Throne Shaker (The Clash and the Heat Book 3)

by Val Saintcrowe

  “You didn’t say ‘kill,’ though, did you? You said ‘left,’” said Atlas.

  “He’s, um, he’s attacking her country,” said Guillame. “Which is why she needs guns. All we need to do is attack one of his shipments and take the ship and the guns. It’s an easy job for you—blazes, it doesn’t have to be you. Lend me some men, and you won’t have to see me anymore. But I had to come to you. I wouldn’t go behind your back. You’re the pirate king. Anything going on needs to go through you, right?”

  “She didn’t kill him after all?” said Atlas. “And now he’s attacking her.” He laughed softly. “Guillame, I don’t know why I feel sorry for you after the way you’ve treated me, but there is some part of me that just can’t hate you.”

  “You don’t have to feel sorry for me,” said Guillame, his tone getting a little sharp.

  Atlas leaned forward. “You’re a pawn in their lover’s quarrel. You’re an obstacle they need to overcome. She didn’t choose you. She’ll never choose you. She’ll always choose him. You know this. You’re the one who told me this.”

  “And you have a vested interest in trying to keep me from her,” said Guillame flatly.

  Atlas barked out a laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Can we talk about the deal, please?” said Guillame.

  Atlas picked up his hat. He contemplated it for a while before putting it back on his head. “How much?”

  Guillame told him an amount.

  “I don’t think so,” said Atlas.

  Expecting this, Guillame named another, significantly higher, amount.

  Atlas sighed. “Well, all right, but only on account of the fact that you and I are such very good friends, Guillame. I’ll take the deal. I’ll help you out.”

  “Thank you,” said Guillame. “I hoped I could count on you.”

  Atlas upended his mug of ale into his mouth, finishing it in one long swallow. He set the mug on the table with a clatter, and wiped his upper lip. “How soon do you want to set sail?”

  “Well, if we leave tonight, we could intercept a ship coming from Rzymn by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Works for me,” said Atlas. “Meet on the docks in two hours? You know my ship.”

  “Two hours,” agreed Guillame.

  Atlas got up from the table. “You were going to pay for the drinks, weren’t you? You do have all that money from your queen, after all.”

  “Yeah, I got it,” said Guillame, nodding.

  Atlas touched the brim of his hat. “Much obliged.” He turned and walked off.

  Guillame tried not to stare at him. The man looked too good, that was the thing. Blazes.

  * * *

  Guillame had a pistol in both hands as he barreled his way across the deck of the ship they were commandeering. He shot at a musqueteer coming at him—the ship was manned by musqueteers, coming from Rzymn as it did.

  The man took the shot in his shoulder and toppled over the railing of the ship, down into the choppy sea below.

  Guillame tossed the pistol. He didn’t have time to reload. With the gun in his other hand, he sighted the next man, who wasn’t looking at him but shooting across the deck at another of the pirates.

  The air was full of the smoke of gunshots and the yells of men and the clash of swords. Guillame liked it. It got his blood pumping and his heart beating. He felt alive.

  He squeezed the trigger and his bullet sailed through the air.

  It hit the musqueteer’s neck, and blood splattered. The man wavered, a stunned expression on his face, before he hit the deck.

  Guillame slid his pistol into its holster and unsheathed his sword. He kept moving.

  A musqueteer leaped down on him, uttering a high-pitched yip.

  Guillame and the musqueteer went down on the deck, the musqueteer over him.

  Guillame brought up his sword into the man’s stomach.

  The musqueteer gurgled and fell.

  Guillame got to his feet, yanking his sword out at the same time. Brandishing the bloody blade, he kept going.

  He crossed swords with another musqueteer.

  They circled each other, even as men were hit by bullets around them, some pirates, some musqueteers. Bodies hit the deck. Bodies splashed into the sea.

  The musqueteer thrust.

  Guillame parried.

  The musqueteer pushed closer, sliding their blades against each other, metal screaming on metal.

  Guillame gritted his teeth. He pushed the other man off.

  The musqueteer slashed with his sword.

  Guillame brought up his sword to block it, but the musqueteer’s blade nicked his neck before he got it there. Stunned at the pain, he stumbled backward, holding his sword out.

  The musqueteer danced forward, gritting his teeth.

  They crossed swords again, clanging as the musqueteer pressed Guillame backward, gaining ground.

  Guillame was backed against the railing soon enough, nowhere else to go, swords locked with the musqueteer.

  The musqueteer put pressure on Guillame, pushing him backward.

  Guillame had to struggle to keep from going over the railing and overboard. He panted, sweat pouring down his brow.

  The musqueteer laughed at him.

  Guillame roared.

  And then the musqueteer crumpled to the ground, a red hole at his temple.

  It took Guillame a moment to realized the musqueteer had been shot.

  Atlas was there, offering him his hand. “You all right?”

  “Fine,” said Guillame, taking the pirate captain’s hand.

  Atlas pulled him away from the railing, giving him a wink.

  “You know, I had that under control,” said Guillame.

  “You’re welcome,” said Atlas, chuckling.

  Shoulder to shoulder, they strode over the deck and back into the fray.

  * * *

  Guillame and Atlas heaved the last of the bodies over the side of the ship and watched as it splashed and sank beneath the waves.

  Overall, it had been an easy job. The pirates had outnumbered the musqueteer crew on the ship, and dispatching them hadn’t taken too long. They’d finished it off with minimal casualties on their side, a testament to the skills of Atlas’s crew.

  “You really need to leave right away?” said Atlas.

  “Got to get these guns back,” said Guillame. “The sooner the better. He’s already there, attacking. I don’t know what kind of damage he’s done already.”

  Atlas wiped sweat off his brow with a handkerchief. “You are loyal to her, I’ll give you that. I don’t think she deserves your loyalty, but…” He shrugged.

  Guillame thought about Fleur telling him that she didn’t deserve happiness. He scuffed a shoe against the deck of the ship.

  “I’m sorry,” said Atlas, laughing a little. “I guess I’m jealous. Was that obvious?”

  Guillame looked up at him. “I really am sorry.”

  “You’re happy?” said Atlas. “She makes you happy?”

  Guillame nodded, but then he found himself looking away, unable to meet Atlas’s eyes.

  “I don’t know what I’m talking about, then,” said Atlas. “You know, I’m sure she did choose you, that I’m wrong about everything. I, uh, maybe I said those things about them because I’m the one who’s been waiting around for you to choose me. And you never have.”

  “Atlas, I—”

  “No, it’s all right.” Atlas smiled at him. “You don’t owe me anything, you know? And it’s good, all of it’s good. You may have noticed that my men know about my preference for male company now.”

  “I, um, I hadn’t,” said Guillame. “I guess I was preoccupied.”

  “You were right about that,” said Atlas. “Running through anyone who had a problem with it shut them up real quick. As long as they knew I wasn’t going to try to put the moves on them, most of them didn’t care, anyway. I owe you that. I would have kept it a secret forever.” He put his hand on Guillame’s shoulder.
“I wish you the best, I really do.”

  Guillame smiled at the pirate captain. “And I wish that for you, too.”

  Atlas winked again. “Go win your war and save your queen.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  * * *

  But just past the Flainge Pass, Guillame’s ship lost the wind and they were stuck for over a week.

  When the wind returned, it was with a terrible storm which broke the main mast. They limped back to Islaigne, and all the while, Guillame’s fear of what might have happened there grew.

  When Castle Ignis came into view, it was a smoking husk, half of it collapsed, and Guillame’s heart sank.

  He and his small crew, all knights of Islaigne, unloaded their cargo and docked. He left them to their task as he went to investigate, but there was no one in the castle.

  Of course, there were none of the Dumonte ships either, though he saw some wreckage down on the other side of the castle, where the cliffs were. It looked as if some of them had burned up.

  Finally, he went back to his crew, and a messenger was there from Fleur’s court, who told him what had happened. The battle had claimed Castle Ignis, and Fleur and her army had retreated, pursued by Remy’s troops, until Remy’s army had been consumed by an explosion of living flame.

  How convenient.

  Remy had surrendered, drawn up a peace treaty, and returned home. His ships had sailed. They must have passed them on the way home but been too far away to see them.

  Guillame and his crew loaded the guns up onto carriages and began the slow trip over Islaigne to the fortress where everyone was now located. The castle would need serious repairs before anyone could take residence in it again, and that wasn’t to be attempted yet.

  More weeks passed, but Guillame looked forward to seeing Fleur when he arrived.

  Everything had gone well, after all. Remy was gone. Certainly, there was rebuilding to do, and there was the issue of the explosions in Islaigne, so things were not entirely smooth, but things were looking up. They’d had some good luck, and now they had guns and gunpowder if they needed to defend themselves.

  He missed her.

  But when they finally arrived at the fortress, Guillame was told that Fleur wasn’t there. She was off extinguishing some explosion of living flame to the east. He wanted to go after her. It was probably four days’ journey there and back, and she’d only left two days before he’d gotten there. He thought he could catch her up or at least meet her on the return trip.

  But there was a letter from Fleur, asking him to try to get close to Jalal instead.

  Right.

  Guillame had forgotten about that. There was something that Jalal was hiding, something to do with that bracelet he was wearing that had belonged to Fleur’s mother.

  The letter detailed a conversation that Fleur’d had with Solene, who had accused Jalal of killing Fleur’s mother. Guillame wasn’t sure what to make of it, but he did think that Fleur needed to know the truth of it.

  If Jalal had killed Fleur’s mother, maybe he was not as accommodating as he seemed. He spoke often of handing over the throne to Fleur, but he’d never formally done it. Maybe Jalal was simply waiting for his moment.

  Fleur could be in danger.

  Yes, it was better if Guillame stayed close to Jalal. And he no longer thought as he had thought before, that it would be good to directly question Jalal about the bracelet. Caution was needed. If Jalal thought that his position was threatened, he might lash out.

  Guillame would get to the bottom of this.

  Fleur needed him.

  He would do whatever she needed. He always would. He was her willing slave, after all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I sagged in Guillame’s arms. He was trying to kiss me, but I was feeling nauseous. “I’m sorry,” I said, putting my fingers against his lips. “You probably shouldn’t be kissing me anyway. You’re going to catch this sickness I have.”

  He pulled away, looking down at me with a creased brow. “What are you talking about?”

  I drew myself up. We were in my bedroom in the fortress. I’d returned only an hour before. The journey back had been miserable, because I’d come down with a wretched sickness. I had only vomited once, but I felt as though I was going to vomit nearly all the time, and I was fatigued. I had wanted to rest, but I had also wanted to get home, so I’d forced myself to press on through the journey. Now, I only wanted to go to bed.

  And not for anything fun. Just to sleep.

  Also, for whatever reason, I felt horribly guilty around Guillame. I shouldn’t have fallen into Remy’s arms. I had told Guillame that I chose him, and then the minute I had a chance to be with Remy, I took it. It was one thing when I had to be with him to keep him appeased, but this was different. I was supposed to be with Guillame now.

  We hadn’t spoken of it, but I knew that Guillame would have expected me to be faithful to him while he was gone.

  But who would have expected that Remy had attacked my country just to get back between my thighs?

  Truly, that couldn’t have been the only reason.

  I wasn’t sure if he knew himself. He’d gone quickly enough, however, once he knew there was no chance of a reconciliation between us.

  I wished I could stop thinking about Remy, but I thought about him more than ever. I found myself missing him, wanting him, longing for him.

  And now, here was Guillame, and why was I feeling these things about another man while I was with him?

  He was talking. “When did the sickness start? Do you think that you could be poisoned? It could be something that is slow working. Where does your food come from? Could Jalal be interfering with what you have to eat?”

  “You think Jalal is trying to kill me?”

  “You left me a letter that he killed your mother,” said Guillame. “If he killed her for power, why wouldn’t he kill you?”

  “It’s only that he doesn’t seem to want power,” I said. “But what did you find out? Anything?”

  He shook his head. “Not a lot. Tell me how you’re feeling first. I want to see if it sounds like poison or not.”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, all right, let me see. It started on the journey back from putting out the living flame. I was eating the same provisions on the way there and back. How could it be poison?”

  “What started?”

  “I’m tired,” I said. “Sick to my stomach. I threw up once.”

  “When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “And not since?”

  “Well, it feels like I’m going to, but then it doesn’t happen. I kept calling a halt and getting off my horse and stumbling out into the underbrush and waiting for it, but I wouldn’t even retch.” I grimaced. “I feel like I’m giving you too much information, and it’s gross. Forgive me if I don’t want you to be thinking about my vomiting.”

  He rubbed his chin. “If it was poison, it seems like it would grow worse, like you’d be vomiting more and more. I don’t know. It’s odd.”

  “I’m just sick,” I said.

  “Is anyone else sick?”

  “Well… no.” I furrowed my brow. “Maybe they don’t have symptoms yet.”

  “If I come down with it, I’ll be relieved,” he said. “In the meantime, I’m going to look into securing your meals, making sure that no one can interfere with that process.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “What would I do without you?”

  “You’d be fine.” He smiled at me. “You’re pretty amazing. I’m not sure if you’re aware.”

  I smiled at him.

  “You want to rest, then?” he said. “I can tell you about Jalal later.”

  “No, tell me what you’ve found out,” I said.

  “Like I said, it’s not much,” he said. “I asked around to see if he had any secrets, anything that he was trying to hide. I was told he had a room in Castle Ignis, something that no one was allowed to visit, not even servants. He cleaned it himself.”

/>   “Truly?” I couldn’t imagine Jalal cleaning.

  “Anyway, I’ll go back to the castle and see if I can find out what he’s hiding.”

  “Oh, no, don’t go,” I said. “That’s weeks there and back. Stay, and when I’m feeling better, we can go together. I’ll need to survey things anyway to determine what kind of repairs we’re going to need.”

  He nodded. “All right. That sounds good. After all, I don’t want to leave you unprotected if Jalal is trying to poison you.”

  * * *

  Days passed, and my symptoms didn’t abate.

  Guillame didn’t get sick.

  No one else was sick.

  And I wasn’t eating much. Everything sounded disgusting, and I didn’t want to eat anything. I would only eat a hard biscuit made of dried corn—and it had to be plain. Anything that was too intensely flavored seemed to make my sickness worse.

  So, it didn’t seem to be poison, because the biscuits weren’t poisoned. Guillame had determined this for certain, overseeing the kitchen staff making a batch and then keeping them hidden and under trusted guards until I wanted one. But the new batch seemed to have no affect on my symptoms.

  One morning, as I was peering into a chamber pot and willing myself to vomit, because I thought that if I could just throw up, I might feel some relief, I realized that I was an idiot. I knew exactly what was wrong with me.

  After Guillame had left, I had bled. Then two weeks later, I’d had my encounter with Remy in the woods after the explosion. Now, it was nearly four weeks past that, and I had not bled again. I should have bled, though. My bleeding was late, and I was sick to my stomach, and the only person I’d been with was Remy.

  Blazes.

  I got to my feet and kicked the chamber pot over, uttering a cry of frustration.

  “What?” called Guillame, who was out in the other room. I’d told him not to hover, even though he wanted to. I said I couldn’t vomit if he was watching. “You all right?”

  I stalked back into the bedroom. “You need to go.”

  “I don’t care if you’re throwing up, Fleur,” said Guillame. “Do you know how many people I’ve killed for you? That’s so much grosser, really. It’s fine. I can handle it.”

  “We need to know about that room in the castle,” I said. “You should go and investigate.”