Tyrant's Throne

by de Castell, Sebastien

  The clerk continued, ‘To the tyrant and false-born usurper called Filian—’ He stopped again, evidently feeling rather exposed, having just insulted the King, but Filian bade him to read on and he continued, his voice wobbling a little, ‘Know that your presence is a blight on a great people with a great history, and that the crown on your head will be justly removed the very hour we come to liberate the Duchy of Aramor from you.’

  The clerk was not alone in looking stunned. There were no threats, no demands, no terms set forth; the Magdan had skipped over all the usual diplomatic feints and instead, simply declared war and signalled his intention to invade.

  To his credit, Filian tried to make the best of the situation. ‘We thank you, madam,’ he said politely to Quillata, ‘and assure your safe passage back to . . . wherever it is you now return to.’

  She gave him a wink. ‘Why, that’s kind of you, your Majesty. I’d bend a knee but’ – and again she looked at me – ‘present company excluded, Greatcoats don’t kneel.’

  Trin looked like she might grab the massive executioner’s sword and take a swing at Quil herself, but other events overtook her: as if on cue, five messengers resplendent in Ducal colours made their way through the crowds. The one dressed in the pale blue of my home Duchy stepped forward first, bearing a little stack of vellum scrolls. ‘Your Majesty, forgive me, but their Graces have been called away on urgent business.’

  Filian kept his calm far better than the crowd of panicked nobles surrounding him. ‘What business requires the immediate absence of my Dukes?’ he enquired calmly.

  ‘The need to protect their people, your Majesty. Troops must be deployed and borders fortified.’

  ‘The defence of Tristia is in the purview of the King,’ Trin started. ‘He will decide—’

  ‘Forgive me, your Grace,’ the messenger said. His voice was remarkably even, considering he was almost certainly dead. I wondered how much the Dukes had promised to reward the families of these men in exchange for their certain sacrifice. ‘The borders we speak of are those of our respective nations.’

  ‘Nations?’ Filian asked.

  The messenger said, ‘For the defence of their people, Pertine, Domaris, Pulnam, Baern and Luth can no longer remain Duchies within the country of Tristia, your Majesty, nor are their rulers your Dukes. The Princes of our respective nations send their regrets and wish you a pleasant reign.’

  Chaos erupted then, although it wouldn’t change anything. It was more the petulant rantings of children: Trin shouted, of course, commanding the messengers be arrested immediately. If Filian had any sense, he’d free them in a few hours; it wouldn’t be a great start to his reign, announcing to all and sundry that the Dukes’ – or rather, the Princes’ – representatives weren’t safe in his court.

  Less than ten minutes after the crown had been placed upon his head, Filian, King of Tristia, had lost more than half his country, without anyone even unsheathing a weapon.

  Some clerk I’d never seen before ran onto the dais and began drafting a declaration voiding the secession of the Duchies – but that was a waste of time too. All of this fury and uproar was accomplishing nothing.

  Well, maybe not entirely nothing. All the rushing-around of the clerks, the guards and the confused nobles was apparently too much for the already weakened foundations. With a great crack, the throne room began to shift and the crowd fled, pushing and shoving, from the room as the floor slowly collapsed beneath them.

  Kest and Brasti hauled me – and the beheading block I was still chained to – out of the room.

  As I watched what was left of the dais groan and fall into the gaping pit to the floor below, I wondered if perhaps I’d been a little too quick to decide that life wasn’t poetry.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Uncomfortable Rescue

  A rescue – a proper rescue, that is – usually takes place in four stages. First, there is the devastatingly clever plan, which requires juggling dozens – if not hundreds – of tiny details involving everything from the position of each guard in the room to the relative slickness of the floors. That’s if the circumstances are favourable. In a well-guarded castle, in plain view of hundreds of onlookers, escape is highly unlikely without the aid of a brilliant tactician.

  I got Brasti.

  As far as I could see, his ‘plan’ consisted of turning up to the coronation with a couple of only slightly bigger idiots who’d somehow become Greatcoats – namely Matteo and Talia – with the apparent intention of – hopefully – ‘working something out’ in between me being dragged out onto the dais and the executioner’s sword coming down on my neck.

  I was almost annoyed that his utter lack of preparation was somehow validated by the sudden political destruction of the nation and the actual destruction of the throne room.

  He always was a lucky bastard.

  The second stage of a rescue is the daring implementation: the carefully timed and perfectly executed actions that will result in the evasion of enemy forces, the outwitting of traps or devices used to secure the individual being rescued and, of course, his or her removal from the scene, preferably unharmed.

  ‘Gods damn you,’ I shouted at Brasti after my head struck the edge of yet another doorway, ‘that’s the third time!’

  ‘Oops,’ he said, without any trace of embarrassment or apology.

  Kest and Brasti had elected not to remove that hells-damned oak headman’s block – which was starting to feel like a permanent attachment to my body – and instead were hauling both me and it past confused nobles and servants. There were guards aplenty, but most of them were too busy trying to find the new King so they could make sure no one slid a blade in his back during the chaos. Regicide on the first day always looks questionable on a royal guardsman’s work history.

  ‘Not much further now,’ Kest said.

  The third stage of a rescue is to escape from the gaol, prison, dungeon or tastelessly decorated private torture chamber as quickly as possible.

  ‘Since we appear to be headed deeper into the castle,’ I noted, groaning in pain every time my jaw struck the oak of the block, ‘would this be an appropriate time to make two points?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kest said, his attention clearly focused on the path in front of him. Then he added kindly, ‘But go ahead anyway.’

  ‘First, I distinctly recall ordering you not to rescue me.’

  ‘True,’ Brasti acknowledged, huffing and puffing as he struggled with the weight of both me and the heavy oak beheading block. ‘But then we remembered that no one really likes following your orders, Falcio.’ He and Kest took a sudden right turn and my forehead banged against the oak beheading block yet again. ‘What was your second observation?’

  ‘Well, I don’t like to sound ungrateful, but you seem to be making a terrible hash of it.’

  Brasti managed a snort. ‘You have no idea.’

  Hanging slightly upside down and being mercilessly jostled is unhelpful to one’s sense of direction. Kest and Brasti turned me down yet another narrow passageway (Brasti somehow contriving to hit my head on yet another doorjamb) and a few moments later we entered a dark room lit only by a pair of small lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

  ‘Where the hells are we?’ I demanded.

  Kest gently set down his side of me and Brasti half-dropped the other to the marble floor. I managed to get myself stood as upright as possible while still attached by the wrists to a heavy piece of wood. ‘And would someone be so kind as to remove these damned chains? I’d really like to avoid spending what’s left of my soon-to-be-truncated life as a hunchback.’

  ‘Abide a while,’ Kest warned.

  The fourth stage of any decent rescue – once you’ve got the prisoner out of immediate danger – is to immediately free them from their restraints. It’s a nice addition if you also hand them a full wineskin – I’m fond of cla
ret, especially a full-bodied Southern Luthian, but you’re welcome to pick your own favourite. Unfortunately, it was clear no one was removing the chains from my wrists.

  That’s when it finally occurred to me that this might not actually be a rescue.

  ‘What in hells is this if it’s not a rescue?’ I asked. ‘And where have you brought me?’

  The expanse of shadows before me combined with the number of times my head had struck doors, walls and doorframes on the way here was making it difficult for my eyes to adjust. Since no one was answering, I passed the next few seconds waiting for my vision to clear and setting my mind to the task of deducing where we were.

  When I clanked the chain on my right wrist against the oak, the sound echoed several times, indicating a very large room. We hadn’t gone down any stairs, which narrowed the possibilities. There were two ceremonial chambers for civic functions, but their floors are covered in massive rugs representing each of the nine Duchies of Tristia (a common theme in Castle Aramor; visiting Dukes always like to know the monarch isn’t in danger of forgetting them). As the throne room was no longer an actual room, but more of an over-decorated pit, that meant I could only have been brought to—

  ‘What in the name of dead Saint Felsan-who-weighs-the-world are we doing in the castle’s courtroom?’ I asked Kest.

  He said nothing, but by then it didn’t matter because my vision had cleared enough to make out the silhouettes of several figures standing quietly in the shadows.

  Here’s an easy way to tell you haven’t been rescued: when your ‘escape’ ends with you being put on trial.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The Trial of the First Cantor

  ‘I choose trial by combat,’ I declared loudly. It would have sounded more impressive had I not been chained to a lump of tree.

  ‘You don’t even know what the trial’s about,’ Kest said.

  My Queen had died, my country had fallen into the hands of the daughter of my worst enemy and now a substantial headache had been brought on by too many blows to the head, all of which meant I really wasn’t at my best. ‘There’s a big white circle over there,’ I said, ‘so if someone will kindly hand me a fucking rapier I can get on with beating the shit out of you all, one by one.’

  ‘That’s quite a temper you’ve developed of late, First Cantor,’ Nehra said, stepping out from the shadows to stand beneath one of the lanterns suspended from the ceiling. ‘I wonder, how well has it served you?’ Before I could answer, she added, ‘How well has it served the country?’

  ‘Oh, go sing a fucking song,’ I replied unimaginatively. I really wasn’t anywhere near my best; instead, heartbreak and anger were driving me towards petulance. I should have been working to calm myself, to puzzle through what was happening and what I’d need to do next, but even on a good day I tend towards belligerence when chained to a log. ‘Why don’t you have the rest of your little company step out of the shadow, Nehra?’

  ‘You would already have guessed who they were and why they’re here if only your mind were clear, First Cantor. That is why no one has yet removed your chains, and that is why we need you to master yourself now.’

  Seven figures stepped forward, led by Darriana. She looked as uninterested in my welfare as always, but our encounters usually begin with her making rude comments about me, so I found her current silence unnerving. Gwyn followed, his eyes darting here and there, looking almost as confused as I felt. I would have been sympathetic, but his bonds had been removed.

  One by one the others came into view: Quentis Maren, still in his old Inquisitor’s coat, standing next to a young Knight with dark, curly hair and an unfamiliar sigil on his surcoat. Kest took up position on the other side of Nehra, then motioned for a shy-looking woman to join him. I wondered where I’d seen her before, then recognised her. she’d been standing on the dais during the coronation, representing the support of the common folk for their beloved new King.

  Valiana stood silently beside Ethalia; the Saint’s hard gaze was moving back and forth between Nehra and me and she didn’t look especially predisposed towards mercy for either of us. ‘Don’t goad him,’ she told Nehra. ‘He has the right to know why you’ve brought him here.’

  ‘I should think that would be obvious: the First Cantor of the Greatcoats tried to kill the lawful King of Tristia.’

  ‘In my defence, I was mostly keen on killing his lover – he just happened to be in the way,’ I started. ‘Also, at that time he was still technically just the heir to the throne.’ I should have stopped then and there but the wounds were too fresh. ‘Apparently no one minds if you kill a few of those.’

  A sob escaped Valiana’s lips and I felt vile for having drawn it from her, but I couldn’t keep myself from adding, ‘Besides, as I understand it, the Ducal Council already held a trial in my absence. I’m told they served cake.’

  Nehra nodded to Brasti. ‘He’s telling stupid jokes again. I think it’s safe to remove his bonds now.’

  He knelt beside me and started fiddling with the cuffs binding me to the beheading block. A grinding click was followed by one of the manacles coming loose from my wrist. Brasti turned his attention to the other, and a few moments later I had the enormous satisfaction of watching the wooden block crash to the marble floor.

  ‘You know, Nehra,’ I began, rubbing my wrists to get the blood flowing to my hands again, ‘I’m absolutely positive there was a time when I liked you. Mind you, I suspect we were a good two hundred miles apart at the time.’

  ‘Have you figured out why you’re here, First Cantor?’ she asked.

  ‘Not exactly, but I see a pattern in this little jury you’ve put together.’ I pointed at her. ‘Bardatti.’ My finger drifted to the Knight. ‘Honori.’ One by one I called them out. ‘Gwyn, for the Rangieri, ­Darriana, for the Dashini, I assume. Quentis to represent the Cogneri, Ethalia for the Sancti, and finally’ – my finger stopped at Valiana – ‘a Greatcoat.’

  ‘Trattari,’ Nehra corrected. ‘Is it really so difficult for you to say the word?’

  It is, actually. Usually when people hurl it at me it’s a prelude to them trying to kill me.

  I gestured to the woman in carpenter’s garb. ‘Which Order do you represent?’

  She stiffened. ‘None,’ she said, ‘but I have as much right to speak at these proceedings as any of these others.’

  ‘Then I suppose we should get started,’ I said to Nehra. ‘Now, since you’re not a magistrate and have no fucking business holding a trial, allow me to help by letting you know that it’s customary to begin with a recitation of the charges against the accused.’

  Nehra answered my challenge with a question. ‘Do you know how the Trattari began, Falcio?’

  ‘The Greatcoats began when Damelas Chademantaigne, the King’s Hope, swore his oath some two hundred years ago.’

  She sighed so I would know that yet again I’d disappointed her. ‘The Order of Trattari are far older than that, Falcio – as are the Honori, the Rangieri and all the rest.’ She turned to the others. ‘You have all forgotten your history; time and ignorance have fragmented those who once stood together as part of a vital and more complex design.’

  ‘But you remember?’

  ‘Yes, because we Bardatti are the memory of this country! We keep the past alive through song and story, poem and performance. We still remember the rhymes of the Dal Verteri.’

  ‘Dal Verteri?’ The words were archaic Tristian; they meant something like the road of the virtuous, or maybe the path of the daring; something about a road or a bridge or a pothole, anyway, and something else that sounded pretentious.

  ‘Twelve ancient Orders: men and women who chose a path of service in defence of this country and its people.’

  ‘We appear to be short a few,’ I noted.

  She nodded. ‘Some of the Orders have lost their way, like the Honori. The rest have
faded away completely.’ She gestured to the others. ‘We in this room, and those we represent, are the last remaining strands of a tapestry that for centuries protected Tristia and inspired its people.’

  The words sounded very grand, which, unexpectedly, made me laugh. I pointed to the young man in armour. ‘And you’re including the Honori in this little myth of yours? The fucking Knights? When have they been anything more than thugs and bully-boys?’

  ‘My name is Elizar,’ the young man said, taking a step forward as if he were giving evidence. ‘My fellow Honori weren’t always this way. In my youth, my grandmother shared the stories with me of her grandmother: a Village Knight who protected the common folk and organised them in times of danger that they might fight together to defend their homes and families.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Kest said, sounding far too earnest given how ridiculous this all sounded. ‘Falcio, how many times have we asked ourselves how the notion of “honour” could be so important to Knights when all they ever do is the bidding of their Lords, no matter how unfair or cruel? What if their practices – their very notion of honour – has simply become corrupted over time?’

  I’d have had an easier time believing the religious torturers known as the Admorteo were really just physicians who healed their patients with vigorous massage. I looked over at Darriana. ‘How about you?’ I asked. ‘Since we’re spinning fairy-tales, why don’t you tell me how the Dashini were really very nice people whose history of assassination is just a terrible misunderstanding?’

  The look of shame in her eyes told me she was uncomfortable at being forced to count herself among their number, but still she said, ‘The old man . . . the one you met when you found the Dashini monastery? He spoke of a time when the Dashini served as spies, uncovering plots and schemes within the nine Duchies that could threaten the security of the country—’

  Gwyn’s eyes went wide as he turned to her and finished, ‘—while we Rangieri scouted those dangers that arose from outside of the country . . . Yes! My teacher Yimris always used to wonder why our missions took us always along the borders and outside, never within Tristia itself.’