The Axe and the Throne (47 page)

The boy swung around to face his sister's molesters and was met with a foot to his chest, shoving him forcefully to his back and out of line. His sister, who was somehow without tears, jumped after her brother as if their lives depended on it, grabbing him and pulling him to his feet. The people that comprised the line seemed purposefully oblivious to the commotion as the small gap left was consumed, placing those who had been behind the youngsters that much closer to receiving food. The burning hatred in Titon's chest threatened to leap out and engulf the entire crowd. Had this been in the North, he would have given each man a quicker death than was deserved and left them to rot above the ground as he did the Dogmen.
Men such as those deserve to die, and men such as I are charged with ensuring it happens.

“Be sure to remain within these walls, cowards. The moment you set foot outside their protection I will rip out your throats with my hands.” He said the words only in his mind. He could not kill them, not here, and any threat of escalation would result in the men retaliating in the only way they could: later, and against the children.

He stared at them with intensity, though the men were too busy chatting to notice, and the final bend in the line caught Titon by surprise. He and Keethro were at the rightmost cart, the home of the butcher. Titon's attention was again stolen, watching the man work. He was not the lumbering brute one might assume at first glance. His hands were quite deft. They reminded Titon of his own hands, though with shorter, fatter fingers, causing him to wonder with troubled vanity if the butcher's grip might be stronger than his own. As if to answer, one of those hands—thoroughly covered in the slime of raw meat—reached out and grabbed Titon by the neck of his shirt, drawing him in close. Nose to nose, the butcher looked suddenly familiar. What must have appeared to others like aggression, Titon could clearly see was not. The man's every feature was that of a monster except for his eyes. Those eyes peered from behind his mask of scars and spoke to Titon, as his mouth could not, begging him to take heed. They told him to leave this place as soon as he could, and Titon understood. The butcher was his brother, a fellow Galatai, and he was not here of his own volition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The winding stairway refused to end. This was not Cassen's first time up these steps, but he had never been quite so impatient to ascend them, and, likewise, there had never before seemed to be quite so many. Were it age or anticipation that made the trek now so intolerably sluggish, he could not say, but he would not race up them like some eager boy. Aside from the fact that he would likely not be able to complete the climb at such a pace, not even spurred by his desire, he was more concerned with maintaining his air of dignity. It would not do to be seen breathless. He had waited near a lifetime for this climax, and he would not allow the experience to be sullied by indiscretion.

He recalled how Derudin had looked so recently at the banquet. That slippery trickster had somehow managed to escape capture, but he had not escaped Cassen's eye. Charlatan though he was, he must truly abstain from the pleasures of indulgent food given the way he beamed at and handled that which was served to him. It was as if Derudin were a virgin of a man presented with a sensual goddess to do with as he pleased.
How ironically analogous
, Cassen mused.

Master Warin had served in stark contrast beside the mage, tearing greedily into rib after hurried rib, still leaving bits upon the bone without care. Cassen would not be that man. He would leave no bits on the bone, and he would not race to finish what he'd been so patient to procure. Nor would he suffer the same fate as Derudin—poor old fool that he was—who had not managed to yet dirty a finger by the time Lyell began his theatrics.
Lyell of House Redrivers, drowned in the red river of his own vomit.
Cassen delighted in the thought of how it would be remembered. He had no hatred for the man, but envy, he found, was often a more spiteful emotion.

But Cassen had envied none more than Alther. That such a fool be rewarded with such a treasure was venom in his veins. The look upon the dullard's face when he realized he'd killed his own father was worth a thousand kingdoms, but it paled in comparison to what lay in wait above.
How ever will he manage to eclipse that expression with one greater when I tell him what I have done with his lovely wife?
It was impossible to imagine.

“Master Cassen…Your Grace…”

After so many years of enjoying people stumbling over his title of duchess, to see them stumbling over how to best address him now was truly splendid. None wished to draw the ire of the next potential queen or king, whatever it was he might come to be.

The man who presently addressed him was one of a pair of low-ranking members of The Guard standing vigil at the steps, and Cassen despised him at first glance. His eyes shone with the gleam of honor and justice—this was one of those who'd barred his path for so long, preventing him from visiting the helpless princess in her tomb of luxury.
Do I truly hate you? Or do I begrudge your incorruptibility?
But Cassen knew that would be little more than begrudging a simple man of his blissful ignorance. This guard was not to be revered. There was no laudability in selflessness. It was a disease that festered in times of abundance, and the tumult that was soon to come would see it culled.

“Sir…?” Cassen asked.

“I am just Harding, Your Grace.”

“Well, Harding, see that you and your friend here do not allow
any
interruption of my questioning of the princess. I do not care if I remain there for days upon end and you have to shit in your armor. I do not care if Lyell eats the entrails he spilled on the royal table and comes back to life to demand entry. None will pass these steps until I, myself, have passed them for a second time and in the opposite direction. Is your understanding absolute?”

“Yes, Your Grace. You are not to be disturbed.”

“My
questioning
of her is not to be disturbed. The idiots of your order have been interrogating her for how many weeks now? She has yet to admit to anything, and now the king is dead. I will not have my efforts ruined mid-process.” With that, Cassen continued the ascent of the final stories of stairs.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the guard said quickly, but to Cassen's back.

A few bends later, Cassen stopped to steady himself. He had allowed the previous conversation to excite him more than he'd wished. He took slow, controlled breaths to calm himself.
What physiological quirk is it that makes the area of the heart burn in longing?
Cassen held no belief that the meaty organ served any purpose but to push blood around within one's body, likening any such inclination to belief in deities and magic. But his chest did burn, and toward his left of all places.
An invention of a mind with knowledge of its placement
, he concluded.

With his composure reestablished, he made his way to the top of the stairs, placing his foot upon the landing and pulling his body to his final elevation. Before him stood the door to what he'd craved since having taken the position of Calder's assistant, since having first laid eyes upon her. Visions flooded his mind of entering only to find her cut and bleeding, having found some sharp object with which to end her torment, or hanging from a chandelier that she'd managed to reach by flinging a weighted sheet, but he brushed those notions aside and knocked three times, with the utmost courtesy. He waited a moment, then proceeded inside.

It was the same room he remembered from previous visits, back when King Lyell had requested Cassen find some use for the room. It was Cassen who came up with the idea of having it serve as a prison, an idea that amused the king very much, though he had no one at the time upon which to use it. Cassen, however, had had one such person in mind from the very start.

“Princess Crella,” he began.
Or would it technically be Queen Crella until Alther has been formally dispatched?
The thought was amusing—how easily lines of succession could be toyed with to suit the purposes of those who truly held the power.

“Leave it and begone,” she responded.

How precious. She thinks me to be a servant.
“I am afraid I am not quite what you expect,”
not in the least,
“as I have not brought for you any food or water.” Surely she must come to recognize his voice, the voice of the Duchess of Eastport.

Crella was at the window gazing downward, dressed in the finery one would expect of a queen retired to a private evening: a long gown, simple and elegant. Cassen had stood there himself and remembered being rather disappointed by the view. From such a height, little could be made of what went on below. The people were all unidentifiable, and thus no more interesting than watching a mound of ants. The window to the south was far more entertaining; one could just begin to make out the structures of Eastport and Westport, which—despite their utilitarian nature—were still quite impressive.
Such a lovely kingdom.

Where she stood suddenly bothered Cassen. Had she chosen the window to the north in favor of Rivervale as some symbolic gesture? Did she have feelings for Alther in truth—brought to the surface from her imprisonment?
The man must be dealt with, and the sooner the better.
His living only complicated matters.

If she recognized Cassen by now, she made no move to acknowledge it. He studied her. It was regrettable that he so rarely had the chance to these past years. For near two decades he'd had to avert his eyes in order to keep up appearances, but now he could bathe in the sight. What he saw was everything he had remembered from his youth, multiplied—not diminished—by maturity. Though barefoot and resting, her weight tipped forward toward the toe, lifting her heels ever so slightly in such a feminine manner. The arch where her hip became waist was almost lewd in its construction, as if purpose made for his hands to grasp and pull her tight. But for some reason, the graceful curve from her shoulder to the nape of her neck was what he noted most.
Perhaps because she is always turned away from me in disgust.

“You have no doubt heard the news by now. Even the best-trained servants must have difficulty not letting word of a dead king slip.”

Her head turned briefly down and to the side, returning to its previous position thereafter, but not before burning into Cassen's vision the image of her delicate profile.

“Oh, you didn't know? Well, Lyell is dead, though I doubt you cared much for the man. It would seem someone saw fit to poison him after all.” Cassen lowered his voice as if speaking only to himself. “Made quite a mess of a lovely banquet too.”
Perhaps had it only been his wine that was poisoned, I would have had time to sample the rockfish.
“It was a terrible shame, really.”

Cassen gave her ample opportunity to reply, but she made no move to do so.

“I am sure you are wondering who could be responsible for such treachery. Let us go through the list then, shall we? It could not have been
Lord
Junton, he's just been sitting around ever since the whole impalement matter. And it, of course, could not have been Stephon, for he remains in a dungeon—a fine dungeon, mind you, though not in comparison to this one, I am afraid. It was not the daring Master Warin—too busy filling his mouth, nor Master Larimar—content in drowning himself with mead that evening. I suppose that only leaves your dear husband and Derudin.”

Cassen studied her for an emotional response, a difficult task given her refusal to face him, and her reflection in the window gave up no details beyond an outline.

“There is an entire kingdom rather upset at your husband and that old man who calls himself a mage. For some reason they think those two had the ambition to collude to usurp.”

Cassen walked to the bed. It was a monstrous thing, hip high and covered in all sorts of fabrics, the specifics of which were quite tedious. The game he'd played of pretending to appreciate such things had become so tiresome he ached to reveal. He ran his hand along one of the hardwood posts that supported the canopy above, disgusted by the detail that had gone into its carving.
It will do, though
, he thought.

“You wouldn't be so dimwitted as to believe such a thing, now, would you? You knew your husband better than any; well enough to know he did not have the courage to do as he's been so flatteringly accused.” Cassen had not even expected Alther to go through with the plan to sicken the king, not that it truly mattered. “Nor would Derudin, not that you should care about him. That anyone does is proof enough that the realm is populated—even ruled—by superstitious simpletons.

“But no, your loving husband did not so much as lift a finger to free you. I think we both know he lacked the courage to ever oppose his mighty father. After all, he did not even care enough to object when Lyell told him of his plans to take Ethel to bed as his queen.”

Excitement flushed Cassen as he saw Crella's fingers bend, not so much to make a fist—she had stopped herself before that—but he had her undivided attention,
that
was not to be doubted. He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment.
That leaves only one person capable of killing such a tyrant, and you know who it is.
Cassen's joy quickly faded.
You know it to be me, and yet again, you will not thank me. You will not acknowledge that I have saved you, once more.
Finding his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached, Cassen was forced to open his eyes and remind himself of the power he wielded.
But you will thank me, willingly or not.

“It reminds me of a story,” he said, suddenly at peace again. “Perhaps you know the tale…

“In this very kingdom lived a young princess, many years ago. Her mother and father were stricken with a shared illness, dying at a young age and leaving her an orphan. Luckily for the princess, her mother had a caring brother who volunteered to raise the girl as his own. Perhaps she would have preferred her aunt, but that woman had a kingdom to rule and little time for children. And at any rate, her uncle was much respected.

“He was a robust and powerful man—a
duke
, no less. He took every precaution to ensure the safety of his little princess. He sheltered her from the harshness of the outside world, which he himself never shied from, for he was the adventurous, domineering sort. He did not negotiate with other men; he made demands. Under his command, he saw Eastport rise to be the third richest city in a kingdom of three cities.” Cassen had no choice but to snort at that fact. “Perhaps more impressive were his feats in the wilderness. An avid hunter, he would bring back trophies from the far corners of the kingdom. He had heads of wild pigs with curved tusks, elk with great antlers, and fierce cats with giant fangs mounted vainly upon the walls of his estate. The princess despised these trophies, but they were perhaps the least of what she hated of his hunting trips.”