Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  ‘It’s a fine thing that you’re back, Falcio,’ Valiana said, shaking her head at Aline. ‘The heir to the throne has been so focused on your return that she’s been quite useless at running what’s left of her country.’

  ‘You would speak to your future Queen in such a fashion?’ Aline asked, letting go of me. ‘You think I can’t keep affairs of state in mind even while keeping an eye out for . . . for . . .’

  I leaned back to see what was wrong and found her staring past me at the others. I understood then what had caught her attention: that she had seen what no one else had.

  I rose to my feet and quickly said, ‘This is Filian, a carpenter’s boy we saved from brigands on the road. He doesn’t speak much—’

  Aline silenced me with a shake of her head and walked past me to stare up at Filian.

  I’d kept the boy from shaving, reckoning whatever straggly hair he could grow might undermine the similarities to his father, and I’d made sure he had a good coat of grime on him too. Somehow, Aline saw past all that. I suppose it was down to the hours she’d spent staring at portraits of her father and at her own sharp features in the mirror, trying to find traces of him in her own face.

  There wasn’t even a shred of doubt in her voice when she said, her voice quiet enough to elude the guards but loud enough for us to hear, ‘Hello, Brother. Welcome to Aramor.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The United Front

  I had lied to Filian, back in forest when he’d asked if I’d read the histories of the Kings and Queens of Tristia. In fact, Paelis had an entire section of his private library dedicated to books on the rise and fall of monarchs. He’d bring me there sometimes, on nights when I’d just returned from one of my judicial circuits, and do his best to drown me in free wine and extended lectures on the fragile nature of royal lines and the events that led to their creation and destruction. The wine helped a lot. At the end of the evening, he’d offer me one or two of the books – gracious of him, given their rarity and value – and I, for my part, would thank him profusely and then walk over to his fencing and duelling collection and take one of those instead.

  In retrospect, I probably should have chosen to wade through those ponderous tomes on monarchical disputes. If nothing else, one of the books might have warned me about the many unpleasant meetings I was in for.

  ‘By the Gods themselves,’ Meillard, Duke of Pertine, swore, pacing around the council room table at such speed that I wondered whether the carpeting or his heart would give out first, ‘have you lost your mind?’

  Since Pertine was the land of my birth, I owed this particular Duke some small measure of deference, and since it was the only honest answer anyway, I replied, ‘I’m not entirely sure, your Grace.’

  I thought this was a polite response, but apparently I was wrong. ‘Disrespectful dog!’ shouted Hadiermo, the Iron Duke of Domaris, rising from his seat and nearly colliding with Meillard, who was on his fifteenth circuit of the table. Hadiermo, as was his practice at such times, reached behind him so that the two retainers who carried his massive two-handed greatsword could make a show of preparing it for him.

  ‘Sit down, Hadiermo,’ Ossia, Duchess of Baern, said, quietly sipping her tea as if nothing of any consequence was going on around her. That made me feel genuinely uncomfortable. The more Ossia acts as if everything is fine, the worse things usually are.

  Pastien, Ducal Protector of Luth, and Erris, Duke of Pulnam, stared at me as if they were waiting for me to confess this was all a terrible joke. Worse was Duke Jillard, who simply shook his head, as if I’d somehow disappointed him.

  None of that mattered to me, though. What did I care whether the Dukes disapproved of the choice I’d made, or how they chose to express their condemnation? It was Valiana who broke my heart. She looked stricken, almost lost. The others appeared to be waiting for her to either endorse or refute my actions, but she did neither, instead turning to the current heir as she said, ‘Falcio had no choice.’

  Hadiermo was still on his feet, one hand on the hilt of the greatsword his retainers were struggling to hold upright. ‘He should have killed the damned whelp – hells, he could have simply left him in Avares and let the barbarians do it for us.’

  Until that moment Aline had been silent, letting the others posture as they made their displeasure known. Now she rose and locked eyes with the Iron Duke of Domaris. ‘Falcio val Mond is the First Cantor of Tristia’s magistrates: his responsibility is to the laws of this country, your Grace, not to this council’s whims or my convenience. What would you have had him do?’

  It was Jillard who answered, saying quietly, ‘What he’s always done. Kill those he deems a threat to your father’s dream and find some suitable legal justification for it later.’ The Duke of Rijou turned his gaze on me. ‘You do realise, don’t you, Falcio, that if you’d fallen asleep in the snows of Avares and died there, you would have done your dead King the greatest possible service?’

  Actually, that thought had occurred to me.

  ‘Enough!’ Aline said, a dangerous edge to her tone. ‘We are a nation of laws, your Graces. If we have learned nothing from facing the Blacksmith’s God it is surely that we cannot set that aspect of ourselves aside. Circumstances have brought us to difficult times, true, but now we must all rise to meet the challenge. We must—’

  ‘We?’ Erris repeated in that creaky, wheezing voice of his that always suggested he was not long for this world, even though the old bastard showed no sign of obliging. He pushed himself up. ‘It seems to me that there is no we any more, little girl. Your time as heir to the throne has come to an end and I see no reason to tolerate your prattling wishfulness any further.’ He motioned to two of his personal guards. ‘Remove the child.’

  From the moment the emergency session of the Ducal Council had been called, I’d ignored my usual instincts and instead opted to be polite and take my beating as graciously as possible. Now I found myself staring at the sheaf of paper and the pen used for recording major decisions. I reached over and slid it along the gleaming oak surface towards the guards approaching Aline. ‘You’ll want to fill out the names of any next of kin before you take that next step, gentlemen.’

  Aline rolled her eyes at me. ‘You’re not helping, Falcio.’

  ‘You expect me to let them drag you out of the room?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare to try.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, my eyes on the guardsmen, who were doing an excellent job of ignoring me. ‘You think your winning smile will keep them from following their Duke’s orders?’

  Aline didn’t reply, but looked at Valiana, who’d kept silent during this most recent threat to Aline’s safety. Her eyes were locked with the guardsmen’s and now I understood why they weren’t paying attention to me at all. The raw ferocity in Valiana’s eyes burned so hot that it could only be the Adoracia fidelis running through her veins. Normally she kept it under control, but right now she was letting just enough of it rule her to make everyone nervous. The men Erris had ordered to remove Aline had been here in this same room when the poison had overcome Valiana some months ago during the war of the Saints. Clearly they remembered that little incident.

  ‘That mad dog has no business being here,’ Erris declared. ‘She should be locked up during these episodes of hers.’

  Valiana’s voice was surprisingly calm, and dreadfully cold. ‘You ought not to trouble yourself with my episodes, your Grace. Worry instead over what I will do whilst in full control of my faculties should you ever again command men to set hands on Aline.’

  How any person alive could not adore Valiana was beyond me.

  The light clack of a teacup being set down on its plate broke the silence. ‘Are we all done with the theatrics and posturing?’ Ossia asked. ‘I imagine this “Magdan” and his army would be rather amused to find us at each others’ throats.’

  Amused, I thoug
ht bitterly, but not surprised.

  ‘That presumes this tale we’ve been spun about a Trattari amassing war bands and arming them with Shan steel weapons and cannons is even true,’ Hadiermo said.

  Ossia looked over at him with all the disdain he deserved. ‘You think Falcio val Mond of all people would manufacture a tale of the Greatcoats joining with Avares, abandoning their King’s missions and turning traitor against their own country?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘No, gentlemen, the threat of invasion in Hervor and Orison is real and imminent. We need to be redoubling our efforts to rebuild our own military so we can face this Magdan with a united front.’

  ‘And behind whom, precisely, shall we unite?’ Jillard’s tone was perfectly balanced between genuine respect and subtle mockery. ‘I take it you have some wisdom to offer on that score?’

  ‘I do.’ She let her gaze travel around the room. ‘All of you have been operating under the assumption that this boy, this “Filian”, is the true son of King Paelis.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him yet,’ Hadiermo said. ‘Take one look at the scrawny runt and you’ll have no doubts.’

  ‘Really?’ She turned to look the Iron Duke up and down. ‘Are you saying that if I travelled the length and breadth of this country I couldn’t find some overweight, flat-faced braggart who could pass for your brother in a pinch?’

  Even Erris laughed at that one. ‘She’s got you there, Hadi!’

  Ossia went on, ‘Patriana loved nothing better than to plot and scheme, to engineer deceit against those she believed had slighted her.’ The Duchess gestured towards Valiana. ‘Did she not take this orphan child and train her to believe that she was a princess?’

  Jillard’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to determine if Ossia knew something she shouldn’t. ‘You’re saying Filian is another fake?’

  ‘I’m saying we have no reason to believe he is the true son of King Paelis until we have proof – the kind of proof Tristia has always demanded of its noble houses.’

  ‘You want to summon the City Sages?’ Aline asked.

  When the two of us had been trapped in Rijou, it was the City Sage, drawing on some esoteric mix of magic and genealogical lore, who’d discerned the true identities of the noble lines assembled before him.

  ‘I do,’ Ossia replied.

  ‘I can have the Sage of Rijou here within the week,’ Jillard said.

  ‘Precisely why I suggest we don’t rely on one Sage.’ Ossia turned to look at each of the Dukes in turn. ‘Gentlemen, this country has seen far too much chaos and uncertainty of late. For the good of the nation, for the assurance that our people will surely demand, I recommend that we summon a Sage from each Duchy.’

  ‘Including Hervor and Orison?’ Hadiermo asked.

  ‘Especially Hervor and Orison.’

  ‘Clever,’ Jillard said, stroking his short beard. ‘If our Sages should decide the boy is not the heir, then the fact that those from Trin’s territories do swear to his authenticity will be seen as political manipulation on their part.’

  ‘I leave such ploys to you, my lord Duke of Rijou,’ Ossia said. ‘I only know that this will give us the time we need to explore our options.’

  It didn’t take long for them all to agree to Ossia’s proposal. The one thing everyone wanted was more time to make sense of this development and work out its ramifications. For me, it meant a chance to find some law that might justify putting Aline on the throne even if she did turn out to be the younger.

  My sense of relief disappeared when I caught the glance that passed between Hadiermo and Erris. I didn’t need to be told they’d be using this time to seek out Filian and see what kind of deal he might offer them for their support.

  Ossia was still sipping her tea; Jillard was staring off into space, contemplating, no doubt, the various ways he might arrange for this new heir to suffer a tragic accident before the Sages could be assembled.

  And if he did, would I stop him?

  Kest’s words came back to me unbidden: ‘My First Cantor takes a dim view of murder.’

  He used to, anyway.

  I felt Aline take my hand and squeeze it. ‘You had no choice but to bring Filian here, Falcio,’ she said. ‘Nor do the Greatcoats have any choice but to uphold the law if he truly is the rightful heir.’

  I squeezed her hand back and tried to think of something clever and biting to say. I hated it when she knew what I was thinking, and I hated it more when she had to remind me of my duty. In a scarily short time, Aline had gone from a frightened and confused little girl to a young woman who exemplified everything you could hope for in a monarch: she was clever, compassionate, strong when she needed to be, merciful when she could afford to be. In her I saw my King’s dream made flesh, and all the things Kest, Brasti – so many of us – had fought to bring about for the country. She was our future.

  I pulled my hand away after a few seconds, saying nothing – it wasn’t that my sense of humour had abandoned me, just that, for the first time in my life, I was quite sure I had no intention of following the law.

  Filian, the man I was absolutely sure was the true-born son of King Paelis, would never take the throne from Aline.

  I wouldn’t allow it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The Divided Order

  ‘I take it that went well?’ Brasti asked, taking note of my expression as I left the council room. He and Kest followed me as I made my way out of the royal wing and back towards the centre of the keep.

  ‘Well?’ Brasti repeated, jogging to catch up to me.

  ‘It took roughly thirty seconds after I gave my report for half of them to begin plotting against us.’

  ‘And the other half?’ Kest asked.

  ‘Plotting against each other.’ I stopped, waiting as a group of craft-masters followed the labourers carting building materials past us, off to start repairing some other bit of the castle that was never going to be fixed in my lifetime. I was starting to wonder why they bothered.

  Brasti opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s just that . . . if it’s down to who can come up with the most vicious, conniving plot, should we . . . ? You know . . .’ He seemed to be struggling to meet my eye.

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘Well, shouldn’t we go and see the Tailor? I mean, aren’t vicious conniving plots kind of her stock in trade?’

  Even Kest looked uncomfortable. ‘That . . . hasn’t entirely worked out for us in the past.’

  I almost laughed at that. Almost. ‘You mean, besides the time she sold me out to the Dashini Unblooded so they could torture me to death?’

  ‘Now be fair,’ Brasti countered, ‘all that torture and poison may well have helped burn the neatha out of your blood – it’s pretty much been dead fatal in every other case.’

  ‘There’s a different issue we should consider,’ Kest said. ‘If Filian is the King’s son, and we all think he is, then the Tailor is his grandmother. How can we be sure who she’ll side with?’

  And that’s the real problem: the reason I really can’t trust her. Not with this.

  ‘Fine,’ Brasti asked. ‘Then what are you going to do now?’

  Kest shot me a sympathetic look. He already knew exactly what I had to do next, which meant my day wasn’t likely to get any better. As much as I’d rued having to tell the Dukes about the twin problems of Filian and Avares, it was the next meeting that I would have done anything to avoid.

  ‘Carefully and quietly, I need the two of you to gather all the other Greatcoats still in Aramor. Talia, Mateo, Antrim . . . all of them.’

  ‘What about Chalmers?’ Brasti asked. ‘She’s only really half a Greatcoat, isn’t she?’

  ‘Her too – and find out where Gwyn’s stashed himself away. We’ll need him too.’

 
‘And when we find them?’ Brasti asked.

  ‘Bring them to the old Greatcoats wardroom.’ I took in a long, slow breath, and yet still felt as if there wasn’t enough air in my lungs. ‘It’s time to tell them what’s become of our brothers and sisters.’

  *

  ‘You’re either lying or you’re stupid,’ Talia repeated, slamming the butt of her spear against the already-damaged stone floor of the wardroom for the third time.

  Antrim Thomas, who’d always been something of a diplomat, tried to soften the blow. ‘I think what Talia’s asking is . . . is there any way this might all be some kind of . . . mistake?’

  Brasti snorted. ‘Morn nearly beat Falcio to death and then locked us all up. No mistake there.’

  ‘Well, in his defence,’ Mateo chimed in, trying to make a joke of it, ‘who hasn’t wanted to beat the shit out of the three of you once in a while?’

  Talia rose to her feet, her spear still in hand as if she might have some cause to use it. ‘This isn’t a fucking joke, Mateo.’ She pointed her weapon at me. ‘He’s accusing more than forty Greatcoats of turning traitor. Forty!’

  ‘Forty-two,’ Kest corrected.

  ‘Shut the hells up, Murrowson! No one thinks you’re clever just because correcting people gives you a tingle in your balls.’ She turned back to me. ‘Quillata. You’re really telling me Quillata betrayed the King? Do you have any idea how many times she saved my life? How many times Quil saved my brother’s life when she was his Cantor?’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re about to tell me.’

  I hadn’t meant to sound glib; however much Talia’s ferocity sometimes grated on me, I knew it was her way of showing her devotion to the cause. Deep down, I’d always admired her. Shame the feeling wasn’t mutual.

  ‘You arrogant fucking prig! Quil should have been the First Cantor, not you!’ Talia started tapping my chest with the head of her spear. ‘If Morn and the others really have turned traitor, then it’s because you damn well pushed them to it.’