David Chandler - Honor among thieves

“Majesty,” Croy said. He almost knelt again but thought better of it. “I came here for a reason. It’s of these two prisoners I wished to speak.”

The king had started to turn away, to address Balint. Now he stopped and for a long moment stood in silence, a confused expression on his face. “I beg your pardon? You wished to speak to me?” he asked. He seemed more surprised than angry. “You have been errant a long time, knight. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that a vassal does not speak to the king unless he is bidden.”

Croy lowered his head. “Your forgiveness, Majesty. Yet you must know of the crimes of this dwarf, and the innocence of this man. Justice demands that I speak.”

The king crossed over to one of the chairs against the wall and sat down. It was a chair like any other in the room, but by virtue of Ulfram V’s presence, it legally became a throne at that moment. Croy knelt before it.

“Just make haste,” the king said. “I’m quite busy at the moment.”

Croy kept his head bowed. “This dwarf is an oathbreaker. I’ll bear witness to the fact, in any court you decree. She is a murderer and a despoiler. A… poisoner,” he added. Ever since his father’s death, the king had been especially frightened of poisoners. Croy knew it was cruel of him to even speak the word in this room, but it was the truth, and it needed to be aired. “She took up arms against humans and

… others. She laid waste to an entire city, by deceit, by design, and by use of weapons.”

Ulfram turned to look at the dwarf. “Is this true?” he asked.

“Every fucking word of it,” Balint told the king. She rolled her eyes. “Do your worst, and send me on my way. I’ve an itch on my buttocks I can’t scratch, not with my hands tied like this.”

“Another pointless delay!” the king screeched. Pressing his fingertips against his temples, he called out to his servants in the hall. “Fetch a scribe! Have him bring parchment and ink. And someone unchain her. What is your name, dwarf?”

“Balint.”

Croy glared at her. “When addressing the king, you will call him ‘your majesty’ or-”

“Or not. I certainly don’t care,” Ulfram said. Croy’s shoulders tensed. He’d always thought kings should be somewhat aloof, detached at least from the lesser folk they governed. Ulfram V clearly thought otherwise-he’d always disdained the careful phrases of court etiquette and spoke plainly as a peasant. That was his right, of course-the king could speak how he chose to whom he chose. If he himself found it unseemly, that was his own problem.

“It seems I’m to be merciful today,” the king said. “Believe me, it’s not by choice. Any other day if you came here under these accusations, I’d exile you on the spot. I have very little patience for those who won’t do as they’re told.”

Balint said nothing. Her face was a mask of nonchalance, though Croy could see her bound hands were trembling.

“Tell me,” Ulfram said. “Can you repair a broken ballista?”

“Any dwarf could do that,” Balint assured him.

The king nodded. “And you laid waste to a city. That’s what Croy said. He does tend to exaggerate, but you don’t deny the charge. So you know how to conduct a siege. Do you know how to defend cities, too, or is it just destroying them you’re good at?”

“I’m trained in all manner of siegecraft,” Balint said. “I can work either side.”

“Sometimes the Lady drops Her blessings right in our laps.” The king reached down and put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder. “I’m going to give you a pardon for all crimes you may have committed in the past,” he told her.

Croy’s jaw fell.

“I assume that will earn me some gratitude. Perhaps,” the king went on, “you’ll consent to come work for me. I am in desperate need of sappers and engineers. Are we agreed?”

“Do I have to kiss your royal fucking codpiece or something to seal the deal?” Balint asked.

The king studied her carefully, then raised one eyebrow. “No.”

“Then I’m all yours.”

“Your majesty!” Croy objected. “I–I can’t believe that-”

But then he stopped. He couldn’t finish that thought out loud. He wasn’t a knight errant anymore. He had lost certain freedoms the moment he was recommissioned. Questioning the king’s word was one of them. “I beg your pardon, Majesty. I will be silent now.”

“That’ll be a nice change of pace,” the king told him. “Very good. Milady Balint, you’ll report to the keep. Sir Goris is the master of the armory there-tell him I want a full inventory of every trebuchet, battering ram, and mantlet in our possession, and how many more of the same can be constructed in short order. Goris is a fool of parts. He knows the difference between a besagew and a rerebrace, but I’m not sure he can tell his hundreds from his thousands, so double-check every number he gives you. We’ll have much to discuss later, so stay close by.”

Balint bowed low and said, “Your majesty.”

“One thing,” the king said before dismissing her. “Sir Croy may be an idiot, but all the same if he says 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.

“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?”