‘He still thinks we should kill Quentis Maren,’ Kest said, walking alongside us. He kept his left hand on the hilt of his sheathed blade, although even that seemed to hurt these days.
Aline led the way, her status as heir to the throne sufficient to make the servants and guardsmen stand aside, though they muttered to each other as they did so, and I saw more than one nobleman smirking at Valiana’s condition. If I hadn’t been holding her I would have been hard-pressed to stop myself from scraping away those gleeful expressions with my bare hands.
We passed by a long painting that portrayed all of the Kings of Tristia dating back several hundred years, riding together as they pursued a shining white stag in a very improbable hunt – a symbol, no doubt, for some glorious future they sought to achieve. But you were wrong, oh Kings, I thought. I’ve become something of an expert on this and I’m fairly sure you were all just chasing a hallucination.
‘Quentis says he works for the Church,’ Brasti continued, ‘but there is no Church of Tristia, not really. You know why? Because religious zealots can’t work together – it’s as simple as that. Saint Zaghev’s burning balls, how do you expect these people to unite behind one God when they’ve spent the last thousand years arguing over which one has the biggest cock?’
We reached the bottom of the grand staircase and Kest said, ‘According to the Canon dei, it’s Purgeize, God of War.’
All of us stopped and looked at him. He was the only one of us who’d made any real study of Tristia’s religious texts. ‘Seriously?’ I asked incredulously. ‘You’re telling me the oldest holy book describes a God’s—’
‘No,’ he said, noticing that we were all staring at him. ‘I was . . . trying to lighten the mood.’
‘You see?’ Brasti said to me. ‘That’s how stupid your theory is. Kest has started making jokes.’
‘He is right to do so,’ Ethalia said. ‘If these people see us looking frustrated or angry, then we defeat the purpose of Aline’s plan.’
Except we are angry, I thought as we carefully ushered Valiana up the stairs.
I pushed for waiting until dark and sneaking Valiana away, not exposing her to prying eyes, but Aline pointed out that the Dukes and their retainers already knew what had happened to her, and if we tried to keep her condition a secret, they’d step all over each other to be the first to blackmail us – or worse, make sure the information spread in the most damning way possible. The only answer was to neutralise their advantage, and to do that, we needed to escort her in full view of the palace. I was proud of Aline; she’d come to a perfectly sensible, logical conclusion.
I hated it.
And so did Tommer, who was even worse than me at hiding his anger at the way people were staring at Valiana.
‘My, my. A new day brings many changes, does it not?’ a tall, thin man in red and gold silks tittered, perfect teeth grinning down at us from the gallery where he stood bookended by elegantly dressed female companions, neither of whom looked old enough to be his wife nor young enough to be his daughters.
‘I’m surprised at your fine mood, Viscount Thistren,’ Tommer called out, his young voice echoing up the wide marble stairway. ‘My father is considering revising the borders of your Condate – it’s a shame that several towns and estates are likely to become part of Viscountess Hemmier’s territory, is it not?’
The pretty nobleman practically fell over himself trying to block our way as we reached the top of the stairs. ‘I . . . I understood that my lands were to be expanded, not reduced—!’
Tommer, not half the man’s height, pushed him out of the way so we could get by. ‘You said it yourself, Viscount: a new day brings many changes, and sadly, not all of them will necessarily be to your liking.’
We left the man sputtering behind us. Had I not been holding onto Valiana I would have stopped to hug Tommer.
‘Viscount Thistren is a wealthy and well-connected man,’ Aline warned. ‘Your father won’t approve of you making enemies.’
Tommer’s eyes passed over those of every other noble lining the hallway. ‘A man who mocks my sister is already my enemy, though he might not know it yet.’
Brasti craned his neck to study Tommer. ‘We seriously need to make this kid a Greatcoat,’ he told me.
I couldn’t imagine a better way to turn Duke Jillard against us, but that was a problem for another day.
We walked down a narrow hallway that ended with an arched doorway, with Mateo leaning casually against the wall next to it, wiping a black cloth along the length of the curved blade of his falchion. ‘So how was the parade?’ he asked.
‘No corpses,’ Brasti replied, ‘so that’s something.’
‘Any intruders?’ I asked. Once we’d decided to bring Valiana to her rooms, I’d sent Mateo to check them first; he really hadn’t needed my very specific instructions on dealing with anyone waiting inside for her.
‘No assassins, mystical or otherwise. No spies or guardsmen, either.’
‘Good,’ I said, and reached for the door handle.
Mateo stepped in front of me. ‘There is someone inside, though.’
‘Then get rid of them. I told you to—’
‘Yes, Falcio: you told me to scare off anyone looking to make trouble. Unfortunately, she doesn’t scare all that easily, and she had some rather colourful suggestions about what I might want to do with my threats.’
‘“She”?’
Mateo pushed open the door and just inside, sitting decorously on the chair she’d no doubt placed in that exact spot to ensure she was the first thing I saw, sat the Tailor.
‘Oh hells,’ Brasti swore. ‘The Gods really do hate us.’
Her hair, usually wild and unkempt, was carefully tied back. She wore her own greatcoat, freshly cleaned and oiled. I should have had it burned months ago. Next to her, on the bed, sat a pair of thick red and black leather-bound books which I recognised as the two volumes of the Regia Maniferecto De’egro, Tristia’s oldest legal texts dealing with the laws of royal ascension.
‘Well, children,’ she said, ‘the Gods have abandoned us, civilisation is on the verge of collapse and the Realm’s Protector is locked away behind an iron mask. I suppose it’s time we discussed who’s in charge, don’t you?’
*
I kept my patience for a very long time, by my estimation almost an entire minute. The first eight seconds were spent ushering Valiana into the room and seating her in a tall wingchair near the hearth while the others crowded in behind us, leaving Mateo and Tommer outside to guard the door. I used another ten seconds to check the locks and set sharp steel caltrops on the floor, carefully extracted from their heavy leather drawstring bag in my pocket, just in case someone decided to break in. A few more ticks of the clock went by as Brasti and I hoisted a table onto the window sill to block any possible projectile fire from outside. I finished by letting a small knife slide down from the inside of my right coat sleeve into the thin slot inside my cuff.
The last twenty-seven seconds went like this: ‘Ah, see how diligently the shepherd guards his flock?’ the Tailor said. ‘A pity it’s so long after the wolf has already shat out the remains of the sheep.’
‘I get that I’m the shepherd,’ I said, ‘but I can’t tell if you’re supposed to be the wolf, the sheep or maybe just the shit in this story.’
She gave a gravelly laugh before rising from the bed and reaching out a leather-gloved hand to brush the collar of my coat. She patted my cheek with the other. ‘Ah, Falcio val Mond, the saddest man in a country born of sorrows. If only such noble suffering led to understanding.’
‘Oh, look,’ Brasti said. ‘Here’s the part where she starts going on about knowing the length of every piece of string in the country.’
The Tailor ignored him. ‘Valiana has done an admirable job keeping the Dukes in line, these past months.’ Her hands brushed idly at the shoulders of my coat as if I were a doddering old man who couldn’t keep himself clean. ‘But the girl’s time is done now, and y
ou, Falcio, lack the – well, let’s set aside our differences for now. One of us must lead now, and it can’t be you.’
That was about the time my sixty seconds of patience ran out, possibly because our ‘differences’ included the fact that the Tailor had nearly driven the country into civil war and chaos as part of a perverse plan to ensure Aline would one day take the throne. Not to mention handing me over to the Dashini.
‘Ah,’ she said, thin lips pulled tight, ‘there’s that look I love so well.’
‘You picked the wrong time to push me,’ I said, my right hand on the hilt of my rapier.
‘I’m a Tailor, Falcio. My timing is always perfect. You should know that by now.’
‘Falcio . . .’ Kest warned.
What I’d assumed to be a caution against wasting time in debate with the Tailor turned out to be something else entirely. Following the line of Kest’s eyes, I finally focused on the almost invisible steel thread now running around my neck, one end in each of the Tailor’s gloved hands. The Tailor gave just the slightest of tugs on the thread and it bit painfully into my neck. Apparently she’d kept a few tricks back for her sole use when she designed our greatcoats.
‘Long past time you took me seriously, Falcio,’ she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The General
Sometimes the hardest thing to do in a fight is to not react. Your reflexes, usually what save you, can also be what get you killed. In this case, my instincts were screaming at me to grab the steel thread from the Tailor, but if I’d tried, I’d’ve been dead long before my hands reached hers.
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ Brasti said, the bend of his bow creaking behind me. ‘I’m going to kill Quentis Maren second.’
‘It wasn’t long ago,’ The Tailor said conversationally, ‘that Kest could have drawn his blade so quickly that he’d have had my head before my hands could even clench. Now look at him: barely able to hold a sword without passing out in agony.’ She gave a tiny nod towards Brasti and I belatedly realised she had positioned me so that I was blocking his aim. ‘On a good day, that fool could have fired an arrow that would have threaded the needle’s gap between us – but see how his arm twitches, ever since the madwoman stabbed him.’ Her gaze came back round to me, and I could have sworn there was sympathy of a sort there, a sadness that belied our current relationship. ‘And you, Falcio: I remember when you were far to clever to ever let me wind my thread around your neck.’
Aline, who was wise enough to keep from making any sudden moves, said, ‘Stop this, Grandmother. This is no time for dissent between us.’
‘On that score we agree, sweetling. The world is falling apart around us. Someone must lead.’ She paused, for just a moment. ‘The last time I failed to protect you. I won’t let that happen again.’
‘Then perhaps you should remember,’ Kest said evenly, ‘that the man you’re threatening is the one who saved her.’
‘And I love him for it!’ the Tailor growled. ‘But the country turns against us.’ Her gaze fell on me. ‘I need you to see that you aren’t the man you once were, Falcio. You can’t beat this enemy.’
‘And you think you can?’ I gave the question as much force as I could, hoping to mask the fact that I couldn’t have cared less about her answer. I tend to lose interest in philosophical debates when there’s a garrotte around my throat. Instead, I raced through my meagre possibilities of escape. I could try to head-butt her, since that wouldn’t entail pulling against the razor-sharp wire, but then she’d fall backwards and there was a strong possibility she’d yank hard as she did so, bringing my head with her. Mateo and Tommer were both outside the door, Aline had no weapon, and Ethalia—
A soft light glimmered off the steel thread. ‘None of us are who we once were,’ Ethalia said, ‘yet some of us still seek to do what is right rather than what is easy.’
‘Tell the whore to back away, Falcio,’ the Tailor warned. Her hands twitched, and I swear I felt a bead of blood drip down the back of my neck.
‘“Whore”,’ Ethalia repeated. ‘Do you think that word harms me? Do you think you can shame me for my years in the Order of Merciful Light?’
The Tailor gave a snort. ‘How can you even say that with a straight face?’
‘We brought gentleness and the simple pleasures of the body to those whose lives drove them to anger and violence,’ Ethalia said, ‘and in this way we moved them, pace by pace, towards compassion. What have you done these past years, Tailor, save walk ever further down a path of rage and bloodshed?’ Ethalia took another step towards us and the light glistening on the thread grew brighter. ‘Neither you nor anyone else will ever shame me over that time in my life.’
‘Do you suppose you’ll feel regret when you see Falcio’s head fall at your feet?’ the Tailor asked. ‘Because that’s what will happen if you take one step closer.’
Ethalia’s eyes, a still, fearless blue, caught mine. ‘Do you trust me?’
‘Always.’
‘Fools,’ the Tailor growled, and the rage in her voice thrummed along the steel thread between us. ‘Dreamers,’ she spat. ‘You claim the mantle of a Saint – yet you couldn’t even stop two halfwits dressed as guardsmen from attacking you. What makes you think you can stop me?’
Ethalia’s voice, strident a moment before, became gentle. ‘Because your sorrow is so much greater, sister.’ She reached out a hand. ‘Because I know what scares you.’
‘Is that what you believe, little girl? I should point out I’ve known a lot of Saints in my time and mostly they’re full of shit.’
‘And you’re no Saint, are you?’ Ethalia’s words held no mockery, no condemnation, just understanding. ‘You’re the Tailor, who sees where the threads begin and where they end, who knows which to pull and which one to let be. So tell us, where is the enemy? What is his plan?’
‘I don’t know!’ the Tailor shouted. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t find him.’
We stood like that for a long time, and I kept expecting the Tailor to say something caustic, that Saints and Gods were useless things, the poor invention of an unimaginative people. This was perhaps the longest she’d ever gone without delivering her usual speech about how clever she was, but instead, the frustration and fear she’d been hiding began to show in her eyes.
I still had the small blade in my right sleeve and the Tailor was distracted; I could take her out. I didn’t, though, because Ethalia had asked me to trust her and because I knew now that she was right. ‘You aren’t the only one who’s afraid,’ I said.
Something broke inside the Tailor. The steel thread went limp as she let go of it and sat down heavily on the bed. Her gaze went to Aline, and for the first time in my life, I saw despair in her eyes. ‘How can I protect her if I can’t follow the threads any more?’ she whispered.
*
We stood in silence, divided over what had to be done, united in the knowledge that we weren’t the people to do it. Last year, maybe even last month – or even last week – the Tailor had been able to see the movements and patterns of the world in ways none of us could ever hope to match. Now she was just a mother who’d lost her son, a grandmother who feared losing her granddaughter.
None of us are the people we once were, I thought, but maybe we never were. What if all those victories had come only because we’d never faced an enemy like the one we did now?
I closed my eyes, trying to imagine what his face might look like. Was he young or old, a nobleman or a pauper? Who are you? And why are you so much better at this than we are?
I sat down on the Tailor’s chair, suddenly exhausted, and realised everyone was looking at me. They were waiting for me to say something insightful, or maybe give some clever speech about how we just needed to be brave and everything would work out in the end. I think the world has had just about enough of my speeches.
For the first time in my life, I wondered if the time of the Greatcoats really had passed. Or maybe Brasti’s right and I should just go and challenge
the head of the Inquisitors to a duel. That’s the only thing I’ve been good at lately.
But the truth was, however much I hated the idea of the Inquisitors, I didn’t really believe Quentis Maren was our true enemy. He was too obvious a target, too perfectly placed in our path: the kind of person we all despised and would naturally suspect. During my last hallucination, Aline had warned me: the enemy fits his masks to others, and in so doing hides his own face. And then King Paelis had said something else: to strike the enemy you must first pierce his deceptions.
And Duke Jillard’s jibe came back to me: ‘Has it ever occurred to you that the people you’re so driven to protect are always women?’ I found myself looking around the room, at Aline, who’d nearly been taken by an assassin’s blade, at Ethalia, attacked by the God’s Needles last night, and finally Valiana, poisoned by blood from a madman’s tongue . . .
Of course! ‘He’s an avertiere!’ I said.
‘A what?’ Aline asked.
‘An avertiere,’ Kest said, giving the word its archaic Tristian pronunciation, ‘is a duellist who uses feints and false attacks to distract his opponent, aiming at those parts of the body his enemy will instinctively protect – like the eyes or the neck – and drawing out wide parries so that when the avertiere launches his true attack—’
‘—the real target will be undefended,’ Aline finished.
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Brasti said. ‘Another fucking fencing metaphor to describe exactly how we’re being buggered. How does that help anything?’
Aline looked annoyed at his glib tone. ‘It tells us that the crises we’ve been dealing with aren’t the real threat.’
‘The real threat?’ Brasti asked. ‘You think that trying to kill the heir to the throne, the Saint of Mercy and the Realm’s Protector aren’t real enough for him?’ He began pacing the room and his voice rose in volume and pitch as he cried, ‘The damned Saints are being murdered! We’re being infested with these lunatic “God’s Needles”, and even the bloody Inquisitors can’t deal with them, and meanwhile there are hordes of whining pilgrims massing outside the palace. Even I’m starting to think the fucking Gods hate us – and I don’t even believe in them!’ He stopped and threw himself heavily down on the sofa beside my chair. ‘I swear, if this keeps up much longer I’m going to take up religion – and trust me, none of us wants that.’
Saint's Blood: The Greatcoats Book 3 Page 30
