Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3

by Sebastien de Castell

  Beltran drew his blade, looking uncertain what to do. ‘Sir, it’s as we said, the box—’

  The man I was choking grabbed at my arm. ‘Please, sir, I swear—’

  ‘Falcio?’

  The blood rushing in my ears was so loud I hadn’t heard the door open. Ethalia stood only inches away from me, dressed in the pale blue nightgown that Aline had gifted her.

  I released the guard and held the mask at my side, out of view.

  ‘Falcio, what’s wrong?’ Ethalia asked.

  I tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come and she looked at me with concern and pity in her eyes. She stretched out a hand. ‘Come inside. We can talk.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ I tried to say to the guard, to her, to the world around me. ‘I took a wrong turn on my way to bed.’

  ‘Nothing to forgive, sir,’ Sedge said.

  I looked to the other guard, Beltran. He nodded. ‘Perfectly understandable, First Cantor. We should have searched for the messenger when we found the box here. We apologise.’ He started to bow.

  I’d been about to turn and head back down the hall, but his deference stopped me cold. ‘You apologise?’ I asked.

  Ethalia’s eyes were on me. ‘Falcio? I can feel your anger. You’re burning up inside. Whatever is wrong—?’

  With my free hand I shoved her backwards, sending her tumbling into the room, and before either of the guards could react, I swung the iron mask and caught Sedge on the ear, knocking him back into Beltran.

  Ethalia was back on her feet. ‘Falcio, why are you—?’

  ‘Bar the door,’ I shouted, ‘for the love of Saint Birgid!’

  My choice of Saint was enough to make her comply instantly; the heavy door swung shut and the click of the latch was followed by the sound of the bar dropping in place, echoing in the empty hallway. Sedge was holding his face with one hand and his sword with the other. Beltran stood next to him, his own shortsword at the ready. ‘Sir, please, calm yourself. Let one of us get the captain and we can sort this out before—’

  ‘I’ve been a Greatcoat for fifteen years,’ I said. ‘Ten of those years were spent going back and forth to palaces like this one. I’ve been dealing with guardsmen and soldiers from every part of the country. Let me tell you: in all those years, never once have I met a Ducal guard who’s ever apologised to a Greatcoat, especially not one who’d just been accused of taking a bribe. And I’ve never met one who would even think of bowing to me.’

  For a long time the two guardsmen just stared at me, looking as innocent and confused as children who’d been struck without reason. Then the shorter one, Sedge, his face red and already swelling, broke. It started as a twitch at the side of his mouth, then twisted into a wide grin.

  ‘Who’d’ve thought that politeness could get you into so much trouble?’ His voice and diction were clearer now, no longer a rough-born soldier but someone of wealthier stock.

  Beltran, also recognising the game was done, said, ‘Not as much trouble as attacking two men when you can barely stand, and you without even a sword in hand.’

  ‘You can scream for help if you like,’ Beltran added politely. ‘But we cleared the wing an hour ago.’

  Sedge winked. ‘“First Cantor’s orders”, we told them.’ He’d taken on his fake guardsman’s voice. ‘“Wants to reconcile with his Lady”.’

  It annoyed me no end to realise it had been that easy. For the first time I took more careful stock of them both. Sedge was a little shorter than me, but his shoulders were broader. If he got his arms around me I’d have a difficult time getting free. Beltran was a few inches taller than either of us, with a long reach that would serve him well, even with a guardsman’s shortsword. He walked a little heavier on his right foot, though, which likely meant he had a problem with his left. That would shorten his lunge.

  I took a step back and the pain in my ankle jagged up my leg, helpfully reminding me that I was the most vulnerable one of the three of us.

  ‘Looks like he didn’t appreciate your gift of the stick, Sedge,’ Beltran said.

  ‘You?’ I said, my eyes on the shorter of the two guards. My memory of the moments after the attempt on Aline’s life were vague, but it might well have been this man who’d handed me the walking stick – and so handily taken my rapiers from me.

  Sedge giggled. ‘Who would have thought it would be so easy to disarm a Trattari?’ He mimed the gesture of offering me the cane. ‘Here you are, sir. Better stay off that ankle, sir. Oh, here, let me take those heavy swords from you and put them somewhere safe, sir.’

  ‘Who sent you here?’ I asked, taking another step back, ignoring my ankle, which really was complaining bitterly. So much for pain focusing the mind.

  ‘The Gods themselves,’ Sedge answered.

  ‘Any particular God? Just in case I want to lodge a complaint.’

  Without warning Beltran thrust his blade at me and I had to jump back out of the way. Even then, the tip caught me on the right side of my chest and only the bone plate in my coat kept me from taking a stab wound that would have ended the fight then and there.

  I’ve never been fond of shortswords. They don’t have the reach or finesse required for duelling. But a guardsman mostly deals with the closed-in spaces of a castle or palace, the halls and corridors and small rooms to which a shorter sword is perfectly suited.

  Sedge tried for a heavy cut on my left side, swinging the whole of his body into the blow. I raised up my arm to take the force against my bicep and forearm; the heavy leather held, but the impact was still brutal. This man was stronger than he had any right to be.

  ‘You should have done what you’d come to do, Trattari,’ he said. ‘We had so many fun games planned once you and the whore were in the room together.’

  I’m really getting tired of people calling Ethalia a whore. I was still holding the mask, and now I threw it as hard as I could at Sedge’s face, hoping the recent memory of being struck by it would make him flinch – it didn’t, but I was still able to use the distraction to reach into my coat to pull out one of my two remaining throwing knives. Damn me, I haven’t replenished any of my weapons in weeks.

  I threw the knife at Beltran’s face and it dug deep into his right cheek, piercing flesh and cracking teeth. It hung from the side of his face for a moment before sliding out and falling to the floor. The look of pain that crossed Beltran’s face was too quickly dismissed for my liking.

  ‘We’ve tasted the blood of Saints, Trattari. We feel neither pain nor fear any more.’ His words were slurred and blood flowed from the wound, but he didn’t appear overly troubled by it.

  ‘We are the God’s Needles,’ Sedge added, and the two men stepped forward as one, obviously preparing to outflank me.

  Sedge leapt forward, his sword extended – not a swordsman’s practised manoeuvre, more like a boy who’d just been handed a blade for the first time, and I swerved and let it go past me, then struck out with the heel of my palm. I caught him square on the chin, but I swear I hurt my hand more than his jaw.

  I drew my second throwing knife, knowing I’d have to keep this one in hand if I was to have any chance at all. For the next several seconds my opponents came closer, backing me up as they stabbed at me with their shortswords. A good half the blows hit, despite my best efforts to parry with my throwing knife.

  ‘You look tired, Trattari,’ Beltran said. ‘Would you like a moment to rest?’

  He stepped towards me at an angle, forcing me closer to the wall, and my back foot caught on something and I dropped my knife as I tripped backwards. I flung my hand out to support myself against the wall, only to have my fingers find the object that had tripped me. It was the bloody walking stick.

  Sedge smiled. ‘Look here, an old codger’s going to shake his stick at us.’

  I held the cane in my hand, taking note of its heft and balance for the first time. ‘There’s something you should know,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that, Trattari?’

  I extended the c
ane, letting the weight of it guide my grip. ‘This stick is thirty-two inches long. It weighs an ounce or so under three pounds. Now, that’s heavy for a cane, so I’d guess it was made for a big man.’ I rotated the shaft in my hand. ‘The decorative knob on the end of the curved handle is made of brass and weighs a good six ounces on its own.’ I flipped the cane around. ‘They’ve weighted the bottom end with this brass band near the base – here, see? – to balance out the weight.’

  ‘Wouldn’t want the old codgers tipping over,’ Beltran said, but his eyes were narrowed, revealing a trace of uncertainty. Good.

  ‘The best part is that by my estimation, at full extension these weighted ends carry a striking force roughly comparable to that of hitting someone with the pommel of your shortswords. I say that just in case you’d like to bash yourselves in the heads with your own weapons and save me the trouble.’

  ‘Why are you telling us all this, Trattari?’ Sedge said, smiling despite the first hint of sweat on his forehead. ‘Is it maybe because you think you can stall until someone comes to help you? You really can go ahead and scream – no one will reach you in time.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be calling for help,’ I said, backing up another step. The ankle still hurt like the devil every time I stepped down, but it didn’t bother me so much any more. ‘I mention all this because I thought you should know that the reason I can describe the weight of this cane, its balance and striking force, is that, well, whether it’s a sword or a stick or a busted broom handle, when it comes to fighting, I know how to use it.’

  I held the bottom end out and wiggled it in the air. Sedge, apparently tired of hearing me boast, made a grab for it with his free hand. I spun the end in a tight circle and his hand got nothing but empty air until I brought the end back down and struck him hard on the wrist.

  ‘I wanted you to know so that once this is over, you don’t feel too badly that you got beaten senseless by a man holding a walking stick.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Walking Stick

  Next to sanguinists, my least favourite opponents in a duel are ludators. The ludator’s strategy is to look for ways of knocking his opponent over, removing any advantage of greater reach or skill, and finishing the fight on the ground. It’s a dangerous business, for it requires getting in very close, but you’d be surprised how many duels end up with two opponents grappling around on the floor. Few duellists expect to find themselves in such a position, so when they do, it’s generally too late to find a way out of it.

  Sedge and Beltran, though neither of them were duellists by my estimation, would definitely fall into the category of ludators. Sedge, who was shorter and wider, was especially keen to grab me. His sword was barely a factor in his thinking as he tried to rush me and bowl me over. It was the move of an angry amateur – although it also happened to be the perfect strategy for this situation.

  ‘All those bloody stories,’ Sedge said, ‘all those times I watched Greatcoats ride into my father’s demesne and look down on us, as if we were no different from the commoners in the streets. And yet, here you are, weak as a—’

  He made a snatch for my empty hand. Normally I’d have let him take it and simply stabbed him through the throat, but the end of my stick wasn’t pointy enough to do the job neatly, and the thick leather of his jerkin came up to just below his jaw, so instead I flipped the stick around and used the handle to hook Sedge’s arm and yank him off-balance. I made a fist of the hand he’d tried to seize and slammed it against his temple, helping him on his way. His skull struck the wall with enough force to give me hope that I might have knocked him unconscious.

  ‘Heh,’ he said, shaking his head and readying himself for another try. ‘Tickles.’

  Of course, I thought, because life isn’t challenging enough without crazed zealots who don’t feel pain and can’t be knocked out. ‘Guards!’ I shouted at the top of my lungs. ‘Guards!’

  Beltran smiled. ‘Thought you were going to fight us honourably?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘just me and a fucking stick against two men with swords? Guards!’

  Beltran thrust at my face with his shortsword, but I fully extended my stick now and he couldn’t come close enough to connect. The brass-banded end jabbed into his neck, stopping his forward momentum, leaving the point of his sword still two inches away from my face. I had to work hard not to flinch, though. There’s nothing quite so unnerving as seeing the steel tip of a blade that close to your eyes.

  ‘Damned cane,’ Beltran growled. He tried to reduce the distance between us by swinging his shorter blade hard towards my sides, goading me into parrying; had the blow collided, the walking stick would have broken in half and the fight would be done. Instead, I let the tip of my cane drop, Beltran’s blade sliced at empty air and I returned the favour by popping him in the nose with the brass end.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Sedge complained. The corridor was too narrow for both men to attack at once, especially while Beltran was swinging wildly.

  ‘Not yet,’ Beltran said. ‘Gonna cut him down first.’

  ‘Take your time,’ I said. ‘I’ve got all night.’

  Unfortunately for me, Beltran’s plan was a perfectly sensible one. My left ankle was slowing down my retreat and I couldn’t hope to keep dodging his swings for long. Parrying them would soon shatter the stick, so I had no choice but to catch Beltran’s blade on the brass-reinforced end, and even as I struggled to keep my grip, I felt the metal beginning to give way, telling me the brass wasn’t going to hold up to the damage Beltran would eventually inflict.

  ‘Guards!’ I shouted one last time, wondering, Why is it that when I’m trying to sneak into a Ducal palace I practically drown in guardsmen, yet the one time I actually need one, they’re nowhere to be found?

  My walking stick, despite my laudatory recitation of its virtues, was not a great weapon. I wasn’t going to end the fight by stabbing them, so as long as they were willing to endure a little pain, it was only a matter of time before one of them bore me to the ground. Then I’d be done.

  Had Kest been there, he could no doubt have provided a lengthy discourse on the tactics of stick-fighting, its application to my current predicament and some detailed history of its origins. No doubt these would include wise old shepherds, denied the right to carry steel but still needing to protect their flocks from wolves and thieves, or perhaps a slave culture of centuries ago, once daring warriors taken captive and needing to make sure their children and their children’s children kept up the old fighting ways for the day when freedom could be reclaimed.

  None of which is going to help you beat the shit out of these two arseholes. Time to switch tactics.

  When Beltran readied his next swing, I kept my cane low, exposing my head, and the guardsman gave a growling laugh and swung for my neck. I ducked down, letting the blade pass harmlessly overhead, and then swung out with the brass-weighted end of the handle against his knee. The shattering sound was music to my ears. I’d broken his kneecap.

  Unfortunately, Beltran didn’t seem to care.

  I’ve had my knee broken once in my life and even months after the event, the pain of standing on it was almost unbearable. So it should tell you something that Beltran just grinned and kept coming at me, even as the bones crunched in his damaged leg with every step.

  And people ask me why I hate magic so much. ‘You could at least try to look hurt,’ I said, annoyance momentarily overcoming the panic that was starting to set in.

  Beltran grinned. ‘We are but novices in the path of the God’s Needle, Trattari. We’ve only drunk the blood of two Saints – wait until we’ve had our third.’ He lunged towards me, which was a foolish move; even if his broken knee didn’t cause him pain, it was still throwing him off-balance. He fell to the side and hit the ground.

  Sedge moved in to take his place. ‘Once we’ve killed you, Trattari, we’ll be allowed to drink our fill from your woman. I wonder if she’ll taste the same.’ He licked his lips.


  I backed up a bit further; I was near the end of the corridor now, not far from the gallery above the palace foyer. I had to stall. ‘Taste the same as whom?’ I asked.

  ‘Birgid,’ Sedge said.

  Beltran had got back to his feet. ‘She cried so much you could see the tears dripping from under the mask. Who’d’ve thought Birgid-who-weeps-rivers was so aptly named?’

  Sedge grinned. ‘Those tears tasted almost as sweet as the blood. Can you picture it, Trattari?’

  ‘I can,’ I replied, and things changed for me then – not the way they’d done in the old days of madness, where I would lose control and forget who I was and what I’d done. Instead, the world became sharper, clearer; what mattered now was not the pain in my ankle or the anger in my heart. It wasn’t even about what these bastards had done or why, or how’d they’d become the way they were. This was no longer a matter of winning, or even surviving. This was a matter of practicalities. This was physics. I couldn’t hurt them, so I had to break them. They weren’t men trying to fight me, they were objects moving through space, boulders rolling inexorably towards me. I would either find a way to smash them or I would be crushed under their weight.

  The gallery above the grand foyer had a staircase at one end going down, and at the other was a sort of wide interior bridge between the two wings of the palace – a relic of some ancient architect’s desire for a grand high domed ceiling in the centre of the grand foyer, and the subsequent realisation that guests might not find it convenient to go from their bedchamber down the stairs, along a cold corridor and then up another flight just to get to the privy.

  Sedge made a rush for me as he’d done before, arms spread so he could use his heavy shoulders to knock me down and get on top of me. There wasn’t the room or the time to dodge so what had to happen next had to be all about timing and fluid motion. You don’t beat the ludator by running away. The instant before Sedge slammed into me, I slapped both my free hand and the one holding the cane down against his shoulders and pushed off as hard as I could. My feet left the ground and as the momentum of his charge drove us back a full ten feet, I went over the top of him; I came down on my knees onto his shoulders and sent him face-first to the floor. I felt him try to push himself back up, like a wild horse bucking off an unwanted rider, and then his hands reached about as he tried to grab hold of my legs. When he bucked a second time, I used the momentum to launch myself forward. I landed reasonably well on both feet – I was proud of that – though I heard something crack in my ankle. I ignored it.