He didn’t even do me the courtesy of looking nervous. ‘Don’t be silly – why would I bother threatening you when all it does is make you smug and self-righteous?’ He went over to one of the shelves and retrieved a brass lantern that turned out to have its own sparking mechanism to light the wick. The room brightened, and I could now see the tables at the far end of the room, and the body on the one closest.
‘It’s the assassin,’ I said, staring at the man who’d tried to murder my King’s daughter. His body was still clothed, though thankfully someone had taken off Harden’s greatcoat. It bothered me the way the corpse lay in such quiet repose. There was a tray of sharp metal instruments next to the table, and I picked up one of the knives between my thumb and forefinger, enjoying the blade’s balance and feeling a powerful compulsion to use it to cut the assassin into pieces, to remove whatever humanity was left in him, to make him suffer in death, if not in life.
‘A terrible thing, isn’t it?’ Jillard said, ‘Having to resist the righteous impulse to commit atrocities against one’s enemies.’ He sounded genuinely sympathetic.
‘What did you want to show me, your Grace?’
‘I want you to look at his face, then his hands and then his feet.’
‘You want me to what?’
The Duke just gestured towards the body, and then walked over and leaned against one of the cabinets. ‘Just tell me what you see.’
I’d already spent more than enough time in the throne room staring at the man’s face. The ruin he’d made of his mouth by biting off his own tongue was now obscenely accentuated by the swelling of his face. ‘He used to be better-looking,’ I said flippantly.
‘He did indeed,’ Jillard replied. ‘I must say, you were rather amateurish in the throne room, Falcio. If you’re going to interrogate a man, always make sure you have control of his jaw so he can’t bite off his own tongue. A truly committed spy will always do that first to keep from blurting out secrets under torture.’
‘He was bleeding out rather quickly. I’m not sure how much torture he needed to worry about.’
‘Not all men know how to resist torture, Falcio. That should be your first clue.’
Except that most assassins and spies are trained to deal with pain – so this man wasn’t a professional. He was fairly young, which didn’t tell me much. In life his face would have been smooth and clear, neither tanned nor overly pale. His hair was reasonably short and well kept.
‘Now his hands,’ Jillard said.
I picked up first his left then his right. Neither showed the calluses I’d associate with a soldier or a swordsman. His skin was soft.
‘Now the feet, Falcio.’
Irritated as I was by Jillard’s tone, I nonetheless complied, because a picture was starting to form, and sure enough, once I’d removed his boots I found that the soles of his feet were also smooth. Most people can’t afford the kind of footwear that fits well enough to keep from getting various ailments ranging from fungus to malformed toes. This man was well-born.
The thing about spies and assassins is that, contrary to romantic songs and stories, they’re usually poor. Pretending to be a noble is harder than one would imagine, since most noble families actually know each other. So when a man comes to listen to your secrets or slit your throat in the night, he’s usually disguised as either a servant or a soldier. Besides, rich people don’t need to risk their lives for money.
‘Do you know who he is?’ I asked.
Jillard joined me at the table. ‘No, but I suspect he comes from a minor noble family, possibly the third or fourth son of a Lord.’ He turned to me. ‘This wasn’t your first encounter with these so-called “God’s Needles”, was it?’
‘Your spies keep you well informed, your Grace, since I only just informed Valiana of that incident some two hours ago. Does the Realm’s Protector know that you’ve got—?’
He waved a hand absently as though the issue was irrelevant. ‘The one who attacked you. What do you remember about her?’
I thought back to the woman who’d ambushed us on the road. Had she been the daughter of a noble family as well? She’d played the part of a commoner at first, but her voice, her diction once she revealed herself as a God’s Needle, had changed, become more refined. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now it seemed too much of a coincidence.
Jillard caught my expression; evidently I’d confirmed his suspicions. ‘I read about a peasant cult, hundreds of years ago, who believed they could gain power for themselves by drinking the blood of Saints. Of course, they died out so one would assume it wasn’t very effective.’
‘So someone has recreated the cult of Saints, only now they’re recruiting from noble families?’
Jillard said, ‘Although that doesn’t appear to be the only thing that’s changed.’ He gestured to the body of the man who’d stood there laughing even as the blade dug deep into his heart. ‘It appears that drinking a Saint’s blood really does give you unnatural abilities now.’
*
‘I can’t help but wonder, your Grace,’ I said, struggling to keep up with Jillard as he strode back up the stairs, ‘this sudden concern for Aline’s wellbeing. Is it perhaps because, once we get down to considering those most likely to – and capable of – engineering something like this, your name is certain to be high on the list?’
The Duke favoured me with a hint of a smirk. ‘A grand conspiracy, Falcio? Religious fanatics masquerading as Greatcoats? Such things were always more to Patriana’s taste; I prefer less grandiose methods to achieve my ends. Besides, having to spend time listening to such religious nonsense, their fantasy of being some kind of agent of the Gods?’ He shivered dramatically. ‘I think I’d rather stab myself.’
Although there was no act too vile for me to readily attribute to Jillard, Duke of Rijou, I had to admit this was precisely the wrong time for him to act. His own position within the country was still precarious; people hadn’t forgotten his part in Tristia’s most recent agonies.
‘This sort of thing would suit your daughter well enough,’ I said. On these occasions where circumstances forced me to spend more than a few seconds in Jillard’s presence, I found it helpful to remind him that Trin was the fruit of his loins.
‘She does have a taste for the theatrical,’ Jillard admitted, ‘but she has never been one to repeat herself.’
‘So, the clerics?’ I said, more to myself than to him. I’d never thought about it before but there was a decidedly old-fashioned bent to the churchmen of Tristia: perhaps they weren’t too keen on a woman taking the throne?
The Duke actually laughed out loud. ‘Those fools? They couldn’t conspire together to write a decent sermon, never mind orchestrate something like this. No, Falcio, I fear we have a new enemy now.’
I’m not sure which I found more terrifying, the idea that there might be a new player on the board, or Jillard’s use of the word ‘we’.
He must have read my mind. ‘You might as well accept it, Falcio’ – he placed his hand on my shoulder and I had to restrain myself from shrugging it off; I really needed to hear what he had to say – ‘it’s you and me against the forces of darkness: two dashing heroes preparing to risk all to put that darling little girl on the throne.’
I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t help it. ‘That’s the same “darling little girl” you tried to have killed, you understand?’
The Duke of Rijou looked singularly disappointed. ‘You know, you really are a bitter, vengeful creature at heart, aren’t you, Falcio?’
‘And you, your Grace, are a spiteful snake who slithers his way into power on the strength of his ability to deceive and manipulate others.’
‘I believe you’re thinking of Shiballe, my servant.’
It was a fair point.
Beyond his arrogance and corruption, the Duke of Rijou was in every conceivable way a despicable human being; he’d tried to have me killed on more than one occasion. On the other hand, by that standa
rd I suppose he was no better or worse than any other Duke in Tristia, which was hardly a reassuring thought. But I badly needed an ally, and he was at least highly intelligent. I removed his hand from my shoulder. ‘I’m going to find a reason to kill you one day. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ Jillard replied amiably. ‘Although that won’t be until after I’ve watched you rot away in one of my dungeons, moaning on in endless agony about the King’s Laws. I imagine that after a few decades even that immense pleasure will fade, at which point I shall gladly give you the honour of killing me. All in all, a fair arrangement.’ He stopped walking, turned and extended his hand to me. ‘Marked?’
‘Marked,’ I said, and shook his hand. I must have been feeling rather suicidal at that point. As we continued through the great hall I noted that someone had hung up the old tapestries once again. The one that caught my eye featured a circle of heroically rendered noblemen assembled around a rather humble King. You’ll find similar in every palace in the country.
‘Now that we’ve cleared that up,’ Jillard said, ‘let’s get to business,’ and he ushered me into the castle’s infirmary, a huge room with many smaller chambers off it where the wounded could recuperate in some comfort.
‘You’re not planning on treating my wounds, are you, your Grace? Because while I recognise your significant expertise in the causing of all manner of wounds, I have some doubt as to your ability to heal them.’
He looked at me as if I’d just suggested marriage. ‘Treat your wounds? Don’t be silly, Falcio. I’m here to give you something far more valuable – and necessary, given our present circumstances.’
‘And what would that be, your Grace?’ I responded politely.
‘A lesson in politics.’ And he led me through the infirmary to a small room at the end where a woman in her later years was propped up in bed, her left leg splinted and raised. A younger man, burly, but dressed in fine clothing, looking enough like her to be a son or a nephew, perhaps, sat by her bed. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of me and he started clenching his fists.
‘Your Grace!’ the old woman shouted happily, and began rustling at her bedding, as if straightening it might improve the room’s appearance.
‘Please, Lady Ingetha, do not trouble yourself for me.’
‘Two visits in one day, your Grace! You do me such great kindness!’
Jillard smiled and reached over to hold one of her hands. ‘My Lady, the pleasure is mine.’ He paused theatrically and announced, ‘I must confess, however, that it isn’t by my design that I return to you this evening.’
Lady Ingetha looked at me, then back at Jillard, and the Duke reached out his other hand and laid it on my arm. ‘Falcio here insisted we come – he’s been absolutely beside himself with worry since the events of this afternoon. “How is she, Jillard?” he’s been demanding, over and over. “I must see her!”’
The old woman’s eyes widened and she reached out her other hand for mine. Even her son looked a little less homicidal, though I imagine I just looked confused. I neither recognised the Lady Ingetha’s name, nor did I remember ever having met her. ‘I’m sorry, my Lady, but I—’
‘He had no choice, you see?’ Jillard broke in. ‘The life of the heir to the throne was at stake. “If only I could have leaped sooner, Jillard,” he kept telling me, “I might have saved that poor woman from being injured.”’
Only then did I make the connection. ‘I hit you,’ I said, stupidly.
Lady Ingetha squeezed my hand. ‘It wasn’t your fault, dear. You had to protect the heir.’ She gave a sidelong glance at her son. ‘I could never blame you for that.’
The man appeared to reach a decision; he rose to his feet and extended a hand to me. ‘I said some wrong-headed things about you, First Cantor, and about the Greatcoats. I was wrong.’
We shook, and he nodded as if we’d just settled a trade agreement. This is why Jillard brought me here – not to visit the woman I’d injured, but to placate her son’s outrage. How close had I come to creating yet another enemy of the Crown for Valiana to contend with?
I glanced over at Jillard. His expression was studiously neutral, but even with all his skill he couldn’t keep the delight from his eyes. He’d taught me my lesson: I needed a political ally. I needed him.
‘Oh, Love bless all of you,’ Lady Ingetha said, her eyes glistening. ‘To think such great and powerful men are so concerned over the wellbeing of an old woman!’
Jillard smiled and reached down a hand to stroke her cheek. ‘And what else should great and powerful men concern themselves with, my Lady?’
She batted his hand away affectionately. ‘You are an outrageous flirt, your Grace, always have been: a veritable devil in the guise of a man.’
Well, I thought, as Jillard and I left the woman and her son, at least one true thing was said tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Box
I wandered the Palace of Luth for the next several hours, propelled by the need to puzzle through the insanity of recent events, not to mention a perverse desire to master the use of the damned cane. When you’ve spent most of your life learning to wield a sword with some degree of facility, it feels odd to be overwhelmed by a wooden stick.
However, all I really accomplished was to make my ankle and my head equally sore. Bleary-eyed, I accepted defeat and set out in search of a bed.
The palace halls were almost empty by then, but eventually I found a young woman in a page’s doublet who appeared to know what she was doing and, more importantly, where I was supposed to be. ‘The Ducal Protector set aside rooms for you,’ the page informed me, and proceeded to recite directions so complicated they should by rights have led to buried treasure.
‘Thanks,’ I said, after having her repeat them for the third time.
‘That Lady Ethalia is remarkable,’ the girl said, wistfully. ‘She moves with such perfect grace, doesn’t she?’
‘Um . . . I suppose so,’ I mumbled, a bit taken aback; generally speaking, pages don’t express opinions to guests. But Ducal pages came from noble families, of course, so to her a Greatcoat was probably little better than a common tradesman.
I left the girl and headed up the stairs and down the successive hallways, following the route she had assured me would lead to my rooms. It wasn’t until I turned the corner into a narrower passageway lined with elaborately carved wooden doors that I realised why the page had mentioned Ethalia.
The damned Ducal Protector put us in the same room, I realised. He doesn’t know we’re not together any more.
With all the insanity that had been whirling around us, there had never quite been a moment in which to discuss something as banal as sleeping arrangements. Now two guards stood in front of the door that led to what I had no doubt would be a wonderfully comfortable private apartment with a wonderfully comfortable bed that I would not be sleeping in tonight.
I turned to leave. Even as full as the Palace of Luth was, there must be a spare room somewhere – and if I couldn’t find a bed anywhere else I could always find Kest or Brasti and bunk with them.
‘You know your problem, Falcio,’ I imagined Brasti declaring, ghostly finger wagging at me in the empty air of the corridor. ‘Your problem is that you allow life to be complicated.’
I knew Brasti’s advice would be to walk straight down the corridor to my room, give the two guards a wink and knock on the door.
‘Now, when she opens the door,’ my ethereal advisor went on, ‘forget all this shit about Saints and fevers and devilry. Kiss her full on the lips and count to sixty. When you’re done, take her by the hand and lead her to bed.’
Although it would defy all natural laws, I wondered if Brasti might just be right for once. Why was I accepting the premise that magic and intrigue and – Gods-help-me! – religion should dictate the terms of our existence? When had I become so willing to let the darkness of an hour fill the entirety of my day? Even during the worst of the years since King P
aelis died, when Kest and Brasti and I spent every day fighting just to stay alive, we’d shared the same world view: that we would laugh in the face of death and stare down the worst of life’s tragedies.
You’ve fought pikemen with a crossbow bolt in your thigh, taken on three duels an hour later with the wounds still fresh. Hells, you’ve beaten Knights and Dashini assassins and Shuran himself in worse condition than you are now. Stop being such a milksop.
I held up the walking stick and stared at it. I’d only been carrying this thing around with me for a few hours and already I felt like an old man. I leaned it against the wall and left it there.
A true swordsman likes a little pain – it focuses the mind.
I strode up to the guards without allowing myself to limp. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. Nice night, don’t you think?’
One of the guards looked as though he might say something, but caught a glance from the other and contented himself with, ‘A fine night, First Cantor.’
I was gratified by his use of my title. Ducal guardsmen usually just call us ‘Trattari scum’ or ‘tatter-cloaked coward’.
I raised my hand to knock on the door when I noticed something sitting against the floor – a wooden box about a foot square and perhaps eight inches tall. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, hells,’ said the guard. ‘I almost forgot. That’s for you.’
‘Someone left me a box?’
‘I believe so, sir.’ The guard reached down at his feet and lifted up the worn oak case. ‘There’s no note on it so we just assumed—’
‘Who brought it here?’ I asked.
‘It was here when we arrived, First Cantor,’ the second guard said.
I examined the card; finding nothing other than my name on it, I turned my attention to the box itself. It was entirely possible that it was a trap of some kind, but most of the time it’s vastly easier and more reliable to send someone to stick a knife in the back of your neck. Nonetheless, I worked my way carefully around every edge, looking for anything that might trigger once I opened the lid. Finding nothing, I handed the box to the shorter of the guards.
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