Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  There was a certain logic to his words, of course, but it still struck me as highly optimistic – or pessimistic, perhaps, depending on your point of view. I didn’t really have the energy to contradict him, though, so I looked at Kest, who shook his head at me. ‘You forget, Falcio, when the King was in power we weren’t constantly racing about the country trying to save it. Most of the time we just rode our circuits, heard our cases and delivered our verdicts.’

  Brasti blew a strand of damp hair out of his face. ‘Gods, those circuits: twice a year, the same bloody route, the same wretched towns and villages, and the same pressing need to work out how to saw a cow in half in order to settle some bloody-minded farmers’ dispute. I swear they glued the damned things back together after we left just so they’d still have something to fight over.’

  Some part of me knew that Brasti was right – although hopefully, not about the cow. I felt an odd pang in my chest just then; I’d only recently discovered that I had a habit of remembering the past somewhat more . . . well, romantically than perhaps it deserved. Whenever I thought back to the early days in the Greatcoats, I remembered the deviously complex cases, the perilous duels and daring escapes. There’d certainly been a fair few, but they’d taken place over years, not weeks. Believe it or not, most trials don’t end in swordfights. Once Aline became Queen, the fate of the country would no longer be in our hands at every turn – we’d go back to being judicial functionaries. Bureaucrats. I’m sure I used to enjoy that life . . . so why did the mere thought of it feel so foreign now?

  I felt Kest’s hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s not just you, Falcio. The mind can become accustomed to almost anything, even the chaos of an interregnum and the daily struggle to avoid death.’

  Brasti jumped to his feet. ‘I have an idea.’

  No good has ever come from those four words coming out of that particular mouth.

  He waited patiently to be asked – almost a full second – then pointed at the deceased Margrave’s wedding barge. ‘We should become pirates!’ He caught my expression and hastily amended his suggestion. ‘I mean, good pirates, of course. Noble pirates.’

  ‘“Noble pirates”?’ Kest asked.

  ‘How would that work, exactly?’ I asked, having already forgotten my rule about Brasti and ideas.

  He looked thoughtful, as if he’d given the matter extensive consideration. ‘Well, we only attack the ships of excessively rich and venal men, and then we . . .’ He made a series of gestures with his hands that made no sense to anyone, then explained, ‘We sort of . . . well, redistribute what we took, give it to those in the greatest need. Minus a reasonable commission, of course.’

  Kest tilted his head. ‘You’re suggesting we switch from enforcing the laws to actively breaking them by stealing from those with wealth to give it to those without?’

  ‘Minus a reasonable commission,’ he repeated. He saw me staring at him and added quickly, ‘Not a big commission, of course! I’m sure Kest could come up with a suitable formula.’

  ‘“The Greatcoats”,’ I announced, ‘“stealing ships from the wealthy to give unto the poor . . . minus a suitable commission”.’ I slid my squeaky-clean rapiers back into their sheaths. ‘Not exactly the most memorable catchphrase.’

  Brasti sulked. ‘Not the way you say it.’ He looked past me and grinned. ‘On the other hand, perhaps you can ask Rhyleis to come up with something more poetic.’

  I turned to see the beautiful – and dangerous – Bardatti guitarist from the wedding walking towards us.

  Brasti was suddenly close behind me. ‘You really should bed that woman, Falcio. I warn you, I won’t wait much longer before I make her a better offer.’

  ‘You already did,’ Kest said. ‘Five times, by my count.’

  ‘How dare you, sir!’ Brasti said, doing his best impression of a gentleman whose good name has just been slandered. He has to do it as an impression, of course, because he’s never actually had a good name. ‘I will have evidence from you, Kest Murrowson, or have no choice but to challenge you to—’

  ‘When we first saw her in that tavern on the road back to Aramor,’ Kest said, putting down his shield so that he could keep a tally using the fingers of his left hand. ‘You hadn’t even asked her name before you made some rather elaborate suggestions as to how the two of you might pass the time together.’

  ‘Aha! You see? I didn’t know her name, so it didn’t count.’

  ‘Then there was the moment when Falcio left the common room and you asked her again – we all knew her name by then.’

  ‘An innocent misunderstanding.’

  ‘Also at the Busted Scales, shortly before the battle against the Blacksmith and his God, then again during the fight.’

  ‘You propositioned Rhyleis during a battle against an actual God?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘The rest of you were busy.’ He turned to Kest. ‘That was only four times. I’ll have my apology, oh Saint-of-remembering-things-no-one-wants-remembered.’

  ‘Wait for it,’ Kest said to me.

  Rhyleis approached us, hands on her hips. ‘Well, if it isn’t the King’s Heart, the Queen’s Shield, and . . . the other one.’ She looked up at Brasti. ‘I forget, what is it you’re known for, again?’

  He grinned salaciously at her. ‘Why, I’m an explorer, Rhyleis, and if you’d like to come for a little walk inside the palace with me, I promise to explore you most thoroughly.’

  ‘And there’s number five,’ Kest said.

  ‘You’re a terrible friend, you know that?’ Brasti asked. ‘I expect recompense in the form of strong drink.’

  The two of them headed up the path towards the former Margrave of Barsat’s summer palace. I briefly considered running after them, but Brasti would never have let me live it down, so instead I turned and faced Rhyleis: musician, actress, spy, and some day soon, quite likely the death of me. The smile on her face and the curve of her hips filled me with more trepidation than all of Evidalle’s men combined.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Duelling Flirtations

  ‘Why Falcio,’ she began, turning my name into the opening of some kind of tune, ‘you look like a frightened cat backed into a corner by a bloodthirsty hound.’

  Even I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of admitting that her words perfectly summed up the situation. ‘Rhyleis, you are, as always, a delight to the eyes, music to the ears and an unspeakable terror to the hearts of innocent men everywhere.’

  All right, so poetry isn’t a weapon with which I’m particularly skilled – but I still thought it a passable opening salvo.

  ‘The same could be said of all women, don’t you think?’ she asked.

  Another trap. Never let yourself be tricked into comparing one woman with all others; it rarely turns out well. ‘Rhyleis, is there any chance I could convince you to punch me in the face now rather than spinning out whatever torment you’ve got planned for me?’

  The Bardatti looked utterly crestfallen. She took a shallow breath. ‘Oh, Falcio, is this to be our relationship? I come to you with adoration and you spurn me until my heart grows so fragile it awaits only one final snub before breaking entirely?’

  And here it was: the ambush.

  Any time I think I have Rhyleis figured out, she turns this petty flirtation of hers around on me and the next thing I know, I’m apologising for having hurt her feelings. She’s just too damned good an actress – but for all her teasing, there’s always a subtle question beneath her words, played out in brief flickers in her expression that makes me wonder if – just perhaps – this game of hers might mask a genuine affection that she’s otherwise unable to express. If I push her too far, I risk hurting her feelings.

  That’s assuming that she has feelings.

  I held up my hands in surrender. ‘Can we not simply agree that you’ve got the better of me once again? That I look like
a fool while you are charming, witty and devastatingly brilliant?’

  She tumbled into my arms as if we’d come to the romantic climax of the play. ‘Falcio, oh my Falcio! You always know just what to say to make a girl melt . . .’

  I stood there awkwardly, trying to find some configuration of embrace that was neither inviting nor callous. She nestled closer to me. Apparently in my efforts not to offend, I’d overshot the mark considerably.

  ‘You should be nicer to me, you know,’ she said, reaching up a finger to tap my nose. ‘Wasn’t I the one who brought you word of Margrave Evidalle’s little revolution in the first place? Just think how much fun you’d have missed without me.’

  ‘I came here to enforce the laws, Rhyleis. Despite what you might think, I don’t actually go around looking for trouble.’

  She tilted her head, just a little, and whispered, ‘Are you sure? Trouble can be rather fun, in the right company.’

  Her breath was a mixture of sweet and spice that sent my heart racing. The moments after you’ve just survived a battle are a poor time to resist temptation. ‘Rhyleis, please . . .’

  She placed her hands on my chest and arched her back to look up at me, briefly dropping the role of seductress. ‘Oh, Falcio. Am I really so menacing? Must you always act like the innocent boy, pining away on his lonely farm, dreaming of the day when the Saint of Mercy will finally come back to him?’

  ‘Could we leave Ethalia out of this?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I would dearly love to, Falcio, but you appear to be incapable of letting her go.’

  Though I wished it weren’t so, there was some truth to what she said. I did miss Ethalia. Our romance might have ended, but the ache of being apart from her hadn’t gone away.

  ‘Has Ethalia-who-shares-all-sorrows returned from her Saintly pilgrimage?’ Rhyleis asked innocently.

  ‘You know she hasn’t,’ I replied.

  Rhyleis ignored the bite in my remark. ‘I wonder, in her quest to find the other remaining Saints, if she might fall in love with one – what a remarkable song that would make, don’t you think?’

  ‘Rhyleis, is this some bizarre effort to make me get off my arse and go chasing after Ethalia, or are you just trying to get me into bed again?’

  She laughed enigmatically, in the way of actors, poets and other liars. ‘Can’t it be both?’

  I felt her hands reaching up behind my neck, pulling me down into what would soon be a kiss. Our lips moved closer and my body politely requested that my mind stop getting in the way.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time you stopped confusing sex with love, Falcio val Mond,’ she whispered.

  I felt my body, quite of its own accord, start to give in. Rhyleis was wild, unpredictable, clever, beautiful, and any number of other things that would make anyone feel lucky to be in her company. On the other hand, it really pisses me off when people try to manipulate me. The instant before our lips would have met, I turned my head and whispered in her ear, ‘Maybe it’s time you stopped confusing being beautiful with being desirable.’

  She stiffened. For a moment I feared I’d gone too far, that my cruelty would be repaid with a devastatingly biting remark paired with a slap in the face. Instead, Rhyleis laughed, her voice neither cruel or mischievous, but light and winsome, like a bird taking flight. ‘“Stop confusing being beautiful with being desirable”,’ she repeated. ‘I love it! I must use that in a song some day.’

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding in.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, patting me on the chest, ‘I almost forgot why I came to find you in the first place.’

  ‘That seems unlikely.’

  ‘Don’t be like that. This is important. Duchess Ossia requests that you rendezvous with her at Werta’s Point, three days north of here.’ Rhyleis shook her head mournfully. ‘I believe you’ve got rather a severe scolding coming to you.’

  ‘But . . . but how could she possibly know already that we didn’t exactly follow her orders?’

  Rhyleis tilted her head at me as if it were an odd question. ‘When do you ever follow orders, Falcio?’

  I suppose she’s got a point.

  ‘Now, I must go and write down that wonderful line of yours. As always, you are an inspiration to me, Falcio.’ She gave me a peck on the cheek and momentarily pulled away, fooling me into thinking the moment had passed and the danger averted, but then her hand snaked behind my neck, she pulled me closer and kissed me full on the lips. I doubt a dozen such kisses have ever existed in the history of the world.

  ‘Why did you that?’ I asked, when the kiss was over. For all her games and flirtations, Rhyleis had never pushed things this far before.

  She looked up at me and something in her gaze had changed – it wasn’t love or ardour or even mischief, but a kind of sorrowful compassion. She reached out a finger and traced the line of my eyebrow. ‘You are too serious, Falcio. When the bad days come, I want you to remember that there can still be bright and playful moments, even in the darkest of times.’

  She kissed me once more, on the cheek this time, and started up the path towards the palace.

  ‘Wait,’ I called out to her, ‘what do you mean, “the darkest of times”? What do you know that I don’t, Rhyleis?’

  The Bardatti turned her head and flashed me that roguish smile of hers, as though nothing had happened between us. ‘A great many things, Falcio val Mond. A great many things.’

  I stood there like an idiot watching her saunter away until ­Chalmers came up alongside me. ‘Is she really a Bardatti?’

  ‘As far as I know. They don’t exactly wear insignia.’

  Chalmers gave that some thought. ‘It’s just odd, because she was talking to me earlier.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never met a Bardatti before. I always assumed the experience would be . . . I don’t know. Different. Mystical somehow?’

  ‘Was that not the feeling you came away with?’

  Chalmers shook her head. ‘By the end of the conversation I found myself with a profound desire to punch her in the face.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  She looked up at me. ‘“Ah”? What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, that’s one of the only two sentiments one is meant to experience after an encounter with the Bardatti.’

  ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  I heard Brasti and Kest’s footsteps coming up behind us and Brasti announced bitterly, ‘Well, they’ve managed to lock up all the liquor – I mean, you can steal the deeds to half of Evidalle’s estates right now if you’ve a mind to, but don’t bother trying to get a drink in this damned place.’

  ‘That’s probably for the best,’ I said, and repeated Ossia’s enigmatic command to present ourselves at Werta’s Point three days hence.

  ‘Why would you be taking orders from a Duchess?’ Chalmers asked. ‘You’re supposed to be Greatcoats. Since when do the Dukes get t—?’

  ‘Please don’t get him started,’ Brasti warned. ‘Some bears you do not poke.’

  ‘We need Ossia to persuade the rest of the Ducal Council to accept Aline’s coronation,’ Kest explained. ‘But we have a different problem now, Falcio.’

  Excellent. Because I didn’t have enough of those already. ‘What is it?’

  He pointed towards the water. ‘The ship that was supposed to take us to Aramor hasn’t arrived, which means it was scared off by Margrave Rhetan’s galleon. It’s three days to Werta’s Point by sail, but if we have to go on horseback it’ll take us more than a week to get through the mountain passes and we’ll never get to the meeting on time.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Brasti said. ‘Let’s really piss off the Duchess of Baern, right when we need her most. Unless . . .’ He paused for a long moment, apparently deep in thought
– which, I’ll point out again, is always dangerous – then suddenly grinned at me.

  ‘What?’ I asked, but I’d already guessed. ‘No. Absolutely not!’

  Brasti gestured proudly to Margrave Evidalle’s gaudy – and now empty – wedding barge. ‘Pirates!’ he declared proudly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sanverio Gorge

  The problem with ships is that they spend entirely too much time on the water. Having spent my life making my way through the world on foot and on horseback, with my only forays off dry land being the occasional – and completely involuntary – dunkings into various ponds, canals, lakes and rivers, I find the sensation of being perpetually surrounded by something that will drown you if you fall into it to be uniquely disconcerting.

  ‘Look,’ Brasti said, pointing at me as he hopped up and down like a giddy child, ‘he’s going to be sick again!’

  Kest lifted his nose from an old book of maritime navigational theory – because of course he could read for hours on this nightmare vessel without ever getting even remotely seasick – and peered over at me. Narrowing his eyes, he said, ‘That’s not the look he gets when he’s about to throw up. I think he’s just having some sort of philosophical crisis.’

  Chalmers looked down on us from her perch in the rigging. ‘Does he have many of those?’

  Brasti rolled his eyes. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many.’

  ‘You know what I find relieves the symptoms of both seasickness and philosophical discomfort for me?’ I asked, lending an edge to my voice that any reasonably aware person might have recognised as a sign to stop talking.

  Brasti looked thoughtful, then raised a finger. ‘Getting into fights and killing people?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  He looked around at the sailors quietly going about their duties. ‘Well, I don’t think any of the crew are particularly expendable, so we’d need to find you someone t—’