Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘What are you doing here, Nehra?’ I asked.

  She raised an arm and motioned at the scene before us. ‘Witnessing the end of a people,’ she said. ‘Writing their last song.’

  ‘If I want poetry I’ll ask a—’ I stopped. ‘Actually, I almost never want poetry. Just tell me what’s happening here.’

  Nehra turned to Olise. ‘Tell your folk to stand down. These three truly are Trattari, not pirates or brigands. They aren’t trying to take anything of yours.’

  The other women looked at her, then at their magistrate, but only on Olise’s signal did they set down their weapons. The strain on their faces gave way to sorrow as they walked back to the magistrate’s throne.

  ‘Just watch, and listen,’ said Nehra. ‘There is no battle to be fought here, no victory to be won.’

  I stared at the scene playing out before me, at the grey wood of the gallows and the grey faces of the dead hanging from them. The magistrate’s throne was little more than a few rough planks hammered together; it would give no comfort to whoever sat there. The air felt heavy, like a fog weighted down by the numbness and desolation all around us.

  ‘Come with me,’ the Bardatti said, pulling at my arm. ‘Keep silent, and bear witness to what justice is left to those without hope.’

  *

  Kest, Brasti and I stood at the back and watched as the self-proclaimed magistrate of Vois Calan took her seat and read aloud the charges. The dead man’s body lay on the ground by her feet, a broken doll being summoned to justice.

  ‘That you did, with full will, understanding and intent, flee from your debts, from your oaths and from your duties,’ Olise proclaimed. ‘That you did, without just cause, abandon your wife and child to starve, leaving them without even the meagre solace your small labours could provide.’

  ‘What is she on about?’ Brasti asked, his voice low.

  ‘The man committed suicide,’ Kest whispered back.

  Olise looked down at the dead man. ‘Hearing no plea, I deem the defendant’s response to the charges to be a claim of innocence.’

  ‘That’s generous of her,’ Brasti whispered. ‘But since when is suicide illegal in Luth?’

  ‘It’s not—’

  Nehra gave us an angry look and mouthed, Shut up.

  The magistrate leaned back in her throne. ‘Who will prosecute these charges, and bring forth what evidence can lend them weight?’

  The crowd shuffled about a bit as a young woman emerged from their midst, holding one of the little girls by the hand. ‘I will prosecute, and I will give evidence.’

  Olise said, ‘And would any come forward in defence, to plead this man’s innocence?’

  No one spoke, nor made any move to stand opposite the young woman.

  ‘Falcio,’ Kest whispered, ‘we could still—’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  As Greatcoats, representatives of the Crown in matters of law, we had the right to serve as advocates in any trial in Tristia. This wasn’t simply privilege; one of the most pernicious judicial problems in the Duchies was that no one would dare serve as a prosecutor or advocate if it would set them against the wishes of the local nobility. So if we wanted to, Kest, Brasti or I could act as the advocate here, and it was highly unlikely the young woman standing as prosecutor could win.

  It was likely Olise knew this – after all, she’d made a sufficiently convincing show of being a magistrate thus far – and the question was answered when she caught my gaze. ‘Well, Trattari, will you invoke your right to advocate for the defendant?’

  The women in the crowd turned, their faces full of confusion and no small amount of trepidation.

  ‘Don’t,’ Nehra said quietly. ‘Please, just trust me and for once don’t try to fix the world all by yourself.’

  I’d managed to get through most of my life without being caught up in the tangled ways of the Bardatti. Apparently that time was at an end. ‘We defer to your wisdom, Magistrate of Vois Calan,’ I said after a tense moment.

  The old woman gave no acknowledgment, but said to the younger one before her, ‘Let us hear the evidence.’

  ‘I am Janelle Turisse. This man was my husband. He swore before the Gods and Saints alike his faithfulness and devotion. He gave his life to me, as I gave mine to him.’ She looked down at her daughter, who clutched at her leg as if she was afraid the wind might blow her away. ‘When Dia was born, we gave our lives to her . . .’ The young mother’s voice trailed off, sadness and futility overcoming whatever need had brought her here.

  The magistrate gave her sorrow no ground: she banged her fist against the rough wood of her chair and cried, ‘The witness will continue her testimony or else as prosecutor she must withdraw her case.’

  Janelle sobbed for a moment longer, then swallowed and whispered, ‘When our crops failed again this year, for want of better seed, he fled in the night, taking with him our last few coins.’

  Olise banged her fist. ‘To claim that this man fled is to accuse him of leaving the jurisdiction of your contract. Do you stand by this testimony?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I misspoke. He left our cottage that night, but he did not flee the village.’

  ‘Tell us, then, what he did upon departing your home.’

  The woman’s back was to me so I couldn’t see her face, but the pain and anger in her voice were palpable. ‘He took our coin with him to the tavern and ate a meal of good, rich beef: three thick slices, the tavern master said.’

  Here a murmur passed through the crowd. Beef wasn’t cheap in these parts.

  ‘I’ll have silence during these proceedings,’ Olise commanded. To Janelle she added, ‘Tell the court what he did with the rest of the coin.’

  ‘He drank himself merry, and bought drinks for his friends, that they might toast his generosity. Then, when the coin was all gone, he . . .’ Her voice faltered.

  ‘Tell the court what he did then,’ the magistrate prodded.

  ‘He said the Gorge Prayer.’

  More grumbling came from the crowd, and when several women spat on the ground, the children copied them, although I doubt they understood why. I didn’t yet, not exactly, but I thought I was beginning to work it out.

  Nehra whispered into my ear, ‘When the men of these villages believe they can no longer provide for their families, they leap from the cliff at dawn. They believe if they can catch the very first light of the sun on their bodies as they fall to their deaths, they will attract the Gods’ attention and bring good fortune to those they leave behind.’

  ‘Someone should probably tell them the Gods are dead,’ Brasti said.

  I’d been about to make that very point, but I doubted these people would truly believe it. And to be honest, I wasn’t convinced the Gods would stay dead. Despite the Blacksmith’s machinations, faith in Tristia was inexorably drawn to take physical form, and if that was true, wouldn’t Death himself be one of the first Gods to return?

  Something else was troubling Kest. ‘I can understand the emergence of this sort of ritual suicide cloaked as sacrifice – but why the expensive meal and drink?’

  A shadow passed over Nehra’s features. ‘Because the Gorge Prayer is all shite, that’s why. The men tell themselves they must eat and drink well so that the Gods will know this is what they wish for their families.’

  I glanced around the crowd. No men had attended this trial. ‘What about the rest of them?’ I asked, keeping my voice low. ‘Or are there any left? I can’t believe every man in the village got drunk and jumped off a cliff—’

  ‘Many are already dead,’ Nehra replied. ‘Others fled the hard times, some with their families, some without – they take work as soldiers or guards, but these days they’re lucky to be paid at all, and there’s rarely enough to send any back to their families. From time to time a man will return, but most stay away unable to face t
he destitution that awaits them here. Some even start new families, new lives, leaving their cast-off wives and children to their misery.’

  I found myself breathing heavily, full of futile sorrow and rage, with nowhere to direct it, as Nehra went on, ‘It’s an easy enough lie for a man to tell himself that by taking the Gorge Prayer he relieves his family of the burden of one more mouth to feed. He tells himself that perhaps Death will accept his sacrifice with good grace, and in turn provide prosperity for those he has left behind.’

  ‘Then they are fools,’ I said uselessly. ‘Death is always glad for a sacrifice, but I’ve never known him to pay for it.’

  Nehra shook her head. ‘Again you miss the point, First Cantor: the practice of the Gorge Prayer isn’t a delusion, but rather, a convenient fiction. It provides an excuse to flee from the burdens of life, cloaked in noble intent.’ She gestured at Olise and Janelle. ‘These women hold trials for the dead to show there is nothing virtuous or honourable about the Gorge Prayer, to stop their children growing up thinking that this is how you deal with hard years.’ She gripped my arm, so tightly I could feel her fingers pressing through the thick leather. ‘Falcio, these women are fighting for the very survival of their villages.’

  My attention was pulled back to the trial as Olise rose from her chair. ‘Having heard the crime of abandonment well proven, its foul nature compounded and aggravated by the harm done to the victims, I am prepared to render my verdict.’ She stared down at the broken body at her feet and addressed the man as if he could hear her from whatever hell he now made his home. ‘Cyrin Turisse of Vois Calan, through cowardice and greed you have stolen that which you swore to give: support, strength and life. Thus will your own life be taken from you. Hear now my verdict’ – for an instant her eyes went to me – ‘as true and sanctified as any in the land. You are guilty, and the sentence is to be hanged by the neck and remain that way until Death himself is sick of you and sends you back to face true justice.’

  She rapped on the seat again and this time four women stepped forward, lifted up the body and carried it to the gibbet. Janelle watched as they went, but now her daughter, crying, broke free of her mother’s grip and ran towards her father’s corpse.

  But Brasti was already on the move; he raced to her and picked her up in his arms. ‘There now, my love,’ he crooned, ‘let’s you and I look out on this fine ocean together and sing a merry song and leave this bothersome business to others.’

  The child sobbed, but she melted into his arms, and that reminded me how quickly Aline had come to love Brasti when she had been equally frightened and full of grief. For all his brashness and ego, no one could match the unquenchable warmth of Brasti’s heart.

  ‘Stop!’ Olise commanded. ‘Set the child down.’

  Brasti turned his gaze towards her. There was no warmth in his eyes for the magistrate. ‘You would force a child to watch her father die a second time?’

  The girl’s mother came and pulled at her arm. ‘Give her to me.’

  Brasti looked at me, waiting for a sign, an excuse to take the child and run, but when I shook my head, gently, he carefully passed the girl to her mother.

  Janelle held her tight in her arms, just for a moment, before setting her down and facing her towards the gibbets.

  ‘Why?’ Brasti asked.

  The young woman blinked away her own tears. ‘So that she will see cowardice for what it is. So that as she grows, her eyes will never fall with favour upon those whose hearts are not as strong as her own.’

  Brasti turned and stood to face the clear waters and the open sky. He never could stand to see the horrors our world forced upon our children. Kest and I left Nehra to stand beside him, and the three of us pretended not to hear the grunts of effort, the squeal of the rope against the pole, and the quiet sobbing of the children.

  When it was done, Brasti said, ‘Falcio, what’s happening to our country?’

  *

  We left the women of Vois Calan with what supplies there were in the hold of the Margrave’s wedding barge. Kest, Brasti and I offered up what little coin we could spare as well, in case someone from the village might be able to travel far enough to buy seed with it.

  None of these things were in as short supply as hope.

  ‘How did it come to this?’ I asked Nehra as we stood on the shore together. The others had remained on the ship after the last delivery, leaving me to row back by myself.

  ‘It was the war against the Saints,’ she replied. ‘Men abandoned their homes to kneel and moan outside palaces, heeding the call of clerics who insisted that if we all just prayed a little harder, then surely the Gods would favour us again. Each pilgrim was a strong back taken from the fields, a pair of sharp eyes to watch out for thieves and bandits, gentle arms to hold a sick child until the fever passed.’

  ‘But we beat the Blacksmith and his God,’ I insisted.

  ‘And many pilgrims returned – but not all, and those who did came too late to help with planting and harvesting.’

  ‘One bad harvest won’t break a village,’ I argued. ‘I was a farmer – we prepared against the hard times . . .’

  But Nehra was shaking her head. ‘Think, Falcio: it was barely six months before the war against the Saints that we had Dashini masquerading as Greatcoats while they were killing off the Ducal families – and each noble death caused a hundred different failures of government, which in turn triggered a thousand different problems for the common folk. And before that? Have you forgotten Patriana trying to put Trin on the throne? I fear the country has been going to the hells for a very long time, First Cantor.’

  ‘But we—’

  ‘Yes, Falcio, you cleverly unwound the conspiracy, and you put a blade through Shuran’s guts: good for you! I’d call for a parade, but there isn’t anyone left to carry you down the streets in celebration.’ She gestured at the waves splashing against the rocky wall of the cliff. ‘It’s only water, Falcio, barely a breath against the hard stone of this land, and yet give it enough time, it will wear this place down to nothing.’

  ‘You make it sound hopeless.’

  She gave me a rueful smile and held up her guitar. ‘I am a Bardatti, Falcio: a troubadour. I play hope every night, and joy twice on weekends. But when the hour grows late and the work day approaches, even I must play the ugly truth for all to hear.’

  I wanted to dispute Nehra’s gloomy assessment, to tell her that my wife Aline and I had lived through times just as hard as these and had still made a happy life together – but the Bardatti wasn’t wrong. Those years had felt hard, but they weren’t nearly as chaotic as now: we hadn’t had to deal with civil wars and intrigues, with black-tabarded Knights and monstrous Gods.

  ‘Tell me what I have to do, Nehra,’ I begged. ‘Tell me how to put an end to all this madness.’

  She waved a hand at the gentle waves that were slowly destroying the cliff wall. ‘There is the enemy, First Cantor. Will you challenge it to a duel?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll take up the guitar,’ I said, frustration seeping into my words, ‘and pretend that sweet music and poetry will stop the sea.’

  Her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. ‘You know nothing of the Bardatti, most especially how dangerous we can be. Learn the ways of your own Order before you mock . . .’ She stopped then, and sighed. ‘Clear the roads, Falcio, if you want to make the country better. Bring seed from one place to another, deliver crops and cattle to where they are most needed. Move iron and copper from Orison down to Domaris and beef from Aramor up to Phan. Find labour where it is plentiful and move it to where there is land and money but not enough strong backs.’ She looked up at me. ‘Give us peace and time and prosperity.’

  ‘I’m a magistrate, Nehra – you know I can’t do any of those things.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘you can’t, and neither can I.’ She turned and began walking back to the path that led
up the cliffs. ‘But you can bring the laws back to us, Falcio. Convince the Dukes to put that damned Queen of yours on the throne. Let us hope she can provide the rest.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Incompetent Spies

  Another day and a half of seasickness aboard our stolen barge brought us to the middle of nowhere, as planned. Werta’s Point was named after the former Saint of the Seas – though I’m told it’s also sometimes referred to as Zaghev’s Point, after Saint Zaghev-who-sings-for-tears, on account of the torturous rocks hiding in the shallows. Neither name made much sense any more, since both Saints were dead. More pertinently, while Werta’s Point had once been a fishing village, decades of war, disease or perhaps just a lack of fish had reduced it to half a dozen cottages worn down by wind and water and salt.

  Duchess Ossia’s tent was a beacon amidst these desolate ruins.

  Well, perhaps ‘tent’ is the wrong word. The twenty-foot-high pavilion was made of what looked like extremely costly red velvet, with gleaming cloth-of-gold trim.

  Chalmers, Kest, Brasti and I stared up at the centre poles that seemed determined to prod the clouds above.

  ‘It’s like a gargantuan toy castle meant for some obscenely wealthy child.’ Chalmers sounded genuinely offended.

  ‘Try not to open with that when you meet the Duchess,’ I said.

  ‘How about “Your Grace, what an honour it is to visit your moveable monstrosity of wasted textiles”?’ Brasti suggested.

  ‘That isn’t better.’

  ‘Actually,’ Kest said, ‘the correct architectural designation would be a “twin-peaked pavilion with central marquee”.’

  ‘I think mine is more accurate,’ Brasti said.

  The front flaps opened to reveal a red-haired man about my age, an inch or two taller, dressed in a long brocade coat of red and gold that matched the tent.

  ‘I am Fentan Tuvelle,’ he informed us portentously, ‘Chamberlain to the Duchess Ossia of Baern.’