Ellen Kushner.

The Privilege of the Sword.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

IT TOOK ME QUITE A FEW YEARS TO WRITE THIS BOOK,with starts and stops along the way. Many people encouraged me, and all deserve thanks. I hope I will not leave anyone out, but lest I hope in vain:Thank you, all. You know who you are-even if I don't.

Careful readers Holly Black, Gavin Grant, Kelly Link, Delia Sherman and Sarah Smith (the Massachusetts All-Stars) gave me the benefit of their whip-smart brains and nuance-sensitive souls this past year. Justine Larbalestier roused Katherine from her sleep in the file drawer and listened to me read for hours as I shuffled through dog-eared manuscript pages until I fell in love again. Eve Sweetser is one of Tremontaine's very oldest friends, and proved true once more with keen insights and wise suggestions.

Paula Kate Marmor made me a promise and kept it. TheRouges' Ball was Skye Brainard's idea. eluki bes shahar drew pictures. Debbie Notkin championed the Ugly Girl. Christopher Schelling made me do it before the smoke was cleared and Julie Fallowfield undoubtedly wants to know what took us so long?

Mimi Panitch is an invaluable Serpent Chancellor and always says the right thing. Patrick J. O'Connor is generous with both love and erudition. Other wise and patient readers included Beth Bernobich, Cassandra Claire, Theodora Goss, Deborah Manning, Helen Pilinovsky, Terri Windling and of course my editor, Anne Groell.

Many people on LiveJournal generously shared their knowledge of trees and ducks and pregnancy.

Joshua Kronengold and Lisa Padol did the fact-checking for an imaginary country; any slips or omissions are mine, not theirs-they did try to warn me. Nancy Hanger is one copy editor in a million. Office Archaeologist Davey Snyder dug me out large blocks of uninterrupted time.

Gavin Grant and Kelly Link gave me a country retreat to write in when I needed it most, and so did Leigh and Eleanor Hoagland.

Finally, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to British writer Mary Gentle, who introduced me to Dean Wayland, who introduced me to the true world of the sword. If not for him, I would not really understand how sharp a sword is and how dangerous; how hard it is to get one to hang properly on your hip, and how easy it is to stand perfectly still while a man with no central vision takes a swing at you with one.

This book and the author owe much of their present delightful existence to Delia Sherman, the perfect editor, lover and friend.

ALSO BYELLENKUSHNER.

Swordspoint.

Thomas the Rhymer.

The Fall of the Kings(with Delia Sherman)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Ellen Kushner is a novelist, performer, and public radio personality. Her work includes the weekly national public radio seriesPRI's Sound & Spirit with Ellen Kushner , the recordingThe Golden Dreydl: a Klezmer 'Nutcracker' for Chanukah (Rykodisc CD) and a live performance piece,Esther: the Feast of Masks . Her novelsSwordspoint and (with Delia Sherman)The Fall of the Kings share a setting and quite a few characters withThe Privilege of the Sword . She is a member of Terri Windling's Endicott Studio for Mythic Arts and co-founder of the Interstitial Arts Foundation. She lives in New York City and travels a lot, giving shows and readings, lecturing, and teaching. You can keep up with her whereabouts and learn more about Riverside and its denizens atwww.EllenKushner.com.

CODA.

HAVING DEFEATED HER SWORDMASTER IN A SERIOUSbout that morning, and being in the process of acquiring a new dress that afternoon, the young Duchess Tremontaine was in excellent spirits.

She stood in a sunny room overlooking the gardens of Tremontaine House encouraging her chief secretary, a balding young man named Arthur Ghent, to read her correspondence to her. The duchess's personal aide was ensconced in the window seat going over her farm books, eating oranges and lobbing bits of orange peel at her when he thought no one was looking, as she simultaneously tried to avoid themand to hold still for the modiste who was fitting the gown, while her maid begged her not to stand there making a half-naked spectacle of herself in front of everyone.

"I'm perfectly covered up, Betty," the duchess said, trying not to tug at the bodice, which pinched. "I've got yards of sarcenet over quite a lot of petticoat and corset, and a very modest fichu-ouch!"

"A thousand pardons, my lady," the modiste said, "but your grace's waist has gotten smaller since our last fitting, and it must be taken in."

"It pinches," Katherine fretted. "And the sleeves-they're so tight, I can hardly move my arms. Can't you open up this seam here?"

"It is not the mode, madam."

"Well,make it the mode, why don't you? Attach some ribbons right across here-"

"Very seductive," the duchess's personal aide piped up from the window seat.

"Oh, honestly, Marcus. It's just my arm."

The modiste consulted with her assistant. "If my lady will permit us to remove the upper half of the garment, we will see what can be done."

The duchess sighed. "Close your eyes, Arthur. Betty, hand me my jacket. There, is everyone happy?

Now, please! Lydia is coming to take chocolate soon, and then Lord Armand and the Godwins are joining us for dinner before we go to the concert-oh, hush, Marcus, it's very lofty and elevated music, nottweedle tweedle, Lydia says so-and then Mother's arriving tomorrow, but who knows when she'll really get here-oh, Betty, make sure they haven't forgotten the flowers for her room-and I promised Arthur I would get this business done before then, so now really is the only time. Go on, Arthur."

Arthur Ghent picked up a stack of colorful butterfly papers. "These are next month's invitations-but as time is short today, they can wait 'til last. Let's start with business." He unfolded a plain note from another pile. "The Duke of Hartsholt says you can have his daughter's mare at the price agreed, but only if you confirm it today."

"Tell him yes, then."

"You'll fall off," said Marcus dourly. "You'll fall and break your neck."

"I certainly won't. I grew up riding all over the countryside. This is nothing. But-it does seem a lot for a single horse. Can we honestly afford it?"

Marcus pretended to consult his calculations. "Hmm. Can we afford it? Only if you give up brandy."

"I don't drink brandy."

"Well, then. Get a horse. Get ten if you like-they don't eat much, do they?"

"Ahem," said Arthur Ghent, shuffling papers. "This should interest you. The Trevelyn divorce. Speaking of things you can afford. The lady has produced a written statement of cause for petition, and the lawyers have found an obscure law protecting it from any public scrutiny until the matter has been privatelysettled-that ought to give the family pause."

"Excellent. What about Perry's pension?"

Arthur extracted another letter. "Lord Lucius sends a note of thanks. He and Lady-Miss, ah, Grey are resident in Teverington. He writes that he is walking greater distances, and hopes soon to be rid of his cane."

"Oh, good! Put it on the stack for me to read later. What about my play?"

"Now as to that..." Arthur Ghent glanced at the door to the room. But the play, if he expected it to materialize, was not there.

"My lady?" The modiste and her assistant eased the duchess back into the top half of her new gown.

Ribbons crisscrossed the seam below her upper arm. The duchess flexed her arm, trying a full extend and a riposte, while the modiste stifled a protest that gowns were not made to fight in and she truly hoped the duchess would not so tax her creation- "This is such lovely fabric," the duchess said. "It moves very nicely, now. Do you think you could do me a pair of summer trousers in it, as well?"

"Oh. My. God." Artemisia Fitz-Levi stood in the doorway, a fat leather-bound tome in the crook of her arm. Her hair fell in perfect ringlets as always, but there was a smudge of dust on her forehead, and her apron, worn to protect a striped silk gown, was dusty, too. Nonetheless, Arthur Ghent straightened his jacket and ran his hand over what was left of his hair and bowed to her. "Katherine." She stared at the gown. "That is-that is beyond-Oh, Katherine, every girl in town is going to want those sleeves!"

The modiste permitted herself a smile of relief. In matters of fashion, Lady Artemisia was seldom mistaken.

"Do you think so?" Katherine said shyly. "I don't want to look silly."

"You won't." Her friend kissed her cheek.

"I'm doing papers with Arthur, and we're almost done." Artemisia stood back against the wall, the image of a useful person staying out of the way. "Go on, Arthur." The secretary handed the duchess two finished letters to approve, which she read standing. "Nothing from my uncle?"

"Nothing new. As far as we know, he and Master St Vier reached the sea and sailed as planned. The next letter may not reach us for some time."

"If he writes at all."

"He'll write," Marcus said. "When he runs out of money. Or books."

"Well, then. Is that it?"

"That's it for now, except for next month's invitations-"

"Invitations?" Artemisia butted in. "For next month? But my dear, no one will be in the city next month!

No one who matters. Everyone goes to the country. Here, you'd better give me those." She held out herhand to Arthur Ghent, who delivered the invitations to her with a deep bow. "I'll just see if there's anything worthwhile, though I'm sure there's not." She shoved them in her apron pocket. "You won't want to stay here either, Duchess. Now, I've already gotten a list of your country houses, and I've noted the five most suitable for you to choose from. I can fetch my notes if you'd like."

"Not just yet." Katherine was still a prisoner of laces and pins. "Have you gotHistory of the Council, Book Four there? I think we can get a bit more in while they finish my fitting."

Artemisia waved the book in the air, and a wad of paper fell out. "Oops! More invitations-"

But Katherine had seen the plain and heavy sheets. "It is not! It's my play, you wretch-it's the first act, isn't it? She's sent it!"

Artemisia and the secretary exchanged glances; hers was roguish, his helpless. "I was saving it,"

Artemisia said primly, "until we got to the end of the chapter on jurisdiction reform."

"Are you mad? My first commission? Read it. Now!"

"Yes, Your Grace." With a rustle of skirts, Artemisia seated herself in a sunny spot by the window, aware of all eyes upon her. She carefully unfolded the heavy sheets, thick with writing in a clear black hand, and began: "'The Swordswoman's Triumph. By a Lady of Quality.'"

Part I.

Tremontaine

chapter I.

NO ONE SENDS FOR A NIECE THEY'VE NEVER SEENbefore just to annoy her family and ruin her life. That, at least, is what I thought. This was before I had ever been to the city. I had never been in a duel, or held a sword myself. I had never kissed anyone, or had anyone try to kill me, or worn a velvet cloak. I had certainly never met my uncle the Mad Duke. Once I met him, much was explained.

ON THE DAY WE RECEIVED MY UNCLE'S LETTER,I was in the pantry counting our stock of silverware. Laden with lists, I joined my mother in the sunny parlor over the gardens where she was hemming kerchiefs. We did these things ourselves these days. Outside, I could hear the crows cawing in the hills, and the sheep bleating over them. I wasn't looking at her; my eyes were on the papers before me, and I was worrying about the spoons, which needed polishing, but we might have to sell them, so why bother now? "Three hundred and thirteen spoons," I said, consulting the lists. "We're short three spoons from last time, Mother."

She did not reply. I looked up. My mother was staring out the window and gnawing on one end of her silky hair. I wish I had hair like that; mine curls, in all the wrong ways. "Do you think," she said at last, "that we should have that tree taken down?"

"We're doing silver inventory," I said sternly, "and we're short."

"Are you sure you have the right list? When did we count them last?"

"Gregory's Coming-of-Age party, I think. My hands smelt of polish all through dinner. And he never even thanked me for it, the pig."

"Oh, Katherine."

My mother has a way of saying my name as though it were an entire speech. This one includedWhen will you andHow silly andI couldn't do without you all at once. But I wasn't in the mood to hear it.

While it must be done and there is no sense shirking, counting silver is not my favorite chore, although it ranks above fine needlework and making jam.

"I bet no one likes Greg there in the city, either, unless he's learned to be nicer to people."

There was a sudden jerky movement as she set her sewing down. I waited to be chastised. The silence became frightening. I looked to see that her hands were clutching the work down in her lap, regardless of what that was doing to the linen. She was holding her head very high, which was a mistake, because the moment I looked I knew from the set of her mouth and the wideness of her eyes that she was trying not to cry. Softly I put down my papers and knelt at her side, nestling in her skirts where I felt safe. "I'm sorry, Mama," I said, stroking the fabric. "I didn't mean it."

My mother twisted her finger in a lock of my hair. "Katie..." She breathed a long sigh. "I've had a letter from my brother."

My breath caught. "Oh, no! Is it the lawsuit? Are we ruined?"

"Quite the contrary." But she didn't smile. The line that had appeared between her brows last year only got deeper. "No, it's an invitation. To Tremontaine House."

My uncle the Mad Duke had never invited us to visit him. It wouldn't be decent. Everyone knew how he lived. But that wasn't the point. The point was that almost since I was born, he had been out to ruin us. It was utterly ridiculous: when he had just inherited vast riches from their grandmother, the Duchess Tremontaine, along with the title, he started dickering over the bit of land my mother had gotten from their parents for her dowry-or rather, his lawyers did. The points were all so obscure that only the lawyers seemed to understand them, and no one my father hired could ever get the better of them. We didn't lose the land; we just kept having to sink more and more money into lawyers, while the land my uncle was contesting went into a trust that made it unavailable to us, along with its revenues, which made it even harder to pay the lawyers....

I was quite small, but I remember how awful it always was when the letters came, heavy with their alarming seals. There would be an hour or two of perfect, dreadful stillness, and then everything would explode. My father would shout all sorts of things at my mother about her mad family, and why couldn'tshe control them all, he might as well have married the goosegirl for all the good she did him! And she would cry it wasn't her fault her brother was mad, and why didn't he ask her parents what was wrong with the contract instead of badgering her, and hadn't she done her duty by him? I heard quite a lot of this because when the shouting started she would clutch me to her, and when it was over she and I would often sneak off to the pantry and steal a pot of jam and eat it under the stairs. At the dinner table my father would quarrel with my older brothers about the cost of Greg's horses or Seb's tutors, or what they should plant in the south reach, or what to do about tenants poaching rabbits. I was glad I was too young for him to pay much attention to; only sometimes he would take my face in his big hands and look at me hard, as if he were trying to find out which side of the family I favored. "You're a sensible girl," he'd say hopefully. "You're a help to your mother, aren't you?" Well, I tried to be.

Father died suddenly when I was eleven. Things got much quieter then. And just as suddenly, the lawsuits stopped as well. It was as if the Mad Duke Tremontaine had forgotten all about us.

Then, about a year ago, just when we had begun to stop counting every copper, the letters started coming again, with their heavy seals. It seemed the lawsuit was back.

My brother Sebastian begged to be allowed to go to the city to study law at University, but Seb was needed at home; he was much too clever about land and farming and things. Instead Gregory, who was Lord Talbert now, went to the city to find us new lawyers, and take his place on the Council of Lords. It was expensive having him there, and we were once again without the revenue from my mother's portion.

If we didn't sell the spoons, we were going to have to sell some of my father's land, and everyone knows once you start chipping away at your estate, you're pretty much done for.

And now here was the Mad Duke, actually inviting us to the city to be his guests at Tremontaine House.

My mother looked troubled, but I knew such an invitation could mean only one thing: an end to the horrible lawsuits, the awful letters. Surely all was forgiven and forgotten. We would go to town and take our place amongst the nobility there at last, with parties and dancing and music and jewels and clothes-I threw my arms around my mother's waist, and hugged her warmly. "Oh, Mama! I knew no one could stay angry with you forever. I am so happy for you!"

But she pulled away from me. "Don't be. The entire thing is ridiculous. It's out of the question."