Scorn mounted her face. “Oh. War.” She put all her venom into the word. “If you wish to be a warrior, Quillifer, you will find that war is its own punishment, and needs no help from me. There are missiles enough in battle for one to have your name on it, and I need not carve it there.”
Strangely perhaps, I found this cause at least for a little optimism, knowing that any death in battle would be the result of chance and not divine malevolence. Yet death in combat was still death, and I desired not to make its acquaintance either way.
“So, our contest will continue in the courts, then,” I said.
“The courts, the palaces, the bedrooms,” she said. “You do not discriminate, and neither shall I.”
“You know,” said I, “I am beginning to feel honored, that you pay such attention to me.”
“See if you feel honored,” said she, “when I am done.”
And then she vanished into the night and spray, and left me alone on the deck, to ponder my fate.
* * *
As soon as I returned to the capital, I wrote to the duke and begged the favor of an audience. He returned that I should come to dinner the following day, and when I arrived, I found it a magnificent occasion, with the barrel-vaulted hall filled with many of the great men and ladies of the realm, all sitting at the table like an unimaginative imitation of the fresco over their heads, with all the gods and goddesses roistering with their wine-cups.
The duke’s two cannons had been memorialized in sugar-paste, with all the ornaments, scrollwork, dolphins, and spells faithfully reproduced. Each gun was six feet long and covered in real gold leaf, and was displayed as a centerpiece, along with edible cannonballs, rammers, tompions, and other items of the cannoneer’s art.
The two glittering figures of the duke and duchess presided from the head of the table, but as I was at the other end, in the company of secretaries and lawyers and poor relations, I could see them only by craning my neck around the sugar-paste battery, and then only when they stood to offer a toast or make a speech.
The dinner was intended to honor the Knight Marshal, Sir Erskine Latter, who had just been made the Queen’s Captain General and placed in full command of her majesty’s array for war. The little I could see of him did not raise my confidence in early victory, for the great veteran was elderly, with gray hair cut level with his earlobes, and he stooped as he shuffled along, between a pair of attendants who, I decided, had the duty of picking him up if he fell. He was swathed to the chin in a coat of sable fur, as if even this room, with its blazing hearths and scores of diners, was too cold for him. When he spoke in response to the praise of the other diners, I could not hear him, and I was thankful that I did not serve in his army.
I lost track of the number of dishes, with their fanciful stuffed chimeras, breads and pie-crusts in the shape of bastions and towers, marrow-bones mounted to look like cannon and stuffed with spiced mincemeat, jellies in the form of the Knight Marshal’s blazon, powder-horns filled with sugared fruit, and desserts in the shape of laurel crowns. I had a bite or two of each remove, drank more fully of the wines that were paired with each dish, and asked those about me for the news.
The Estates General had concluded their business, I was told, and having done their duty, had dispersed. Now the Queen was filling vacant offices with great efficiency, having spent the last weeks judging, as well as she could, the character, talents, and loyalty of the hopeful applicants.
Those who intended to replace the Chancellor were disappointed, for he had been retained in his office and made Baron Hulme, which further outraged those among the nobility who had disparaged him for being a commoner. He would now have to guide the finances of the nation from the House of Peers, which would make it more difficult, as the power over the budget largely rested with the Burgesses. He would need a deputy in that House, and there was much speculation concerning who that worthy gentleman would be.
As I mentioned that I had been away in Longfirth, I was asked about the news there, and I considered letting my neighbors know about the capture of Royal Stilwell. But I decided to keep that information a secret until I had conferred with his grace the duke, and instead said that Sir Basil of the Heugh had been found there, and killed.
“Was he hanged?” asked one of the lawyers.
“I killed him myself,” said I, “for I had been his captive, and recognized him on the street in Longfirth.” I was then obliged to tell the whole story. This news rapidly spread the length of the table, and came to the ears of the duke, who rose and called for attention.
“I have been told,” he said, “that the outlaw Sir Basil of the Heugh has been captured and executed. This report is of interest to many of us, as Sir Basil has been a plague on the realm, and has held for ransom a number of our friends. Can the bearer of these tidings kindly confirm this news?”
I rose, which caused a stir among the company, as I was known to many of them, and not all of them were my friends, while others knew me only as someone out of favor with her majesty. I waited for the murmur to die down, and then spoke.
“Your report errs in only one detail, your grace, that the outlaw was executed. Sir Basil is dead, but he was killed before he could be brought to a judge.”
“Do you know the circumstance?”
“I do, your grace.” I then related the story again, as modestly as I could, emphasizing the chance nature of the encounter, and the supposed sanguine history of the dirk.
There was a greater stir among the company when I finished, and then I heard a merry laugh from engineer Ransome, who as the creator of the duke’s two great guns was seated far up the table.
“Quillifer it was who also brought to justice the assassin Burgoyne,” said he. “Perhaps he will soon bring a like fate to all the rogues and renegadoes of the kingdom.”
“I intend to leave a few for the Queen’s Captain General,” I said.
The Captain General nodded his gray head, and said something which I did not hear. Her grace the duchess kindly offered a translation.
“The lord Knight Marshal says that such a doughty and valiant fighter as yourself would surely distinguish himself and win renown in the army.”
I smiled. “I thank the Knight Marshal for his flattering words, but I already serve the Queen as a privateer, aboard the ship Meteor.”
Which caused more of a stir, because though Meteor’s capture of the Lady Tern was known, my connection with the former was not.
The duke smiled, raised his glass, and said, “It seems you serve her majesty thoroughly, in many spheres. To your very good health.”
I thanked his grace and the others for their courtesy, and pledged them in return. After the feast ended and the diners, stuffed with glories both martial and culinary, began to totter upright, I made my way through the throng in the direction of the Roundsilvers. I viewed the Knight Marshal as the old warrior departed the feast, upheld by his two gentlemen as he shuffled along, and saw the sable coat part to reveal the broad ornate belt wrapping his narrow midsection. From this belt dangled a number of jeweled charms, and I saw also a religious medallion worn about his neck, containing a parchment with a quotation from the Pilgrim. The Captain General, I saw, was not leaving his campaign to chance, but invoking every form of spiritual aid known to man.
Were he not just proclaimed the greatest soldier in the realm, I might have considered him a superstitious, senescent fool.
As I watched the great captain depart, a hand touched my arm, and a familiar voice spoke in my ear.
“Thank you for killing Sir Basil. Did you by any chance retrieve aught of my ransom?”