko," and "the day isn't getting any younger, Niko." I understand how to live by those.
But these other words . . . it's all very strange to me.
We'll see.—Niko
Niko just happened to be on deck, going through his daily workouts, when the cutter came for them.
He might have noticed the sail, but they had seen plenty of sails over the past days. The closer that they got to Portsmouth, the more they saw.
The captain, eying his charts and logs and the coastline, had said that morning that he expected to make Portsmouth just before dark, but it was only midafternoon, and Niko and Cully had gone into their usual routine, while Gray, as he did at all such times, just went below, not saying anything, while land grew closer, and the pace of tacking increased until it seemed like it was only minutes between the cries of "Prepare to come about."
Niko would have taken a broad reach north, and then tacked back. Then again, he didn't know these waters at all, and Captain Randolph certainly did. Probably sensible seamanship.
The wind had picked up, and Poseidon had apparently not wanted them to hurry into Portsmouth, as the wind seemed to be coming directly from the distant twin lighthouses marking the way into port.
This would probably be their last workout, all in all.
Niko didn't quite see the point, but . . . no, he had. He was, for the time being, Sir Niko Cristofolous, and it was only right that he be as little a pale imitation of a real knight as he could be, and it gave him something to do.
And, truth to tell, there was something about the ritual of take-your-position, of lunge-and-recover, of high-guard-outside-dammit-Niko-outside and all the rest that was good for more than just working up a sweat, as though one would want to work up a sweat.
He hadn't really had anything else to do. Whatever else could be said about traveling aboard a ship you weren't involved in the sailing of, it was boring, and left too much time for thinking. There had been more than enough of that, lying in his bunk, trying to sleep, finally reaching out a finger to touch Nadide's steel, and silently singing the lullabye that put the both of them to sleep.
The truth, as Cully seemed to insist, when he talked about it—and he seemed to want to talk about it more and more, as the days had passed, although he never did so in front of Gray—was that what had happened had been a great victory. A live sword, with the soul—or what passed for it—of the Wise, raised against the Crown? They had stopped that, and the stopping of that was worth far more to the Crown than the life of one knight, even one like Bear.
He'd say that, as though to persuade himself, but his eyes would say but, of course, there was none like Bear.
And Niko would just say, "Yes, Sir Cully," and let his eyes speak for themselves, and had looked forward to their afternoon workouts much more than he did to further talk, about Bear or anything else.
"Cutter approaching," the lookout sang out, "signaling 'stand by.' Carrying the Admiralty flag."
The First, who had the deck, called out something to the bosun, and Topmen Aloft was immediately piped, followed by a seven-note theme that Niko hadn't heard before, not that it was hard to figure out what it meant when the sailors scrambled up the ropes and immediately began lowering the sails.
Cully tossed Niko a soft cloth. "Practice time is over—for today, at least," he said. "Wash up, as quickly as you can, mind, and get dressed. I expect that all of us will be taken aboard, and I don't want you to appear all dirty and sweaty in front of, well, whoever it is we're going to be hauled in front of. The Navy, I expect, although I wouldn't be surprised if we're in front of the Abbot General sooner than later."
"And you?"
Cully smoothed a hand down the front of his tunic. "I haven't been getting myself all sweaty, and I'm known to be a worthless old man. Now, if you'll get a move on, I'll see to Gray."
Niko hurried down to the cabin he and Cully shared, and gave himself a quick rinse in the water bucket, careless of the way he was splashing the deck. He was halfway into his trousers when there was a knock on the door.
"Yes?"
Fotheringay walked in, a bundle in his arms. "Well, Sir Niko, it took a bit of doing to get that lazy bastard to finish early, but it appears I won't actually have to shove my foot up his lazy ass quite as far as I thought I would—he finished for all three of you." He dumped the clothes on the bunk, and beckoned to Niko. "Come on, sir, shake a leg—you don't want to appear in front of the Admiral in mended clothes, do you?"
"Admiral?"
"Well, it's an Admiral's flag that's flying from the launch, and they haven't sent it for the likes of me—I wouldn't be at all surprised if there'll be a lot of folks wanting to hear what you have to say, all in all, and perhaps a few who want to hear from me, by and by. If you could move it a bit more quickly, sir, it'd be a favor. They're going to want to see you quickly, I'd wager."
"Not you?"
Fotheringay chuckled. "Me? Me, I'd best worry about not being hanged, for the moment." He didn't look worried, and Niko didn't have the vaguest idea of what he was talking about, but he kept talking as he insisted on helping Niko into the clothes that Niko was perfectly capable of putting on without any help. "Oh, it's nothing—but here I am, a marine sergeant assigned to the Blue Squadron, Malta Fleet, on a ship that's not part of the Blue and not officially accepted back into service in the Fleet, for that matter, and never mind that Mr. Langahan had me seconded to service with the Wellesley, which is where I'm officially supposed to be, and while you and I know that Admiral DuPuy put me aboard the Lord Fauncher, Captain Randolph's been a bit, well, distracted to write me out a set of orders, and truth to tell—and I do like telling the truth, young sir; it keeps things simpler—I've not mentioned the matter to him, as I long ago learned that you get yourself more into trouble than out of it by bothering officers, and I'm not sure that somebody's not going to decide, at least for the moment, that I'm 'absent without orders,' although I doubt they'll even lock me up, much less actually get around to hanging me without checking, and . . . there you go." He nodded. "That looks proper enough, although I think maybe somebody needs to have words with Fogarty about his stitching, but that's not my place, and I do know my place, by and large, young sir."
He gave the hem of Niko's tunic a quick tug, then nodded approvingly as Niko slid both Nadide and his Navy sword into place. "Now, that's what a fit and proper young Knight of the Order looks like, I'll say." He snapped to attention, then dropped the position. "Do you mind?"
Niko didn't have the slightest idea what Fotheringay was asking, so he said, "No, I don't mind."
Fotheringay smiled as he stuck out a hand. "Don't know as we'll see each other soon, if again. It's been a privilege, Sir Niko."
"I'm . . . not really very much of a knight, Sergeant Fotheringay," he said, as he took the sergeant's hand.
"You tell that to the dead men, Sir Niko," Fotheringay said. "You tell that to men who were going to raise Red Swords and I don't like to think what else against the Crown, young sir, the ones that the gulls are dining on back on you-know-where. They won't object." He shook his head. "But meaning no disrespect, sir, you don't need to bother telling that to the likes of Nigel Fotheringay, as he bloody well knows better."
"You did more than I did, Sergeant."
Fotheringay gave him a toothless smile. "I only did me duty, sir," he said, "but it's kind of you to say so, most kind, and—"
There was knock on the door. Fotheringay opened it, then snapped back to attention.
It was Sutherland, the senior midshipman. "At your ease, sergeant," he said, frowning. He turned to Niko, and dropped the frown. "Captain's compliments, Sir Niko, and he'd be much obliged if you'd report to him on the quarterdeck with your gear. There's a launch coming aside, ready to take you."
"I'll be right there, Mr. Sutherland. Thank you."
Sutherland turned to Fotheringay and handed him an envelope. "And while he didn't send any compliments, Sergeant, he sent me to tell you to get your kit together, and smartly, and to haul yourself to the quarterdeck, and do so right smartly—you're going, too, apparently. And I'm to say, and I quote, 'Here's the orders you should have asked me for days ago. Do you want to be hanged with a medal around your neck?' "
Sutherland smiled.
The cutter tacked back and forth even more rapidly than the Lord Fauncher had, and it was only a few minutes before they passed between the lighthouses, and the oarsmen quickly lowered the sail to set about rowing, while Niko and the others just sat on the benches.
It was all of them, unsurprisingly: Sigerson and Bigglesworth; Fotheringay and Andropolounikos; and, of course, Cully and Gray. The Nameless had been removed from the strongbox and lay in a cloth bag across Gray's lap. Bear's body, like al-Bakilani, were still aboard the Lord Fauncher.
He looked behind him. The Lord Fauncher already had its sails back up, and was starting to move, although not nearly as quickly as the cutter had under sail . . .
. . . and then it was gone, hidden behind the spit of land at the entrance to the harbor.
It was a nastier and rockier harbor than Niko was used to, and there was something wrong with the air. He shivered.
"Easy, boy," Cully said, his voice low.
There was a reception committee of sorts on the pier: easily one hundred soldiers, all in strange-looking black uniform jackets, with preposterously tall feathers on their rounded hats.
"Marines?" Niko asked.
"No," Cully said. "Not marines—army. Portsmouth Guards—the earl's troops."
"No," Gray said, quietly, leaning forward, his good hand down, as though fiddling with his bootlaces. "It's the Porties' uniforms, but my eyes are good enough to recognize Atkinson at the head of it, and he's Marsh Guard." His voice was too low, too calm. "Not likely to be seconded to the Porties. And I'm none too impressed with the way the jackets fit—some of those supposed Porties are busting their buttons."
"Hmm . . ." Cully said. "I don't like that. What's a captain in the Marsh doing here?"
"I don't like it, either. Let's see what it means." His hand—his remaining hand—was half tucked into the front of his robes, probably by no coincidence bringing it near the hilt of the Khan. "I doubt it means much. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe Atkinson just has a cousin that favors him."
Was there a flicker of a smile on Gray's face? Niko wasn't sure.
"His family from around here?" Cully asked. His voice had gone all low and quiet, too. One hand rested with something that looked like affection on Gray's shoulder.
"I don't know," Gray said. He reached up to cover Cully's hand with his own, then let it drop. "I don't know him well. I don't know many people around Court all that well, and the Marshies were only in Londinium for half a year or so, back before they got sent to Kurcik. But I don't like it. We've got three live swords, and they're of . . . some value. If it all breaks—"
"If it breaks, it breaks on my signal," Cully said, sighing as he let his hand fall from Gray's shoulder. "Not the Khan's. And not yours."
Gray didn't answer for a moment, then he nodded. "Yes, Father. You'd better carry the Nameless, though. If it does all go to pieces, I'll need my hand free." There was something different in his voice that Niko couldn't quite place. Confidence? Comfort? He couldn't have said for sure.
Cully started to protest, but then just shrugged and took the bag from Gray. "I thought I was done with bearing one of these, even in a bag."
"Would you be still?"
"I hope I will." Cully nodded. "Niko, I go up the ladder first of the three of us—Gray last. Make sure you've got some clear space, and don't let anybody lay a hand on you. Nobody has the right to lay a hand on an Order Knight."
"And if they do?"
"Then it's all gone bad." He leaned forward and whispered something to Fotheringay, who just nodded, and bent momentarily to adjust his boots, then leaned back and stretched broadly, his hands clasped behind his head.
Fotheringay looked over at Niko for a moment, then gave him a flash of toothless grin and a nod. "It'll be fine, Sir Niko," he said, tilting his hand just for a moment so that Niko could see a flash of the knife he held in his hand, the grip reversed, blade flat against his arm, concealed by his sleeve, before he let his hand drop. "Just keep behind me, young sir. I'll buy you the time you need to get your sword out. You can't count on much in this world, but you can count on that, Sir Niko." He said it all matter-of-factly. "Kechiroski," he said, "you got that bow in your kit?" At Kechiroski's nod, Fotheringay shook his head. "Don't get it out; too much of a signal. If it all goes to shit, you break right and do the best that you can, as long as you can."
"Yes, Sergeant."
Sigerson started to turn, then stopped the motion at Cully's headshake.
"We've been sent for by Admiral Dempsey," Cully said, quietly, "and our escort should be marines, not army, and if it's army . . ."
"It should be the Porties, and not just look like them."
"You saw it, too."
Sigerson smiled. "It's not a question of seeing, Sir Cully, but of observing. And yes, I observed it, too."
"Ship oars," the coxswain called out, and oars were quickly brought aboard.
Niko looked at the sailors without trying to look like he was looking at them.
The coxswain in the bow of the cutter rose to catch hold of the dock ladder, then one by one, each sailor took his turn pulling the cutter along the ladder until it was amidships, and the two sailors on either side held the boat steady, so that they could all depart.
"Excuse me," Fotheringay said, perhaps a little too loudly, leaned past Bigglesworth and addressed Sigerson. "Got a touch of the mal—mind if I'm first up?"
"Not at all, Sergeant." If Sigerson's voice was a little too loud, too, his usual smile was still in place. "If you'll be sure to be quick enough about it that I don't need an umbrella?"
"No worries on that score, sir." He made his way across Bigglesworth and Sigerson, bumping into Bigglesworth as he did, then climbed up the ladder more quickly than a man of his age and bulk would be expected to.
Bigglesworth was next, and then Sigerson followed, and then Cully, and then Niko, with Andropolounikos behind him.
By the time Niko got to the top, the others were arranged in a rough semicircle, between him and the Guard captain, who Cully was talking to. Fotheringay gave him a momentary look, then took half a step to one side, putting himself between Niko and the nearest of the soldiers.
Cully looked the guard captain up and down. "You're here to conduct us to the Admiralty, Captain . . ."
"Atkinson, sir. And no. My orders are to take you to the Earl's residence—his town house, Sir Cully, not his estate." He gestured toward the city. "About half a mile, sir; it won't be long."
"And the Admiral is meeting us there?"
"I don't know much about such things, sir. I'm just following the orders I was given."
"You are, eh, Atkinson?" Gray's hand was but inches away from the Khan. "And why would the earl or the Admiral put a Marshie in a Portie's uniform?"
Niko nodded. If they were going to have it out, they would have it out here and now. He could more feel than see Fotheringay tense up, as Gray took a step to one side, and—
"Waite please." Atkinson threw up his hands. "I didn't think you'd recognize me, Sir Joshua. You and I've barely exchanged a dozen words, if that. Easy, man, easy. No need for trouble—the earl's waiting for you, yes, but it's not just him. I've been seconded to the Household Guard, and His Majesty thought it would draw less attention if we came in Portie uniforms. We're all House Guard . . . I'm sure you know some of the . . . Simperson, yes, you—over here. On the double, damn it."
"Sir." A sergeant in an ill-fitting jacket marched over. "I don't know if Sir Joshua will recognize me, but—"
"Simperson." Gray nodded. "You made sergeant? Or is that just the uniform?"
"Sir. I made sergeant. I'm still with the House Guard, sir."
"So—"
"Yes, yes, yes," Atkinson said, "you're going to see the King. He's come down from Londinium to see you, in fact. We're your escort, man, not your enemies. Now will you come with me, or do you intend to stand on this drafty dock while I go fetch His Majesty?"
There was a problem at the door to the great hall in what had been described as a "town house," but was actually a gated palace, not quite the size of the Governer's mansion in Pironesia. Niko had been puzzling over that as they walked in, but was distracted by the argument about his own status.
The others hadn't had any problem, or any issue.
The guards—these ones in the red tunics with the red piping of the House Guard—had thoroughly searched everybody else except for Gray and Cully.
It seemed that few people were allowed to come armed into the Presence, which was understandable. Certainly nobody else had complained at the search. Bigglesworth and Fotheringay had turned over their weapons—including the daggers that each of the two men still had concealed in their hands, the flat of the blade still against the arm—and Sigerson and Andropolounikos weren't carrying any.
Cully and Gray, of course, had been allowed to keep their swords with no protest—they were Order Knights, after all—but the guard frowned, and looked down at his list, and said that he knew of no Sir Niko Christofolous of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, and begging Sir Niko's pardon, it would probably be simpler if he turned over his swords like the others had.
Niko started to say something, but desisted at a peremptory motion from Gray.
"No," Gray said.
"Perhaps I could send for one of His Own?" the guard asked. "Meaning no offense, Sir Joshua, but—"
"Do that, then. Send for one of His Own. Send for whomever you care to," Gray said, his voice tight. "Now, please. You're keeping His Majesty waiting."
"Oh, send them in," a voice called from behind the door. "I'm quite sure that Sir Niko isn't a danger. To me, at least."
The doors opened.
His Majesty, Mordred V, seemed more amused than displeased, although the four Order knights who stood halfway across the great hall of the earl's home watched them all, even Cully and Gray, with no expression whatsoever, even as all of them knelt, Niko and Cully quite properly sweeping their swords back, Gray having trouble with it.
Niko hadn't known what to expect of the King, but this wasn't it. He was of more than average height, perhaps, but certainly not much more. His face didn't look much like it was on the pennies—the jaw wasn't quite as square, and the eyes seemed tired. And the hair, well, it was black, shot with just a little gray, and not copper-colored, and ever-so-slightly messy.
"Well, it seems that you've come close to causing even more commotion today, eh? Oh, get up, the lot of you," the king said, more flopping into than sitting in the chair next to the great hearth. He threw a leg over the arm of the chair, then clearly thought better of it and seated himself properly. There was a table at his elbow, holding a ragged pile of papers. He picked one up, glanced quickly at it, then set it back down.
"Let's start—just find yourself some seats, all of you." There were couches and chairs on the thick rug, and they all walked slowly over and found seats, under the gaze of the knights. To the right of the king's chair, a long table had been set, with fine glazed pottery holding pens, and half a dozen inkwells and several stacks of paper; six elegantly dressed men sat there, waiting patiently, watching Niko and all the others with expressions almost as neutral as the knights', but not nearly as implicitly hostile.
Of course, the fact that the secretaries didn't have swords within reach might have had something to do with that.
"This is important enough," the king said, "for me to have come down here, but it's not the only important thing going on right now—I've dragged a dozen ministers, half the Privy Council, and more secretaries than I care to think about with me, and there are other matters that I must attend to, even this night." He beckoned to one of the . . . scribes? Niko decided that they were scribes. "I'll want to call Shanley first," he said. "Then the Archbishop. Ask them to wait outside." The man nodded, rose, and quickly walked from the room.
The king gave Cully a smile. "Yes, yes, I'm going to make Ralph wait while I talk to you. He'll already have noticed that, as I intend; I don't want you to point it out to him, Cully. Understood?"
"I'll obey, Your Highness," Cully said, slowly. "I'm not sure I understand."
The king shook his head and raised a hand. "We can get to that in a moment. I want to take the easy parts first, and then we can go on to more difficult and unpleasant matters. And, truth to tell, the easy parts are among my pleasures. Speaking of which . . ." He looked over at Andropolounikos. "Stavros Kechiroski, better known as Stavros Andropolounikos, would you be so kind as to rise?"
Andropolounikos was already quickly on his feet before Niko realized that the King was speaking in Hellenic. Andropolounikos seemed surprised, too, and that seemed to amuse the King.
"I've read Lord Randolph's and Sir Joshua's reports—reread them, in fact, although I've been told I'm a quick study," he said, lapsing back into English. "Then again," he added, with a brief smile, "I'm told many nice things about myself, and I'm not sure I believe all of them. Not sure what to make of all the details—secondhand reports are bad enough—but I do believe that you made an incredible bowshot in Our service, and showed great courage.
"You, Stavros Andropolounikos, are the easiest one—you're to be knighted and pensioned. Knight of the Guard, I think, along with the OC; you'll be able to live decently in Londinium, better out in the country, and like a baron, if not nearly an earl, if you decide to return to Andropolounikos. Your choice. Every man should see Londinium before he dies, and you'll do that—but you might find yourself more comfortable at home. I know I do.
"I'm not in such a rush that we have to knight you now, on the run—you'll be properly and publicly knighted at the already-scheduled ceremony in Londinium on . . ." He paused momentarily.
"Four weeks from tomorrow, Your Majesty," the scribe on the left said, looking up, while the other two were writing quickly. "Eighth of Cornwall."
" . . . on the Eighth of Cornwall. You'll spend the time between now and then talking to the Intelligence people." He gave a quick shrug. "I suspect you don't know much that they'd find of interest, but the simplest way to find that out is for you to talk to them, at some length." He turned to one of the scribes. "And make sure that Sir Stavros is treated properly, please? The man's a hero, and he should be dressed appropriately at the ceremony. Royal Tailor; Privy Purse."
"Of course, Your Majesty." He didn't make a note; Niko suspected that he already had. The man made a gesture to one of the other scribes, who rose, and beckoned to Andropolounikos, who quickly followed him out of the room.
The king was silent until the two had left, and the door closed behind them. He turned to Fotheringay.
"You're a problem, Sergeant Fotheringay."
Fotheringay had already leaped to attention when the king had started to speak, but he didn't say anything.
"What I'd like to do is give you a knighthood and commission, but . . ." The king shook his head. "But I don't have any reason to believe that you'd make a good officer, not at your age, even with a knighthood to ward off problems of your station, and I can't knight you and send you back to the Fleet as a sergeant, for whatever poor lieutenant you're assigned to having to call you 'Sir Nigel.' " He smiled. "I've served aboard a ship or two, you know. So you get the Order of the Crown for now, and the knighthood comes when you retire. Unless you want to retire right now?"
"No, sir. I mean, 'No, Your Majesty.' "
"No, you meant 'no, sir,' but that's fine. The OC comes with a pension, you know. You won't need to stay in service. You're eighteen months from your thirty, but that can be waived." He grinned. "I believe I have that authority."
Fotheringay almost shrugged. "It's what I know, Your Majesty."
"Ah. The tailor to his needles, the cobbler to his last, and the marine sergeant to his company. So be it. Report to the Admiralty—Assignments, of course, in . . . ?"
"Three weeks from today, Your Majesty," the scribe supplied. "Need to allow some time to get back from Fallsworth."
". . . three weeks from today. Until then, you're on duty with Intelligence—just as Sir Stavros, is, and just as I'm going to do with Bigglesworth in a minute, and Mr. Sigerson—and the rest of you, as well, over the next weeks. Answer questions thoroughly and honestly, and spend the rest of the time enjoying yourself." The king smiled. "Avoid getting the pox."
"Aye, aye, sir—Your Majesty."
He turned to Sigerson. "You can have Bigglesworth back, Sir Eric, when they're done with him. But he gets the same KHMG and OC that you do, and the same pension that Fotheringay and Kechiroski get. I'd offer you the pension, but I know about your family's affairs, and I'm feeling cheap at the moment. There'll be other work for you—Lord Belknap will be having some words with the College, and your name will be prominently mentioned."
Sigerson nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
"And now, if the three of you will excuse me, I think I have some matters to settle with my Order Knights." The king rested his elbow on the arm of his chair, and cupped his hand, and a servant quickly set a surprisingly plain pipe in it, while another produced a lit taper, and the king sat and puffed on his pipe while the other three were led from the room.
"And now, it gets to the hard part. You three." He gave Cully a look. "I know your history—you don't take orders well. My father used to speak of that, every now and then. I'm not sure whether it was in admiration or irritation. Probably both."
"I'm . . . sorry for any distress I've caused the Crown, sire."
"No, you're not. I don't really have time for any of this, but let's have it out, anyway. You and the Abbot General fought over Sir Joshua—Gray—being given the Khan. The Council backed him, which isn't surprising, since for all practical purposes, the Abbot is the Council. You went over his head to Father, and he refused to overrule the Abbot, and when you tried to go over Father's head to Her, She turned you down, too. Not that he was in the habit of hopping about at Her command, but . . . am I missing anything?"
"Rather a lot, Your Majesty," Cully said, evenly. "I think that—"
"That the Khan is too much a burden on Gray, that carrying it, even for less time than he has, is likely to break him." The king shook his head. "Do I have that about right?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. You have it precisely right, Sire."
The king frowned. "I spend men like they were coppers, Cully. I'm not the only one. I remember hearing tales of a man who threw a classful of novices at the late, unlamented Duke of York's troops to get a chance to save my father's life—and my own—and how many of them survived?"
"Two, Your Majesty," Cully said.
"Two." The King nodded. "Would you do it again?"
"I . . . I don't know. I know that it would be my duty, but . . ." He shook his head. "I don't know if I have it in me, not anymore. I've killed enough of my students, Sire. More than enough."
"Then it's just as well that I'm king and you're not, isn't it?" He thumped his hand on the arm of the chair. "It could be my late uncle Daniel sitting here, instead of me, and almost every English duke, most of the earls and probably half the barons eying their own chances, with the Empire and the Dar—and whatever else is going on—playing one off against another until they divided the Crown among them. Bad enough now with what's going on in New England, and worse with the intrigues on the Continent, and . . . well, we'll get to that." He shook his head. "That's not the sort of throne I'd wish on my son; he was an ass to wish it on his." He looked over at Gray. "I treat you as expendable as an archer treats an arrow. Nice if I can recover you and use you again—you're a fine arrow, Sir Joshua, and the combination of you and the Khan is damn near perfect—but I've got other arrows in my quiver. Do you have an objection?"
Gray shook his head. "No, Your Majesty. I . . . I am your servant, and I wish to be of service."
"Very well, then. We'll dispense with that, first off. My uncle William, the Duke of New England, has been responding to my repeated indirect suggestions that he really ought to attend the next Parliament with protestations as to how busy he is minding the affairs of the Duchy. I don't like that. More to the point, I don't intend to tolerate that. I need to send someone to have words with him—pleasant words, but pleasant words spoken by a man carrying the Khan are better than pleasant words alone. Don't threaten to drag him across the Atlantic by the ear, but make it clear that We do wish to see him. You leave after the knighting ceremony—and, if you possibly can, would you manage to pry passage out of Admiral Dougherty without me having to hear about it again?"
"If possible, Your Majesty," Gray said, slowly, carefully. "That largely depends on the Admiral."
"Mmph. Not a lot of give in you, eh, Sir Joshua?" The king waved his pipestem. "Then again, if there was a lot of give, you'd be less useful of an arrow, eh? Well, never mind that; do what you must. As you will. I know that it's the tradition that Order Knights do for themselves, but you'll need attendants, given your hand. You could pay a sailor to dogrobber for you, of course, but, all in all, I think that I'd rather you be attended by a couple of promising novices from Alton that I've had my eye on. Talk to the Abbot General about that—but not tonight." He gave Niko a quick glance, then shook his head as though dismissing the idea.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The king turned back to Cully. "And now to you, Sir Cully of Cully's Woode. You're as stubborn a man as I've known, and We are not ungrateful for your service—quite the contrary. But, if you read your Apollodorus, you'll find that after Heracles killed the Nemean lion, he was sent after the Hydra."
"And later, after the wild boar of Erymanthus, the Augean stables, Your Majesty."
The king laughed. "Well, this may stink as much, all in all, but I rather think it's more the Hydra than the stables I'm setting you on. We'll see. I'm . . . concerned about these reports of darklings in the Med, and this whole matter of the live swords, and it's not clear to me, for one, that it's all over." He shook his head. "That bothers me, and I'd have a lot more faith in Crown Intelligence handling it if they'd had some whiff of it happening until, well, it almost happened.
"Not good enough. So I'm appointing a commission. Going to be a tough job to handle it, given that there's going to have to be some cooperation with the Caliphate, and cooperation with the Dar isn't exactly a hallmark of Crown Intelligence, for obvious reasons." The king paused to puff on his pipe. "Whoever is running it is going to have to be able to listen to Intelligence, and to whatever information al-Bakilani forwards along, and tells me when he thinks they're missing something—and then, at the least, comes up with suggestions for how to handle it. Whatever it turns out to be."
"I don't think I'd be at all suitable to run it, Sire."
"You?" The king snorted. "I've done stupid things, but not that stupid. I'm grabbing Admiral DuPuy to head the commission—I don't know any other military man who's worked so well with the Dar—and I think he's wasted in the backwaters of Malta. Good man, DuPuy." For some reason, the king actually reached down behind himself and seemed to, well, rub his buttocks, before he went on. "No—what I need is somebody to run errands for the chairman of the commission, somebody who isn't afraid to argue with his superior, somebody who has demonstrated that he's willing to come to the king and argue with him, if he thinks it necessary. Somebody who can, if necessary, be sent into the lion's mouth, and while it'd be all the better if he can come back out again, that's not essential. Deputy commissioner? A baronet's crest? Both? Neither?" The king shrugged. "The task comes first—the titles later, if ever. It's your task."
"I take it I'm not being asked?"
The king snorted. "No, you're not. 'Service, honor, faith, obedience.' Does that sound even vaguely familiar? You managed to get yourself relieved of active service—even though you seemed to stay rather active over the last ten years; le Duc du Borbonaisse is probably not the only person to notice—but you also managed to swindle Gray, here, into returning you to full status." The king smiled. "So, Sir Cully of Cully's Woode, full status it is. We Pendragons have had a tendency to overuse Order Knights, but I can't think of a better use for you, and can easily think of many worse." He cocked his head to one side. "And I'll convey the . . . good news to the Abbot General—you'd probably gloat."
Cully shook his head. "No, Sire. I wouldn't gloat."
The king had been puffing on his pipe; his snort sent streams of smoke issuing from his nostrils. "See that you don't. You'll be seeing him in two weeks, and you're to be on your best behavior. As is he." He let out a deep sigh. "Which leads me to one sad but inevitable matter, before we solve the problem of you, Sir Niko." The king sat silently for a moment. "We—and I emphasize: We—bury Sir David Shanley at Fallsworth Church, two weeks from today. You'll all be in attendance, as will be the other comrades-in-arms who were with him when he died. Knights of the Order will carry his casket, and lay him to his rest; the Archbishop of Canterbury will celebrate the mass, and the King—that would be me—will be the first and the last to put a shovel-full of dirt into his grave."
The undercurrent of humor was gone from the king's voice, and there was no smile on his lips, or in his eyes. "Sir David was, by all accounts, a good and kindly knight, and he died in Our service, and not just in Our service—he was protecting his brothers."
His eyes bore in on Niko's. "Which, by an indirect route, leads me to you, Sir Niko." He frowned. "The sensible thing, perhaps, would be to simply go along with the Abbot General's . . . strong suggestion that your knighthood be revoked, as improvidently granted. That might be a more appealing suggestion if the Abbot General had bothered to take the time to meet with you, and make his own decision that you were not knightly material, rather than just dismissing it out of hand, simply because of who it was that knighted you." He shook his head. "I've met you, and you seem to carry yourself well, and you certainly acquitted yourself well. I'd be inclined to take my chances on you, at least to the extent of giving you a try." He puffed on his pipe, and shook his head. "But you're not trained—an Order Knight isn't just a man who walks around with a sword, be it mundane, or Red, or White. I'd give you a Guard knighthood and a Guard's sword without a second thought, but I don't know if you can be trained, much less up to the standards of the Order, and that presents a problem. Sir Cully, what would happen to him if I sent him to Alton?"
"With or without the Red Sword?"
The King shrugged. "Whichever you think would go easier on him."
"Neither would go easy on him, Your Majesty. He's already served as a Knight of the Order, and the sort of petty jealousy that you see in boys everywhere else isn't absent at Alton. Sent there by royal decree? They'd eat him alive."
Gray nodded.
"Well, speak up, Sir Joshua."
"Father Cully's right; it wouldn't work, Your Majesty. A bunch of fourth-formers having to call a first-former 'Sir Niko?' No. You'd have to dismiss his knighthood, and then—"
"And then he'd be a boy—a man, more than boy—having been sent to Alton after having been found wanting as a knight, and they'd run him right out."
"I can be stubborn, Your Majesty," Niko said, finding himself surprised that he had spoken at all.
Eyes widened at the secretaries' table, but the king just chuckled. "Well, we'll see about that, but not at Alton." He made a beckoning motion with his fingers; two of the servants opened the door, and a man hobbled in, supporting himself mostly on his cane.
Niko was on his feet almost as fast as Cully, and faster than Gray.
"Giscard, Baron Shanley," the king said. "I believe you know Sir Joshua and Sir Cully."
He looked nothing like Bear. Where Bear had been big and wide, the baron was slender, elegant. His father?
"Baron, this is Sir Niko Christofolous," the king said, gesturing at Niko. "He was a friend of your son, David."
"So I understand," the baron said. There was no hint of any emotion in his voice. His eyes tended to blink not quite enough. "I'm pleased to meet you, Sir Niko," he said.
Niko didn't need for Cully to tap him three times on the back. He knew he had to say something.
"I'm honored, Your Lordship. And I'm very sorry about Bear—about Sir David."
Shanley didn't blink. "His brothers of the Order always called him Bear," he said, nodding. His voice was preposterously calm and level. "You will please continue to do so." Shanley looked from Niko to Cully to Gray. "My son—he died honorably?"
"Your son," the king said, before even Cully could open his mouth, "died as honorably as any man ever has, a credit to his family, as well as his Order. You'll have an opportunity to hear the details later, if you must. And, of course, you must." The king paused for a moment. "I have sons, too," he said, quietly, then shook his head and turned back to the knights.
"The baron was in Londinium when word of his son arrived, and I had the sad duty to convey the news to him. He's not always my strongest advocate in Parliament, but, well, we do see eye to eye on most matters, and I've found his counsel of more than a little interest, on more than a few occasions.
"And we have another occasion.
"I've been discussing my . . . quandary with the baron, and he made an interesting suggestion. It seems that Sir Martin Becket is resident at Fallsworth, and the baron's of the opinion that, while Sir Martin is barely able to hobble out of bed, his mind is still sharp, as are his eye and tongue. You've much to learn, young knight, and while some of it can and will be learned sitting at a table with Sir Martin at your elbow, not all of it will be. He won't be able to spar with you, nor teach you how to ride a horse, not directly. But other teachers can be provided, if need be, and they will—with Sir Martin to supervise them." He turned to Cully. "You know Sir Martin. What are the chances he'd approve the boy if he wasn't satisfied with his learning?"
"None, sire." Cully didn't hesitate. "Becket's a hard man."
"You approve?" the king asked.
"It's not my place to approve or disapprove—"
"That's never stopped you before; don't let it stop you now. Do you approve, Sir Cully?"
"Yes, Sire. I do."
"Good. Gray?"
"I've only met him a couple of times." Gray shrugged. "Bear spoke well of him. I'd take Bear's word."
"As would I. As do I." The king nodded. "So, that's what we'll do. We'll see if—and how quickly—Sir Martin can turn you into a knight in reality, and not just in title. Even with all that personal attention, it will take at least two years, probably twice or three times that; shorter if he decides that you can't do it—and you'll find them long years, Sir Niko." He shook his head. "Although you may not find them unbroken years—I can think of several possibilities where you might be useful in the interim, on other matters, and I'd very much like to have you and your Red to hand if any of those possibilities turn real. A bowman needs all sorts of arrows."
Cully nodded.
"I'm so glad you continue to approve, Sir Cully," the king said, with no particular kindliness. "And now that we've settled the matter of Sir Niko, we can—"
"Excuse me."
The king raised an eyebrow, while eyes widened around the room.
"You've not asked Sir Niko, Your Majesty," Cully went on, quietly.
The king just snorted. "I'm not used to asking people, Sir Cully. But perhaps I should make an exception. I wouldn't want to have another unwilling knight of my Order." He turned to Niko. "Speak, Sir Niko. Do you wish to remain in the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon?"
Niko's tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth.
"Go ahead," Cully said. "Speak your mind."
Gray nodded. "Yes, Sir Niko. It's your decision," he said, his face as hard and impassive as a mountain. "No one else's. Not mine, nor Father Cully's, nor even His Majesty's."
"Quite so." The king's words silenced the quiet gasps from his courtiers. The king nodded. "Your choice, Sir Niko?" he asked.
He didn't have the words. Not his own.
But there were others.
" 'Service, honor, faith, and obedience,' " he managed to choke out, feeling his voice become stronger and his words clearer as he spoke. " 'Justice tempered only by mercy; mercy tempered only by justice.' I . . . I can't say that I understand all that, Your Majesty. But I can swear that I'll do my best to live by it." His fingers were trembling; he forced himself not to fasten them on Nadide's hilt.
The king nodded. "And if you're ever-so-slightly impertinent, I can live with that. Understandable," he said, giving Cully a pointed look, "considering the company you keep." The king sat back in his chair and puffed on his pipe in silence for a moment.
"You're excused," he finally said. "All of you. I've got to break the bad news to the Abbot General that I'm letting Sir Niko keep his knighthood and the sword, at least for now, and then there are other matters that need to be dealt with." He made a flicking motion with his fingers. "I'll see you in Fallsworth, in two weeks."
Baron Shanley's carriage was waiting, and while there was room for all four inside, it was crowded; it hadn't been designed to hold so many, apparently.
Shanley sat facing backward, next to Gray, with Cully and Niko facing them, and before he was even fully seated, he rapped three times with the head of his cane on the wall of the carriage, and it immediately started off, the sudden jerk almost causing him to lose his balance and fall into Niko's lap.
It was possible to see his expression in the light of the flickering lantern set into the carriage wall, but there wasn't much to see.
After a while, he spoke. "I know it's late, but it's a two-day trip to Fallsworth, and . . . and there's nothing for me here, not now. Would you very much mind if we rode through the night? The carriage is stocked, of course, and . . ." His voice trailed off, but into silence, not the sobbing that Niko felt inside.
"No," Cully said, "of course not."
Shanley swallowed once. "And can you tell me about David as we ride?"
It was, fittingly, Gray who spoke. "Yes," he said, quietly. "We shall tell you everything. You've every right to hear it, all of it."
"Yes," Cully said, "But let's start with what His Majesty said: 'He was a good and kindly knight.' "
"Yes," Gray said. "That is, always, where you have to start with Bear." His face might as well have been graven from unmoving stone, his voice was calm and level, and his hand was away from the hilt of the Khan. " 'He was a good and kindly knight,' " Gray repeated, so softly that Niko could barely hear him over the clatter of the carriage.
Niko just nodded, for his heart was in his throat, and he touched his hand to Nadide's hilt.
Niko? Is everything . . . all right?
As much so as it can be, little one. It appears that we're going to be together, at least for now—
Together? You were going to leave me?
Shhh. We're going to tell stories about Bear. Would you like to listen? Or would you rather go to sleep?
I'd rather you sing me the lullabye, but . . .
But what?
He was nice. I liked him.