38. Duke’s Welcome
Duke’s Welcome
Baldir spurred his horse forward without hesitation, taking point as the herald’s words settled over our column.
“House de Blaise, advance by rank! Elites first on me, then support, juniors maintain intervals. Lord Armand’s team will hold the rear.”
The Sword-Kin moved first toward the massive gates. Tormund kept his eyes fixed ahead while Cain scanned the battlements above us, counting archers and crossbowmen the way other men counted coins. I’d seen that look on scouts before. Professional caution disguised as casual observation.
Sixteen archers on the left tower. Twelve on the right. Four crossbow positions built into the gatehouse itself, angled to cover the approach. Good coverage for defense, better coverage for massacre if someone decided visitors had worn out their welcome.
I nudged my mount forward, feeling Maise match my pace on the right. Behind us, Perrin and Grit fell into step without a word. The formation held its shape as we passed beneath the iron portcullis, each bar thick as my forearm and sharp enough to cut a man in half if it dropped.
The heralds flanked our path with ledgers and quills, one marking weapons and armor quality while another counted heads with the disinterest of a man who’d done this eight hundred times before and expected to do it eight hundred more.
“Halt and wait at the courtyard,” the lead herald called. “House de Blaise, present your authorization. ”
Baldir spurred forward and produced Henrik’s sealed letter from inside his cloak.
The herald broke the wax with his thumbnail, scanned the contents, and passed it to a second man who wore slightly better boots and considerably more gold thread on his collar.
They spoke in voices too low to carry, heads bent together over the parchment.
The second man glanced at our formation, counted heads, then made a note of his own on a separate piece of vellum that he didn’t show to anyone.
Both men stood a little straighter after that, moved a little more carefully. The kind of adjustment people made when they realized the package they’d been handling was heavier than expected.
“Team leaders forward,” the herald said, voice flatter than before.
I guided my horse up beside Baldir. Armand appeared on his other side without being called, his dual swords riding easy on his hips. The Sword-Kin remained exactly where they were, spread in a loose formation that could collapse into a fighting wedge in a few heartbeats if needed.
“Names and House rank,” the herald said, quill poised over his ledger.
“Baldir de Blaise, senior captain and heir apparent.” Baldir’s voice carried the weight of someone who expected to be obeyed.
“Armand de Blaise, second team captain.” Armand spoke with easy confidence, unbothered by his position in the hierarchy.
The herald’s quill paused. His eyes found mine and stayed there longer than courtesy allowed.
“Danarre de Blaise, junior captain,” I said.
The quill stopped moving entirely. Bastards usually gave only their first names at formal registration, keeping their shameful parentage off the official records. Henrik had authorized this much, though. The right to claim the house name, if not the full acknowledgment of legitimate birth.
The herald stared at me with the focus of someone trying to solve a problem he hadn’t expected to encounter. His mouth opened slightly, then closed without sound. He looked at Baldir, then at the letter he’d already passed along, then back at me.
“De Blaise,” he repeated, making it a question.
“De Blaise,” Baldir confirmed, his tone suggesting the matter was closed.
The herald made his marks. His handwriting was neat and professional, giving no hint of whatever thoughts churned beneath the surface. His hand moved slower than it had for the other entries, though, and he checked his spelling twice.
“Weapons inspection,” he said finally, tucking his ledger under his arm.
Guards approached from the gatehouse, eight of them moving in pairs through our ranks.
These weren’t Hemmrich’s household men, I realized after a moment’s study.
Their gear was too varied, their movements too individual.
Hired swords brought in for the tournament, professionals who owed no loyalty to anyone except whoever paid them this particular week.
They moved through our ranks with routine efficiency, checking blade edges, testing armor straps, ensuring peace-bonds were properly tied.
Standard procedure for any gathering where young nobles might decide honor required immediate satisfaction at swordpoint.
Their eyes lingered on the Sword-Kin longer than necessary, though, and when one of them reached for Tormund’s sword, Tormund’s hand moved to intercept before conscious thought could stop it.
“Easy,” the guard said, raising both hands with the slow care of a man who recognized what stood in front of him. “Just following orders.”
“Whose orders?” Tormund asked, his voice carrying the chill of someone who’d killed enough men to lose count.
The guard glanced toward the herald, who had developed sudden intense interest in his ledger.
“Duke’s orders,” the guard said finally. “Check all weapons before entry. Standard procedure for tournament guests.”
“Standard procedure.” Tormund released his sword hilt but kept his hand close enough to draw if the next breath brought trouble. “I’ve been to six of Hemmrich’s tournaments. Nobody tried to touch my blade before.”
The guard’s eyes flickered to his companions, then back. “New policy. Too many incidents last time.”
It was a lie. We all knew it was a lie. Proving it would mean blood, and blood meant consequences none of us wanted before we’d set foot inside the gates.
Tormund stepped back. The guard completed his inspection and moved on to the next man, visibly relieved to be dealing with someone who wouldn’t cut his throat for touching steel.
◇ ◆ ◇
The pattern repeated through our entire column.
Professional inspection, regulation compliance, and an undercurrent of wrongness I couldn’t name running beneath all of it.
I watched the guards as they worked, noting how they spent twice as long on the Sword-Kin as on anyone else, noting how they wrote separate notes about our weapons, our armor, the quality of our horses.
Information being gathered for someone who wanted to know exactly what House de Blaise had brought to this tournament.
The herald finished his notes and rolled the ledger closed with a snap that echoed off the stone walls.
“House de Blaise is registered for participation in Duke Hemmrich’s tournament,” he announced, his voice carrying the hollow weight of official pronouncement. “A steward will escort you to your designated quarters. Welcome to the Duke’s hospitality.”
He withdrew toward the gatehouse like a man who’d done his part and wanted no share of what came next. The hired guards stepped back as well, their inspection complete, leaving us standing in the vast courtyard of Duke Hemmrich’s estate.
I took the moment to study our surroundings.
The courtyard was large enough to hold five hundred men in formation, paved with fitted stone that showed wear patterns from countless tournaments and gatherings.
Guard posts at every corner, manned by men in Hemmrich’s green and gold who watched us with professional disinterest. The main keep rose above it all, with windows on every floor that would give an archer clean lines of sight to the courtyard below.
A new figure approached from the main entrance.
He wore the Duke’s livery silk, his face arranged in a mask of professional politeness.
Older than the herald, maybe forty winters, with the soft hands of someone who’d never held a weapon and the hard eyes of someone who’d ordered plenty of men killed .
“House de Blaise,” he began, his voice smooth as oiled leather and twice as slippery. “I am Steward Varek. Quarters have been prepared for your honored guests. If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you settled before the evening’s festivities.”
Baldir’s horse shifted beneath him. A small movement, but I caught the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes swept the battlements one more time before answering.
“We appreciate Duke Hemmrich’s hospitality,” Baldir said, each word measured like a move in a game I couldn’t quite see.
“The Duke values the comfort of his guests above all else.” Steward Varek’s smile was fixed and professional, the kind that had been practiced until it could hold through anything.
“We’ve arranged separate accommodations for your teams in the south barracks, with the young lords housed in the main keep itself.
A mark of the Duke’s regard for House de Blaise. ”
Separate accommodations. Our fighters in the barracks, our leadership isolated in the keep. Hospitable on the surface, and a clean way to split an enemy force underneath.
“Change of plan,” Baldir said, his voice carrying authority that wouldn’t bend. “Danarre, you’re with Armand and me in the main house.”
The steward’s eyebrows lifted, the first crack in his professional mask.
“Sir, the arrangements have already been finalized with Duke Hemmrich’s personal approval. Adjusting them at this late hour might— ”
“I don’t care what’s been arranged,” Baldir cut him off. “The boy stays close. If that’s a problem, we can discuss it with the Duke directly.”
Danzing nudged his horse forward, positioning himself where he could speak without being obvious about it. “I’ll take the tents and barracks with the teams. Keep watch on the perimeter.”
He caught my eye as he spoke. Everything we couldn’t say aloud passed in that look. Be careful in there. Trust your instincts. Remember what you are underneath the boy’s face.
“Sir,” the steward said, recovering his composure with the speed of someone who’d dealt with difficult nobles before, “if there are concerns about security arrangements—”