Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  As if he’d only just then noticed the existence of Lady Cestina, Rhetan said, ‘So you managed to seduce the girl after all. You proved me wrong, Evidalle. I never thought it would work.’

  Evidalle grinned. ‘Did you ever doubt my powers of persuasion, Uncle?’

  ‘I certainly doubted her husband would approve the match.’ ­Margrave Rhetan walked over to Lady Cestina and bowed. ‘My dearest girl, forgive the unseemly manners of an old man tired from the travails of too many sailings in too short a time.’

  Despite the bandaged wound on her shoulder, she responded with an impressive curtsy. ‘Margrave. We are delighted to have you here. As my fiancé says, there is much to—’

  ‘I understand your first husband met with an unfortunate accident,’ Rhetan interrupted, raising his voice loud enough to be heard all across the wedding barge. ‘And here your poor sister appears to have missed the luncheon.’ He went to stand before Lady Mareina, the dinner knife still dangling loosely from his hand, as if beckoning the girl to take it. She could have, too; she was near enough, and Rhetan showed no sign of being aware he still held it. ‘You appear to have been ill of late, my Lady. How unselfish of you to rise to the occasion of your sister’s wedding.’

  Lady Mareina, visibly shaking, took slow, deep breaths as her gaze went from the knife before her to Evidalle, and then to her sister, just a few feet away. The depth of anger she must be feeling, to have been so utterly betrayed by her own blood, had to be overwhelming. I could see the fingers of her right hand twitching, desperate to grab the knife from Rhetan, but when her eyes found the guardsmen all around us, tears of frustration began to slide down her cheeks. ‘My sister is well matched to Margrave Evidalle, my Lord,’ Mareina said, her curtsy made possible only by Chalmers holding her tightly enough to keep her from falling down.

  Margrave Rhetan could have let it go – whatever defiance Lady Mareina might have managed had already slipped away – but he kept at her anyway. ‘And your parents? I worry for them, my dear. Yours is a prosperous family, is it not? And yet they too have suffered some recent . . . losses.’

  ‘Bandits, my Lord,’ Mareina said, her voice low, but without hesitation. ‘These are uncertain times . . .’

  The old Margrave smiled. ‘No doubt the presence of the bulk of my nephew’s forces stationed outside your parents’ keep will ward off any more such . . . bandits.’ He reached out and gently patted the girl’s cheek. ‘You’re a smart one. You know how to read the lie of the land. I imagine that with a little patience you’ll find contentment with your circumstances.’ He turned to face the rest of us. ‘You see? A little discretion, a little wisdom, and all is well.’

  Evidalle’s pleasure was evident in the tone of his voice and the confident manner in which he spread his arms wide as if he were acknowledging a cheering crowd. ‘As you can see, Uncle, I’ve brought peace to once warring families.’

  ‘And doubled your holdings in the process,’ Rhetan noted.

  ‘Now, let us deal with these Trattari and begin the next step in my great plan to—’

  Rhetan cut him off. ‘No, let’s not create trouble where none is needed.’

  ‘What? Are you mad? The Trattari came here to arrest me!’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it was nothing of the sort.’ The old man glanced over to me. ‘You merely came to bless the happy occasion, isn’t that correct?’ Before I could answer, he turned to Captain Squirrel. ‘Too bad the temporary miscommunication caused a bit of a fuss, but these things happen during such turbulent times. Best to leave any little transgressions forgotten, I suggest.’

  Captain Squirrel bowed. ‘I . . . Yes, Margrave, it is as you say.’

  Rhetan walked over to me, deliberately stepping over a dead guard in the process. ‘Of course, I might have the situation confused. Perhaps you were here to arrest my nephew for . . . what would the charges be, I wonder? The unlawful confinement of Lady Mareina? Or the accusation could be something more severe – treason, perhaps?’

  There was something very dangerous at play here. Rhetan wasn’t simply speculating; he was laying out options for me, pushing me to see which one I would choose. What exactly is your game here, old man?

  ‘The situation is complex, your Lordship,’ I said. ‘We’re still . . . investigating.’

  ‘Really? The question is a simple one, surely? Have the Greatcoats come to arrest the Margrave of Barsat, and if so, on what charge?’

  Chalmers started to speak, but I held up a hand to keep her silent. Rhetan was prodding us for a reaction, but I hadn’t yet figured out why. He pointed with his dinner knife at the bodies on the ground. ‘Frankly, if this is what comes of your “investigations”, one has to wonder what outcome might result from an actual trial.’

  It was the way he said the word ‘outcome’ that gave me the first clue as to what was really going on. ‘Outcomes vary, my Lord, depending on the circumstances and, of course, the presiding magistrate.’

  ‘No doubt, no doubt. I suppose any number of—’

  ‘Enough!’ Evidalle shouted, and strode towards us. His four remaining guards stomped behind him, crossbows in hand. ‘I suggest you move out of the way, Uncle.’

  Rhetan’s men looked poised to attack, but the old Margrave waved them off. He let out a long sigh and stepped aside. ‘Your impatience is making you sloppy, Evidalle. I suggest you take a moment to fully appreciate the situation.’

  ‘Patience is the shackle that binds the timid, Uncle.’ Evidalle grabbed a crossbow from one of his men. ‘Only the daring know glory.’

  ‘I suppose you have a point,’ Rhetan said without enthusiasm.

  Brasti chuckled. ‘Hah – that’s a good one.’ No one else laughed. ‘You know, because of the point on the crossbow bolt – wasn’t that meant to be funny?’

  With Evidalle’s weapon trained on me, it was difficult to sound flippant, but I made the effort anyway. ‘There’s something you should know before you fire, Margrave Evidalle.’

  The Margrave of Barsat was nothing if not gracious. ‘Speak then, Trattari. Beg. Threaten. Make your accusations. No one will listen.’

  I forced myself to focus on what I was about to say, rather than the steel tip of the bolt aimed squarely at my face. ‘Well, to begin with, I am the First Cantor of the Greatcoats: I don’t make accusations. I issue verdicts.’

  ‘Do so, then, if it gives you any solace. Let the Gods hear your blasphemy before I end you.’ He wrapped his finger around the trigger of the crossbow and began to squeeze, very slowly.

  I had to speak quickly now. ‘My verdict is this, Margrave Evidalle: I judge you guilty of commissioning the murder of the young man Udrin, rightful husband of Lady Cestina. I further find you guilty of assault upon her parents and of the unlawful confinement of her sister, Lady Mareina, all in furtherance of your attempt to stage a coup against the throne of Baern and to incite insurrection against the Crown.

  ‘The punishment for those crimes is death, and every man present is bound by law to assist in your capture.’

  ‘Goodbye, Trattari, your death will launch a revolution.’

  ‘Sounds grand. One piece of advice then, my Lord?’

  This took him aback. ‘What?’

  Saint Birgid, I know you’re dead, but if you’d be inclined to lend any assistance from beyond the veil, I’d very much appreciate it right now.

  I looked at Margrave Rhetan, who was now standing next to his nephew. ‘Never trust a man who brings a hundred soldiers to a wedding.’

  It’s odd how quickly the mighty become less remarkable to behold once they realise that all their power has been taken away. Margrave Evidalle’s luxuriant hair had gleamed like a golden crown upon his head, but now sweat dripped from his brow and it began to look limp, in fact, positively foppish. His eyes, so full of fire and certainty before, became those of a boy who has just lost his favourite toy. When he opened hi
s mouth – which only moments ago had been full of confident smiles and easy laughter – all that emerged now was a soft gurgle and the tip of Rhetan’s dinner knife as it completed its journey through the back of the Margrave’s throat.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Virtue of Patience

  For all of Margrave Rhetan’s sermonising on the virtue of patience, events moved remarkably quickly after that. The wedding guests, gasping, huddled behind the Knights who once again readied themselves to protect their patrons, while Rhetan’s men busied themselves ensuring that none of Evidalle’s remaining guardsmen attempted anything untoward.

  The erstwhile Margrave of Barsat hadn’t even finished falling to the ground before his uncle had moved on to other business. ‘The Greatcoats will make no efforts to bar my annexation of Barsat into the March of Val Iramont,’ he said to me, as though we were halfway through an afternoon of negotiations. I suppose in some sense we were.

  It was my turn. ‘The troops occupying Lady Mareina’s parents’ keep will leave immediately.’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘And they will be compensated for their suffering, as will Udrin’s family.’

  Margrave Rhetan waved a hand. ‘Of course, of course. Besides, the cost will be more than made up for by the temporary reduction in taxes you will be persuading the Realm’s Protector to grant me.’

  Great. Another reason for Valiana to yell at me. ‘Lady Mareina,’ I said, pointing to the girl who was gazing at the scene before her in utter disbelief, ‘needs support. You’ll be apportioning a third of your new lands into a separate condate and naming her Damina of . . . Well, let’s call this little spot Revancia, shall we?’ Revancia was an old Tristian word that meant righteous vengeance.

  Rhetan’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do realise that poor Evidalle was my nephew? He had no heirs, so as his closest living relative, his property is legally mine.’

  ‘Ah, but you appear to have overlooked something yourself, ­Margrave.’

  He looked quizzical.

  ‘While the ceremony was not yet completed, the marriage contract was already signed, and so there is in fact an heir to your nephew’s lands.’

  ‘Which would be Lady Cestina, not . . .’ But by then Rhetan had caught my meaning. He turned his gaze on the new bride and would-be-rebel. ‘Of course, we’ve all heard of brides dying of grief over the loss of their beloved: a tragic outcome – although I think in this case it would bring with it a certain poetic symmetry.’

  The Lady Cestina had a far quicker mind for political calculation than Evidalle; she took two steps towards the nearest cleric and dropped to her knees. Gripping the hem of his pale blue robes, she started, ‘I wish to dedicate my life to . . .’ She paused, staring at the handful of cloth, no doubt trying to remember which God was associated with the colour. ‘Phenia! Yes, Phenia, Goddess of Love.’

  The cleric looked dumbfounded. ‘My Lady . . . you wish to—? Such a life does not come—’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ she said, rising to her feet and turning back to address the entire audience. ‘With my spiritual life now dedicated to Phenia, I hereby name my beloved sister, Lady Mareina, as beneficiary of my—’

  ‘As immediate and irrevocable beneficiary,’ I suggested helpfully.

  Lady Cestina’s eyes sent daggers my way. It was a good thing the God of Love was already dead, for I do believe her new priestess would otherwise have been invoking any number of curses. ‘As immediate and irrevocable beneficiary of all my lands and holdings from now unto the end of time.’

  ‘Marked,’ Rhetan said. He went to stand before Lady Mareina. ‘You, girl. Will you, in front of all these fine people, and in your capacity as the new Damina of—’

  He turned to me. ‘What did you want to call it again?’

  ‘Revancia.’

  ‘Right. In your capacity as the new Damina of Revancia, do you swear fealty to me as your Margrave, giving unto me all such duties required by law and by tradition?’

  Lady Mareina, whose world had been destroyed and rebuilt and destroyed again all during the span of an hour, somewhere found the strength to support herself and with remarkable poise, announce, ‘As Damina of Revancia, it is my most heartfelt honour to be the first to swear fealty before your Grace, the Margrave of Val Iramont, Lord of the proudest territory in all of Baern.’

  The wedding guests finally had a situation for which they knew the appropriate response; they didn’t even need the tiny prompt from Rhetan’s soldiers to burst into wild applause.

  Rhetan acknowledged their cheers with a bow that lasted less than a second before turning back to me. ‘I’ll expect to receive word of the tax exemption within the week.’

  Captain Pheras stepped forward and motioned to Evidalle’s body. ‘What should we do with him?’

  ‘Take him ashore with the rest of the dead. You can bury him after everything else is dealt with.’ Rhetan looked down at his nephew’s corpse. ‘Impatient fool. He could easily have been Duke one day, but he had to play the rebel hero.’ He shook his head. ‘You can’t just go around killing people in a blatant bid for power.’

  Most days I know when to keep my mouth shut, but in this instance I couldn’t stop myself. ‘You do recall that you stuck a dinner knife through the back of your nephew’s neck just a few moments ago?’

  ‘True – but you were the one who declared my nephew guilty of treason, invoking my legal responsibility in front of all present. I really had no choice but to assist you.’

  ‘And gain all of Margrave Evidalle’s lands in the process,’ Kest noted. ‘And anyone aggrieved by the outcome will blame the ­Greatcoats, not you.’

  Rhetan, Margrave of what was now the largest and most powerful territory in the Duchy – and by extension, the presumptive future Duke, once Ossia either abdicated or died, set his gaze on me. He finally gave a wide smile that looked as if it had been waiting patiently for years to show itself. ‘As I told you: patience reaps rewards – especially when folly paves the way.’

  This is why I despise the nobility.

  Evidently my distaste showed on my face because Rhetan was staring at me with one eyebrow raised. ‘Don’t get all pious with me, Trattari. You don’t seriously expect anyone to believe that Duchess Ossia – a very patient woman, I can assure you – sent you here just to rescue the poor, pitiful Lady Mareina?’ He gestured at the wedding guests who were even now hastening to disembark from the barge. ‘I’m not a gambling man, but if I were, I’d wager my new lands that your orders were to spy on the assembled nobles and quietly report back who was showing any enthusiasm for Evidalle’s conspiracy and who might remain loyal to the heir.’

  He clapped me on the shoulder and added cheerily, ‘I expect you’ll have some explaining to do once you get back to Aramor.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Wedding Cake

  The execution of a Margrave creates a surprising amount of paperwork. Military forces, for example, can’t simply be dumped together like vegetables in a stew: each side’s officers must now begin vying for command of the newly combined force, while the common soldiers, always convinced that the other guy’s troops get better pay (and even if they don’t, they should), will immediately start demanding higher salaries. Not that more money even begins to deal with the possibility that you’re suddenly part of the same squad that just killed your comrade or even one of your brothers.

  Then there’s the matter of taking over the palace, eliminating anyone related to (or having sex with) the deceased Margrave, and most important of all, securing the treasury before its contents mysteriously disappear. A great many people need to be bribed, especially the clerics – even in a country where the Gods have been murdered, you still don’t want to be on the wrong side of the Church.

  And, of course, when wedding celebrations come to such an unexpected and bloody end, you have to decide what to do with the cake
.

  ‘It’s not bad, actually,’ Brasti said, licking his fingers as he sat back down on the edge of the dock.

  The narrow beach was littered with wounded men awaiting ­treatment, lying groaning amidst the decorative silk streamers meant to guide the happy couple along the gilded path that led up a gentle slope to the Margrave’s summer palace.

  Kest looked up from cleaning the edge of his shield. ‘You should probably leave the cake alone,’ he warned Brasti.

  ‘Why, is it bad luck?’

  Kest pointed at the remains of the cake, sitting unceremoniously next to a pile of dirty dishes. ‘I suspect that’s not raspberry sauce.’

  Brasti looked at the red splatters on the icing, momentarily horrified, then he shrugged and used the head of one of his arrows to slice himself a second piece, this time taking care to cut around the red parts. ‘I’m going to miss this, you know.’

  ‘Desecrating dead men’s wedding cakes?’ I asked, following Kest’s example and carefully running a cloth along the blade of my rapier. The problem with killing people is that if you forget to polish the blood off your weapon, you’re liable to find it stuck in its sheath the next time you need to take someone down.

  Brasti kicked an unconscious guardsman. ‘This. Travelling around the country together, beating the hells out of corrupt nobles and their thuggish lackeys.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Mark my words, Falcio, life will become terribly dull once Aline becomes Queen.’

  ‘You foresee a shortage of corrupt nobles and thuggish lackeys in our future?’ I asked. ‘Or is this because you’re going to abandon Kest and me so that you can run off and marry Darriana?’

  He turned abruptly serious. ‘Come on, Falcio, it had to end sometime. You’ve done your duty: you’ve fulfilled the King’s last request; you’ve found his “Charoite” and pretty soon she’s going to be taking the throne. Our time is over. Let someone else take a turn at judging whose sheep ate whose grass.’