Knight's Shadow (17 page)

‘I’m glad you finally worked out a productive relationship with the King.’

Isault waved a finger. ‘But there is one thing I sometimes ask Paelis, and when I do, sure enough, he gives me that stupid smirk of his, only with this question I never do come up with the answer myself.’

Isault drank again from his goblet, but this time it was a small sip and he kept his eyes fixed on me the whole time. Since it was obvious he wanted me to ask, I did.

‘And what question is that, your Grace?’

The Duke threw his goblet at me – it was so unexpected that it hit me in the cheek and soaked me in red wine. ‘What the fuck was your plan?’ he shouted. He stood up from his throne and for an instant I thought he might attack me, but he just stood there, yelling at the room, ‘You made all your damned promises to the country and you gave us your damned useless Greatcoats and when we came to gut you, you just sat there like a lamb awaiting the shears! All the while I thought you had some brilliant strategy, some inspired scheme that was going to change the world – but it’s been five fucking years and still I don’t know what your plan was! Was it simply to drive us all mad as we waited for it to unfold? Is that it? It’s nothing more than a grand joke to stand alongside all the other jokes you played on us?’

The Duke was getting hysterical, but when I looked back at Beshard at the other end of the room I saw the old chamberlain wasn’t reacting, either because he’d seen this before or because he really was that good at standing there quietly and not reacting.

‘Your Grace,’ I began, but then I stopped, because I really wasn’t sure what to say next. Fortunately, I didn’t have to say anything because Isault sat down heavily on his throne.

‘Enough. That’s enough,’ he said. ‘Go to bed, First Cantor of the Greatcoats. You did what you promised and I shall do the same. In the morning we’ll do a little ceremony and I’ll sign the decree.’

He sagged deeper into his great uncomfortable seat and I felt as if I were intruding on the man’s most private grief.

Beshard gave a polite cough behind me, signalling that it was time for me to go.

‘I’m sorry, your Grace,’ I said, ‘but I can’t leave until you’ve given me the decree.’

‘I told you, shit-eater, in the morning. At the ceremony. There’ll be cakes.’

‘I’m certain I’ll enjoy the cakes, your Grace, but I really do need the decree now.’

The Duke looked up at me, his eyes heavy-lidded. ‘Do you question my honour, Falcio val Mond?’

I knew I was treading on dangerous terrain now, but I couldn’t take a chance on the volatile Duke changing his mind. ‘We had an agreement, your Grace, and it seems to me that any questions regarding your honour are now for you to resolve.’

The Duke’s face turned red and I thought he might leap up and try to strangle me. But a moment later the anger drained from him and he reached into the folds of his green silk robe and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment. He tossed it to the floor in front of me. ‘There are the wages of your sins, Falcio val Mond.’

I knelt down and picked up the parchment, not quite sure if I dared pull open the narrow green silk tie that bound it.

‘Go ahead,’ Isault said. ‘It’s not as if you’ll offend me any more than you already have.’

I gently untied the silk ribbon and read the decree. It was as simple and straightforward a document as I’d ever seen, with no evasions, no equivocations: Isault simply acknowledged that Aline was the rightful Queen of Tristia and that Aramor would perform all traditional duties owed her. At the bottom was his signature. ‘Thank you, your Grace,’ I said. ‘I regret I’ll have to forego the cakes in the morning as we need to leave tonight.’

Isault snorted. ‘No, I don’t think you will be leaving tonight.’

I looked around quickly, expecting to see his Knights coming to arrest me, but Beshard was still the only other person in the throne room, standing there as placidly as ever.

‘I expect to get some small benefit from your otherwise worthless presence here,’ the Duke said. ‘Showing my lords and margraves that I’ve made an alliance that gives preferential status to Aramor keeps them in line.’

‘Your Grace—’

Isault pulled out a second parchment from his robes. ‘If you aren’t here in the morning, First Cantor, I’ll sign this second decree revoking the first one.’

I looked down at the parchment still in my hand. ‘What value is your decree, Duke Isault, if it can so simply be overridden by another, and what value is your word if you can change it so easily?’

Isault looked to his chamberlain. ‘You see that, Beshard? The shit-eater isn’t half so stupid as he looks.’

*

Beshard led me up the stairs and down a long hallway to my room, pointing out as we passed where Kest, Brasti, Valiana and Dari had been accommodated.

‘I’ll return for you in the morning,’ the old man said as he unlocked the door.

‘How long have you served the Duke?’

‘I served his father, and for a brief time, his father’s father.’

‘Would you say he’s an honourable man?’ I asked, anticipating an angry retort from the old man. Hells, I probably said it just to elicit one.

‘In his own fashion,’ Beshard said, entirely calmly. ‘We live in dishonourable times, in a corrupt country. I suppose one could say the Duke is as honourable a man as such a world allows.’

The statement was so candid and plainly logical that I couldn’t think of a reply, but apparently none was needed. The old man put a hand on my shoulder – an oddly intimate gesture – until I realised he had a tiny sliver of a blade held between his old fingers and its point was touching my neck. ‘That said, I have looked after Duke Isault since the day he was born. I have loved him since he first opened his eyes and farted. If, after you speak to him in the morning, you attempt to do him harm, be aware that you will soon be looking up at the ceiling, your life’s blood draining from the wound in your throat where an old man’s blade severed the artery.’ He took his hand away and gave me a crooked smile. ‘I should imagine that would be terribly embarrassing for a capable young man such as yourself.’

He handed me the key to my room and said, ‘Sleep well, Trattari.’

*

I spent the next few minutes trying to stop myself from shaking. Between Isault’s threats and Beshard’s little blade my nerves were on edge.
Taken like an amateur by an old man barely able to lift a serving tray
. There were a hundred ways I could have bested the chamberlain and yet I’d allowed him to get close enough that he could have slit my throat with the barest effort: all my training and experience voided by a single moment of inattention.

Once I felt I could speak without stuttering, I went about quietly knocking on doors and assembling the rest in my room. I explained the situation with Isault and showed them the decree, and then I told them my plan.

‘I have a question,’ Dariana said after I was done. She was sitting cross-legged on my bed, quite unconcerned that the dirt on her boots was rapidly transferring itself to my blankets.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Do you have any plans that don’t involve telling Valiana and me to run away and hide somewhere while you—?’

‘—while he tries to get Kest and me killed?’ Brasti finished. ‘No. That’s pretty much the crux of all of Falcio’s masterful stratagems, so you might as well get used to it now.’

‘It’s not what you think,’ I said, handing the scroll to Dariana. One glance made it very clear what Valiana thought of my master plan. ‘Look, we need to get the decree into the hands of the Tailor. Even if Isault signs a second one, we might be able to use this one to Aline’s benefit. Dariana, you’re the one who knows her plans and where she’s most likely to be, so unless you would like to share that information with the rest of us—’

‘I don’t.’

‘—fine. Then you need to get out of the palace tonight. Wait for us at the inn we passed, two days back – hells, what was it called?’

‘The Inn of the Red Hammer,’ Kest offered.

‘Right, that’s the one. It’s on the edge of the Spear, and that will be the fastest way to travel north to Domaris. If we don’t show up in the next three days, go and find the Tailor and let her know we’ve failed.’

‘Sounds perfectly logical,’ Dariana said.

‘Good, then—’

‘So why are you sending Valiana too? I can travel faster by myself.’

I kept my gaze on her until her eyes met mine. ‘Because I don’t trust you. That’s why.’

She grinned. ‘See, now that makes sense.’

‘Good. There’s a window at the end of this hallway. If you wait until—’

‘Please don’t start explaining how to break into and out of buildings to me. You’ll only embarrass yourself.’

‘Had a lot of experience sneaking in and out of Ducal palaces, have you?’ Brasti asked.

‘I’ve had excellent tutors,’ she replied.

‘Good for you,’ I said. ‘Now everyone get the hells out of my room. If all goes well, the Duke will hold true to his word and the worst thing that will happen is Kest and Brasti and I will be forced to listen to more of his insults while we eat his cake and drink his wine.’

I was about to fall down on my bed when I realised Brasti had his hand up.

‘Do you have a question?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to call first strike on Duke Isault.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kest asked.

‘Well, when we show up in the throne room in the morning and Isault betrays us and Shuran and his Knights surround us and Falcio is jumping up and down giving speeches about the Law and staying true to one’s word and the other rubbish he spews at times like these, I get to stab Isault first.’

‘Are you always such a pessimist?’ Dariana asked.

‘Believe it or not, I used to be quite cheerful.’

‘What happened to make you so cynical?’

Oddly, it was Kest who said, ‘He joined the Greatcoats.’

The four of them left me then, and as I removed my coat and outer clothes I stood shivering for a moment standing on the cold flagstone floor. I looked at the warm covers on the bed, longing for sleep, but knowing I couldn’t afford it. Days on horseback had made me stiff and I needed to stretch my muscles – and I also needed to make sure my weapons were all oiled and sharpened. Above all, I couldn’t risk sleep: if Brasti was right and the Duke really was preparing an ambush for us in the morning, then I couldn’t afford to wake up paralysed, then groggy and slow.

Get to work
, I told myself, reaching for my rapiers and oiling cloth.
You can rest when Aline sits on the throne and Trin lies at the bottom of a grave.

*

Two hours later a knock at my door proved Brasti had it all wrong.

‘It’s a bit late for visitors, I’m afraid,’ I called out, standing to the side of the door in case whoever was on the other side had a pistol ready to fire through it. Kest and Brasti and I have different knocks we use to communicate all manner of things – who’s outside, what’s occurring, why we’re there . . . We even have a knock for those rare occasions where one of us has a knife held to our throat and is being forced to entrap the other.

This knock wasn’t any of those so I kept my rapier at the ready and waited.

‘It’s Knight-Commander Shuran. Open the door.’ After a brief pause he said, ‘And I’d advise keeping the point of your sword aimed at the ground.’

The fact that he’d used his full title told me there were men with him and the reference to my sword told me he was expecting violence. ‘I’m warning you, Shuran, if the Duke has decided to go back on his word, I’ll make it an expensive decision for everyone,’ I said.

‘Open the door, First Cantor. This is a poor time to make threats.’

‘Where are Kest and Brasti?’ I asked.

‘I came to you first.’

I thought about that. If he’d come to me first he thought the other two would attack first and he wanted me to keep them from starting anything. With no better solution in mind, I opened the door.

‘Thank you,’ Shuran said.

I could see half a dozen Knights behind him, in full armour.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Duke Isault has been murdered,’ he said.

Chapter Fifteen

An Inelegant Corpse

Isault, Duke of Pulnam, made an inelegant corpse. Even under the green silk sheet that had been placed over him, the dome formed by his prodigious belly made him look more like a mound of dirt than a man.

The body was lying in the centre of the room, surrounded by twelve Knights in full armour clenching their swords. When I reached down to pull away the sheet covering Duke Isault, all twelve swords pointed in my direction.

‘First positions,’ Shuran said, his voice betraying neither anger nor anxiety, only absolute certainty that his order would be instantly obeyed.

His confidence was not misplaced: the Knights moved like a well-oiled machine, returning at once to their former stance, the blade of their swords pointed upwards and resting against their shoulders, ready to attack at will.

I reached forward again and pulled back the sheet. Isault’s expression was frozen in a snarl, reminding me of the outraged face of a dead bear mounted as a wall trophy. I removed the sheet entirely and saw his arms, folded across his chest, were covered in cuts. He had fought back, taking a dozen thin slices on his forearms as he tried to protect his body. It wasn’t until I pulled his arms apart that I saw the small wound that had been thrust into his heart and ended his life.

‘Precise,’ Kest said, standing over me. ‘The assassin could have disabled him more quickly had he not been so determined to kill him with a single thrust.’

The sounds of heavy boots echoed in the room and a Knight with long blond hair came striding towards us: Heridos, the Knight-Captain who’d ordered the attack on us when we’d first arrived in Aramor the previous week.

He ignored Shuran completely and spoke directly to the Knights surrounding us. ‘Arrest those men,’ he said.

‘Belay that order,’ Shuran said.

‘You would allow these murderers to defile the Duke’s body?’ the Knight-Captain demanded. ‘Did you help them do this?’

Shuran’s gauntleted hand struck out and the Knight-Captain fell back. ‘Keep your wits about you, Sir Heridos, or you’ll lose the head that obedience so recently bought back for you. I am still Knight-Commander of Aramor.’

Sir Heridos didn’t look pleased. Or scared. ‘A man cannot hold the post of Knight-Commander if he commits treason.’

Sir Shuran took a step towards him. ‘Think back, Sir Heridos, to the most dangerous moment of your fool’s existence: the one in which you thought you were within a hair’s-breadth of losing your life. I assure you, you are much closer to death now than you were then.’

‘These men are assassins!’ Sir Heridos said.

‘Our own men were standing guard outside their rooms all night. How could they have committed the murders?’

Murders?
I’d seen two dead guards outside the throne room when they’d brought us here, but somehow I doubted Shuran was talking about them.

‘Then they are accomplices!’ Sir Heridos insisted. He held up a piece of parchment. ‘Look here. The Duke had a decree disavowing his agreement with the Trattari. Had he signed it, their plans would have fallen apart.’

‘Which does not alter the fact that we had their rooms watched all night.’

‘And what about the two women?’ Sir Heridos asked. ‘Or were you not aware they fled the palace last night?’

‘Indeed I am aware, Sir Heridos, and I had them followed.’ He turned to me. ‘The ladies have not been harmed. My men followed them for several hours until they were outside our border before they returned. Neither would have had time to come back and murder the Duke.’

‘And the other one?’ Sir Heridos asked.

What other one?
Sir Shuran looked at me and then back to his Knight-Captain.

Kest nudged me. ‘Falcio, something’s wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They know we couldn’t have done it, so why is Sir Heridos determined to believe it was one of us?’

‘Because they’re Knights and we’re Greatcoats,’ Brasti said, ‘and that’s how these things work.’

I looked at Sir Heridos. The hatred in his eyes was genuine and it was specific. He truly believed we had murdered his Duke. Brasti was right.

‘Who stands to benefit from the Duke’s death?’ I asked Sir Shuran.

‘His enemies,’ Sir Heridos said, ‘and who hates the Dukes more than the Trattari? Boot-lickers to a tyrant King bound to revenge themselves on those who restored honour to the country these five years past!’

I thought back to all the times over the last few years when I had stood in the shadows outside a Duke’s home in the cold and rain, the blood in my veins so hot and itchy I had to stop myself from tearing my skin as I wondered whether murder was still murder if the intended victims bragged to each other at their annual celebration marking the day they came with an army and killed my King. Yet Paelis had made us swear oaths that we would not seek revenge. Instead we wandered the countryside trying desperately to fulfil the final enigmatic commands he had given each one of us. I didn’t know how many of us were left now besides Kest, Brasti and me.

‘Shut your mouth,’ Sir Shuran said. He turned to me. ‘To answer your question, the Duke was well-liked by the people of Aramor, as far as that goes. The rebels in Carefal were the first I’ve ever known to try to cause trouble. Roset, Duke of Luth, had cause for grievance over border disputes, as did Jillard, Duke of Rijou; however, attacking a fellow Duke would put either man in a great deal of jeopardy from the Ducal Concord.’

‘Who becomes Duke of Aramor after Isault?’

‘His son, Lucan, is sixteen and next in line. After that, Patrin, who at twelve is too young, so the Duke’s wife, Yenelle, would act as regent. Finally, there is the daughter Avette. She is six. But the killer wasn’t one of the Duke’s family, nor anyone who would hope for more favourable treatment from them.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

Sir Shuran’s eyes were on mine for a long while.

He knows something and he wants to see if I know it too.

After a moment he turned to Sir Heridos. ‘Tell them to come in,’ he said.

‘The clerics—’

‘I gave you an order,’ he said.

The Knight-Captain walked back to the entrance of the throne room and opened the door. He motioned to a group of Knights in the hallway and they entered, each one bearing something large wrapped in green cloth in their arms. They gently placed their burdens next to the Duke.

Sir Shuran lifted the silken covers from them one by one. The first was a woman in her middle years with curly reddish-blonde hair. ‘Her Grace, Duchess Yenelle,’ he said. He pulled the silk cloth from the second. A teenage boy, tall for his age. ‘Her son Lucan.’ The next was smaller and his face was smeared in blood. ‘Her second son, Patrin.’ He reached down and lifted the silk cloth from the final body, this one very small, her bright blonde hair in ringlets. Her face would have been pretty had it not been frozen in terror. She wore a yellow dress stained dark red from the collar down where the slit in her throat had let the blood flow out from her body. ‘Avette,’ he said. ‘She liked to paint pictures of dogs. She thought that if she could make one beautiful enough it would persuade her father to give her a puppy for her birthday.’

Sir Shuran was looking at me, measuring my reaction. He had held this back to see what we already knew. Whatever he was looking for, I don’t think he found it.

‘The assassin,’ he said to Sir Heridos. ‘Show us.’

‘You’ve caught the killer?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but I don’t think it will help matters much,’ Shuran replied.

‘But then why are we—?’

‘It’s easier if we show you,’ the Knight-Commander said, and motioned to Sir Heridos again. The Knight-Captain turned on his heels and began walking towards the other side of the throne room with such eagerness that it took me a moment to realise he was expecting us to follow him.

He led us into a small office or private library, with shelves of books and a desk that took up the whole of one wall.

‘Here,’ Heridos said, pointing to the body lying with a bloodied broadsword next to it. ‘Here is the assassin you sent to butcher the Duke of Aramor and his family.’

This corpse wasn’t covered in a sheet. It was lying face down on the floor and it was wearing a leather greatcoat.

Sir Shuran knelt down and turned the body over, revealing a tall woman with light brown hair, her blue eyes set wide, the sharp features of her face drawn into an angry smile.

‘How did she die?’ I asked Sir Heridos. ‘Did your men kill her?’

‘No, the Duke himself took her before he fell. He thrust his dagger into her black heart.’

‘Do you know this woman?’ Sir Shuran asked.

She was beautiful, in her own way: fierce and foul-tongued and always looking for a good fight. There were lines on her forehead that I didn’t remember, but it had been several years since I’d last seen her.

I looked back at Kest and Brasti to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. Brasti let out a curse. Kest peered at her closely, as if examining every detail of her face. He looked at me and nodded.

‘Yes, I know her,’ I said, my mind drawn back to a day many years ago when she, like me, first received her greatcoat. She had looked up at the King and smiled, tears streaming down her face, as they were streaming down all of ours. I had never seen her cry before or since that day. ‘Her name was Winnow,’ I said, ‘called the King’s Fist, Fourth Cantor of the King’s Greatcoats.’

When I looked back at the others I saw that Sir Heridos had finally found something to smile about.

*

Watching Sir Shuran argue with his Knight-Captain for the next hour was oddly disconcerting. It wasn’t simply the fact that Sir Heridos was advocating so forcefully for our summary execution that bothered me; that was to be expected given the circumstances. Rather, it was the fact that Sir Shuran, who was as powerful a commander as I’d ever met, appeared to be unwilling or unable to shut the other Knight down. Every time Heridos spoke, Shuran would glance at the Knights and clerics assembled in the throne room, almost as if they were a panel of Ducal magistrates sitting in judgement rather than soldiers who would instantly follow whatever order he gave. I was pretty sure that Heridos had managed to ensure the Knights guarding the room were loyal to him before anyone else.

‘Duke Isault’s murder cries out for justice!’ Heridos shouted again. He walked to the bodies of Isault’s family. ‘His wife deserves justice! His children cry out for justice! And two of our own, Sir Ursan and Sir Walland, they too are dead – struck down no doubt by the Trattari whore. Their souls, too, cry out for justice. Though perhaps their pleading sounds
foreign
to your ears, Sir Shuran.’

‘Indeed? Do you hear their voices, Sir Heridos?’ Shuran asked.

‘I do! I hear them scream from beyond.’ Heridos opened his arms wide. ‘And so does every man here who loved the Duke.’

The energy in the room seemed to flow into Heridos. Sir Shuran’s rank, his reputation and his relationships with his men were like memories from another time now. The way Sir Heridos kept using the word
foreigner
in reference to Sir Shuran clearly resonated with some, if not all, of the other Knights, and I began to wonder how long it would be before Sir Shuran found himself in irons. There was simply too much at stake to consider loyalty now. Power, previously so rigidly allocated and controlled, was now spilling everywhere in the Duchy of Aramor.

And there it is
, I thought,
the fragility of Tristia laid bare in front of us
. With the Duke and his family dead, who ruled Aramor now? Would one of the region’s Margraves or Lords take power and form a new ducal line? What if one of them had engineered the assassination? But no, the Ducal Knights could never allow that possibility, which meant they would need to take control until the Duchy Council could be convened, otherwise all would be chaos and blood. So that meant that Sir Shuran, Knight-Commander of Aramor, had the power now – but only if the Knights followed him. They had looked so loyal, so disciplined, only a week ago, but since then, Shuran had come with us to Carefal and the Duke had been murdered. Now he was defending the Greatcoats – those very bastards who had, at least as far as the rest of the Knights were concerned, killed their Duke. In its own way, Aramor was at war, and politics would come swiftly on its heels.

‘Cleric!’ Shuran said at last.

There were several men in green robes standing together in the room, but none stepped forward. Shuran’s gaze fell on one in particular, a young man with thinning black hair, who muttered, ‘Knight-Commander?’

‘To whom did the Duke pray?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It is a simple enough question: to which God did Duke Isault pray? You were his personal cleric, were you not?’

‘I was, Sir Shuran.’

‘And did he not confide in you to which God he gave fealty? I wonder how you could provide him with spiritual guidance if you did not know whether he prayed to War or to Love.’

For a moment, there was murmured laughter in the room, but it didn’t last.

‘To Argentus, God of Coin, Knight-Commander,’ the weaselly little man said at last. ‘All the Dukes of Pulnam have followed the teachings of Argentus.’

‘And the Duke’s family? Did they pray to Argentus as well?’

‘Of course,’ the cleric said.

‘Good,’ Sir Shuran said, ‘now we’re getting somewhere.’

‘I don’t see how,’ Sir Heridos muttered.

Sir Shuran ignored him. ‘And when a faithful servant of Coin dies, where does he go?’

‘Why, into the arms of Argentus himself,’ the cleric said, ‘to feast and walk in joy throughout the heavenly manor he creates from his wealth on earth.’

‘What?’ Shuran asked. ‘Are you saying a faithful servant of Argentus does not spend all his time screaming in pain and tortured regret at the manner of his death?’

‘Of course not, Knight-Commander. Only a faithless man would suffer such a . . .’ The cleric caught the look in Sir Heridos’ eyes and stopped.