Crownbreaker

by Sebastien de Castell

Sound hard? That’s because it’s downright impossible.

  Then again, studying under a crazy Argosi who teaches you fighting by making you dance, languages by making you study music, and resilience by forcing you to “trust yourself” does, very occasionally, pay off.

  “Ta-da!” I announced to the room.

  I opened my eyes to see what I’d done. That’s when things got… complicated.

  6

  A Talent for Trouble

  My blurry vision revealed a dozen throne-like wooden chairs surrounding a long oval table. Six brass lanterns hung from iron chains attached to the ceiling. One of them swung more than the others, which explained why one side of my head hurt. On the plus side, I was now standing just behind one of those oak thrones and the edge of my steel card was pressed against the soft wattle of a woman’s throat. Now all I had to do was use her to get myself out of here in one piece.

  My captive gradually came into focus. She was older than she’d sounded, with more silver than copper in the wiry hair tied back into a loose bun. But her posture was upright and relaxed. Rope-like muscles down the sides of her neck made me suspect that this was a woman who could handle herself just fine in a fight.

  “Arta eres?” she asked, not bothering to look up at me.

  “That’s dancing,” I replied. “Arta forteize is resilience.”

  She sighed. “I hate the Argosi.”

  “I get that a lot. I don’t believe we’ve met properly. I’m Kellen.”

  “Emelda.”

  “Nice name.” I made the card quiver ever so slightly against her throat. “Try not to make me nervous, Emelda, or, you know, piss me off in any way.”

  “An impressive performance,” the camel observed. He was, in fact, a tall man with grey-white hair and an improbably long face. A slender, well-manicured finger reached for one of several small indentations set in a semicircle on the table in front of him. “Alas, you’ll find this room well protected.” He pressed down, and I heard a small click just before a thin bolt flew down from a hole in the ceiling to bury itself three inches deep into the centre of the table where I’d been lying just moments ago.

  Okay, that’s pretty cool, I admitted to myself. “Let me guess,” I said aloud. “This whole room was designed by Gitabrian contraptioneers, wasn’t it? No, wait—don’t tell me. Dead Gitabrian contraptioneers, right? I mean, you Murmurers are all about secrecy, aren’t you?”

  The long-faced man shifted his finger over to a second indentation. “For someone so insightful, you’re remarkably bad at making the obvious calculation regarding your own fate.”

  I enjoyed a modicum of satisfaction over just how lousy his bluff was. “Can I first just say that having a room constructed with hidden darts to kill your guests is creepy? Also, I’m kind of dubious that you’d have mechanical dart throwers aimed behind each of your own thrones.” I gave a sideways nod towards the other end of the table. “Lastly, to the guy who’s trained his own weapon on me? Pretty little thing, by the way. You should know that the instant you so much as twitch, I’ll slice your colleague’s throat open so fast you’ll be spending the rest of this otherwise enchanting afternoon wiping her blood off this lovely table.”

  It’s worth mentioning that I couldn’t see what anyone else was doing in their chairs, much less make out a weapon aimed in my direction. So how did I know there was one? Because in a room full of ruthless, conniving spies and assassins, there’s always somebody preparing to kill you.

  My captive groaned. “Gods of fortune and failure,” she swore. “Save me from the Argosi and their idiotic arta valar.”

  “Hey, you got that one right!” I said encouragingly. I pressed the sharp edge of the steel card up just enough that Emelda could feel its bite. “Now stand up so that you and I can leave this dank little chamber together. Then we’ll take a pleasant stroll up to see the queen and maybe you can explain to Her Majesty why you just tried to murder her favourite tutor of cards.”

  “You know how stupid that sounds, right?” Emelda asked.

  I did, but the first rule of arta valar is: once you start swaggering, don’t stop until the fighting starts.

  “Enough theatrics,” hissed the fellow I thought of as the crocodile. When he leaned forward into the light, I now saw that she was actually a rather beautiful woman in her middle years. “Put down the blade, boy, and we can discuss this sensibly.”

  “Don’t let her go,” Torian warned. “Once the motion has been opened, they can complete the vote any time they want. You’ve got to make them formally overturn the motion to issue an execution warrant.”

  Emelda looked mildly affronted by Torian’s remark. “You always were a disobedient child.”

  Torian winked. “And you were a terrible mother.”

  “Your father and I taught you to protect yourself, Little Tori. You should be more appreciative.”

  “You made me sleep in a nest of rattlesnakes until I was eight!”

  “We defanged them first,” the old woman insisted. “Besides, it’s not our fault it took you so long to figure out how to charm a few simple reptiles.”

  Wait… Did that mean…? Was Torian really able to mesmerise people?

  Legends abounded that a few of the marshals trained in ancient frontier magics—the kinds of skills suited to fugitive hunters. I’d always figured it was just gossip spread by the marshals themselves to enhance their fearsome reputations. Right now, though, I had more pressing concerns.

  “I hate to interrupt a tender moment between mother and daughter,” I began, “but I have places to be and Murmurers—I mean, very important people—whose deaths I need to plan.”

  “Well, best you start with me then,” Emelda said. “Because I’m not going anywhere with you, spellslinger.”

  There was an odd tinge to her voice, like I’d done something to offend her. I mean, other than holding a razor-sharp piece of steel at her throat.

  Overall my escape wasn’t working out quite as I’d hoped. Granted, it had been a long shot in the first place, but in my rush not to die I’d forgotten that ruthless killers are often untroubled by the thought of their own demise. I guess committing murder on a frequent basis must make one sanguine about the afterlife.

  “Annul the vote,” Torian urged the others. “Declare the warrant void.”

  “I wasn’t so much worried about the voting part,” I said.

  “You don’t understand. Once the council decides on someone’s death, they don’t stop. They’ll keep sending assassins after you until the job is done.” Again she turned to the others. “Call off the vote. Now!”

  “No!” Emelda said. “We warned you before, Little Tori, that the spellslinger couldn’t be trusted. We gave you months to rein him in and you failed.”

  “You think I can’t make trouble for you, Mother? Push me too far and I’ll turn the marshals service onto the lot of you and—”

  “And then there will be no more marshals service,” camel-voice said. “The Murmurers have been protecting the empire since long before the marshals were first formed. We will remain long after history has forgotten you.”

  What I need now, Ferius, I thought, wishing for about the hundredth time that I’d never left my Argosi mentor’s side, is one of those clever rescues of yours where you make a few funny comments and all of a sudden everyone puts down their weapons.

  Oddly, my lucky break did come, only not in the way I hoped.

  Rescue came in the form of applause.

  A figure rose from one of the wooden thrones to stand beneath the light of the swaying lanterns overhead. He was tall, powerfully built. Upon a head covered in thick, perfectly coiffed black hair rested a wooden crown, exquisitely carved and yet nowhere near as regal as the chiselled cut of his jaw. His features were both handsome enough to make any man jealous, and familiar enough to chill my soul.

  “Hello, Father,” I said.

  7

  The Witness

  “How wonderfully melodramatic.” Ke’heops
, Mage Sovereign of the Jan’Tep people, clapped his hands together as if my near execution had been a performance for his benefit.

  “The witness will retake his seat and shut the hells up,” Emelda said. She still hadn’t made any attempt to free herself from the razor-sharp edge of my steel card, but a slight shift in the muscles of her shoulders told me she was about to make her move.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” Ke’heops warned. He allowed the index and ring fingers of his right hand to rise just a hair above the others—something he’d never do unless he specifically wanted everyone in that room to know he was preparing the somatic form for a spell. “As amusing as this little display of Daroman intrigue has been, I’m afraid I can’t allow you to threaten my son any further.”

  “Shake your fingers at us all you want, Mage Sovereign,” the camel said. “This chamber has the strongest wards against Jan’Tep parlour tricks in the entire palace. One would’ve thought a man in your position would be better informed.”

  “How strange…” Ke’heops stared down at his hand as if it belonged to someone else. “I would’ve sworn that—” He gave the tiniest flick of his fingertips as he intoned a single-syllable spell. A cascade of red sparks danced across his knuckles, prompting a gasp from the camel. My father’s gaze swept across the others around the table. “It appears the great and wise Council of Murmurers has been misled as to just how effective those wards you rely on are against a true lord magus.”

  “Impossible!” the meerkat, who was in fact a whip-thin young man maybe five years my senior, declared. “The palace wards have proven impenetrable for over a hundred years!”

  “Times change,” Ke’heops said, closing his hand into a fist and extinguishing the lightning that it shouldn’t have been possible to summon in the first place.

  The meerkat, the camel, and several of the others looked to Emelda, who just shrugged in response. “The Jan’Tep have known about our wards for ages. They were bound to find a way around them eventually.”

  Ke’heops gave a little nod as if she’d just personally complimented him on his tremendous display of genius. Oddly, though all the evidence suggested the contrary and my father abhorred trickery, I would’ve sworn he’d just pulled a con on them.

  “Put the card down now, Ke’helios,” he said. “No one will hurt you.”

  Ke’helios.

  Months ago my sister Sha’maat had delivered my mage’s name to me; a gift from my father, or so she’d claimed. I hadn’t believed her. Ke’heops had always considered me a wretched disappointment, even before he and my mother had strapped me down to a table and counter-banded me. They’d stolen any chance I had to ever spark anything but my breath band. I’d always assumed a mage’s name would be denied me forever. To hear my father now, addressing me by that name…

  “Call me Kellen,” I said.

  He dismissed my petty act of rebellion with a wave of his hand. “A child’s name. Despite your current comportment, you are a man now. A son of the House of Ke. Your name is and always will be Ke’helios.” He leaned forward, pressing his hands against the table. The lantern light from above made the seven points of his crown gleam. “Now put down that silly card of yours so that I can get on with the business that brought me here.”

  “Don’t let my mother go,” Torian warned. “Not until the council voids the execution warrant against you.”

  For a woman who’d deceived me, poisoned me and dragged me here in the first place, she seemed remarkably concerned with my long-term well-being.

  “By the ancestors,” Ke’heops swore, a line of irritation furrowing his brow. He cast his gaze over the others seated around the table. “Kindly call off this so-called ‘execution warrant’ of yours so that we might press on with more urgent matters?” He raised a finger. “Oh, and before any of you threaten me with such nonsense, consider that all of the clan princes of the Jan’Tep are aware of my mission here. Should I suffer any mysterious accidents or unforeseen ailments you will find every lord magus on the continent working to undermine the Daroman empire.” He sat back down. “Given said empire currently hangs by a thread, that would present a significant inconvenience to those charged with ensuring its continuity, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Well, dip me in honey and cover me with fire ants!” Emelda growled, pre-empting the huffing and puffing from the others.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He has that effect on me too.”

  “Don’t you start, Argosi. Ought to kill you here and now just on principle.”

  Despite the distraction of my father’s display of power, I’d been watching for Emelda to make a move against me. When she did, it still happened too fast for me to react. The unexpected sting of a fingernail piercing the skin on the back of my hand was followed by my fingers going limp as wet noodles. The card I was holding fell from my hands. Emelda caught it neatly in hers.

  “Reckon I’ll keep this as a souvenir,” she said, stuffing it into the pocket of her coat.

  I shook my hand several times, trying to will the life back into my fingers. “Is poisoning people the family business or something?”

  “More of a hobby. Our business is eliminating threats to the throne.”

  Torian took my side once again. “And I’ve told you, the spellslinger’s no—”

  Emelda cut her off. “That’s enough out of you, missy.” She nodded to my father. “The witness is right; we’ve got more pressing issues than one particularly annoying Argosi card sharp. I move we table the execution warrant against Ke’helios an—”

  “Kellen,” I corrected.

  “Whatever. The Council of Murmurs will waive the right to enact your execution.”

  “For a period of no less than one year,” Torian added. She turned to me. “Even if they rescind the warrant, one of them could just call for a new vote the moment it suited their perverse little hearts.”

  Emelda gave her daughter a withering look. “If your father were here…”

  “You’ll need a shovel if you want his opinion, Mother.”

  The glib words struck a discordant note in Emelda. You could see it in her eyes. She buried her reaction quickly though. “Fine. I hereby move we table the warrant on Kellen of the House of Ke for a period of no less than one year.”

  A few grumbles and complaints rose up from the others, but they dissipated like smoke in a breeze soon enough. The Murmurers were apparently as efficient at pardoning a person as they were at condemning them in the first place.

  Which made no sense…

  “Good,” my father said, placing his hands flat on the table as if this were his personal sanctum and the rest of us here by his invitation. “Let us now turn to—”

  “Abide a moment,” I said.

  My father raised an eyebrow. Torian gave me a shake of her head to warn me not to press the matter with the Murmurers. She was probably right. No sense poking the bear right after he’s promised not to eat you.

  “You sad, pathetic bunch of liars,” I said. “You almost had me.”

  Voices rose in outrage. Fists pounded the table. Renewed calls were made for my immediate execution. Only Emelda—the vulture—looked at me with something akin to amusement.

  “Something on your mind, Argosi?”

  The second rule of arta precis. Perception. All deception is theatre. A performance with actors, sets and props. See through the play and you uncover the intention beneath. I took a moment to unwind all the steps it had taken to bring us to this point: my arrest, Torian’s betrayal, the Murmurers’ ridiculous “trial,” my father stepping in to save me…

  “Did he pass the test?” I asked, pointing to my father.

  “Test?” Ke’heops demanded. He usually keeps a tight rein on his composure, but the fury rising up in him was like watching dry brush on the verge of bursting into flames. His gaze was withering even when you didn’t consider the fact that he knew at least two dozen spells that would turn a body to ash in the most painful manner possible. His glare went from me to Emelda. “W
hat is he talking about?”

  She ignored him, chuckling as she turned to look up at me. “Go on then, boy. If you’re so clever, why don’t you answer your own question: did your father pass our little test?”

  “Not entirely,” I replied. “But he assuaged a few of your suspicions.”

  “Do not speak of me as if I weren’t here!” Ke’heops growled. He sounded rather like Reichis for a moment. “I am not some schoolchild to be tested by—”

  “They wanted to gauge your reaction,” I said, interrupting him—never a good idea, but I was on a roll. I held up one arm, pulling up the sleeve to show the counter-banded sigils on my tattooed Jan’Tep bands. “The Murmurers know about our… troubled relationship. They needed to assess whether your presence here was some kind of pretext.”

  “Pretext for what?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Either to get close enough to finally kill me or because our feud was in fact a long con designed to get me inside the Daroman court where I could then spy on the queen for you.”

  I didn’t mention that, in fact, my family had tried to use me in precisely that fashion.

  My father’s got something of an iron jaw. Watching it clench always looks a little painful. He glared at Emelda. “And what, pray tell, have you decided?”

  Again she gestured for me to speak.

  “Had you been here to murder me, Father, you would’ve just sat back and let the Murmurers do the job for you. Had we been working together all this time, you would have intervened sooner and come up with some kind of rationale for them not to harm me.”

  “Instead you waited, Mage Sovereign,” the camel noted, his head tilted in curiosity.

  “No plan, not so much as a shred of self-awareness of his own motives,” Emelda said. Her gaze went to Torian. “Nothing more than the instinctive reactions of a parent who loves their child.”

  Ke’heops and I laughed at the same time.

  “Like father, like son,” Emelda said. She rose to her feet. Though neither tall nor physically imposing in any other way, her presence was nonetheless commanding. Her eyes—green rather than blue—were just as arresting as those of her daughter.