The waiter padded noiselessly to their table and bowed. “Two big mugs of strong coffee,” Orcrist said, “fortified with brandy. Do you want anything else, Frank?”
“Maybe a bowl of clam chowder.”
The waiter nodded and sped away. Orcrist sat back with his fingertips pressed together. “That’s bad,” he said. Frank raised his eyebrows, and then realized that Orcrist wasn’t referring to the clam chowder. “I heard, about an hour ago,” Orcrist went on, “that a large band of heavily-armed Transports had been sighted down here, so I very quickly rounded up some rough lads, and even brought my pistol along, to go and ...”
“... set another precedent,” Frank finished. “Right. And it’s a good thing I did. But if they’ve identified you that thoroughly, you can’t relax yet. With the economy as shattered as it is, the Transport is able to buy informers very cheaply, and you never know which alley-skulker might be a spy or assassin.”
“Great,” said Frank wearily.
“It's tricky, but it isn’t hopeless. You’ve got to go underground again—figuratively this time. Change your name, of course, and your location, and you’ll be all right. But you’ll have to move fast.”
The soup and coffee arrived, and for a while neither man spoke.
“I think I’ve got a solution,” Orcrist said, after five minutes of thoughtful coffee drinking. “I own a boat that’s moored in Munson Harbor, just south of the Malachi Delta. It’s very near the mouth of the Leethee, so transportation won’t be difficult. You could live there. It’s got a large dining room below deck that I think you could easily turn into a fencing gym.”
“You think I’d still be able to give lessons?”
“Sure. The lords may complain, but they’ll make the trip. I think they’re beginning to see how much there is to know about the art of swordplay, and how important it is that we learn it before the Transports do. There’s a crisis coming upon us fast, Frank, and we have to be the ones who are ready for it.”
Chapter 4
Frank paused in front of the dark glass of a shop window to straighten his wig and his shirt collar. He grinned at himself and walked on, swinging his leather case jauntily, his rubber-soled shoes silent on the damp cobblestones.
Cochran Street, a tunnel bigger, wider and brighter than any he’d yet seen understreet, lay ahead, and he turned left onto its uncracked sidewalk. The sixth door down wore a polished brass plate on which, boldly engraved, was the single name “Blanchard.” Frank could feel eyes on him, and realized that he had probably been under several hidden guards’ scrutiny ever since he’d turned onto Cochran.
He tucked his light-but-bulky leather case under his arm and knocked at the door. After a moment it was opened by a frail-looking old man with wispy ice-white hair, who raised one snowy eyebrow.
“My name is Francisco Rovzar,” Frank said. “I believe ... uh, his highness is expecting me.” The old man nodded and waved Frank inside.
The floor was of red ceramic tiles, and the starkness of the whitewashed stucco walls was relieved by a dozen huge, age-blackened portraits. Candles flamed in wrought-iron chandeliers that hung by chains from the ceiling.
The old man led Frank down a hallway to a bigger room, high-ceilinged and lined with bookcases. Standing in the center of the room, hands behind his back, stood Blanchard. He wore light leather boots, and his bushy white beard hid the collar of his tunic.
“Rovzar?”
“At your service, sire,” said Frank with a courtly bow.
“Glad you could make it. I hear the Transports are interested in you. You know Sam Orcrist, don’t you? Would you like a drink?”
“Yes, I do, and yes I would.”
“I’m drinking daiquiris. How’s that sound?”
“Fine.”
Frank leaned his sword case against a wall. “Sit down,” Blanchard said, waving at a stout wooden chair in front of a low table. “I'll be back in a second.” He left the room and then reappeared immediately, carrying two tall, frosted glasses.
“There you are,” he said, taking the chair across from Frank and setting the drinks on the table. “You know, Rovzar, I’m glad you’re on our side. Yessir. Our boys were tending to get too smug about their swordsmanship, and now they find out there’s a twenty-year-old kitchen boy who can beat ’em—and give ’em lessons, too.” Blanchard took a deep sip of his daiquiri. “Damn, that’s good. The thing is, you’ve got to be sharp these days.”
“That’s true, sir.”
“You bet it is. I tell you, Rovzar, it’s doggy-dog out there.”
“How’s that?”
“I say it’s doggy-dog out there. The peaceful times are over. Peaceful times never last, anyway. And a good thing, too. They give a man a ... rosy view of life. Hell, you know how I became King of the Subterranean Companions?”
“How?”
“I killed the previous king, old Stockton. I exercised the ius gladii, the right of the sword. It’s a tradition—any member who invokes that right can challenge the king to a duel. The winner becomes, or remains, king. But don’t get any ideas, Rovzar.”
“Oh, no, I—”
“Hah! I’m kidding you, boy. I wish you could have met Stockton, though. A more repulsive man, I think, never lived. Do you play chess?”
“Yes,” answered Frank, a little puzzled by Blanchard’s topic-hopping style.
“Fine!” Blanchard reached under the table and pulled out a chessboard and a box of chessmen. He turned the box upside down on the table before sliding its cover out from under it. “Which side?” he asked.
“Left,” said Frank.
Blanchard lifted the box and chessmen rolled out of it in two side-by-side piles; and the left pile was black.
“Set ’em up,” said Blanchard.
Two hours and six daiquiris later Frank was checkmated, but not before he managed to capture Blanchard’s queen in a deft king-queen fork.
“Good game, Rovzar.” The old king smiled, sitting back. “I’ve got to be leaving now, but I’ll send you another note sometime. Hope you’ll be able to drop by again.”
“Sure,” said Frank, standing up. It was only when he picked up his case that he remembered he’d come to discuss fencing.
THAT night Frank, wearing a false beard, plied the oars of a rowboat while Orcrist sat in the bow with a lantern and gave instructions.
“Okay, Frank, sharp to port and we’ll be in the harbor.”
Frank dragged the port oar in the water and the boat swung to the left, through a low brick arch and out into the Munson Harbor. A cold night wind ruffled their hair, and the stars glittered like flecks of silver thread in the vast black cloak of the sky. The boat rocked with the swells, and Frank was finding it harder to control.
“Bear north now,” Orcrist said. “It’ll be about half a mile.” He opened the lantern and blew out the flame, since the moonlight provided adequate light.
The cold breeze was drying the sweat on Frank’s face and shoulders, and he leaned more energetically into the rowing. Munson’s towers and walls passed by in silhouette to his right, lit here and there by window-lamps and street lights. It’s a beautiful city, he thought, at night and viewed from a distance.
“How’s Costa doing these days?” he asked, his voice only a little louder than the wavelets slapping against the hull. “Does he like being Duke?”
“He’s apparently trying to imitate his father, I hear,” Orcrist said. “Topo played croquet, so Costa does too, and his courtiers generally have the sense to lose to him.” Frank chuckled wearily. “And he’s been seducing, or trying to, anyway, all of the old Duke’s concubines. He pretends to savor the wines from Topo’s cellar, but hasn’t noticed that the wine steward is serving him vin ordinaire in fancy bottles, having decanted the good wine for himself. Oh, and this ought to interest you, Frank: he’s decided he wants his portrait done by the best artist alive, just as his father did.”