someone’s not to be trusted he’s probably right. Serve me well and we’ll forget about your indiscretions. Betray me and I’ll send you back to the dwarven kingdom sealed up in a barrel like salt pork. Do you understand?”
Balint nodded agreeably. Then she marched out of the room with her chin up. She couldn’t resist giving an evil snicker as she walked past Croy.
“Now, this one-your name is Malden, is that right? And you’re a thief?”
“My name is Malden, your majesty,” Malden said, glancing over at Croy and Cythera. He pleaded silently with his eyes.
Yet what could he do? Croy asked himself. If he tried to free Malden now, he’d be breaking his promise to the king. And that was unthinkable.
“Sir Hew took you into custody this morning,” the king said to Malden. “Ordinarily he would have sent you to the magistrates, but he told me there was something special about your case, and of course my time is valued so little around here that he insisted I judge you personally. Apparently you were in possession, at the time of your arrest, of one of the famous swords. The blasted Ancient Blades.”
“The one called Acidtongue, highness,” Malden confirmed.
“A rather valuable piece of iron.” The king frowned. His eye took in Malden’s cheap cloak, the lack of flesh on his bones. “Look, lad, it’s clear that you stole the blade. You’re no more a swordsman than I’m a fishwife. So I’ll give you the same choice I plan on giving every criminal and vagrant in this city. You can go back to the gaol and wait until I have time to hang you properly. Or-if you prefer-I can enlist you in my army as a foot soldier, and you can earn forgiveness through military service. Assuming you survive.”
“Begging your majesty’s pardon, I like neither of those options,” Malden said.
“No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s what I’m offering.”
“To a guilty man, yes. But I am innocent. I did not steal the sword. It was given to me freely by its rightful owner-Sir Croy.”
Every eye in the room turned to stare at the knight.
Chapter Twelve
“Is this true, Croy?” the king demanded. “Did you-in fact-make a gift of a priceless and irreplaceable, aye, a magical sword… to what is clearly a piece of gutter trash from the most base dung pit in Ness?”
Croy was still on his knees. It was not appropriate to drop prostrate before the king, but he considered it. “It is true,” he said.
The king frowned. “I was under the impression that you already had an Ancient Blade. Yes, I see it there on your belt-Ghostcutter, I believe. Hmm. The last time I saw Acidtongue, it was in the possession of Sir Bikker. Wasn’t it?”
“Sir Bikker is dead, Majesty,” Croy said. He had to swallow thickly before he could go on. “I slew him in a duel of honor. With his dying breath he gave Acidtongue to me, and bade me find another to wield it. That is the way of our order, that we each choose our successors. And I chose this man-Malden-as the next to wield Acidtongue.”
“There weren’t any better candidates available? I have a nephew, for instance, who is absolutely useless at organizing his farms, but who loves nothing better than to whack away at the quintain all day with a wooden sword. He reminds me of you quite a bit, Croy. His head’s just as full of fancies and notions of honor and chivalry.” The king sighed. “Absolutely bloody useless. You can’t give Acidtongue to him?”
Croy couldn’t just say no. One did not gainsay the king. Yet he certainly could not say yes either. He knew the nephew in question. Like every knight in the kingdom, he was distantly related to the king himself, and the nephew was his second cousin, once or twice removed. Croy couldn’t remember which. The boy had always struck him as a simpleton.
Then there was the fact that he had already given the sword to Malden. Once an Ancient Blade passed to its next wielder, it could not be taken back. The only way that could happen was if he decided Malden had broken his vows as an Ancient Blade. Then he would be required to kill Malden to secure the blade. The king might demand he do just that (and he would be required to comply), but even there was a problem. There had been no time for him to train Malden as an Ancient Blade-and thus Malden had never taken the sacred vows. The thief couldn’t very well be said to have broken them since he had never even heard them spoken, much less repeated them.
Croy considered the matter. There had to be a way to convince the king that he had made the right choice in giving the sword to Malden. “Your majesty, Malden may be lowborn, but his heart is strong. He is a natural wonder at footwork and quickness. I believed that with a few years of proper training and a strict physical regimen, he could be made into a swordsman.”
Malden’s chains rattled. Croy looked over and saw the thief pointing at his own face. He mouthed the word, Me? as if he couldn’t believe it. Yet surely, when he had given him the sword, Malden must have understood that this was to be his destiny. Surely…
The king rose from his chair and strode briskly across the room. Going to the door, he waved one hand into the hallway. In a moment Sir Hew came in, carrying Acidtongue in its special glass-lined scabbard.
“You heard something of this?” the king asked.
“Yes, your majesty. I heard all. And I’ll swear all of it is true. I’ve never known Croy to lie, not even to save his own skin. Much less that of a street rat like this Malden. The boy is a weakling, but he’s as quick on his feet as a tomcat. As for his heart, Croy would be the best judge.”
The king pulled wearily at his beard. “Fine, fine, give the boy his sword. Unchain him. Then the three of you go stand against that wall. If I’m to be beset by three Ancient Blades at once, at least they can make themselves useful.”
It was done quickly. When they were against the wall, Croy and Hew grasped forearms with great fondness. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other. “You wear the king’s crown on your chest,” Croy said, looking down at Hew’s tabard. “I am so glad to see you, old friend-yet not a little surprised!”
Hew shrugged. “After we were disbanded I tried being a knight errant for a while, just like you. Running about the countryside slaying goblins and brigands, burning sorcerers at the stake, you know. All the usual thing. I found, however, that I couldn’t take being my own master. So I came back here last year and begged for my old job back. His Majesty took pity on me and let me captain his watch. Now the worst thing I face most days is a starveling who’s snatched a loaf of bread, but I have honor, true honor.”
“I am so glad to hear it,” Croy said. A tear had formed in the corner of his eye.
“Me, too,” Malden said. Croy hadn’t even realized he was standing there.
Sir Hew turned to look at the thief with disdain. “You’re not one of us yet, boy. Not just because you hold a sword. Don’t forget that.”
Malden laughed. “I’m just glad to not be hanged. But take a lesson from this, Sir Knight, and mark it well-not every street rat is what he seems to be.”
Hew bridled and looked as if he was about to say something sharp in return, but his imprecation was cut short when the king cleared his throat. Remembering their instructions, the three men lined up against the wall, Malden trying to ape the posture of the two knights.
“One last order of business,” the king said, “and then we can move on. Who’s she?”
The king had turned and pointed at Cythera.
“Your majesty,” Cythera said, and made a proper curtsey. “I am Cythera, daughter of Coruth. With Croy and Malden I brought Balint to you so that-”
The king waved one hand in dismissal. “You should have stopped at ‘daughter of Coruth.’ So you’re a witch?”
“Not exactly.”
The king gripped the bridge of his nose. “Can you do anything
… witchlike?”
Cythera blushed. Then she put her hands in front of her, a few inches apart. Bright sparks burst between them.
The king nodded eagerly. “Good, good-keep doing that! It’s almost impressive. Now, you four-your job in the
