The worst problem Blade had to face in leading the Guardsmen was his inexperience in using the lance from horseback. This was a specialized technique of fighting which he knew he could hardly expect to master in a few weeks. It was also considered the most honorable way of fighting among the Lords of the Crimson River, although a few wise heads would admit that it wasn't always the most useful in war.
Blade won over the Guardsmen with an exhausting demonstration of everything else he could do on a horse. He could use sword, mace, morningstar, and the Guards' short throwing spear. He also had an excellent seat on a horse, and several Lords failed to knock him out of the saddle with their lances. So the Guardsmen knew their new Captain wouldn't make a fool of himself on horseback, and that was enough.
Between winning over the Guardsmen and keeping Miera happy, Blade was a busy man for some days. The moment he was free, Duke Cyron summoned him to another private meeting. There the Englishman learned more about the weaknesses of the Dukes of the Crimson River than he'd ever expected to know.
«If I had to choose which Duke to strike first, I'd choose Duke Padro of Gualdar,» said Blade, after listening to Cyron and Alsin.
«Why?» said the two Lords in unison. If those two don't have a telepathic link, I'd like to know what they do have, Blade said to himself. To the others he said, «He's the youngest. That makes him the most likely to accept another Duke's leadership. He's the poorest, which means he's the one who can least afford a long war. Finally, his big vice is gambling on duels of Feathered Ones. That's a vice we can easily exploit.»
«It seems as if you already have a plan for Duke Padro,» said Cyron. «Could you tell us a little more?»
«I have a plan,» said Blade carefully, «but I have to be sure of a few more details before it will be worth discussing. If I can have-«
«What sort of details?» said Alsin sharply, before Cyron could silence him.
«If they don't work out, my plan won't be worth talking about. If they do, you'll know everything as soon as I know it myself.» He looked at Alsin. «You can be sure I'm not going to lead you by the nose into this, the way you led me into the duel with Orric.»
Alsin glared, but Duke Cyron chuckled. «Point to Lord Blade, I think. Now-you were about to ask for something, to complete your plan?»
«Yes. Two or three days' time. If I'm not successful by then, I don't think I will be. At least not in time to help you in dealing with Duke Padro.»
«Very well, Lord Blade. You have those three days. I wish you good fortune.»
Blade thanked the Duke and left. He went straight back to his room in the keep, hoping he hadn't promised what he couldn't hope to perform. A large part of his reputation with the Duke now depended on Cheeky. However, if he succeeded, he'd be offering the quickest and cheapest way of dealing with Duke Padro. That would save time, gold, and fighting men, all of which would probably be needed for dealing with the other three hostile Dukes.
It was too bad they couldn't call on the two friendly Dukes for aid now, but it couldn't be helped. The two Dukes holding the passes to the East and West Kingdoms would need all their strength to continue to do just that. Otherwise, either Kingdom could invade at will, before Duke Cyron could finish his work.
There was also the need for secrecy. The more people helping with Duke Cyron's plans, the more who would have to know of it. Blade remembered the old saying of the Russian anarchists of the nineteenth century: «When four men sit down to plan revolution, three are fools and one is a police spy.» The Duke was certainly planning a revolution, even if it was from the top down. He didn't have to worry about a Czar's secret police, but he certainly had to worry about many other enemies. The late Lord Orric's friends would be only one kind of enemy, and probably not the most dangerous.
These sober thoughts carried Blade all the way back to his room. It looked empty. He knew that Miera was still down in the hall with her maids, embroidering a pennant for him, and Cheeky was probably hiding as usual. The feather-monkey could hide himself in places Blade would have sworn weren't big enough for a cockroach, let alone twenty pounds of muscle and feathers.
He poured himself some beer, then got out a plate of Cheeky's favorite candied fruit. Before he'd taken two swallows, the feather-monkey popped out from under the stand holding the chamber pot. He squealed in delight as he saw the fruit, sat down in front of the bowl, and started stuffing himself with both hands.
Blade watched him with wry affection. He was getting quite fond of the little beast, in spite of his maddening pranks, and hoped his plan wouldn't involve too much danger for Cheeky-but knew he could only hope. There was no way of telling in advance what the feather-monkey would be facing.
One thing was certain-right now Cheeky looked too healthy for Blade's plan. He was still thin, but his plucked-out feathers were growing back. He no longer looked like the ragged misfit he'd been when Blade found him. They'd have to do something about that, and that would mean finding out once and for all about this telepathy business.
He sat down on the bed and beckoned. The feather-monkey came slowly, holding out the empty fruit bowl. «No. No more. We have to talk.»
«Yeeecckkk!» Cheeky sounded disgusted.
Blade used Yoga techniques to slow his breathing and relax his muscles. Then he started forming a clear mental image: Cheeky plucked and ragged again. It took him several tries before he could not only form the image but hold it for more than a few seconds. In between tries he cursed the bad luck which made the Wizard of Rentoro die in returning from Dimension X with him. That man had forgotten more about the powers of the mind than everybody in Home Dimension put together had learned! If he'd been able to teach a fraction of it, Blade's reaching Cheeky mentally could have been child's play!
At last he had the picture in his mind as clearly as if he'd been seeing it with his eyes. Cheeky was now sitting in front of him, staring curiously. What sort of funny trick was his master up to now? Blade wanted to hold his breath, but knew that would make his concentration weaker instead of stronger. The silence in the room was almost deafening. He hoped Miera wouldn't walk in now.
Cheeky gave a sharp squeal of pure rage, and jumped three feet into the air. Then he started racing around the room like a mad thing, practically bouncing off the walls. Suddenly into Blade's mind came an image just as clear as the plucked Cheeky-his own dead body, lying on its funeral pyre.
He knew now that telepathy was indeed possible between himself and Cheeky. He also knew just what the feather monkey was telling him: «If you pluck my feathers, I'll see you dead somehow!»
Blade suspected he'd made a mistake in choosing his first image. He'd wanted something vivid, certain to catch Cheeky's attention if the Feathered One had any survival instincts at all. Had he overdone things a little? If he had, that was a mistake he'd have to correct right now!
Blade started changing the image in his mind. It took fewer tries than the first time before he had the right picture under control. Now he had a picture of a plucked Cheeky, wearing a gold chain and embroidered gloves, sitting in front of bowls holding all his favorite foods, with a silver dagger and a jewel-tipped spear resting on silk cushions beside him. After a minute of that image Cheeky stopped bouncing off the walls. Another minute and he stopped broadcasting the angry picture of a dead Blade. Instead the man got the distinct feeling he was being asked some sort of question.
«What do you want me to do, that's worth having my feathers plucked again?» At least that seemed a good guess about what Cheeky would be saying if he was speaking in any sort of human words. Blade suspected there were going to be a lot more of these «good guesses» before he established any sort of reliable communication with the animal. It might take days and it would certainly take many hours.