The Dog of the North (34 page)

The Great Hall of the Occonero, which Beauceron had last encountered at the Midwinter Ball, was packed to capacity. At the back stood dignitaries who might have expected deference; but today
their needs were not paramount. The Hall was already full when Beauceron entered at the back, his polished boots echoing on the marble floor. At his side hung his rapier, and his decorations were
sewn to the chest of his black jacket. Mongrissore walked alongside him with more vigour than he had evinced during the trial, and he had even broken out a new suit of broadcloth for the occasion.
Despite the cold outside, in the Hall the dimonettoes and the closely packed bodies combined were more than ample to heat the vast space.

Although he looked ahead as he marched towards the front of the Hall, his peripheral vision took in many familiar faces as he walked. General Virnesto was there with an impassive face; Prince
Brissio at the front surveyed Beauceron with a cool appraisal. On the other side of the hall were the courtiers from the Summer Court. It would not have been appropriate for King Tardolio to be
present, but in the front row sat Prince Laertio, who gave a barely perceptible twitch of the head as Beauceron walked past; by the Prince’s side was his sister Princess Agalina. A couple of
rows behind Laertio, Beauceron noticed with a glimmer of amusement, was Lady Cosetta. She too had seen the expediency of throwing her lot in with the Summer Court. Prince Brissio’s passion
was destined for disappointment.

At last the long walk was over. Beauceron stood before the King and the Lords of Equity, set on lower seats at his side. Davanzato, a further level lower, sprang from his place.

‘What
lèse-majesté
is this!’ he cried. ‘For any man to bear arms before the King, let alone this felon!’

King Fanrolio raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, Mongrissore,’ he said. ‘What do you mean by presenting your man for judgement in this way? No man may carry steel in this
hall.’

Mongrissore bowed. ‘My apologies, Your Puissance. You will recall that only yesterday we established that the trial had been conducted under the Old Law. Under this Law, a man accused of
treason is permitted to retain his arms until such time as his guilt is established. He is not a “felon”, as Under-Chamberlain Davanzato styles him, until your judgement is
rendered.’

Fanrolio looked at the Lords of Equity uncertainly.

Your Puissance,’ said Lord Gionardo, ‘Mongrissore’s point may be over-legalistic, but his quibble is accurate enough. Beauceron is entitled to bear a sword until your verdict
is reached.’

‘Very well,’ said Fanrolio querulously. ‘The byways of the law can be hard to trace at times.’

‘Indeed, Your Puissance,’ said Mongrissore. ‘Soon your judgement will be revealed and uncertainty banished.’

Fanrolio’s expression brightened. ‘Just so, Mongrissore.’

Davanzato shot Mongrissore a glance of glassy dislike. Score your petty triumphs while you can, his expression seemed to say.

A footman brought the King a sealed parchment: the judgement Fanrolio himself had written the previous night. He broke the seal and unrolled the paper. He squinted in an attempt to read his
handwriting. Beauceron looked on in contempt. Whatever the outcome, Fanrolio was in his dotage: he had been fully justified in pursuing alternative strategies. Why had he not thrown his lot in with
Laertio?

‘I have been nobly advised by my Lords of Equity,’ said Fanrolio, ‘in deciding this difficult and painful case of conspiracy against my own authority. My lords are unanimous in
their thoughts, and I cannot demur from their conclusions.

‘Beauceron, the evidence before us leaves only one conclusion. You are guilty of grand treason, and tomorrow you shall die.’

4

The sentence of death was hardly unexpected, but Beauceron nonetheless felt an almost physical blow in the base of his stomach. He had faced death many times, but never in
this impersonal way, a man in front of him reading from a script. He had never lacked the opportunity to fight back.

Mongrissore rose languidly from his seat. ‘Your Puissance, a moment for further consideration, if I may.’

Fanrolio blinked more rapidly than usual. ‘My judgement is fixed and decreed, Mongrissore.’

‘I would not dream of disputing your right of judgement, Your Puissance. My concern relates to a point of law only.’

‘Sit down, old man,’ said Davanzato. ‘The race is run, and you have lost. Let us now proceed with dispatch: a traitor cannot die a day too soon.’

Mongrissore’s voice deepened. ‘You will listen to me, Under-Chamberlain Davanzato. Your Puissance, you can confirm that you have sentenced Beauceron under the Old Law.’

‘Must we revisit this tedium again, Mongrissore?’ asked Fanrolio with a fretful scowl. ‘My wits are not what they were, but I remember an extensive clarification of this point
yesterday. Beauceron has been tried and condemned under the Old Law.’

‘Exemplary clarity, Your Puissance. Ah, Lord Gionardo, you have a point to make?’

Gionardo looked back at him sourly. ‘You have us, you rogue.’

Mongrissore nodded and smiled. ‘The Lords of Equity know the law, which is encouraging. Under the Old Law, which we are all agreed pertains here, I invoke the right of my client to trial
by combat.’

Beauceron stared at Mongrissore. The hall had already been silent, but now even that silence seemed quieted. Beauceron had had no idea of Mongrissore’s intention; hardly surprising, then,
that everyone else was stunned.

Lord Gionardo shook his head with a rueful grin. He might have lost, but the legulier in him could not but admire Mongrissore’s skill. ‘Mongrissore has this right, my lord. Beauceron
may challenge the material witnesses against him – in this case, Sir Goccio.’

From further along the row came a clatter; Sir Goccio had dropped his papers to the floor.

Beauceron uncoiled himself and stood. ‘May I not challenge Davanzato instead?’

Ulrado gave a wintry smile. ‘The approach has much to commend it, but it is not sanctioned by the law. If you wish to have your right of trial by battle, it is with Sir Goccio or no
one.’

Beauceron smiled softly and sought Sir Goccio’s gaze. ‘If that is how it must be, I claim my right.’

From the far side of the room came the sound of one person clapping. Beauceron looked to see Prince Laertio, and smiled. His hand dropped to the hilt of his rapier. Now he understood why
Mongrissore had enjoined him to keep his fitness up.

5

After a stunned pause and a period of frantic activity during which Sir Goccio was furnished with a rapier, a space was cleared in the Great Hall. The courtyard was too
cold for spectators, and this was an administration of justice which required witness.

The perimeter of the Hall was ringed with dignitaries, leaving the centre free for the combatants. There was ample room for manoeuvre on the chequered black and white tiles.

Both Beauceron and Sir Goccio had removed their jackets and stood ready for action in crisp white shirts and black breeches. Sir Goccio looked at Beauceron as if to say something; Beauceron
merely shook his head. No doubt Sir Goccio was disinclined to fight, but he had no way of withdrawal that did not make him appear both coward and perjurer.

Each man gave a perfunctory bow to his opponent and the King, and then they began to circle cautiously. Beauceron was in no hurry to make the first move: he had a reputation as a formidable
duellist, and he preferred to let that reputation work in Sir Goccio’s mind; not that the Sunflower Knight was to be taken lightly. He was a professional soldier, and in good condition.

It was Sir Goccio who moved first, a feint and lunge combination which Beauceron easily parried. He riposted, as much to feel Sir Goccio’s defence as with any aggressive intent. Sir Goccio
was light on his feet, his body sideways-on to Beauceron to provide the minimum target area. Head and feet, head and feet, thought Beauceron. Swordplay was a simple activity made over-complex
through fear. He felt himself moving almost into a trance: he was aware of his weight transferring through the balls of his feet by infinitesimal movement, his head still, alert. He could hardly
sense Sir Goccio at all, a bobbing figure at the edge of his perceptions. The figure came towards him, Beauceron adjusted his feet, flicked his wrist and Sir Goccio retreated again. With a sudden
surge of movement Beauceron skipped aside, ducked back in, flashed his blade forward. There was a gasp from the crowd, a stifled cry from Sir Goccio, a patch of red on his shirt. Sir Goccio danced
back out of range.

Sir Goccio disregarded the nick with a grimace. He stepped back towards Beauceron, flicked again, and Beauceron moved his head aside; the blade whistled past his face by a whisker.

Beauceron was unaware of the crowd, barely aware of the lunging, parrying Sir Goccio: he knew only himself, the tautness of his sinews, the crispness of his steps, the occasional blinding
movement and the more usual self-contained watchfulness. Eventually, as Beauceron had known it must, Sir Goccio’s frustration, his guilt, his impatience, goaded him into a lunge a fraction
too aggressive, his defence left open an instant too long; before he had consciously assessed the situation, Beauceron had reached out with his sword arm, the point slicing through cloth, skin,
heart. Sir Goccio coughed and a bubble of blood came from his mouth. Before any chance of regret or last words, he slid dead to the floor.

Beauceron turned away. Sir Goccio would not be rising to threaten him. With a final backward glance, he handed his sword to Lord Gionardo. He breathed heavily as he said: ‘I have exercised
my right to trial by combat. If there are others who would speak against me, let them come forth.’

Lord Gionardo took Beauceron’s sword. ‘You are vindicated under the Old Law. You are innocent, and a free man.’

Beauceron bowed to the Lords of Equity and the King. He donned his coat, shook hands with Mongrissore and strode out past the marvelling crowd.

6

Kainera had ensured that Beauceron’s house was kept clean and aired in his absence, and his heart lifted when he finally shut his door. It had been many nights since
he had slept under his own roof. Lady Isola had vacated her apartments, and although they had kept apart while she lived there, the house seemed empty without her. This small occasion of melancholy
was not enough to sour his mood, although he thought with regret of Sir Goccio. He had been a good man, and largely honourable; as much a victim of Davanzato as Beauceron had been. He could not
afford to dilute his rage against Croad by wasting time settling his score with Davanzato; but nonetheless the Under-Chamberlain remained a grave danger, and not a man to let one failure end his
designs. Davanzato would have to be dealt with, not from vindictiveness, justifiable as that would be, but from simple prudence. He would speak to Mongrissore tomorrow.

There was various correspondence awaiting his attention; one letter stood out: the envelope had the Sun Seal of the Summer Monarch. Could Laertio be starting his overtures already? Surely he
would have more sense than to commit his thoughts to paper. He reached for his dagger and slit the seal.

Beauceron set down the letter in puzzlement. He knew Agalina by sight – they had even exchanged words on occasion – but as she said, their paths had rarely crossed.
Agalina was a young woman not only of charm, but intelligence. She was not a naive girl, regardless of the gushing letter she had written. If she requested his company, it was not for the pleasures
of sharing sweetmeats or wine. Something underlay this cordiality, and he could not fathom it. The easiest way of finding out was to accept the invitation, although that might not be an advisable
course. But if he went openly, his recent acquittal surely made him proof against further plot.

The sensible course still remained to stay at home, to continue to work upon Fanrolio. Davanzato’s reputation could not have been helped by the treason trial, and an audience with the King
was not out of the question. On the other hand, the days were lengthening; the air had not the chill it had held before his incarceration. No one could deny that spring was coming. If Fanrolio did
not act soon, there would be no chance of raising the Winter Armies before Tardolio reascended the throne. It would be perverse not to understand what, if anything, the Summer Court had to
offer.

He reached for his quill, wrote a brief letter to Princess Agalina and a longer one to Mongrissore. He was a gambler; he would throw the dice once more.

7

Beauceron called on Princess Agalina the next day; spring was drawing ever closer and there was no profit in delay. He had never visited the Summer King’s palace
– the Printempi – which was set back among a scattering of isolated islets to the north of the Fins.

He presented himself to the Chamberlain at the appointed time, determined to avoid furtiveness. He had been invited openly by the Princess, and he would attend in the same spirit. He was, after
all, a celebrated figure in the wake of his remarkable acquittal.

He was shown into the Princess’s reception rooms, furnished with the same quiet good taste which characterized Agalina herself. Beauceron put her age in the mid-twenties, old to be
unmarried, especially for such an attractive woman. The number of men suitable to marry a princess of Mettingloom was not high, however. It was inconceivable that the royal house of Emmen would
wish to ally itself with what it saw as renegade blood, so Tardolio’s choices in finding a husband for Agalina were limited to his own nobility or the royal houses of more distant realms. The
former possibility risked raising a rival to himself, and while in the latter case there was a sufficiency of princes from Garganet, Gammer-ling or even Paladria, those who were available did not
necessarily wish to invoke the full implications of an alliance with the Northern Reach. When added to Agalina’s notoriously haughty temper it was perhaps unsurprising that she remained a
spinster.